go so easily. Men like Kokchu stood apart from the tribes. They were feared certainly, and that was good, but they were not part of the family. They were not made welcome and greeted as old friends. Genghis shook his head slightly. Temuge too had always been outside the tribes, a watcher. Perhaps this was the way his life would go.
‘On the condition that you practise with a blade and bow for two hours each day. Give your word on that and I will confirm your choice, your path.’
Temuge nodded, smiling shyly.
‘I will. Perhaps I will be more useful to you as a shaman than I ever was as a warrior.’
Genghis’ eyes became cold.
‘You are still a warrior, Temuge, though it has never been easy for you. Learn what you want from this man, but in your private heart, remember that you are my brother and our father’s son.’
Temuge felt tears come to his eyes and dipped his head before his brother could see and be ashamed for him.
‘I do not forget it,’ he said.
‘Then tell your new master to come to me and be rewarded. I will embrace him in front of my generals and let them know he is valuable to me. My shadow will ensure you are treated with courtesy in the camp.’
Temuge bowed low before turning away and Genghis was left alone, his thoughts twisting darkly. He had hoped Temuge would harden himself and ride with his brothers. He had yet to meet a shaman he liked and Kokchu had all the arrogance of his kind. Genghis sighed to himself. Perhaps it was justified. The healing had been extraordinary and he remembered how Kokchu had passed a blade through his own flesh without a drop of blood. The Chin were said to have workers of magic, he recalled. It might be useful to have men to match them. He sighed again. Having his own brother as one of that breed had never been in his plans.
Khasar strolled through the camp, enjoying the bustle and noise. New gers were springing up on every spare bit of ground and Genghis had ordered deep latrine pits dug at every intersection. With so many men, women and children in one place, new problems had to be tackled each day and Khasar found no interest in the details. Kachiun seemed to enjoy the challenges and had organised a group of fifty strong men to dig the pits and help erect the gers. Khasar could see two of them building a shelter for bundles of new birch arrows to protect them from rain. Many warriors made their own, but Kachiun had ordered vast numbers for the army and every ger Khasar passed had women and children busy with feathers, thread and glue, bundling them up in fifties to be taken away. The forges of the tribes roared and spat all night to make the arrowheads and every dawn brought new bows to the ranges for testing.
The vast camp was a place of life and work and it pleased Khasar to see his people so industrious. In the distance, a new-born child started squalling and he smiled to hear it. His feet followed tracks in the grass that had been worn down to the clay beneath. When they left, the camp would look like a vast drawing of shapes and he struggled to picture it.
Relaxed as he was, he did not at first take notice of the disturbance at a meeting of paths ahead of him. Seven men stood in an angry knot, wrestling to pull a reluctant stallion to the ground. Khasar paused to watch them geld the animal, wincing as one flailing hoof caught a man in the stomach and left him writhing on the earth. The pony was young and powerfully muscled. It fought the men, using its huge strength against the ropes they had on it. Once it was down, they would truss the legs and render it helpless for the gelding knife. They seemed hardly to know what they were doing and Khasar shook his head in amusement, beginning to walk past the struggling group.
As he edged around the kicking beast, it reared, pulling one of the men off his feet. The pony snorted in fury and backed up into Khasar, stepping on his foot so that he shouted in pain. The closest man to him reacted to the noise, back-handing him across the face to get him out of their way.
Khasar erupted with a fury to match the bound horse. He hammered a blow in return. The man staggered, dazed, and Khasar saw the others drop their ropes, their eyes dangerous. The pony took advantage of the unexpected freedom to bolt, racing away through the camp with its head down. All around them, the other stallions of the herd whinnied in response to its calls and Khasar was left facing furious men. He stood before them without fear, knowing they would recognise his armour.
‘You are Woyela,’ he said, looking to break the tension. ‘I will have your horse recaptured and brought to you.’
They said nothing as they exchanged glances. Each of them shared a resemblance and Khasar realised they were the sons of the Woyela khan. Their father had arrived only a few days before, bringing five hundred warriors as well as the families. He had a reputation for quick temper and a prickly sense of honour. As the men crowded around Khasar, he thought the same traits had been passed to his sons.
Khasar hoped for a moment that they would let him go without a fight, but the one he had struck was wild with anger and it was he who pressed closest, bolstered by the presence of his brothers. A livid mark showed on the side of his face where Khasar had hit him.
‘What right do you have to interfere?’ one of the others snapped. They were deliberately crowding him and Khasar could see the bustle of the camp had stopped around them. There were many families watching the exchange and, with a sinking feeling, he knew he could not back away without shaming Genghis, perhaps even risking his hold on the camp.
‘I was trying to get past,’ he ventured through gritted teeth, readying himself. ‘If your bullock of a brother had not struck me, you would have had that pony on the ground by now. Next time, truss his legs first.’
One of the largest spat on the ground near his feet and Khasar clenched his fists as a voice cut through the air.
‘What is this?’ The effect on the men was instant and they stood still. Khasar glanced at an older man who bore the same stamp of features. It could only be the khan of the Woyela and Khasar could do nothing but bow his head. It had not yet come to blades and he knew better than to insult the one man who might control his sons.
‘You are brother to the man who calls himself Genghis,’ the khan said. ‘Yet this is a Woyela camp. Why are you here to anger my sons and spoil their work?’
Khasar flushed in irritation. No doubt Kachiun would have been informed of the confrontation and would have men on the way, but he did not trust himself to answer at first. The khan of the Woyela was clearly enjoying the situation and Khasar did not doubt he had seen it from the beginning. When he had mastered his temper, he spoke slowly and clearly to the khan.
‘I struck the man who struck me. There is no cause to see blood spilled today.’
In reply, the khan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He had a hundred warriors within easy call and his sons were ready to beat humility into the man who stood so proudly before him.
‘I might have expected such a response. Honour cannot be set aside when it is not convenient. This part of the camp is Woyela land. You trespass upon it.’
Khasar assumed the cold face of the warrior to hide his irritation.
‘My brother’s orders were clear,’ he said. ‘All tribes may use the land while we gather. There is no Woyela ground here.’
The khan’s sons muttered amongst themselves as they heard his words and the khan himself seemed to stiffen.
‘I say there is and I see no one of rank to challenge my word. Yet you will hide in your brother’s shadow.’
Khasar
