Bones of the Hills. Conn Iggulden

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СКАЧАТЬ and goat paths. Tsubodai’s new spoked wheels did better than the solid discs that broke too easily, but only a few carts had been converted and progress was slow. Every day there seemed to be some new obstacle and there were times when the slopes were so steep that the carts had to be lowered on ropes, held by teams of straining warriors. When the air was at its thinnest and men and animals grew exhausted, they were lucky to make five miles in a day. Every peak was followed by a twisting valley and another dogged climb to the best way through. The range seemed to go on endlessly and the families huddled miserably in their furs, exposed to the wind. When they halted, the rush to raise gers before sunset was hampered by frozen fingers. Almost all the people slept under the carts each night, covered in blankets and surrounded by the warm bodies of goats and sheep tethered to the wheels. Goats had to be killed to feed them and the vast herds dwindled as they travelled.

      Thirty days out from the river Orkhon, Genghis called a halt early in the day. The clouds had come down so low that they touched the peaks around them. Snow had begun to fall as the tribes made a temporary camp in the lee of a vast cliff, soaring into whiteness above their heads. There was at least some protection from the biting wind in that place and Genghis gave the order rather than take them over an exposed ridge that would see them still travelling as the light faded. He had riders out for a hundred miles and more ahead of them, a stream of young warriors who scouted the best path through and reported on anything they found. The mountains marked the end of the world Genghis knew, and as he watched his servants kill a young goat, he wondered how Arab cities would look. Would they resemble Chin fortresses of stone? Ahead of the scouts, he had sent spies to learn what they could of the markets and defences. Anything could be useful in the campaign to come. The first ones out were beginning to return to him, exhausted and hungry. He had the beginnings of a picture in his head, but it was still in fragments.

      His brothers sat with him in the khan’s ger on its cart, above the heads of all the others. Looking out into the whiteness, Genghis could see gers like a host of pale shells, thin trails of smoke rising from them to the skies. It was a cold and hostile place, but he was not discouraged. His nation had no use for cities, and the life of the tribes went on all around him, from feuds and friendship to family celebrations and weddings. They did not have to stop to live: life went on regardless.

      Genghis rubbed his hands together, blowing into them as he watched his Chin servants make a cut in the kid goat’s chest before reaching in and squeezing the main vein around the heart. The goat stopped kicking and they began to skin it expertly. Every piece would be used and the skin would wrap one of his young children against the winter cold. Genghis watched as the servants emptied the stomach onto the ground, shoving out a mulch of half-digested grass. Roasting the flesh inside the flaccid white bag was faster than the slow boil the tribes preferred. The meat would be tough and hard on the teeth, but in such cold it was important to eat quickly and take strength. At the thought, Genghis tested the stump he had broken in his drunken ride to Jelme and winced. It hurt constantly and he thought he might have to get Kokchu to pull the root out. His mood grew sour at the prospect.

      ‘They’ll have it on the fire in a little while,’ Genghis said to his brothers.

      ‘Not soon enough for me,’ Khasar replied. ‘I haven’t eaten since dawn.’ Around them in the pass, thousands of hot meals were being prepared. The animals themselves would get barely a handful of dry grass, but there was no help for it. Over the constant bleating, they could all hear the sounds and chatter of their people and, despite the cold, there was contentment in it. They rode to war and the mood was light in the camp.

      In the distance, the generals heard a thin cheering and they looked at Kachiun, who usually knew everything that went on in the gers. Under the stares of his brothers, he shrugged.

      ‘Yao Shu is training the young warriors,’ he said.

      Temuge tutted under his breath, but Kachiun ignored him. It was no secret that Temuge disliked the Buddhist monk he and Khasar had brought back from Chin lands. Though Yao Shu was ever courteous, he had fallen out with the shaman, Kokchu, when Temuge had been his most willing disciple. Perhaps because of those memories, Temuge regarded him with irritation, especially when he preached his weak Buddhist faith to fighting men. Genghis had ignored Temuge’s protests, seeing only jealousy for a holy man who could fight better with his hands and feet than most men with swords.

      They listened as another cheer went up, louder this time, as if more men had gathered to watch. The women would be preparing food in the camp, but it was common enough for the men to wrestle or train when the gers were up. In the high passes, it was often the only way to stay warm.

      Khasar stood and dipped his head to Genghis.

      ‘If that goat won’t be ready for a while, I’ll go and watch, brother. Yao Shu makes our wrestlers look slow and clumsy.’

      Genghis nodded, seeing how Temuge grimaced. He looked outside at the bloated goat stomach and sniffed the air, hungrily.

      Kachiun saw that Genghis wanted an excuse to watch the training and smiled to himself.

      ‘It could be Chagatai, brother. He and Ogedai spend a great deal of time with Yao Shu.’

      It was enough.

      ‘We’ll all go,’ Genghis said, his face lighting up. Before Temuge could protest, the khan stepped out into the cold wind. The rest followed, though Temuge looked back at the roasting goat, his mouth watering.

      Yao Shu was bare-chested, despite the altitude. He seemed not to feel the cold, and as Chagatai walked in a circle, making him turn, the falling snowflakes rested as they touched the monk’s shoulders. Yao Shu was breathing lightly, though Chagatai was already flushed and bruised from the bout. He eyed the monk’s stick, wary of a sudden strike. Though the little Buddhist disdained swords, he used the stick as if he had been born to it. Chagatai felt stabbing aches in his ribs and left leg where he had been struck. He had not yet landed a blow of his own and his temper simmered close to the surface.

      The crowd had grown, swelling with idle warriors. There was little else to do and they were always curious. The pass was too narrow for more than a few hundred of them to watch the practice and they pushed and squabbled amongst themselves as they tried to give the fighters room. Chagatai sensed the movement in the crowd before he saw his father and uncles walking through, the ranks pressing back rather than jostle their generals. He clenched his jaw, resolving to get in at least one good blow while Genghis watched.

      To think was to act and Chagatai darted in, bringing his stick around in a short, chopping blow. If Yao Shu had remained still, it would have cracked him on the head, but he ducked and tapped Chagatai sharply in the lower ribs before stepping away.

      It was not a hard strike, but Chagatai coloured with anger. Yao Shu shook his head.

      ‘Remain calm,’ the monk murmured. It was the boy’s chief failing in the practice bouts. There was nothing wrong with his balance or reflexes, but his temper undid him every time. Yao Shu had worked for weeks to get Chagatai to stay cold in battle, to put aside rage as much as fear. The two emotions seemed permanently linked in the young warrior and Yao Shu was resigned to slow progress.

      Chagatai circled, reversing his gait just as it looked as if he might attack. Yao Shu swayed back to meet the stick as it came in low. He blocked it with ease, snapping out his left fist against Chagatai’s cheek. He saw the boy’s eyes flare and rage took over, as it had done many times before. Chagatai came in fast, his stick blurring. The crowd whooped at the cracking sounds as he was blocked again and again. Chagatai’s arms were burning when he tried to step away and at that moment the monk trapped his foot under his own, sending Chagatai sprawling.

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