The Tartars did not lack for courage. As their warning horns moaned across the plain, every warrior ran for his horse, mounting with shrill yells that carried to the ears of Temujin’s warriors. His sixty rode together as they increased their pace to a gallop. His officers snarled orders at any man who proved too eager, watching Temujin himself as he drew his first arrow in perfect balance.

      Yuan had discussed the advantage of hitting the enemy as a line and it showed in the first bloody contacts with the Tartar outriders. As Temujin’s men reached them, the Tartar scouts were spitted on long shafts, their bodies falling with their horses. Temujin could see the Tartars had split their force to leave some to defend their carts, but there were still more than he had guessed, boiling out across the plains like wasps.

      Temujin’s charge swept through them, crashing over dying horses and men as they were met in twos, in fives, a dozen at a time. The bows snapped quick death at the gallop and brought too great a force to resist on the loose Tartar formations. It seemed to Temujin as if just heartbeats passed before they had left a trail of dead men and riderless horses behind them and the carts were approaching at dizzying speed. He glanced left and right before blowing three quick blasts, calling for the horns formation. He had almost left it too late, but Yuan’s men moved up, matching Kachiun and Jelme on the right. They hit the carts in a crescent, enveloping the herds and Tartars with a roar.

      Temujin’s grasping fingers found his quiver was empty and he threw his bow to the ground, drawing his sword. At the centre of the crescent, he found his way blocked by a heavy cart laden with felt and leather. He barely saw the first man to step into his path, taking his head with a single swing of his blade before kicking in his heels and charging into a mass of Tartar warriors. Arslan and ten more went with him into the centre, killing as they went. Women and children threw themselves under the carts in terror as the riders swept through, and their wailing was like the keening of hawks on the wind.

      The change came without warning. One of the Tartars dropped his sword, and even then he would have been killed if he had not thrown himself flat as Khasar passed by. Others did the same, lying prostrate as Temujin and his officers galloped around the camp, looking for resistance. It took time for the blood lust to ease in them and it was Temujin himself who reached for his horn and blew the falling note that meant a slower pace. His men were spattered with fresh blood, but they heard him and ran their fingers along their blades, cleaning away the sheen of life.

      There was a moment of utter stillness. Where, before, their ears had rung with pounding hooves and bellowing orders, the quiet now swelled around them. Temujin listened in wonder to a silence that lasted long enough for his brothers to come to his side. Somewhere, a woman began to wail and the bleating of sheep and goats began again. Perhaps they had always been there, but Temujin had not heard them over the pulse of blood that stopped his ears and made his heart throb in his chest.

      He tightened his reins, turning his horse around as he surveyed the scene. The camp had been shattered. Those Tartars who still lived were on their faces in the grass, silent and despairing. He looked back over the path of the attack and saw one rider who had somehow survived the charge. The man was slack-jawed at what he had witnessed, too stunned even to ride for his life.

      Temujin squinted at the lone rider, nodding to Kachiun.

      ‘Bring him in, or kill him,’ he said.

      Kachiun gave a brisk nod and tapped Khasar on the shoulder for more arrows. Khasar had only two, but he handed them over and Kachiun took up his bow from where it was neatly strapped to his saddle. He had not thrown the valuable weapon down, Temujin noticed with wry amusement.

      Temujin and Khasar watched as Kachiun galloped out after the Tartar rider. The sight of him coming seemed to jerk the man out of a trance and he turned his mount to escape at last. Kachiun closed the gap before the Tartar could hit full gallop, then fired an arrow that took him high in the back. The man rode on for a few moments before he fell and Kachiun left him there, turning back to the camp and raising his bow to signal the kill.

      Temujin started as his men roared. They had all been watching and the gesture released their excitement. Those who had bows raised them up, jerking their arms in triumph. It had happened so fast that they had been caught somehow at the finish, unsure. Now the great rush of joy that comes from facing death and living filled them all and they dismounted. Some of Togrul’s bondsmen moved excitedly to the carts, pulling aside hides and felt to see what they had won for themselves.

      Arslan’s men tied the prisoners, taking away their weapons. Some of them were unmarked and they were treated roughly, with contempt. They had no right to be alive after such a battle and Temujin cared nothing for them. He found his hands were shaking, and as he dismounted, he led his horse to keep a grip on the reins that would hide the weakness.

      He glanced up from his thoughts when he saw his brother Temuge ride in close and swing a leg down. The boy was milk-white and clearly shaken, but Temujin saw he carried a bloody blade as if he did not know how it came to be in his hand. Temujin tried to catch his brother’s eye to congratulate him, but Temuge turned and vomited on the grass. Temujin walked away rather than shame him by noticing. When he had recovered, he would find a few words of praise for the boy.

      Temujin stood in the centre of the carts, feeling the eyes of his officers on him. They were waiting for something and he raised a hand to his eyes, pressing away the dark thoughts that slid and jostled for space in his mind. He cleared his throat and made his voice carry.

      ‘Arslan! Find whatever skins of airag they had with them and put a guard on them, someone you can trust. Khasar, send out eight men as scouts around us. There may be more of them.’ He turned to Kachiun as he returned and leapt nimbly down from his pony. ‘Gather the prisoners, Kachiun, and have your ten set up three of their gers as quickly as you can. We will stop here for tonight.’

      It was not enough, he realised. They still watched him with gleaming eyes and the beginnings of smiles.

      ‘You have done well,’ he called to them. ‘Whatever we have won is yours, to be split equally among you.’

      They cheered at that, stealing glances at the Tartar carts laden with valuables. The horses alone would mean instant wealth for many of them, but Temujin did not care for that. At the moment the battle was won, he had faced the prospect of returning to Togrul. The khan of the Kerait would claim his share, of course. That was his right, even if he had not been present. Temujin would not begrudge him a few dozen ponies and swords. Still, it nagged at him. He did not want to return. The thought of meekly handing back the bondsmen who had served him so well made his jaw clench in irritation. He needed them all, and Togrul was a man who saw only the lands of the Chin as a reward. On impulse, Temujin reached down and brushed the grass at his feet. Someone had been killed over that patch, he realised. Tiny droplets of blood clung to the blades and spotted his hand as he stood straight. He raised his voice again.

      ‘Remember this, when you tell your children you fought with the sons of Yesugei. There is one tribe and one land that recognises no borders. This is merely a beginning.’

      Perhaps they cheered because they were still filled with the excitement of victory; it did not matter.

      The Tartars had come prepared for a long campaign. The carts contained oil for lamps, woven ropes, cloths from the thinnest silk to canvas so thick it would hardly bend. In addition, there was a leather bag of silver coins and enough black airag to warm the coldest throats on winter nights. Temujin had those last items brought to him and stacked against the inner wall of the first ger to be erected. More than twenty Tartars had survived the attack and he had questioned them to find their leader. Most had merely looked at him, remaining silent. Temujin had drawn his sword and killed three before the fourth man swore and spat on the ground.

      ‘There is no leader here,’ the Tartar had said in fury. ‘He died with the others.’