Lords of the Bow. Conn Iggulden
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on stiff calfskin.
‘It would be interesting to see such a thing,’ he said. He took Barchuk by the shoulder, giving him honour by letting him leave the great ger in his company. The generals fell in behind. Outside, they could hear the hushed murmur of the gathered tribes as they waited for the one who would lead them.
Even in the summer darkness, the camp glowed yellow under the stars, lit by ten thousand fluttering flames. The centre had been cleared in a vast ring around the ger of Genghis, and the warriors of a hundred factions had left their families to stand together in the flickering light. From one man to the next, their armour could be a piece of stiff leather or the helmets and neat sets of iron scales copied from the Chin. Some carried the stamp of their tribes, while most were blank, showing that they were new and that there was only one tribe under the sky. Many of them held swords, fresh from the forges that had been working night and day since coming to the plain. Huge holes had been dug by sweating men under the sun as they carted ore back to the flames and watched in excitement as the swordsmiths turned out weapons they could hold. More than one man had burned his fingers reaching for them before they had cooled properly, but they had never dreamed of owning a long blade and they did not mind.
The wind always blew across the plain, but that evening the breeze was gentle as they waited for Genghis.
When he came, Barchuk of the Uighurs was guided down the steps of the cart and stood in the first rank around the wheels of wood and iron. Genghis stood for a moment, looking over the heads of the crowd and marvelling at the size of it. His brothers, Arslan and Jelme and last the shaman, Kokchu, stepped down from the height, each one pausing to take in the ranks stretching away in pools of light.
Then he was alone and he closed his eyes for a moment. He gave thanks to the sky father for bringing him to that place, with such an army to follow him. He said a few brief words to the spirit of his father in case that man could see him. Yesugei would be proud of his son, he knew. He had broken new ground for his people and only the spirits could tell where the path would end. As he opened his eyes, he saw Borte had brought his four sons to stand in the front rank, three of them too young to be left on their own. Genghis nodded sharply to them, his gaze lingering on the eldest, Jochi, and Chagatai whom he had named after the shaman of the Wolves. At almost nine, Jochi was in awe of his father and he lowered his eyes while Chagatai merely stared, his nervousness obvious.
‘We came here from a hundred different tribes,’ Genghis roared. He wanted his voice to carry, but even a throat trained on the field of battle could only reach so far. Those who could not hear would have to follow the lead of those who could.
‘I have brought Wolves to this plain, Olkhun’ut and Kerait. I have brought Merkit and Jajirat, Uirat and Naimans. Woyela have come here, Tuvan, Uighurs and Uriankhai.’ As he named each group, there was a stir from where they sat. He noticed how they remained together even for that night. There would be no easy assimilation for those who counted tribal honour above all else. It did not matter, he told himself. He would raise their gaze higher. His memory was faultless as he named each tribe that had ridden to join him in the shadow of the black mountain. He left no one out, knowing that the omission would be noted and remembered.
‘More, I have called those who had no tribe,’ he went on, ‘but still had honour and heeded the call of blood to blood. They rode to us in trust. And I say to you all, there are no tribes under the sky father. There is only one Mongol nation and it begins this night, in this place.’
Some of those who listened cheered, while others remained stony-faced. Genghis kept the warrior’s mask on his own features. He needed them to understand there was no loss of honour in what he asked.
‘We are brothers in blood, separated too long ago for anyone here to know. I claim a greater family of all tribes, a blood tie to you all. I call you as brothers to my standard and we will ride as one family, one nation.’ He paused, judging the response. They had heard the idea before, whispered in the gathering from tribe to tribe. Still, it shook them to hear it from him. The bulk of the men did not cheer and he had to crush a sudden spike of irritation. The spirits knew he loved them, but his own people were maddening at times.
‘We will pile spoils enough to equal the mountain at your backs. You will have ponies and wives and gold, oils and sweetmeats. You will take lands for your own and you will be feared wherever they hear your names. Every man here will be a khan to those who bow to him.’
They cheered that, at least, and Genghis risked a small smile, pleased he had found the right tone. Let the lesser khans worry about the ambition of those around them. He meant every word of it.
‘To the south is the great desert,’ he called to them. Silence fell on the instant and he could feel their attention like a force. ‘We will cross it at a speed the Chin kingdoms cannot imagine. We will fall on the first of them like wolves on lambs and they will scatter before our swords and bows. I will give you their riches and their women for your own. That is where I will plant my standard and the ground will shake as I do. The earth mother will know her sons and brothers have found their inheritance and she will rejoice to hear thunder on the plains.’
The cheering came again and Genghis raised his arms for quiet, though it pleased him.
‘We will ride into the dry country, taking all the water we need for one sudden strike. After that, we will not stop until the sea bounds us in every direction. I am Genghis who say this and my word is iron.’
They roared in appreciation and Genghis snapped his fingers at Khasar, who stood waiting on the ground below. Khasar handed up a heavy pole of silver birch onto which eight horsetails had been tied. The crowd murmured as they saw it. Some recognised the black of the Merkit, or the red tail of the Naimans, bound with the others. Every one of them had been the khan’s standard for one of the great tribes and Genghis had them all on the plain. As he took the staff, Khasar handed up a horsetail dyed with Uighur blue.
Barchuk’s eyes narrowed at this most potent of symbols, but with the host at his back, he was still filled with excitement and the vision of the future. As he felt Genghis’ eyes flicker over him, he bowed his head.
With nimble fingers, Genghis bound the tip of the last horsetail to the others and planted the butt on the wood at his feet. The breeze caught the coloured standard, so that the tails whipped and twisted as if alive.
‘I have bound the colours,’ he called to them. ‘When they are bleached white, there will be no differences between them. They will be the standard of a nation.’
At his feet, his officers raised their swords and the host responded, caught up in the moment. Thousands of weapons jabbed the sky and Genghis nodded to them, overwhelmed. It took a long time for the noise to end, though he held up his free hand and patted the air with it.
‘The oath you will take is binding, my brothers. Yet it is no stronger than the blood that binds us already. Kneel to me.’
The front ranks dipped immediately and the rest followed in ripples outward as they saw what was happening. Genghis watched closely for hesitation, but there was none. He had them all.
Kokchu climbed the steps back up to the cart, his expression carefully blank. In his wildest ambition, he had not dreamed of such a moment. Temuge had put in the word for him and Kokchu congratulated himself on bringing the young man to the point where he would make the suggestion.
As the tribes knelt, Kokchu revelled in his status. He wondered if Genghis had considered he would be the only one amongst them who did not take the oath. Khasar, Kachiun and Temuge knelt on the grass with all the others, khans and warriors alike.
‘Under one khan, we are a nation,’ Kokchu called over their heads, his heart pounding in excitement. The words echoed back to him, filling the valley in waves as those behind repeated them. ‘The khan offers gers, horses, salt and blood, in all honour.’
Kokchu gripped the railing of the cart as they chanted. After that night, they would all know the shaman to the great khan. He glanced upwards as the words came in surges from further and further back. Under those clear skies, the spirits would be writhing in wild and simple joy, unseen and unfelt by anyone but the most