‘I saw him pull it out of me, brother! It squirmed and writhed in his hand and I nearly vomited to see it. When it was gone, the pain went with it.’ Temuge touched his hand to the place and winced.
‘Not completely gone, then,’ Genghis noted.
Temuge shrugged. The area above and below the bandage was a mass of purple and yellow, though it was already beginning to fade.
‘It was eating me alive before. This is no worse than a bruise.’
‘Yet you say there is no cut,’ Genghis said, wonderingly.
Temuge shook his head, his excitement returning. He had explored the area with his fingers in the darkness before dawn. Under the tight cloth, he could feel a split in the muscle that was still incredibly tender. He felt sure it was from there the growth had been torn.
‘He has power, brother. More than any one of the charlatans we have seen before. I trust what I saw. You know the eyes do not lie.’
Genghis nodded.
‘I will reward him with mares, sheep and new cloth. Perhaps a new knife and boots. I cannot have the man who saved my brother looking like a beggar.’
Temuge winced in sudden doubt.
‘He did not want the story to get out, Genghis. If you reward him, everyone will know what he did.’
‘Everyone does know,’ Genghis replied. ‘Kachiun told me at dawn and three more have come to talk about it before I saw you. There are no secrets in this camp, you should know that.’
Temuge nodded thoughtfully.
‘Then he cannot mind, or he will forgive if he does.’ He hesitated before going on, nervous under his brother’s gaze.
‘With your permission, I will learn from him. I think he would take me as a pupil and I have never felt such a desire to know …’ He broke off as Genghis frowned.
‘I had hoped you would resume your duties with the warriors, Temuge. Do you not want to ride with me?’
Temuge flushed and looked at the floor.
‘You know as well as I do that I will never be a great officer. Perhaps I could learn to be competent, but the men will always know I was raised for my blood and not my skill. Let me learn from this Kokchu. I do not think he would be unwilling.’
Genghis sat perfectly still as he considered. Temuge had more than once been the subject of mirth in the tribes. His archery was abysmal and he won no respect with his red-faced efforts with a sword. He could see his youngest brother was trembling, his face tight with fear that Genghis would refuse. Temuge was out of place in the tribes and there had been many evenings when Genghis had wished for him to find something he could do. Yet he was reluctant to let him 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