Conn Iggulden - Bones Of the Hills

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’ 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’ 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 camp, his horse galloping 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 centred 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.