Bones of the Hills (59 page)

Genghis finished the meal and yawned, his jaw cracking. He handed the plate back to her and she bowed her head.

“You are tired,” she said.

He chuckled, patting the bed beside him. “Not too tired,” he replied. Despite having borne four children for him, she had kept her slight figure, the legacy of her race. He thought briefly of Borte’s thickening waist as he reached for Chakahai and fumbled the knot of her sash. Gently, she removed his hands.

“Let me, husband,” she said. Her voice trembled, but he was oblivious as she let the deel robe and buttoned tunic fall open to reveal white flesh beneath. He reached inside the cloth, taking her around the bare waist with strong hands. She could feel the hardness of his fingers digging into her flesh, and she gasped slightly, pleasing him. Their breath mingled and she knelt before him to remove his boots. He did not see her take a long knife from one of them, and if she shook, he assumed it was at his touch on her breasts. He watched her nipples grow firm in the cool air, and he lowered his face to them, tasting the bitter jasmine on her skin.

Khasar and Kachiun were sitting their horses at the edge of the encampment, keeping an eye on the immense herd of animals that accompanied the nation. The brothers were in a light mood, enjoying the last of the day and chatting idly before they went back to their families and an evening meal.

It was Kachiun who saw Genghis first. He chuckled at something Khasar had said while watching Genghis mount and take the reins of his favorite mare. Khasar turned to see what had caught his brother’s interest, and both men fell silent as Genghis walked the horse through the gers of their people, taking a path away from them.

At first they did nothing and Khasar finished a story involving the wife of one his senior officers and the proposition she had made. Kachiun barely smiled at the tale and Khasar looked again to see that Genghis had reached the edge of the gers, his pony taking him out onto the grassy plain alone.

“What is he doing?” Kachiun wondered aloud.

Khasar shrugged. “Let’s find out,” he said. “You are a poor audience for my troubles, brother. Genghis will see the humor in them.”

Kachiun and Khasar moved at a trot across the vast encampment, picking their way to intercept Genghis as he left the nation behind. The light was dimming and the plain was lit in gold, the air warm. They were relaxed as they drew close to him and called a greeting.

Genghis did not respond and Kachiun frowned for the first time. He moved his horse closer, but Genghis did not look at him. His face was bright with sweat and Kachiun exchanged a glance with Khasar as they fell in on either side of the khan and matched their pace to his.

“Genghis?” Khasar said. Still there was no response and Khasar subsided, willing to let his brother explain in his own time. The three of them walked their mounts far onto the empty grass, until the gers were just a whitish hump behind them and the bleating of animals faded to a distant murmur.

Kachiun noted the sweat pouring off the khan. His brother was unnaturally pale and Kachiun’s stomach clenched as he feared some terrible news.

“What is it?” he asked. “Genghis? What’s wrong?” His brother rode on as if he had not heard, and Kachiun felt worry bloom in him. He wondered if he should turn the khan’s horse with his own, ending this plodding trek away from the families. The khan held the reins loosely, barely exerting a control on the mare. Kachiun shook his head at Khasar in confusion.

The last light of day was on them when Genghis slumped to one side and slid from the saddle. Khasar and Kachiun gaped in dawning shock and Kachiun cried out as he leapt down and reached for his brother.

In the dim light, they had not seen the spreading stain at his waist, a dark slick of blood that marked the saddle and the mare’s side. As he fell, his deel came open, so that they could see a terrible wound.

Kachiun heaved Genghis into his arms, pressing his hand over the swelling blood in a vain attempt to stem the flow of life. Wordlessly, he looked up at Khasar, who still sat his horse, rooted in shock.

Genghis closed his eyes, the pain of the fall rousing him from his stupor. His breathing was ragged and Kachiun held him tighter.

“Who did this, brother?” Kachiun said, sobbing. “Who did this to you?” He did not send Khasar for a physician. The brothers had seen too many wounds.

Khasar dismounted woodenly, his legs suddenly weak. He knelt with Kachiun and reached out to take Genghis’s hand in his own. The blood on the skin was already growing cold. A warm wind blew across the empty plain, bringing dust and the smell of rice fields.

Genghis stirred in Kachiun’s embrace, his head lolling back so that it rested on his shoulder. His face was almost white as his eyes opened. There was a spark of recognition there and Kachiun gripped him tighter, desperately willing the blood to stop. When Genghis spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“I am pleased you are here, with me,” he said. “Did I fall?”

“Who did this, brother?” Kachiun said, his eyes filling with tears.

Genghis did not seem to hear him. “There is a price for all things,” he said. His eyes closed again and Kachiun coughed out a sound without words, consumed with grief. Once more, the khan roused and when he spoke, Kachiun pressed his ear to his brother’s lips to hear.

“Destroy Xi Xia,” Genghis said. “For me, brother, destroy them all.” The breath continued in a rush and the yellow eyes lost their fire as the khan died.

Khasar stood without knowing he did so, his gaze fastened on the two men who sprawled together, suddenly so small on the vast plain. With anger, he rubbed at the tears in his eyes, breathing in sharply to hold back a wave of sorrow that threatened to crush him. It had come with such brutal quickness that he could not take it in. He swayed as he looked down, seeing how his hands were covered in the khan’s blood.

Slowly, Khasar drew his sword. The sound made Kachiun look up
and he saw his brother’s boyish face set in rage that threatened to spill over at any moment.

“Wait, Khasar!” Kachiun said, but his brother was deaf to anything he might say. He turned to his horse, gently cropping at the grass. With a leap, he startled the animal into a flat run back to the gers of the people, leaving Kachiun alone, still rocking the body in his arms.

Chakahai sat on the bed, running a hand over the spots of blood on the blanket and staring at the red mark. She moved as if in a trance, unable to believe she still lived. Tears spilled down her cheeks at the memory of Genghis’s expression. As she had cut him, he had gasped, pulling away with the knife deep in him. He had looked at her in simple astonishment. Chakahai had watched as he yanked out the blade and tossed it to one corner of the ger, where it still lay.

“Why?” he had said. The tears fell freely from her as she crossed to the knife and took it in her hands.

“Xi Xia is my
home,”
she had replied, already weeping. He could have killed her then. She did not know why he had not. Instead, he had risen to his feet, still looking at her. He knew he was dying, she was certain. The knowledge had been clear in his yellow eyes and the sudden paleness of his face. She had watched as he fastened the deel around the wound, pulling it tight over a growing spot of blood. He had left her alone with the knife, and she lay on the bed and wept for the man she had known.

Khasar came back to the gers, his horse belting into the paths through the gers with no care for those who scattered from his way. Those who saw him froze as they understood something was wrong. No more than a few had seen the khan leave the families to ride out, but more saw Khasar return, his face terrible in its fury.

He reached the khan’s ger. It seemed just moments since he had seen Genghis leave it, but everything had changed. Khasar jumped down before the horse halted, staggering slightly as he bounded up the steps and kicked open the door to the gloom within.

He breathed hard at what he saw there. Chakahai lay on the low bed, her eyes glassy. Khasar took two steps to stand over her, seeing the cut at her throat and the bloody knife that had fallen from her hands. It was a peaceful scene and it offended him.

He made an inarticulate bellow, reaching for her flesh so that she was jerked from the bed and fell limply to the floor. Mindless, Khasar plunged his sword into her chest, hacking at her until he was spattered and panting and her head was severed.

When he appeared at the broken door once again, the khan’s guards had gathered, alerted by his shout. They took one look at the blood on his face and his wild eyes, and for an instant, Khasar thought they would charge him.

“Where is the khan?” one of them demanded, raising a bow so that the arrow centered on Khasar’s chest. Khasar could not ignore the threat, though he could hardly bring himself to speak. He gestured vaguely to the darkening plain outside the ring of campfires and torches that had sprung up all around.

“He is dead,” he said. “He lies on the grass and the Chin whore who did it lies behind me. Now get out of my way.”

He strode down through the guards, and in confusion and horror, they fell back before him. He did not see one of the men race into the ger to check, his shout of anguish following Khasar as he mounted and raced across the camp. His rage had not been sated in cutting at dead flesh. Chakahai’s ger was nearby and he sought her children, determined to take a price for what she had done.

The ger was empty when he found it, stalking in and out again in just moments. He saw a Chin servant cowering from the blood-spattered general and grabbed her by the throat as she tried to kneel in terror.

“Chakahai’s children,” he said, squeezing ruthlessly. “Where are they?”

The woman choked, growing red until he released her. She coughed as she lay on the ground and he raised his sword to kill her.

“With Borte, lord. Please, I know nothing.”

Khasar was already moving. His horse was skittish at the smell of blood on him and had wandered away. He broke into a run, his sword held low as he loped between the gers, looking for the right one. Tears filled his eyes as he thought of his brother cooling on the plain. There would be a price.

There were many people around Borte’s ger. Word was already spreading through the camp and warriors and families had abandoned their meals and beds to come out. Khasar hardly saw them, his gaze searching and finally alighting on the home he wanted. He could hear the sounds of life within it, voices and laughter. He did not hesitate and threw himself at the door so that it fell flat, the leather hinges tearing free.

He ducked inside and stood to face the shocked family of his brother. Borte was there, with Ogedai. He was on his feet before Khasar had straightened, his hand on a sword hilt. Khasar barely registered him as his gaze fell on the four young children Chakahai had borne, two girls and two boys. In the lamplight, they stared at the bloody apparition, frozen.

Khasar lunged for them, his sword rising to kill. Borte screamed and Ogedai threw himself at his uncle, with no time to draw his own sword. The two men went down, but Khasar was too full of rage to be stopped easily. He threw Ogedai off as if he weighed nothing, and came lightly to his feet. In his madness, the sound of a drawn blade reached him, and his eyes turned slowly to see Ogedai standing ready.

“Get out of my way!” Khasar snapped.

Ogedai quivered as his heart raced, but he did not move. It was Borte who broke the tableau between the two men. Death was in the air and though she was terrified, she made her tone as gentle as she could.

“Are you here to kill me, Khasar?” she said. “In front of the children?”

Khasar blinked as if returning from far away. “Not you,” he said. “Genghis is dead. These are the children of his whore.”

With infinite slowness, Borte too rose to stand before him, moving as she might with a snake about to strike. She spread her arms to shelter those children behind her.

“You will have to kill me, Khasar,” she said. “You will not hurt them.”

Khasar hesitated. The searing rage that had carried him back to the camp and from ger to ger began to fade, and he clutched at it, longing for the simplicity of revenge. His eyes met those of Ogedai and he saw a dawning realization there amidst the grief. The younger man stood taller in front of his uncle and the quiver in his hands vanished.

“If my father is dead, Khasar,” Ogedai said, “then I am khan of the nation.”

Khasar grimaced, feeling sick and old as the rage left him. “Not until you have gathered the tribes and taken their oath, Ogedai. Until then, stand aside.” He could hardly bear to look into the yellow eyes of Genghis’s heir as he stood before him. There was too much an echo of the father, and Khasar heard it too in Ogedai’s voice as he spoke again.

“You will not kill my brothers and sisters, General,” he said. “Walk
away and wash the blood from your face. I will come with you to my father, to see. There is nothing more for you here tonight.”

Khasar’s head dipped, grief coming at him in a great dark wave. The sword slipped from his hand and Ogedai moved quickly to hold him up before he could fall. Ogedai turned him toward the open doorway and glanced back only once at his mother as she watched, shaking with release.