One Great Year (36 page)

The smell of the paradise was intoxicating, and Chilger looked forward to exploring. He walked to a nearby pear tree and plucked a golden yellow gem and offered it to Borte. She suddenly realized her hunger and enjoyed its juicy, sweet perfection as its liquid ran down her chin. Chilger, biting his own, reached and brushed the errant juice away, and his hand paused on her jaw.

“To have you recognize me, for you to know our history and our lives, is a gift worth anything to me.”

“How do you bear it? Always having memory?” she asked sympathetically.

“Because sometimes it brings me to you, and when it does, knowing you is worth all the longing that has come before.”

“How is it that you remember everything and I do not?” she asked.

“I took a potion. I didn't want to forget you,” he admitted.

“Why didn't I take it?”

“You weren't given the choice. I have regretted my decision a thousand times. But then every time we meet again, I am so grateful to really know you that it makes it all worthwhile,” he said.

“Temujin is Helghul,” Borte announced suddenly.

“I know,” Chilger replied.

“He's not so bad, Marcus,” she added.

“He is, and I am here to find out how I can stop him. He will turn the plains red with blood if left unchecked.”

“I need sleep. I don't think I can stand up much longer,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to bed. They wrapped their bodies around one another and slept easily, exhausted from weeks of punishing travel.

Shambhala was an incredible city, enormous and advanced in every way. It was not only a paradise, it was also a technological marvel. The sky was full of iridescent aircraft that hovered, disappeared, and reappeared as if by magic. It was a place that enjoyed a perpetual Golden Age of great learning, rest, rejuvenation, purpose, and growth. In this sanctuary, Chilger and Borte soaked in as much of the knowledge and wisdom as they possibly could. They were unsure how much time they had.

In the time to come, Borte studied with the citizens and teachers, and they marveled at her natural ability as a healer. She learned how to channel energy and tune in to the chakras of an individual to help them on their path.

Chilger asked the teachers what he could do to stop the coming of war and darkness to their lands, and the wise citizens joined hands and prayed with him but had no answers. They encouraged him to seek the counsel of the king, but three times he searched and was unable to find the elusive king.

Chilger and Borte were inseparable, empowered by the absolute clarity of their Marcus- and Theron-memories. Time held no place in the soul of the Earth, and as they went to sleep for the fifth time, Borte remarked drowsily to Chilger that she missed the cool night sky of home. He leaned in and placed his forehead to hers. They went to sleep imagining the familiar starry skies that they had both known so well.

The Merkits had positioned themselves strategically as Temujin's warriors and allies attacked. The battlefields were bloody and cruel week after week. As Chilger had toiled in the mountains, lost and desperate and looking for Shambhala, his countrymen had been under siege.

The plains, hills, and marshlands budded with the first scent of spring and reeked with the stench of death. The frigid winds had become cool breezes, and the sun shone high and long in the sky while blood soaked the ground. Some of the dead were retrieved and laid hundred by hundred in ordered rows for cremation, while many others were left to become the food of scavengers and to rot unceremoniously in the dirt.

Temujin, in full war armor, was ready to lead the final assault. As a military strategist he had proven he had no equal, and Jamuka and Toghrul Khan now listened carefully to his innovative plans. Toghrul had helped to conquer the majority of the Merkit territory and had returned to his lands jubilant and enriched, leaving the last stronghold to be conquered by his worthy allies.

“My brother, I find myself grateful that we do battle on the same side,” Jamuka said, lifting his eyes from the map that Temujin had laid out before him. “I have no doubt that you will rise as a great khan someday … perhaps almost as great as me!” he chortled, clapping his blood brother on the back.

Temujin smiled wryly. He knew full well that someday he would surpass Jamuka's power as khan; they both did. He liked the idea of having such a close ally, a blood bond for life. There were only two people that Temujin could trust: his blood brother, Jamuka and his mother, Hoelun.

“We will strike when the sun is high in the sky, and ride at them with its glare on our side. They will not see the arrows fly, blinded by the brightness,” Temujin declared, and then his voice changed slightly. “Has there been any word of Borte? Is she with any of the women and children that we have taken so far?” he asked.

“No word since the Tatar group two weeks back. We believe she is still traveling with the shaman.”

“We'll catch up with them today. This is the last of his clan. They will not be far off. I will have her back by nightfall,” Temujin said confidently. If his dreams were correct, which they always were, he expected to rescue Borte in the valley of the giant beasts. He had had the dream repeatedly since she was kidnapped, and when he had interrogated the first group of Merkit captives, they had confirmed the dream's infallible accuracy: Borte was with a shaman who wore the feathers of an eagle, and Helghul recognized him as Marcus even under the mask of his sacred costume. Once again Marcus had interfered in his relationship with Theron, and Helghul plotted severe retribution for his meddling.

Temujin prepared for combat. He mounted his strong horse, which was heavily armored. He adjusted his battle helmet and shifted the thick nose shield that was cutting his vision. Together he and Jamuka rode out to address their troops. They would lead an attack from the east that day.

Temujin's Helghul-brain assured him victory ahead. He imagined Borte in his custody by nightfall, and he was excited by the prospect. Against his will, he had been drawn to her more powerfully than to any other person in any other lifetime.

The sun was rising in the sky and the plains were in motion like an active comb of honey bees. Thousands of hooves gently swished through the budding grass, as row upon row of men on horseback and on foot moved through the fields. Straight-faced and prepared to die, they surged forward at the command of their leaders, looking more beast than human in their war skins and masks. The horde stank of coagulated blood, sweat, and murder. The weeks had been long and difficult. The procession stopped and prepared to be addressed by their khan.

“Your day of triumph is here! You have fought hard and well. Today we will crush our enemy once and for all, and tomorrow we will journey home victorious!” Jamuka shouted. He looked to Temujin, who took his cue to speak.

“You have honored your gods, your chief, and your people. This will be the final victorious battle. At the end of this day, you will share in the celebration
and
the riches that we reap!” Temujin promised, and his words were met with a great cheer. Jamuka looked at him sharply, but he continued undaunted. “Every soldier will return richer. Every man will be rewarded for his loyal service and sacrifice. Now join together, and we will crush our enemy! We will share this victory! Share in the glory!” he roared, full volume, as the air shook with thunderous shouts and the clamor of swords and shields.

In response, Jamuka raised his arm and signaled for the first assault to begin. The warriors bolted and crossed the half-mile distance to the waiting enemy lines.

“Big promises,” Jamuka said angrily, steering his horse past Temujin.

“Mine to honor,” Temujin replied, unperturbed.

“That they are,” Jamuka snapped, whipping his mount and galloping away. With a slash of his arm the Mongol horde surged forward.

The skilled warriors had broken through the last of the Merkit barricades. With a sword in each hand, Temujin was slashing left and right, holding his seat with solid, determined thighs. His leg and arm muscles rippled as his blades tore through flesh and bone. The noise and clatter were deafening. Horses whinnied and warriors attacked: grunting, crying out, and falling to the ground. The stink of sweat, feces, and blood filled the air, carried by a gentle breeze.

Temujin's face was covered in the thick, sticky blood spray, making it difficult to see. Blood soaked his vest and gloves. His arms ached from brandishing the swords and from the weight of the resisting corpses as they crumpled. His throat was raw and burning from his sustained shouting. His eyes gleamed in anticipation of his victory.

The troops pushed forward, scattering their foe, gory and broken, across the landscape. The final battle was won, and the males of the Merkit clan were virtually annihilated.

As was the custom, the cowering women, female children, and property were collected as the spoils of war, and the leaders claimed them. Temujin honored his promise, and the filthy, haggard troops celebrated their increased wealth and the generosity of their leader, Temujin. Jamuka watched his blood brother with wary interest but gave up none of his own spoils to compete for popularity.

The troops tended their injured and set up camp upwind to the grotesque battlefield. They made offerings of thanks to the gods of Earth and Sky for their victory. Tengri was honored with dance and wine, and the exhausted warriors, husbands, and herders enjoyed the celebration.

Temujin, his face cleaned and wearing a fresh vest and gloves, prepared to set off in search of Borte, who had not been among the women and children captured. He tied a thick fur bag to his mount.

“Jamuka, I am riding into the valley to retrieve Borte. I know the shaman is close by. This is his clan, his people, yet this coward hides and keeps what is rightly mine.”

“I will ride with you, brother, if you wish. Or better yet, let us send a search party and they can bring her back to you here if she is found,” Jamuka offered, without moving from the comfortable spot where he sat cleaning himself over a carved wooden bowl.

“She is there. I will go,” Temujin assured him, and wordlessly signaled to a small group of his clansmen nearby to join him. They obeyed and fell in behind their chief.

A mile beyond the camp, the mountains rose and the valley narrowed. It was as Temujin knew it would be. The giant, ancient skulls of monsters long dead were posted to ward off enemies—dinosaur remains pitched high to frighten away the superstitious and skittish. Temujin was neither. He knew the animals that had left the bones were long extinct. He had no fear of the valley.

Helghul had thrilled at the brutality and harshness of the day, feeding greedily off the violent energy. He was further exhilarated by the search ahead. He shifted the weighty fur bag awkwardly on his saddle and continued to ride. The warriors at his flank dared to pause, unnerved by the menacing skulls with their massive teeth and horns.

The nearest monster, a large Tarbosaurus fossil, was propped on a rock the height of two men and shrouded in a patchwork of second-rate animal skins. Temujin's cohorts were visibly troubled; they called under their breath to the great gods and to their personal totems to protect them. Their leader said nothing. He offered them no reassurance or kindness but simply rode on, and they had no choice but to follow.

The sun slipped near the horizon, casting deep reds and oranges across the sky. In the twilight, a single ger and four horses came into view. Two large golden eagles circled clockwise above the dwelling, and Temujin felt a jolt of excitement at the realization of his dream. It was exactly as he had expected. In the sky, the stars opened their blinking eyes. Helghul thrilled with the anticipation of being reunited with Marcus and Theron.

Borte awakened, confused. Though she was safe, comfortable, and warm, she did not know where she was. She had no memory of reaching Shambhala.

“Chilger!” she whispered in the dark, shaking him. “Wake up!”

Chilger opened his eyes dreamily and was met with an overwhelming sense of loss and despair. “It's gone,” he said weakly, realizing that they were once again in their travel clothes, rather than the flimsy, silken garments of the tropical Shambhala. Their ger was correctly laid out as it had always been, except that the sacred fire at the center had not been lit. “I never spoke with the king! I didn't find out how to stop Temujin!” he cried.

Borte tried to soothe him, though she was confused and assumed he had had a terrible dream. He jumped up and began pacing noiselessly. His metal shaman apron lay nearby. It was then that he heard the movement outside the ger. One of the horses whinnied and he rushed to the opening.

Temujin had ridden the last of the dusty journey alone, commanding his inferiors to stay behind. As he had expected, Chilger emerged from the dwelling as he approached. He was thrilled when he recognized Borte behind him, despite the darkness of their fireless camp. His heart pounded at the sight of her.