Conn Iggulden - Genghis, Birth of an Empire

The families had chosen their site well, against the lee of a craggy hill of rock and wind-blasted lichen, the gers almost invisible in the snow. The only light was a dim brightening behind boiling clouds, yet the returning warriors were spotted by one of the sharp-eyed boys who watched for attack. It lifted Yesugei’s heart to hear the piping voices warn of his approach.

The women and children of the tribe could hardly be stirring yet, he thought. In such a cold, they dragged themselves from sleep only to light the iron stoves. The time of true rising came an hour or two later, when the great tents of felt and wicker had lost the snap of ice in the air.

As the ponies came closer, Yesugei heard a scream rise like the gray smoke coming from Hoelun’s ger and felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. He had one baby son, but death was always close for the young. A khan needed as many heirs as his tents could hold. He whispered a prayer for another boy, a brother for the first.

He heard his hawk echo the high note inside the ger as he vaulted from the saddle, his leather armor creaking at each step. He barely saw the servant who took the reins, standing impassively in his furs. Yesugei pushed open the wooden door and entered his home, the snow on his armor melting instantly and dripping in pools.

“Ha! Get off!” he said, laughing as his two hounds jumped up in a frenzy, licking and bounding madly around him. His hawk chirruped a welcome, though he thought it was more a desire to be off on the hunt. His first son, Bekter, crawled naked in a corner, playing with curds of cheese as hard as stones. All these things Yesugei registered without his eyes leaving the woman on the furs. Hoelun was flushed with the stove’s heat, but her eyes were bright in the gold lamplight. Her fine, strong face shone with sweat and he saw a trace of blood on her forehead where she had wiped the back of her hand. The midwife was fussing with a bundle of cloth, and he knew from Hoelun’s smile that he had a second son.

“Give him to me,” Yesugei ordered, stepping forward.

The midwife drew back with her wrinkled mouth puckering in irritation. “You will crush him with your big hands. Let him take his mother’s milk. You can hold him later, when he is strong.”

Yesugei could not resist craning for a sight of the little boy as the midwife laid him down, cleaning the small limbs with a rag. In his furs, he loomed over them both and the child seemed to see him, launching a ferocious bout of squalling.

“He knows me,” Yesugei said, with pride.

The midwife snorted. “He is too young,” she muttered.

Yesugei did not respond. He smiled down at the red-faced infant, then, without warning, his manner changed and his arm snapped out. He gripped the elderly midwife around the wrist.

“What is that in his hand?” he asked, his voice hushed.

The midwife had been about to wipe the fingers clean, but under Yesugei’s fierce gaze, she opened the infant’s hand gently, revealing a clot of blood the size of an eye that trembled with the tiniest movement. It was black and shone like oil. Hoelun had raised herself up to see what part of her newborn boy had caught Yesugei’s attention. When she saw the dark lump, she moaned to herself.

“He holds blood in his right hand,” she whispered. “He will walk with death all his life.”

Yesugei drew in a sharp breath, wishing she had not spoken. It was reckless to invite an evil fate for the boy. He brooded in silence for a time, considering. The midwife continued nervously with her wrapping and cleaning, the clot quivering on the blankets. Yesugei reached for it and held it in his own hand, glistening.

“He was born with death in his right hand, Hoelun. That is fitting. He is a khan’s son and death is a companion for him. He will be a great warrior.” He watched as the baby boy was handed over at last to his exhausted mother, suckling ferociously on a nipple as soon as it was presented to him. His mother winced, then bit her lip.

Yesugei’s expression was still troubled as he turned to the midwife.

“Throw the bones, old mother. Let us see if this clot of blood means good or evil for the Wolves.” His eyes were bleak and he did not need to say that the child’s life depended on the outcome. He was the khan and the tribe looked to him for strength. He wanted to believe the words he had used to avert the sky father’s jealousy, but he feared that Hoelun’s prophecy had been the truth.

The midwife bowed her head, understanding that something fearsome and strange had come into the birthing rituals. She reached into a bag of sheep ankle bones by the stove, dyed red and green by the children of the tribe. Depending on how they fell, they could be named horse, cow, sheep, or yak, and there were a thousand games played with them. The elders knew they could reveal more when cast at the right time and place. The midwife drew back her arm to throw, but again Yesugei restrained her, his sudden clasp making her wince.

“He is my blood, this little warrior. Let me,” he said, taking four of the bones from her. She did not resist, chilled by his cold expression. Even the dogs and hawk had grown still.

Yesugei threw the bones and the old midwife gasped as they came to rest.

“Aiee. Four horses is very lucky. He will be a great rider. He will conquer from a horse.”

Yesugei nodded fiercely. He wanted to hold up his son to the tribe, and would have if the storm had not raged around the ger, searching for a way into the warmth. The cold was an enemy, yet it kept the tribes strong. The old did not suffer for long in such bitter winters. The weakling children perished quickly. His son would not be one of those.

Yesugei watched the tiny scrap of a child pulling at his mother’s soft breast. The boy had gold-colored eyes like his own, almost wolf yellow in their lightness. Hoelun looked up at the father and nodded, his pride easing her worry. She was certain the clot was a dark omen, but the bones had gone some way toward calming her.

“Have you a name for him?” the midwife asked Hoelun.

Yesugei replied without a hesitation. “My son’s name is Temujin,” he said. “He will be iron.” Outside, the storm roared on without a sign of ceasing.

ON A SPRING DAY in his twelfth year, Temujin raced his four brothers across the steppes, in the shadow of the mountain known as Deli’un-Boldakh. The eldest, Bekter, rode a gray mare with skill and concentration, and Temujin matched his pace, waiting for a chance to go past. Behind them came Khasar, whooping wildly as he moved up on the two leaders. At ten, Khasar was a favorite in the tribe, as lighthearted as Bekter was sullen and dark. His red-mottled stallion snorted and whickered after Bekter’s mare, making the little boy laugh. Kachiun came next in the galloping line, an eight-year-old not given to the openness that made people love Khasar. Of all of them, Kachiun seemed the most serious, even secretive. He spoke only rarely and did not complain, no matter what Bekter did to him. Kachiun had a knack with the ponies that few others could match, able to nurse a burst of speed when the rest were flagging. Temujin glanced over his shoulder to where Kachiun had positioned himself, his balance perfect. He seemed to be idling along, but they had all been surprised before and Temujin kept a close eye on him.

Already some way behind his brothers, the smallest and youngest of them could be heard calling plaintively for them to wait. Temuge was a boy with too much love for sweet things and laziness, and it showed in his riding. Temujin grinned at the sight of the chubby boy flapping his arms for more speed. Their mother had warned against including the youngest in their wild tournaments. Temuge had barely grown out of the need to be tied to the saddle, but he wailed if they left him behind. Bekter had yet to find a kind word for Temuge.