out whole for the return of the generals. Khasar’s eyes had filled with tears, though he claimed it was the bitterness of the rotted meat rather than nostalgia for the rare delicacy. No one believed him, but it did not matter.
The feast had built to a climax of noise and debauchery. The strongest warriors prowled through the gers, looking for women. Those of the people were safe, but Chin slaves or captured Russian women were fair game. Their cries were loud in the night, almost drowned by the drums and horns around the fires.
Poems had begun that would take a full day to finish. Some were sung in the ancient style of two tones from the same throat. Others were spoken aloud, competing in the chaos for any who would listen. The fires around Genghis grew more crowded as the first night wore into dawn.
Khasar had not slept even then, Genghis thought, looking for his brother’s shadow in the dark. As the second day came to an end, Genghis had seen how the poets kept back their ballads for Arslan, waiting on the general’s son. It had been then that Genghis refilled Arslan’s cup with his own hand.
‘Chagatai and Jelme are just a short ride from here, Arslan,’ he had said over the twang and screech of wind and string. ‘Will you come with me to meet our sons?’
Arslan had smiled drunkenly, nodding.
‘I will take the poets to them to hear the tales of you, old man,’ Genghis told him, slurring his words. It was a grand idea and, with a warm feeling, he summoned his council of generals to him. Tsubodai and Jochi called for horses as Khasar and Ogedai came staggering up. Ogedai had looked a little green and Genghis had ignored the sour smell of vomit around his son.
It was Kachiun who had brought the khan’s grey mare, a fine animal.
‘This is madness, brother!’ Kachiun called to him cheerfully. ‘Who rides fast at night? Someone will go down.’
Genghis gestured at the darkness and then his companions.
‘We are not afraid!’ he had declared, the drunken men around him cheering the sentiment. ‘I have my family and my generals. I have the swordsmith Arslan and Tsubodai the Valiant. Let the ground fear us if we fall. We will crack it open with our hard heads! Are you ready?’
‘I will match you, brother,’ Kachiun had replied, catching the wild mood. Both men trotted to the head of their small column. It grew by the moment as others joined them. The shaman, Kokchu, was there, one of the few who seemed sober. Genghis had looked for his last brother, Temuge, and saw him on foot, shaking his round head in disapproval. It did not matter, Genghis thought. The useless bastard never could ride.
He had looked around him, at his family, checking to see they all had full skins of airag and rice wine. It would not do to run short. A dozen poets had joined them, their faces bright with excitement. One had already begun declaiming lines and Genghis was tempted to kick him off his pony and leave him behind.
There was a little starlight and he could see his sons, brothers and generals. He chuckled for an instant at the idea of some poor thief stepping out in front of this group of cut-throats.
‘I will give a white mare to any man who beats me into the camp of Jelme and my son Chagatai.’ He had paused a heartbeat to let this sink in and catch the wild grins of the men.
‘Ride hard, if you have the heart!’ he had roared then, thumping in his heels and jerking his mare into a gallop through the camp. The others were almost as quick, yelling as they raced in pursuit. Perhaps two thousand had followed the khan into the deep darkness, all those who had been within reach of their horses as the khan leapt up. Not one faltered, though the ground was hard and to fall was to throw a life and not know if it would come down.
Riding at full speed over rushing black ground helped to clear Genghis’ head a little, though an ache had come to throb behind his left eye. There was a river somewhere near, he recalled. The thought of dipping his head into the freezing water was very tempting.
His light mood tore into shreds as he sensed a flanking movement in the darkness. For a single heartbeat, he wondered if he had risked his life, without banners, drums or anything else that marked him out as khan. Then he kicked his mount forward and yelled madly. It had to be Jelme’s men forming horns on either side of him. He rode like a maniac towards the centre of the line, where he knew he would find his general.
Khasar and Kachiun were close behind and then Genghis saw Jochi come past, riding flat on the saddle and yipping to his mount as he went, urging the animal on.
Together the spear point of the ragged column plunged towards Jelme’s lines, taking their lead from the khan. Two fell as their horses struck unseen obstacles. More crashed into the sprawling men and ponies in the darkness, unable to stop. Another three broke legs and were thrown. Some of the men bounced to their feet laughing and unhurt while others would not rise again. Genghis knew none of it, so intent was he on the menace of Jelme’s men and catching his own errant son.
Jochi did not call out a warning to Jelme’s lines, so Genghis could not. If his son chose to ride right down the throats of nervous men with drawn bows, Genghis could only swallow the sudden chill tugging at his drunkenness. He could only ride.
Jelme squinted into the blackness, his men ready. The warriors who rode like madmen in the dark were almost upon him. He had extended the wings around their column, so that they rode into a deepening cup. Though he could hardly see more than a black mass in the starlight, he could fill the air with shafts in a heartbeat.
He hesitated. It had to be Genghis, riding at the front. Who else could be so reckless? Yet no warning had been called. Jelme knew he would not let an enemy crash straight into his best men. He would send a storm of arrows first.
He squinted, turning his head left and right to make the moving shadows clear. Could it be the khan? He could have sworn he heard someone singing in the column that was charging right at him. In the dark, he alone stood in the light of a torch, to be seen. He raised his arm and all along the lines thousands of bows bent as one.
‘On my order!’ Jelme bellowed, as loud as he could. He could feel sweat chilling in the wind on his face, but he was not afraid. There was no one to ask, no one to tell him what to do. It was his decision alone. Jelme took one last look at the black riders coming and he smiled tightly, shaking his head like a nervous twitch. He could not know.
‘Stand down!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Let them come in! Wide formation.’
His officers repeated the orders down the line. Jelme could only wait to see whether the riders would stop, or hit his lines and begin the killing. He watched the blur of shadows come to a hundred paces, deep in the cup made by the wings. Fifty paces and still they followed the man who led them, into the mouth of their destruction.
Jelme saw some of them slow and men in the wings began calling out as they heard the voices of friends and family. Jelme relaxed, thanking the sky father that his instinct had been correct. He turned back to the front and his jaw dropped open as the tight-knit front rank punched into his own men with a crash loud enough to hurt the ears. Horses and warriors went down and suddenly every hand held a sword or a drawn bow once again.
‘Torches! Bring torches there!’ Jelme snapped. Slaves ran up through the ranks to light the scene of groaning men and kicking, sprawling horses.
Jelme recognised Genghis in the heart of it and he paled slightly, wondering if the khan would demand his head. Should he have fallen back or opened a path for them through the
