Conqueror: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Conn Iggulden
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and Genghis sighed. With a sharp blow, he knocked the sword aside and swept his other hand across, plunging a dagger into the young man’s throat. As the life went out of Murakh’s son, he fell onto Genghis with open arms. Genghis gave a grunt as he caught the weight and heaved him away. Kokchu watched the body tumble limply down the slope.
Calmly, Genghis wiped his knife and replaced it in a sheath at his waist, his weariness suddenly evident.
‘I would have honoured the Naimans, if you had joined me,’ he said.
The old khan stared up at him, his eyes empty.
‘You have heard my answer,’ he replied, his voice strong. ‘Now send me to my sons.’
Genghis nodded. His sword came down with apparent slowness. It swept the khan’s head from his shoulders and sent it rolling down the hill. The body hardly jerked at the tug of the blade and only leaned slightly to one side. Kokchu could hear the blood spattering on the rocks as every one of his senses screamed to live. He paled as Genghis turned to him and he spoke in a desperate torrent of words.
‘You may not shed the blood of a shaman, lord. You may not. I am a man of power, one who understands power. Strike me and you will find my skin is iron. Instead, let me serve you. Let me proclaim your victory.’
‘How well did you serve the khan of the Naimans to have brought him here to die?’ Genghis replied.
‘Did I not bring him far from the battle? I saw you coming in my dreams, lord. I prepared the way for you as best I could. Are you not the future of the tribes? My voice is the voice of the spirits. I stand in water, while you stand on earth and sky. Let me serve you.’
Genghis hesitated, his sword perfectly still. The man he faced wore a dark brown deel over a grubby tunic and leggings. It was decorated with patterns of stitching, swirls of purple worn almost black with grease and dirt. The boots Kokchu wore were bound in rope, the sort a man might wear if the last owner had no more use for them.
Yet there was something in the way the eyes burned in the dark face. Genghis remembered how Eeluk of the Wolves had killed his father’s shaman. Perhaps Eeluk’s fate had been sealed on that bloody day so many years before. Kokchu watched him, waiting for the stroke that would end his life.
‘I do not need another storyteller,’ Genghis said. ‘I have three men already who claim to speak for the spirits.’
Kokchu saw the curiosity in the man’s gaze and he did not hesitate.
‘They are children, lord. Let me show you,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply, he reached inside his deel and removed a slender length of steel bound clumsily into a hilt of horn. He sensed Genghis raise his sword and Kokchu held up his free palm to stay the blow, closing his eyes.
With a wrenching effort of will, the shaman shut out the wind on his skin and the cold fear that ate at his belly. He murmured the words his father had beaten into him and felt the calm of a trance come sharper and faster than even he had expected. The spirits were with him, their caress slowing his heart. In an instant, he was somewhere else and watching.
Genghis opened his eyes wide as Kokchu touched the dagger to his own forearm, the slim blade entering the flesh. The shaman showed no sign of pain as the metal slid through him and Genghis watched, fascinated, as the tip raised the skin on the other side. The metal showed black as it poked through and Kokchu blinked slowly, almost lazily, as he pulled it out.
He watched the eyes of the young khan as the knife came free. They were fastened on the wound. Kokchu took a deep breath, feeling the trance deepen until a great coldness was in every limb.
‘Is there blood, lord?’ he whispered, knowing the answer.
Genghis frowned. He did not sheathe his sword, but stepped forward and ran a rough thumb over the oval wound in Kokchu’s arm.
‘None. It is a useful skill,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Can it be taught?’
Kokchu smiled, no longer afraid.
‘The spirits will not come to those they have not chosen, lord.’
Genghis nodded, stepping away. Even in the cold wind, the shaman stank like an old goat and he did not know what to make of the strange wound that did not bleed.
With a grunt, he ran his fingers along his blade and sheathed it.
‘I will give you a year of life, shaman. It is enough time to prove your worth.’
Kokchu fell to his knees, pressing his face into the ground.
‘You are the great khan, as I have foretold,’ he said, tears staining the dust on his cheeks. He felt the coldness of whispering spirits leave him then. He shrugged his sleeve forward to hide the fast-growing spot of blood.
‘I am,’ Genghis replied. He looked down the hill at the army waiting for him to return. ‘The world will hear my name.’ When he spoke again, it was so quiet that Kokchu had to strain to hear him.
‘This is not a time of death, shaman. We are one people and there will be no more battles between us. I will summon us all. Cities will fall to us, new lands will be ours to ride. Women will weep and I will be pleased to hear it.’
He looked down at the prostrate shaman, frowning.
‘You will live, shaman. I have said it. Get off your knees and walk down with me.’
At the foot of the hill, Genghis nodded to his brothers, Kachiun and Khasar. Each of them had grown in authority in the years since they had begun the gathering of tribes, but they were still young and Kachiun smiled as his brother walked amongst them.
‘Who is this?’ Khasar asked, staring at Kokchu in his ragged deel.
‘The shaman of the Naimans,’ Genghis replied.
Another man guided his pony close and dismounted, his eyes fastened on Kokchu. Arslan had once been swordsmith to the Naiman tribe and Kokchu recognised him as he approached. The man was a murderer, he remembered, forced into banishment. It was no surprise to find such as he amongst Genghis’ trusted officers.
‘I remember you,’ Arslan said. ‘Has your father died then?’
‘Years ago, oathbreaker,’ Kokchu replied, nettled by the tone. For the first time, he realised he had lost the authority he had won so painfully with the Naimans. There were few men in that tribe who would have looked on him without lowering their eyes, for fear that they would be accused of disloyalty and face his knives and fire. Kokchu met the gaze of the Naiman traitor without flinching. They would come to know him.
Genghis watched the tension between the two men with something like amusement.
‘Do not give offence, shaman. Not to the first warrior to come to my banners. There are no Naimans any longer, nor ties to tribe. I have claimed them all.’
‘I have seen it in the visions,’ Kokchu replied immediately. ‘You have been blessed by the spirits.’
Genghis’ face grew tight at the words.
‘It has been a rough blessing. The army you see around you has been won by strength and skill. If the souls of our fathers were aiding us, they were too subtle for me to see them.’
Kokchu blinked. The khan of the Naimans had been credulous and easy to lead. He realised this new man was not as open to his influence. Still, the air was sweet in his lungs. He lived and he had not expected even that an hour before.
Genghis turned to his brothers, dismissing Kokchu from his thoughts.
‘Have the new men give their oath to me this evening, as the sun sets,’ he said to Khasar. ‘Spread them amongst the others so that they begin to feel part of us, rather than beaten enemies. Do it carefully. I cannot be watching for knives at my back.’
Khasar dipped his head before turning away and striding through the warriors to where the defeated tribes still knelt.
Kokchu saw a smile of affection