Bones of the Hills. Conn Iggulden
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to regain his feet. He caught a glimpse of the animal landing and turning at impossible speed before it was on him once more. A jaw larger than his head clamped on his armoured left arm and he cried out in pain and shock as the pressure came on. He brought his right arm forward, thrusting the blade into the tawny chest as he went over backwards. They rolled together and the crowd went berserk, bellowing encouragement to the brave man fighting below.
Jochi felt pummelling blows as the cat’s rear paws raked him. His armour protected his belly, though the iron scales went flying as they caught in claws as long as his fingers. He felt the bones in his arm grind and the lower limbs of the tiger kept up their strikes, thumping and battering him on the grass. The animal’s breath was hot on his face as he shoved his sword in again and again, stronger in his terror than he had ever been. He could not rise with its weight on him and when the tiger tried to release his arm to bite again, he jammed the armoured sleeve deeper into its throat despite the pain.
The tiger coughed around the obstruction, wrenching its head from side to side to free its teeth. Jochi hung on as tendons tore, tears of agony filling his eyes. Had he hurt it? He did not know. The steel blade stabbed and stabbed, lost in the thick fur. He felt new pain in his legs as the beast clawed his armour to tatters. His sword was knocked from his hand and he drew a knife, plunging it into the matted neck as his left arm gave way.
Jochi screamed as stinking blood fountained over his face, blinding him. He could see nothing and the watching warriors were far away, their voices like the whispering of leaves. He felt death coming in a great wind, but he still worked the knife in deeper, sawing back and forth.
The tiger slumped suddenly, its weight pinning him. Jochi was lost in a world of pain and he did not see Tsubodai and Jelme leap down into the circle, bows drawn. He heard his father’s voice, but he could not make out the words over the rasping breath of the tiger so close to his face. It still lived, but the blows to his belly and legs had stopped. Its panting filled the world and he worked his blade mindlessly even then.
As Jelme covered him with a bow, Tsubodai used his foot to shove the tiger off the broken warrior. The great head lolled as it fell on its side, but the chest still rose and fell and the eyes sparkled with rage and hatred. Blood gouted from its throat and the white chest was slick and foul with it. All those around the ring watched as the animal struggled to regain its feet, then collapsed, falling still at last.
Tsubodai reached down to Jochi, knocking away the hand that came blindly at him with a knife. The young man’s left arm hung limp and his legs were gouged and dribbling blood from gashes right to his calves and feet. Not an inch of skin showed under the mask of blood that had almost drowned him. Tsubodai took away Jochi’s knife and cleared his eyes with his thumbs, so that Jochi could see. Even then, the young man was clearly dazed, unaware that he had survived.
‘Can you stand? Can you hear me?’ Tsubodai shouted to him.
Jochi flailed, leaving a bloody print on the general’s deel robe. Tsubodai took his wrist and lifted him to his feet. Jochi could not stand on his own and he was a dead weight on the general until Jelme dropped his bow and took him under an armpit. The two generals supported the khan’s son between them and turned him to face his father.
‘He lives, my lord khan!’ Tsubodai declared in triumph.
There was awe in the faces around the circle, as Jelme had predicted. Only Chagatai struggled to hide his fury. Jelme saw the bitterness in the young man he had trained for three years and his mouth became hard. Jochi deserved much honour for his courage and Jelme conferred briefly with Tsubodai, letting him take the full weight as he stepped away. The general reached down to the bloody sword that lay on the grass, taking it in his hand.
‘He has earned this blade, my lord, has he not?’ he said, holding it up so that the wolf’s-head hilt was visible to all. The warriors bellowed their approval, thumping the sides of the ring. Genghis showed them nothing, his face a mask.
Jelme stood waiting as the khan’s son bled. The khan’s thoughts swirled, pride and bloodlust mingling with irritation. He too had expected Jochi to die and he had not planned for this outcome. His headache returned as he stared down into the circle and his mouth tasted sour. At last, he nodded and Jelme bowed to his will.
Unheard by those around the ring, Jelme spoke to Jochi as he pressed the blade into unfeeling fingers.
‘They will remember this, boy,’ he said into Jochi’s ear. The young man gave no sign that he heard and Jelme realised he was unconscious.
‘His wounds may kill him yet,’ Tsubodai said to Jelme.
The general shrugged.
‘That is in the hands of the sky father. What matters is that he stood face to face with that beast. No one who saw it will forget.’
As he spoke, Jelme looked up once more to Chagatai. The bitter face had vanished and he sighed. He was shifting his grip on Jochi’s limp form when voices were raised outside the rim. Genghis had snapped an order into the darkness and the crowd swirled around a point hidden from those who stood in the ring. As Jelme looked to Genghis, the khan raised a hand, keeping him there with Tsubodai and his burden.
Chagatai appeared once more at his father’s side, staggering as warriors pressed him forward. They had all heard his terms and it seemed Genghis would not let him vanish into the darkness. The khan didn’t look at him, but a muttered order made Chagatai flush and climb over the wooden barrier. Jelme and Tsubodai watched in silence as Chagatai leapt down and approached them. An older man could have done it with a flourish, giving and receiving honour in a grand gesture. Chagatai lacked the skill to turn the situation to his advantage. He stood before his unconscious brother, shaking with anger and humiliation.
In silence, Chagatai looked up once more at his father. There was no reprieve. He dropped quickly to one knee and the crowd roared and hooted. Chagatai rose more slowly, his face cold as he stalked to the wooden walls and accepted a hand to heave him back over.
Jelme nodded wearily to himself.
‘I think you had the better son to train, my friend,’ he murmured to Tsubodai.
‘I hope his father knows it,’ Tsubodai replied.
The two men shared a glance of understanding before they called warriors down to begin skinning the tiger. The meat would feed as many as possible, half-burned scraps forced into the mouths of warriors. There were many who desired the speed and ferocity of such an animal. Jelme wondered if Chagatai would taste the meat that night, or just his own rage.
CHAPTER SIX
It was another three days before Genghis came to see Jochi. After the riotous night that followed the fight with the tiger, almost all the camp had slept and Genghis himself had risen only to vomit for an entire day and night after three spent solidly drinking. Another day had been spent in moving the great host back to the banks of the river Orkhon. Jelme’s camp had been a fine place to feast Arslan’s life, but the herds and horses needed water and sweet grass. With his customary vitality, Genghis had recovered during the ride, though his bowels remained watery as he stood before the ger of the shaman, Kokchu. It depressed him to think he would once have thrown off the effects of so much drink in just a night’s sleep.
Genghis opened the small door onto a peaceful scene that reminded him of the death of his father. He swallowed acid and ducked inside, his gaze hard as he looked over the bandaged figure in the shadows. Kokchu was washing Jochi and he twisted round in irritation before he saw who it was. The shaman came to his feet and bowed low before the khan.
The shade was a relief after the hard sunlight and Genghis relaxed slightly, pleased to be away from the bustling camp.
‘Has he woken?’ he asked.
Kokchu shook his head solemnly.
‘Only for moments, lord. His wounds have let a fever into his