The Mongol
Author: Barry Sadler
Date: 1990-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Historical Fiction; Adventure
Description: A slave of the savage Tatars, Casca is a champion in the blood-sports that make his masters rich…a rare prize for those who wager for his skills…and a nightmare for those who face him in a fight where only one survives. Then Casca is stolen by a Mongol rebel – a young outcast among his own people. Only blood and power can quench the burning thirst of his ambition. With Casca at his side, the rebel unites a people and cuts a bloody swath across Asia into Europe. Nations fall beneath an army horde that knows no mercy… And an empire rises from the slaughter.

This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

CASCA: #22 The Mongol

Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder

Copyright © 1990 by Barry Sadler

Cover: Greg Brantley

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Table of Contents

MONGOL SLAUGHTER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 25 Halls of Montezuma

MONGOL SLAUGHTER

The first rank of Temujin's warriors stepped to the rear three paces. Each man had been standing in front of one of the hundreds of sharpened stakes that Casca had prepared for them. Their bodies concealed them from the view of the Kereit and Ong Khan.

The Kereit were too close to stop their charge, and the second wave behind them was at a full gallop. They had to go on to where those terrible pointed stakes the thicknesses of a man's arms were waiting to disembowel their horses.

The first wave rushed onto the stakes. The horses screamed and tried to shy away but couldn't. They were packed too close. The stakes reached deep into chests and shoulders of the horses, driving the animals insane with pain. Three hundred went down in the first rush, littering earth with kicking, jerking, bleeding bodies.

CHAPTER ONE

From high on the Altai came the desert winds that drove the whirling, flesh-devouring sands of the desert demon before them, shrieking as they raced across the barren steppes and into the wastes of Arabistan.

Zhoutai, hetman of the small band of nomadic Tatars who had taken shelter from the winds in a gorge protected on the north and south by a small range of mountains, wiped grit from his eyes with his smallest fingers, then replaced the rag covering back over his mouth and nose to keep from suffocating as the grains of sand tried to plug every pore and orifice of his less than sanitary body.

He had been through foul winds before – every year of his life. He could tell from the manner in which the winds screamed how long it would take before they would at last fade back to whatever hell they had come from.

This one still had one full night left in which to torture the earth and all it came in contact with. Then it, too, would fade, leaving the deserts and mountains strangely still and silent.

The silence, he knew, would not last long. Within a few days there would be a great gathering of voices as the tribes and clans of the end of the earth – the high steppes and deserts from Mongolia to the lands of the Rus – met on common ground. A common ground where tradition was the only law. One which would, for the time of the gathering, normally prevent those tribes and individuals with long-standing blood feuds or perhaps only a momentary fit of bad temper from killing each other. The traditions that would make them refrain from their normal bloody habits of cheerfully slaughtering each other for long enough to make wagers, race their horses and camels, and to trade for the things the others had not.

Manners would be at their best, each man careful not to offend or draw steel against another. For to do so would be the same as to commit suicide. As all the other tribes would immediately attack and kill the offending person in the most unpleasant manner available to them, and if the offending person's tribe attempted to come to his aid, then they, too, would be set upon and driven from the gathering forever. This custom insured good behavior for the four days of peace that came to the steppes once each year.

During this season's wagering, Zhoutai planned on making up for his losses of the past year when his favored horse had broken a leg during the bazhouki. Now he had a new animal – not a horse that is true, but he would pit it against the best of those ugly ones called Mongol. The animals the yellow people behind the Great Wall called the Hsuing Nu or Hsien Pei.

Turning his back to face away from the wind, he let it shove him forward half hunched over; his body was strange to Western eyes. His back was almost a hump, thick neck and shoulders resting on its oversize trunk. The legs were smaller and weaker than those of Western men. The bones had long since bowed out from the years of living in the saddle. The Tatar, as the Huns and Mongols, were men who lived in the saddle. Horsemen.

The earth was not their friend. If they could, they would have bred their sons while in the saddle and then had them suckled on mares’ milk and horse blood till they, too, could ride the winds.

Bending over, he opened the flap to the black felt tent, crawled inside the yurt, and sealed the skin doorway behind him. Zhoutai's eyes were little more than black slits set in deep folds of leathery skin, nearly sealed shut from the years spent staring across the open spaces and squinting to keep the eternal grains of sand from blinding him.

He focused on the beast where it was safely chained to a stout post driven deep into the earth. He made certain to keep it chained out of harm's way, so no harm would come to him. Already two of his men had been attacked when they had ventured too close to it. Both were strong fighting men with several kills to their credit and glory, but they, too, now made certain of each of the thick links of iron chain that secured the animal. One, Horjad, had his left arm nearly torn off at the socket, which meant that he was now almost useless and would live his days out as carrion dog fit only for the scraps of life tossed to him by an indifferent master. The other, Boddasi, was more fortunate. He had lost only his right ear and the thumb of the right hand where the beast had chewed it off before Zhoutai could whip the creature off him.

Zhoutai's two women huddled in their corner of the yurt, not looking at their master lest he wish something of them; the things he wished for usually caused pain to others. Their faces and eyes remained still as they worked lumps of rancid fat into their hair, working the greasy strands into thick braids which they then wrapped around their flattened foreheads.

Zhoutai removed his goatskin jacket, the one with the hair turned to the outside, scratched absently at an itinerant louse chewing away at his crotch, and lay down on a cushion of horsehair to eat: cold mutton and a piece of horseflesh from one of his animals, which had just rolled over on its side and died the day before, tongue hanging out of slavering jaws. The cause of death was unknown. The meat tasted as it should, even served more raw than cooked. This was washed down with kumass, the acrid brew of fermented mares’ milk.

Eyeing his beast, he thought the creature looked a bit under the weather. He needed for it to keep its strength up for the coming contests. Not out of charity – for there was none in his soul, if he had one – Zhoutai tossed the beast part of the lamb haunch he had been gnawing on.

Never did he smile at or acknowledge it. However many beatings he gave his animal, he was – as with his prize horses and stock – careful not to cripple it. After all, he had a solid investment in the animal, having paid hard shekels of Persian silver for it in the bazaar of Samarkand, where it had killed three opponents one after the other, and the last was killed as easily as the first.

Now the ugly creature would fight for him until it was either killed, or perhaps if offered enough, he would sell it. Take the money and leave these two worn-out things he had for women and go past the wall of Chin where the women were soft and the wine did not sour on the stomach.

His stomach, beneath his wrappings of hide and filth-soaked cloth of undetermined origin, gurgled in protest at the reception of Zhoutai's normal diet of soured mares’ milk and coarse meat. Rising, he moved grunting to the side of the tent nearest the women, where he pulled down his breeches and urinated with a strong yellow stream on the sand by their sleeping robes.

The beast chewed at the sinewy bone, tearing at the ligaments with strong yellow teeth, grunting in pleasure when it managed to separate a small piece of real flesh from the bone. It kept its eyes away from Zhoutai, afraid that he would lose his temper again and gain no more for his efforts than another lashing of the animal's already deeply scarred and mutilated hide.

Manacles and leg irons firmly attached to a stake the thickness of a large man's upper arms were driven deep into the hard-packed earth. To this the other end of his chains were firmly attached. The key to the locks he kept in a small bag of human skin hung on a leather thong around his neck.

Zhoutai knew without a doubt that if ever the stake or the chains came loose, the beast would be at him instantly, ripping his arms from his sockets or tearing out his throat with those strong yellow teeth that now worried at the bony shank with such determination.

He didn't look at Zhoutai, but he thought of the feel of the grime-encrusted neck between his fingers. The sweet sound of vertebrae being crushed as he applied all the force of his strong, knot-muscled body to the task. The pleasant task of manually tearing Zhoutai's head from its shoulders, thereby casting him out to whatever hell was best suited to accepting those of his ilk.

Casca had been a slave many times before and had fought for the pleasure of others more than once in the past. He had even performed in the great arenas of Rome. There he had killed before the eyes of the Imperial Caesar and won the rudis, the wooden sword of freedom, and been set free. Though not for long, before his mouth put him back into chains, this time on the oars of a galley plying the waters of the Mediterranean and the Aegean.

Slave he had been time and again, but the feel of chains upon his body was not that which he could easily accept. They ate at him as acid to his soul, wearing at him more each day. That acid of hate also tried day by day to dissolve whatever vestiges of humanity remained within him.

The bone was picked clean, as clean as the sands of the desert winds could have done. Before putting it aside, he cracked the bone between his teeth, sucking out the sweet marrow. Zhoutai winced at the sound and subconsciously moved his body a bit farther away from the beast, closer to the side of his tent. Putting the sucked-out bone aside, he also put away for the moment his thoughts. In spite of his hate, he knew he needed to rest. He would fight again soon.

Squirming his body around to where his chains caused him the least amount of discomfort, he closed his eyes, letting his black thoughts be drowned out by the screaming of the wind outside the yurt.

Before sleep claimed him, he reminded himself that he had time on his side, and time was the master of all. With it he had been slave and king and once even a god. Whatever he had to endure, he would. For he knew he could endure. That was his great secret. All others would come and go in one life span, but he would tarry.

Zhoutai had never spoken to his slave about his past life or where he had come from. One did not speak to property or animals. One worked them until they wore out or died. As with all his beasts, his concern for them was only with the immediate needs that would preserve their value to him.

The past of a slave – especially one such as this, who was obviously less than a real man, with his pale eyes and scarred flesh – meant nothing to him. His only value was in whether he could bring his master a profit. Which was as it should be, and natural with all beasts of burden.

Zhoutai had long ago lost any dreams he had held as a youth. They had faded with the realities of time and he was consumed by the hardness of life on the steppes, where tolerance, compassion, and any sign of weakness was an invitation for others to come and take from you that which you owned, and as often as not, that included your life.

The steppes, the mountains, and the deserts were all unforgiving, merciless. They did not think or feel. They were only what they were, and that was natural. All other notions were artificial and would destroy you if you listened to them. Perhaps in other lands they could afford this luxury of sentiment, but not here. Here, there was only power in all its ten thousand degrees and variations. The power of nature and the power of man over his own kind.

Zhoutai was not the only one who thought this way. The Hsuing Nu, Hsien Pei, White Huns, Tatars, Turkomen, and Uighar all knew this was the way of their lives. Their only way.

It once had led one of them to greatness over the softer lands of the West and the rich lands of Persia. One of them had taken the sword and gone to the gates of Rome itself. The Lord Attila.

Once, as a child, Zhoutai had a fleeting dream he now no longer recalled. A dream of being the next Attila. Of uniting all the tribes of the East under his standard, and driving to the West, even over the Great Wall, into the soft belly of Chin.

But the dream had died stillborn, and no one else had come forth to bind the thousand tribes together. No one strong enough or wise enough to deal with the blood feuds and hatred between them. No one who could force them to one will and lead them to glory and power over their enemies. Never would there be another one who could walk in the shadow of the Lord Attila – never.

The dream had died within Zhoutai, and he was what he was. Alone, bitter and cruel as his life had made him.

CHAPTER TWO

Two days' march to the north, in a nest of lichen-covered crags where he sought shelter between a cluster of sand-lashed boulders, another waited out the storm, driven from his tribe by Jemuga, who had usurped the leadership of the clan.

Temujin, son of Yeshugei, was an outcast. From now on, he would live in secret and grow into his strength for the time when he would take back that which was his by birthright. Until then he must be careful. Any tribe who gave him shelter was subject to a blood feud with Yeshugei. Not that that would deter all from doing that which they pleased, for while Jemuga had taken over leadership of the coalition of tribes that were the rightful heritage of Temujin, he had lost many of those who had accepted Temujin's father, Yeshugei, as overlord. The tribes and clans were now much reduced. Jemuga, may his seed be cursed, had taken over the leadership from Temujin, but he had lost much.

Still, most Noyans and Ka-khans would prefer not to have difficulties when they could be easily avoided. Especially since all this had come to pass with the conniving of Bitkichi of the Buryats, to whom Jemuga was related by marriage; Bitkichi-khan of the Buryats was the most powerful of all the khans, and the needed little reason to plunder and take over his neighbors.

Temujin needed friends and allies. At this time, when the wind cut through the flesh as sand devils and djinns howled in the night, he would have welcomed the friendship of a sand devil or another demon, if that was all that was to be had.

Young Temujin the ironworker had the down lifted cast to the corners of his eyes characteristic of his Mongol heritage, but there were other things about him that spoke of different blood running through his veins. There was a blue-gray cast to his eyes, and under the pointed felt cap his black hair had a definite reddish cast to it which became more pronounced when the sun of the Altai shone upon it. Then it was more red than black. From the trunk up, his body was square and strong; his legs longer and straighter than most of his ilk but still better suited to riding a horse than for striding upon the earth.

It was now three months since he had been driven out from his tribe. Three months was not a lifetime, but the young man, son of the house of Yeshugei, would return. Of that he had no doubt. For had not the heavens themselves spoken of this passing, words of thunder and flame at the very moment when his mother, a woman of the northern tribes who lived by the frozen seas, had opened her legs to let him come forth into the world.

The shamans and qams had told her the shaking of the earth and the fires in the skies signaled the arrival of another great one. One who would surpass even the greatest of the conquerors of the steppes, Attila.

That cold morning in the high Altai by the banks of the River Orkhon, beneath the Shadow of God, as were called the Khinghan Mountains, he was thrust forth from the bleeding womb of his mother, red and squalling. As with all, powerful and weak, rich and poor, he had come into the world naked and defenseless.

But he had the signs and portents to guide him. His mother had told of them again and again before the fever took her, of the portents of that night and what they signified. She and the qams and the wise women of his tribe had spent long hours reading the signs of that storm-lashed night.

Others knew of it also. Some simply did not believe, and then there were the jealous ones, such as Jemuga, who had been his childhood friend. But with the coming of age, ambition rode his soul as djinns upon the whirlwind.

Bit by bit Jemuga had turned against him. Competing against him in every contest – archery, horsemanship, the sword. If Temujin won a match, Jemuga would sulk for days on end, refusing to eat or even to speak. Jemuga now thought he had eliminated him by driving him out of the tribe, an outcast.

True, Jemuga had power now, by taking to wife the daughter of Bitkichi-khan of the Buryat. With the wealth of his father-in-law he had bribed and bought away the loyalty of many of those who would have followed Temujin after the death of his father, Yeshugei, six months past. Jemuga played at being the master, but Bitkichi-khan held the true power behind him. Jemuga, who was his equal in most things and in some even better, thought he had won the final game. He was confident that the power of Bitkichi-khan, the desert toad, would protect him till he could secure his place as chief of the tribe.

That power would not save them. He would return like the Buna, the eternal avenging bird, rising from its own ashes. He would one day sweep down on all who had offended him. With sword and flame he would cleanse his honor. For that, too, had been written, but the usurpers had chosen not to listen to that part of the prophecies.

However, before that could come to pass, there were other things yet to take place. There was one he had yet to encounter. A man he had never seen. But he would know him when their paths crossed.

The scarred one of the pale eyes like his. The Old Young One, who would tell him of the secrets that would give him his power and strength. This, too, was foretold. They would come to each other in a time of trial and danger. Together they would be more than their separate parts and the scarred one would make he, Temujin, whole.

The first making of the whole would be when he took vengeance and reclaimed that which was his: the leadership of the clan. And that would be only the beginning. He would repay in kind all things a thousand-fold.

Jemuga, he of the black eyes and quick grin – may his bowels rot inside his body and his instrument of pleasure wither into a dried reed – had taken away that which was his.

But it would not be forever. He would return, to rescue his brothers from Jemuga's oppression under which they were now living. Jemuga thought that by keeping members of his family in the tribe, and therefore hostage to his whim, he would be able to keep Temujin from his heritage.

Fools! True he had great feelings for his brothers, but if they were in his way, he would trample them into the dust as readily as he would Jemuga. As long as they kept faith with him, he would do so by them.

And it had been his brother, Chagatai, the next eldest after Tushi, who had said that it was best if they stayed in the tribe instead of leaving with him. There, they would try to do what they could to prepare the way for his return. He was the chosen one, and they would endure the insults and shame until the time of his return and vengeance.

Yes, he would return; when he did, Jemuga – and even the powerful Bitkichi-khan – would be his to do with as he pleased.

The dreams were good. They covered his soul, feeding it, giving it warmth from the screaming winds of the night. The winds were nothing – they would pass, all things would pass, but he would continue till he met the scarred one.

For now he would seek a bit more shelter between the red-veined granite boulders, wrap his thin body in his one poor robe of muskrat skins, and sleep. On the morrow he would begin the trek to Qura-Qurom by the River Orkhon and the gathering; perhaps with a bit of luck he might even be able to steal a horse on the way. Traveling on foot was the worst punishment one of his race would know.

"Ah, shit," Casca mumbled as he stepped on a sharp stone. The night winds had uncovered a plain of wind and sand honed to razor edges, a field of volcanic rock.

Zhoutai paid him no attention as he half-dragged Casca along behind his horse. The rocky plain was not that great a distance to cross. With luck, they would be over it and into the foothills by sunset. Then one more day through the pass over the Khanghai Mountains and they would begin the descent to the river plain of Qura-Qurom, where the gathering was to be held.

If the storm had not come, he knew he would already have seen signs that others were already moving to the valley. But the storm had scoured the face of the earth, leaving it naked and burning under the high sun.

Casca was dragging ass by the time they saw the first tendrils of smoke rising by the River Orkhon. If they had gone on much farther, he would have been tempted to agitate Zhoutai into stabbing him and leaving him for dead. But after seeing the diet the Tatar lived on and recalling tales of cannibalism among them, he decided not to try it. Death, even when temporary, was a very serious matter.

The mud huts of Qura-Qurom were about what he expected. This part of creation was definitely the asshole of the world, and the people surrounding the asshole were well suited to that purpose. Most of them resembled mobile pieces of some form of hairy intestinal tissue, filthy, ragged barbarian tribesmen who, as long as they existed, would be forever a threat to the Western world and the empires of the East. Some of the nomads looked wilder than the beasts he had seen in the circus of Rome.

Camels, donkeys, horses, and sub-humans had left their droppings everywhere. These lumps were immediately surrounded by hordes of blue-green flies the size of his thumbnail. Yurts of felt and tents of animal skins dotted the plain by the river, each tribe setting its own boundaries.

There was peace at the gathering, but it was still not wise for one of another tribe to venture into his neighbor's area without invitation. The laws of hospitality were thin at best, and one never knew...

He saw, here and there, fair-colored heads of shoulder-length hair, belonging to traders from Rus and the Baltics and occasionally a robe of clean bright silks of Chin, belonging to a trader of that land who had come to bargain for rare furs, but they were definitely in the minority among the dark, hard faces with obsidian chips for eyes that never smiled, except when blood was being spilled.

Tatars, Mongols, and Turkomen dominated the scene, each trying to outdo the other as they whipped their horses and camels in never-ending races, raising clouds of dust to the heavens, beneath which the rest went about their labors, paying no attention to the dust that settled on their faces, clothes, food, and drink.

Zhoutai led his small caravan unerringly to a place near the river where the Tatar tribesmen historically kept their encampments. He was not greeted by any of his own race. Even among them he had a bad reputation. Ignoring them as unworthy of his attentions, he found a place in which to pitch his tents and water his stock, including Casca, whom he made certain was well and securely chained, then went off to find out the schedule of events and when the fights between human slaves and champions would be held.

Casca was more than happy to see him go, leaving him for a moment so he could soak his feet in the waters of the Orkhon and cleanse some of the filth from his body.

The sound of a camel fight in the distance didn't take his attention away from his stroking and petting his feet and torn soles. That they would rapidly heal didn't make them feel any better. He was getting pretty tired of Zhoutai's shit, and knew that it was just a matter of time before he handed the Tatar his head on a plate.

Sooner or later the bastard would make a mistake, and when he did, Casca promised himself he would tear Zhoutai's arms off at the shoulders, then beat him to death with the bloody stumps. After that he was going to hurt him a little bit.

Zhoutai made the rounds of the different encampments, ignoring the cries of hawkers offering their wares. He was interested only in those who had other champions to pit against his animal. It took three hours of haggling with a Qura-chitin before he arranged the contest between his beast and the champion of the Black Khitan, a huge, heavy-fleshed man from behind the Great Wall. The Khitan weighed nearly half again that of his beast. But that did not overly concern him. He had seen Casca defeat more than one of this size in the past. Still, it would be best if he made his beast keep its body covered until the final wagers were made. If they saw the knotted muscles in his arms and chest and the crisscrossing of dozens of battle scars, it could put the odds off a bit.

His beast definitely had the look of a professional fighter about him, and to have survived that many wounds meant he was tough to kill.

Yes, it would be best if he hurried back to his own campsite and gave the animal something with which to cover its body. A large, sacklike affair would be best, something to conceal the width of the shoulders and power in the heavy thighs and legs. One of his women's dresses! It might even help with the betting. For no true man would ever wear the black shapeless sack of a woman.

Searching through his bags, he found a dress suitable for Casca. Taking it and a bowl of lumpy, grayish gruel freshly stewed by his women, containing lumps of mutton floating in thick grease and onions, he approached the limit of the beast's chain and placed the dress and stew where Casca could reach them.

"Put on the dress and eat, animal. Tomorrow before dark you fight."

CHAPTER THREE

Temujin came into Qura-Qurom footsore and weary. The calves of his legs burned, muscles cramping from unaccustomed foot-travel. He was getting much stronger and even had a certain satisfaction that he could cover the leagues without the aid of a horse. Some satisfaction, yes, but not enough. He swore by the sword that he would have a mount before he returned to his tribe.

In the crowds of Tatars, Mongols, Uighars, and Turkomen he was just another unknown face. There would be some here from the Merkit and Kereit, but they shouldn't prove to be too difficult to avoid, as long as he stayed away from their encampment. And there was the fact that he little resembled the boy Jemuga had driven out. The weeks alone, crossing over the mountains and deserts, had much changed him. To begin with, he was even more filthy than most of his tribe, and his face had been drawn tight into a mask of skin covering the bony prominence of his skull. Unless one looked very close, it would be difficult to place him as the son of Yeshugei. And if he was spotted, the laws of the gathering should protect him for long enough for him to escape back into the mountains.

Different from Casca, the smell and sound of the gathering were to Temujin exciting, different. The hordes of flies and clouds of dust meant nothing. He stopped to watch a camel fight, two lumbering beasts slapping their snakish necks against each other, each trying to position its ugly, loose-lipped face where it would get a bite with its strong, heavy yellow teeth, which could eat through cactus spines with no difficulty at all.

At last one beast, still with part of its winter pelt hanging in shaggy clots from its shoulders, caught the other by the throat, and those great yellow teeth reached deep through the other's tough hide to sink into the jugular. Violet blood flowed forth along the tall man's arm, spraying the delighted onlookers as the winning beast shook the other's throat till it fell to its knobby, callused knees, head hanging limply. The winner screamed and screamed in triumph as only a camel can. A shrill blubbering sound between blood-frothed, fleshy lips.

Temujin laughed in delight at the spectacle, for the moment forgetting the angry gurgling of his stomach. The losing beast twitched in its death throes as the bettors cried in delight or in agony as they paid off their wagers.

Temujin wandered through the makeshift bazaars. His eyes and stomach both watered at the sight of reed baskets filled with the sweet dates of Samarkand, figs from the Colchis Mountains, and jars of sweet honey from the mountain bees of Tarbagatai. All of these delicacies were kept relatively clear of a coating of flies and gnats by constant sweeping with horsetail whisks by the vendors. This was not done for any sanitary reason. If they had not kept the insects constantly moving, no one would have been able to see their wares.

None paid much attention to the gaunt, ragged boy as he wandered through the stalls and crowds of nomads. Past jongleurs and soothsayers of many kinds, those who read the burned, cracked bones of sheep and those who sat in the dust rocking on their heels as they stared into the high, clear sun and spoke with distant voices of the customers' futures.

He would have tried to steal something to eat, but to do so and be caught would mean at least a public whipping. That he would not chance; it was not as if he had not had food recently. He had become a master at snaring hares and desert rodents, though without salt they had little to offer in the way of taste. It was therefore with reluctance and discontent after seeing the delicacies of the bazaar that he found a place outside the bustle of the camp to eat his last piece of cold, half-raw partridge. A well-cast stone two days earlier had provided him with the morsel, and this was the last of it. At least it had aged enough that it had a bit of flavor to it. Licking his fingers, not to clean them but to obtain the last bit of thin grease clinging to them, he smiled. The gods or fortune would provide. Of that he was certain, for did he not have a great and glorious future awaiting him?

The gathering would last at least five days; somewhere in that time he felt that chance would present itself to him. Perhaps he would find one who wandered off alone, drunk from the partaking of too much kumass or the unaccustomed wine of Chin or Persia. Or there could be one who would leave the gathering early, then he would be able to ambush him and thereby gain for himself a horse and valuables. Patience was all that was needed.

He sat himself to wait between a row of yurts where there was shade. In the afternoon there would be combat between men, wrestlers, and perhaps even swordplay. He enjoyed that almost as much as the buzkashi, where opposing teams tried to take the carcass of a calf from one end of a field to the other. It was not uncommon for men to be trampled to death by enthusiastic players as they whipped their horses back and forth across the field, each tugging at the carcass of the headless calf, often tearing it in two with their efforts. During this time riders would even trample one of their own team if he was between them and the headless calf. The one who had the largest portion of the animal was the one everyone else went after, whipping at his face and hands, attempting to make him drop it. The only restriction to the game was that only horse whips could be used. No edged weapons or clubs were permitted. A good sport for warriors, but that was not scheduled till four days hence. It would be the last real event of import during the gathering, something to talk about for another season during the long winter nights and on the endless treks as the nomads followed the animals from pasture to pasture in search of grazing lands. The game would be retalked and critiqued ten thousand times before the next gathering.

Zhoutai led the way. Casca, in his black, shapeless woman's dress, hands and feet chained, escorted by two of Zhoutai's men, followed after him. He tried to ignore the jibes and vulgarities cast at him as they passed through the crowd, waiting for the sport to begin. Zhoutai was pleased that the audience did not take his entry very seriously. It would drive the odds up. Already he had made several wagers at very favorable points, and there would be more before he took the woman's dress off his animal.

The site of the event was near the bazaar, no more than a slight depression in the earth with a vaguely oval shape, surrounded by onlookers. As soon as they arrived, Zhoutai left Casca under the wary eyes of his guard and went in search of more bettors. Around the depression, voices rose shrilly in a dozen tongues, and bets and odds were offered and accepted or argued over.

Casca was content to rest and wait until his turn to fight. First there would be a contest between two wrestlers: a thin, wiry Tatar and a dark, sinewy-muscled Uighar, with hair hanging in a long braided pigtail to his buttocks. Bad mistake, Casca thought. The Uighar was just giving his opponent a convenient handle. These two were not well skilled in the art, they were simply two nomads who wished contest.

It was pretty much a foregone conclusion who the winner of the first contest would be. The Tatar had it all over the pigtailed Uighar. The game probably would not have gone to the death had it not been obvious to all what was going to take place, and everyone wanted to see the ending.

The more agile Tatar moved quickly with a leg trip to fell his larger opponent, then proceeded to strangle him with his own pigtail. That was novel enough to please even the most jaded aficionado, but when the Uighar lost consciousness, the Tatar whipped him over to his back, unwrapped the pigtail from around his throat, and began stuffing it down the Uighar's throat. When the man's jaws clamped in spasm, the Tatar leapt quickly to his feet and with two rapid kicks broke his jaw, dropped back to the man's chest, and proceeded to stuff the rest of the knotted hair into the gaping maw. All this was to the delight of the spectators, who roared in glee, slapping hands and whips against their own thighs in appreciation. Even those from the Uighar's own tribe did nothing to stop the killing. As with the others, they saw the humor of the situation, though several did decide to shorten their own hairstyles.

When the fighter for the Black Khitan appeared, the odds rose again in Zhoutai's favor, nearly five to one. This was the day when Zhoutai hoped that he would become a man of true property. Everything he had hoarded in his life was wagered on the game. Almost a full bashlik of silver. Enough to buy thirty-five horses.

If his animal lost, then he would at least have the pleasure of killing the beast slowly if the fighter for the Black Khitan did not, and thereby derive at least some small pleasure in compensation for his losses. And if he won, then he would certainly be able to sell another bashlik or two of fine silver. With seven bashlik he would be free to live as, if not a king, at least as a prince among his kind.

As with all nomads, wrestling was a favored sport, but it was wrestling in the Greek style. Here there were no rules except that weapons other than your own body could not be used. The Black Khitan led his fighter around the inner circle, crying his praises and taking all bets placed against him. As with many of his race, he, too, was addicted to gambling and had, when he saw Zhoutai's entry, wagered all he owned on the outcome of the fight.

He would not even have accepted this match with the Tatar except the fool offered him such good odds. And it would not hurt Han to get a quick, easy victory to whet his appetite for tougher game later. The Black Khitan had no doubt that his man would win the fight. He was from those hard lands that lay to the west of the islands of Jiponga. The men from there were noted for their ferocity and cruelty, and some of those from the northern part of the peninsula gained great size. This was one of those. Known only as Han, there were few who came against him who ever fought again. If they were not killed, then Han took delight in crippling them. It pleased him to think that the pain he gave them would cause him to be fresh in their memory, every waking moment of their life.

Yes, he was certain that formidable Han would triumph over the smaller man. Han was nearly half again as big and heavy.

Han strode about the oval, raising his massive arms, thumping his chest with his fists as he called out his victories, the names of those he had either killed or crippled. Many were famous fighters, mention of whom brought gasps of appreciation from the onlookers. Han stopped in the center of the depression and went into a deep squat. Raising first one leg, then the other, he stamped his feet on the earth. Working up his blood, he whipped his arms back and forth across his heavy chest, slapping his own sides with blows strong enough to down the average man. A heavy-fleshed grin spread over his face, and his eyes narrowed to thin pig slits as he saw his opponent led around the circle. The woman's dress didn't fool him, although it might have the others. He saw the width of the shoulders under the shapeless rag and the way the body moved, even shackled. There was a fighter there. Good! Good! He didn't like winning too easily. A good fight would increase his fame even more and that of his master.

Temujin stood one rank behind the inner circle. That was the best he would do. He saw the giant go through his poses and exercises, and, like the others, slapped his hands together in approval. Then came the one in the woman's dress. Temujin felt a rush of shame for the man. He knew that it was not his choosing, but his master's, that had made him don the shameful garment. Still, it was not a good thing to see a man with such things upon him.

The smaller man moved slowly, head slightly downcast, around the circle of savage onlookers, his eyes to the dust, as if already reconciling himself to defeat and possible death. His head turned to the side for a second, raising slightly, as if to see the crowd but not wanting them to know he was watching them too. Between the crowded shoulders of a Mongol from the Uriaqat and a Turkoman of the Seljuks he, only for the fleeting moment of a blink, touched eyes with a young man whose face peered between the shoulders of the Mongol and the Turkoman. Something electric ran over him. A shiver raced through his body, then was gone. His eyes returned to the dust at his chained feet.

It was hard to catch his breath. His chest had clamped in around his heart and lungs, his body had turned cold, and a tingle reached to the tips of his fingers. That man's face. The one in the dress, and pale eyes so much like his own. The scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Could it be? He shook his head as if to clear it of too many wine fumes. No! He had to believe. The qams had told him he would know when he saw the man. He knew! This was the one for whom he had been waiting and searching. He had come.

Zhoutai ordered Casca brought to the center of the depression. The last bets were made. There would be no backing out. A nomad might steal your horses, rape your wife, and murder your children, but a wager was a thing of honor.

Zhoutai ordered Casca, prompting him with a quick twitch of his horse whip across the shoulders, to remove the woman's dress. It fell into a shapeless clump at his feet. From the crowd came a murmur, first of surprise as they saw the scarred, knotted, muscled body hidden by the robes. They grunted in appreciation, as one would admire a fine horse. The bands of muscle started at the base of the ears and ran to the shoulders. He had thick legs and powerful, heavy arms. Scars of battle crisscrossed his torso, arms, and legs. The murmur became a grumble. Then a hail of curses in a dozen tongues rained down on Zhoutai from those who had bet against him. They knew that he had suckered them. There were a few who had thought something strange was about and had taken advantage of the odds and wagered with Zhoutai against the Khitan champion. Now they roared with glee at the trick Zhoutai had played on his competitors.

Casca's eyes rose to meet those of the crowd, and the odds changed instantly, from five to one to two to one. They were warriors and knew the look of one. This would be no easy prey for the monster Han.

Temujin's heart shook inside his rib cage. The scars! They were there too. All the signs were there. This was he, the Old Young One. Whatever that meant. True, he did not look much more than thirty years, which was old but not ancient.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was time to get serious. Casca locked everything out of his mind except the lumbering, powerful piece of meat across the circle from him. This one was too strong to take any chances with. The crowd settled down, awaiting the first opening moves before they would start the frantic bidding once more and as they analyzed the chances of each fighter.

Not for the first time did Casca remember Shiu Lao Tze with fondness and gratitude for the arts he had taught him those long years ago when they had made passage from the slave mines of Greece to the Port of Ostia, whence Casca went to the arena and Shiu to teach the young of the rich and noble.

Over the centuries he had not added much to his skill, but he had not lost any, either. He knew that he could not compete with the great masters of the art from Chin or Jiponga, for even though he had the long ages of time on his side, he had not the natural gift of the truly great. His body was too thick and coarse, the muscles too knotted to have the flexibility of a great artist. That did not mean, however, that he was not capable of being a good craftsman, and that combined with the almost unnatural strength of his body normally served him well.

The times he had fought as part of an army or in individual combats such as this he was now facing were too great to recall. All save a few, such as when he killed Jubala, the giant black, in the arena of Rome. That had truly been one of the few kills he enjoyed for the pure pleasure of it. Of course, few was a relative term.

The one he faced now he had no real desire to kill or cripple, except that there was no other choice. He had to fight, and in spite of himself he knew that once he got into it, he would enjoy it. There was that which yet lived in him that called him to battle. He could never completely control it. Even now the emotions of the crowd washed over him as the adrenaline began to flow, forcing out veins in his thick corded neck, stretching the skin taut. Unconsciously his hands began to flex into fists as he began a series of moves to loosen and warm the body. Even under the warm sky of the high plains he felt a shiver run over him. He pushed all out of his mind as his eyes locked on Han, who had moved closer to the center of the poor arena.

Han's eyes grew even more narrow as he watched the pale, scarred thing on the other side of the oval begin to move. He had seen and in his youth learned something similar to those movements. They were deceptive and dangerous, and there was no fear in the man. That was what tickled him at the back of his mind. He was used to at least if not fear then apprehension, which was only natural when one faced such a man.

There should have been a wariness, or at least caution, behind the pale eyes, but there was none. Only a coldness that made the tickle under his scalp grow into an irritation. He found himself acquiring the signs he had thought to find in the pale one.

They began to circle each other. Han's first thought – simply rushing the smaller man and overwhelming him – was no longer in his mind. Now he searched for a weakness in the man's style, where an opening could be made. It was hard for him to find. He had too long been fighting total savages where the fine art of death by hand was concerned. He had lost much of his knowledge over the years and relied solely on strength and a few tried and tested tricks to achieve his victories.

Han tried hard to concentrate, to plan instead of simply using his strength and instincts, but the beginning of jeers and cries of "Shame" and "Coward" from the nomads began to grow around him. His face flushed with shame. Never had this happened to him before – to be called coward by those he could have crushed with one blow. The jibes struck at his pride like whips of a rhinoceros hide, slicing him to the soul.

Their circling grew closer, tighter, till they were only a few feet apart. Han did not want a contest of skills with this one. If he could bring him to where he could use his greater size, it would be best. He extended his hands from a distance, splaying out the fingers, offering Casca a choice. To go into a classic beginning wrestler's grip or not. Casca only nodded slightly and extended his own in reflection of Han's move. Tentatively they reached out their hands, barely touching the tips at first, then the fingers intertwined, locking. This was the first test, one of pure brute strength. Han's face grew tight as the great muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched and tightened as ever so gradually he began to apply more and more pressure, letting his strength flow down into his arms, and then into his hands where they were gripped by those of Casca.

As his strength came to him, so returned some of his lost confidence. He could feel power as he ever so slowly began to turn the wrists of his opponent to the outside. Once they reached the point where the elbows were locked, he knew it would take no more than a tiny bit of pressure and the elbows would pop loose from their sockets. Then at his leisure he could toy with his victim till he felt like ending it. Casca's wrists did turn, were forced almost back to the critical point, then the movement stopped. Han's efforts were frozen in place. He could move Casca's wrists no further.

He drew on more power from down deep in his heavy belly. He searched for his center and drew from it, transferring the power there back up to his chest, then down into shoulders, arms and hands, and finally to the tips of his fingers – to no avail. The smaller man's wrists would turn no more. He tried to dominate his smaller opponent by locking eyes with him, to force his strength of will and physical power over him. It was a mistake. His own dark eyes found nothing in the pale eyes of the scarred one, which gave him comfort. Instead there was a calmness but not peace. It was the calm that comes before the great winds, a resting that precedes death and destruction.

The smaller man's wrists began to turn, but not outward. They were slowly returning to their original position. The doubts Han had felt earlier rushed back upon him as he looked away from the eyes of the pale man. At that moment he knew that no matter how hard he fought, he had already lost. But if he had to die, he would die well.

For several seconds the two men stood locked in time, each drawing upon his innermost reserves. The vertebrae in their spines cracked audibly as the muscles surrounding them twisted and contorted. Their feet dug deep into the dirt, toes searching for a grip as they strained against each other. The crowd went silent. There was only the sound of rushed breathing, as though a thousand men were approaching a climax at the same instant.

Casca felt Han begin to give; the trembling in the giant's arms transmitted signals to him through vise-locked fingers. Tightening his abdomen, he sucked in a rasping breath, held half of it compressed down deep in his lower gut, then relaxed, twisting his body to the inside. At the same time his feet turned on their toes till his entire body was facing backward, inside that of Han. His fingers, still locked with Han's, forced them into a crossbar over his head. Lowering himself still farther, he let Han's weight force his body over. Casca was almost in a deep horse squat, his buttocks nearly resting on his heels, as Han went flying over him with no way to straighten out his arms as his own heaviness forced the elbow joints to separate and crack.

The sound was like a tree branch cracking in the freezing cold of the northlands. His scream covered most of the sound as his body arced through the air to land on his back, his arms useless for the rest of his life, which was now to be measured in seconds. Casca swung around to rest his body legs astraddle Han's chest.

He knew what had to be done. Reaching down, he grabbed the big man's head with crossed arms, one hand behind the head, the other on his jawbone. Drawing in another breath, he screamed, releasing the force of his abdomen at the same instant as he twisted Han's head. The neck broke with force enough to sever the nerve at the junction of the large bone that rested just above where his back began. His death shudder, was strong as Han went to wherever he was bound.

Zhoutai was ecstatic. His dreams would come true. With this kill it was certain that he could sell the savage for more than enough to realize all his fondest expectations. He was tempted to offer the beast for sale immediately, while the blood of the crowd was high. But he decided to wait until the next day, when the telling and retelling of the kill would increase the value of his animal. Then, in the evening when the kumass flowed freely, he would gather to his yurt those who had the money to pay the most and hold a small but, he hoped, exceedingly profitable auction. This he announced to all as he collected his wagers. "Hear me. I, Zhoutai of the Uighar, will on the eve of the morrow offer up this beast for sale. Those of you who have good silver, come to my yurt with the setting of the sun. Those who do not have silver, do not waste my time."

Temujin also heard these words with a sinking heart. If he was to do anything to save the Old Young One, he would have to do it soon. For once the Old Young One was sold to a new master, it was not likely that he would be easy to approach. It would have to be done this very night when the Uighar – cursed be his seed and most likely many of his warriors, would be celebrating their good fortune by taking deeply of the kumass, or wine of Chin.

CHAPTER FIVE

Zhoutai made doubly certain of the security of Casca's chains. He would take no chance on his fortune escaping this night, the night before his destiny finally changed.

That someone would steal him never occurred to him, for that would be a death sentence, a violation of the laws of the gathering. If the beast were to escape, it would be done on his own. No one at this place would help him.

For the first time in his memory Zhoutai worried not about the cost of the fine gold wine of Chin as he poured flagon after flagon into his cup. He was the only one of his camp to drink thusly. The rest drank the chalky kumass as they always had, though copiously.

Zhoutai knew they did not have the sophistication of taste to appreciate the finer things in life, therefore it would be a waste of money for him to offer them. He would, when this was done, leave most of them behind. He would have no further use for them, especially the slatterns who served him as women. Foul creatures.

He might perhaps take a few of his men as guards, but soon they, too, would have to go, as they were little better than the savage they guarded and would at some time in the future prove an embarrassment to him in more cultured surroundings.

Around the different campfires, the nomads of the steppes drank, sang, and danced to the thin, tinny clatterings of brass cymbals, flutes, and tambours of goatskin. Shrill voices were raised in the dozen tongues of the steppes. At some camps where the masters were wealthy, even women with some elements of barbaric beauty danced in slow, monotonous circles, heads whipping around on loose necks in a hypnotic manner that seemed to light fires in the blood of the nomads. The stars grew high in the sky as constellation after constellation made its appearance and passed on across the great wheel of the heavens.

Temujin had watched Casca as Zhoutai had Casca's chains secured and locked and placed the key in the pouch around his neck. This time the chain was shorter than usual, keeping Casca close to the center pole.

Casca had been fed well for his victory, a large chunk of roasted goat haunch. He gnawed the haunch, legs crossed, head resting against the pole. Safely outside the reach of his chain, the one whose ear he had chewed off kept a bored guard over him.

The day and the sun were long gone. Now, with the chill of the evening and a full stomach, he wished to rest as he squatted, face toward his charge, but his eyes were not focused. He was glad that on the morrow they would be rid of this creature. He had felt but been afraid to tell Zhoutai that he feared that one day the beast would break loose of its chains and kill them all, then eat them.

Temujin lay in the dark on his belly, which grumbled now from the lack of food. His mouth watered as the Old Young One chewed and gulped down the stringy goat flesh. Patience, he had to remind himself. Patience, and all would come to pass.

The guard did not worry him. He was careless and sleepy. His problem was the key to unlock the chain. True, he could have cut through the post, but that would take time and make noise. If it were to be done quickly and quietly, he would have to have the key.

Leaving his watching place near the bank of the river, Temujin moved back into shadows where the glow of the campfires would not reveal him. Once clear of Zhoutai's camp, he moved into the open, walking between the tents and the huts of the Buryats and the Khirgiz, which were kin to, but not of the khanate, of Bitkichi-khan.

He refused himself the pleasure of a fantasy in which he slew Jemuga and Bitkichi-khan in a desperate fight inside their own yurts. He had real business to attend to and could not afford the luxury of idle dreams.

Two hours before the first glow of the sun began to turn the ridge of mountains across the river to rose and blood, Temujin had moved to where he was close to the yurt of Zhoutai. Inside, he could hear only the deep blubbering sounds of drunken sleep. The single guard at the flap entrance was also deep in his dreams. Temujin crept closer on his belly, keeping to the shadows even though the night was dark and the moon had long since set. The rest of the gathering, with the exception of a few in the distance who still sang drunkenly of their valor in war, were in the arms of Morpheus. Reaching the side of the yurt, Temujin considered his options. Reducing with the most basic logic to that which was the most logical and the easiest under the circumstances.

Snaking his way to the side of the sleeping sentry, he rose to his feet, taking his sling from his waistband. Wrapping the ends around his fists, he crossed his wrists, making a noose, and whipped it over the head of the guard, then snapped his arms apart, forcing the thin rawhide straps deep into the guard's throat. When this is done properly, the victim has little opportunity to make himself a nuisance.

The strap cut simultaneously into the esophagus and applied pressure to the carotid artery and the nerves at the base of the neck, thereby cutting off the air and the flow of the blood to the brain and hindering the delivery of messages from the brain to the rest of the body. Once the sentry had stopped his feeble squirming, just to make certain, Temujin drove his knife into the soft spot behind the left ear, pushing the blade in at least four inches, then worked his wrist back and forth, turning the cranial cavity of the Uighar tribesman into stew.

Easing the body away from the entrance to where it would be better concealed by the shadows, Temujin slid on his belly under the flap. Stopping when his head was clear, he saw clearly by the remnants of coals in the center of the yurt.

Zhoutai slept by himself to the left, sword near to hand, his body half rolled over, his face resting in the crook of his right arm. The women were opposite him, sleeping close together for warmth and comfort.

He let the rest of his body slide inside, staying on his stomach. His foot brushed a small brass pot at the entrance, making a small hushed metal sound. One of the women opened her eyes, started to emit a cry, then, looking steadily at Temujin, she turned her back away from him, facing to the outside wall of the yurt. Zhoutai was not well loved inside his own yurt.

A good omen. Temujin had an ally. Sliding closer to Zhoutai, he wondered how to turn him over to get at the key. He could think of no way to do that without taking a chance on waking him, causing a fight that he could ill afford. The rest of Zhoutai's men were within easy earshot. There was nothing to do except...

Once more he took from his waistband the leather cord. Moving as close as he could to Zhoutai, he blew on the Uighar's neck once, then again with more force. Zhoutai grumbled in his sleep. Temujin blew again and Zhoutai moved his arm to whisk away whatever was disturbing his slumber, for an instant leaving his head and neck clear.

Quickly Temujin whipped the leather noose over his head. As soon as the strap touched Zhoutai's throat, he came instantly awake, his body thumping on the ground. Temujin was afraid the sounds of struggle would awaken the rest of the camp.

He hung on, keeping Zhoutai to the ground. The Uighar was stronger than he looked. He fought hard for his life. Though he couldn't scream, he struggled like a castrated camel, his feet thrashing. Temujin began to wonder if he should cut loose and run, and hope to get the Old Young One free another day.

Then someone came to his aid. The woman who had looked at him came with a carving knife in her hand. She covered Zhouti with her body as he had done hers time and again. The knife flashed once, twice, three times, till she reached the great muscle of the heart.

Zhoutai would have let loose a death sigh, except his windpipe was crushed. The woman smiled at Temujin through gapped front teeth; Zhoutai had knocked out three. Handing him the knife, she scuttled back to her bed, laying her body next to the other woman, who, if she had awakened, made no sign of it.

Using the same carving knife, Temujin cut loose the small bag from around Zhoutai's twisted neck. Fumbling inside, he found the key. He had moved one step closer to his goal. Smiling his thanks at the back of the woman, he slid out of the tent, around the side, and past the body of the dead guard. So far it had gone well.

Trying to sleep, Casca heard a thin rustling in the dark. Behind his guard he saw a shadow rise, something bright in its hand. It didn't take him long to figure out that something was happening. He knew the laws of the gathering as well as any. Someone was doing something that could get him killed.

CHAPTER SIX

Temujin didn't wait to unwrap the sling from around the neck of his latest victim. Crouching low, he ran to where Casca watched the action, pushing his face close to Casca. It never occurred to him that the man chained to the post might be dangerous to him. He had been promised. "I shall have you free in a moment, Old Young One, then we must run and hide in the mountains till the gathering is over. We shall have much to do. Are you ready?"

Casca didn't have any idea what the young Mongol was talking about, but he was ready. "Yes, certainly, the mountains, then much to do. Right."

Temujin unlocked the manacles and leg irons, all the time talking in spurts that made no sense to Casca. But he was not about to question the young man. Temujin had just freed his hands from the shackles when they heard a cry of alarm. Someone had stumbled over the body of the guard outside Zhoutai's yurt.

Temujin hastily fumbled with the lock that secured Casca's leg irons. People were coming; a torch. Casca heard cries of anger, then more, this time louder. The torch was starting to move in his direction.

"Hurry it up! Get me free from those damned things so I can at least fight." Temujin's fingers felt the size of sausages when at last the bronze lock sprang open. Temujin ran the links of chain out from the irons around Casca's ankles. The Uighars were almost on them, Casca saw blades reflecting the light of the torch. There was no time to waste now. They were too close. There was no time to run for it.

As soon as Casca felt his legs free, he lunged forward toward the first of them, who had just reached the body of the guard Temujin had killed.

Boddasi, the man with the torch, saw him coming first. When he saw the ragged, long-haired savage rushing him, his bowels let loose as he gripped the torch, which fell in a flutter of sparks to the earth by the body of the guard.

Casca had no idea of how many or exactly who the young Mongol had killed. But right now there were four of them. All Uighars of Zhoutai's band. There had been five, but Boddasi had left the scene in a panic. He wanted nothing to do with the killer beast. The other four, who had consumed prodigiously of the kumass, rushed to meet him, swords drawn, war cries rushing to their throats. They had courage but little skill against one who had been trained for the arenas of Imperial Rome.

Casca hit the Uighar nearest the torch first. Sliding under a wide overhand slice from the Uighar's yatagah, he dropped, came in under the blow, sliding the knife into the abdomen edge up, and laid the Uighar open to the brisket.

Temujin was close behind, throwing his thin body into the path of the next man, who was trying to get a slice at Casca before he could get clear. Temujin hit him low, rolling his body into the man's legs below the knees. The tribesman stumbled and half fell in time to feel the skinning knife enter under his jaw and sink into the roof of his mouth. As the Uighar twisted his body and head, the knife slipped out of Casca's hand, slick from the blood of the first man. Temujin grabbed his sword away from him as the man tried to pull the knife out and at the same time avoid drowning in his own blood. Casca picked up the thick curve-bladed yatagah of his first kill from the earth and prepared to meet the others, who had come to a stop.

Other voices were coming nearer. The camp was aroused, and like dogs, the tribesmen of the high plains were drawn to blood. Casca didn't know if they would get involved or not, but he didn't want to take the chance. Not when he was this close to being free. Grabbing Temujin by the shoulder, he pulled the youngster to his side, waving his yatagah in the faces of the two remaining Uighars.

"Come for me and you die." He swung the heavy blade and separated the head of the man with the knife in his jaws from his shoulders as he rolled on the ground. "A warning: stay and live. Come after me and die."

With that he pushed Temujin to the back, fading into the night they headed for the hills as the first of the other tribesmen from the Black Khitain and Naiman arrived on the scene.

As they ran through the brush, they could hear cries of fury behind them and shouted threats to their sacred parts and those of their families unto the twelfth generation. But there was no pursuit.

Casca would have preferred to have swum the river, but Temujin didn't know how to swim, and as the youngster seemed to know where they were going, Casca was content to let him lead the way. He had the feeling that this young man would have been leading even if Casca had decided otherwise.

It was with some surprise that Casca found Temujin taking him not away from the camp but around the other side of Zhoutai's compound where the animals were corralled. The guard normally on them had left and run to the scene of the action to join their comrades in the shouting of threats and waving of weapons at the dark.

Grinning, Temujin quickly slid into the brush-fenced corral and found halters hanging on the limbs of a long dead tree. Casca started to help, but Temujin signed him to stay put. Casca signed himself to watching for the guards to return until Temujin had two animals following him by the reins as he led them out of the corral. Giving the reins to Casca, he put his finger to his lips and, making a hush sound, ran back to the yurt of Zhoutai, stuck his head inside, and a moment later was back carrying a bow – and quiver of arrows. Taking the reins back from Casca, he leapt onto the horse's back. He called to Casca, "Come on Old Young One, we do not have all night."

Casca agreed with that. Throwing his leg up and around the barrel of his horse, he saw that Temujin, with the expert eye of one of his tribe, had picked out the best animals in Zhoutai's string. He had taken the Uighar chief's own animal for his own.

By first light they had made the foot of the mountains, crossing the river downstream where it was shallow enough for Temujin to wade across, leading his horse and filling his leather water bag as he did so.

Casca watched Temujin as the young man led the way through clusters of gray lichen-stained boulders taking them higher above Qura-Qurom.

He didn't think there would be any pursuit. Right now they were probably arguing among themselves about what to do. And Zhoutai had not been very popular among those of his own race, or even his own band, that anyone would lightly consider risking his life to avenge him. Especially when the two they would have to pursue had proven themselves to be skilled and dangerous fighters, as evidenced by the dead and wounded they had left behind in the camp. Fortunately all of the dead and injured were from Zhoutai's band.  Therefore, they mattered not to anyone else.

Temujin obviously knew his way around the countryside. He led Casca unerringly through a maze of canyons and gullies till they reached a large cave beneath an overhang of porous sandstone. Below this, they tied their horses in the shelter of the overhang.

Temujin lay his bow aside and began gathering brush for a fire. His face flushed with excitement. He couldn't have put into words how he knew. But that this ugly, heavily muscled, long-nosed man was the one he had been searching for he was certain. Of that he had no doubt. This was the Old Young One, the scarred one. The pale eyes. It was all there. And that meant that soon he would begin the process to retake that which was his and reach the future promised by the heavens.

For his part, Casca was trying to catch his wind. They had been climbing steadily for the last five hours. The youngster leading him had the wind of a mountain sheep. He still couldn't figure out why the young Mongol had helped him. And right at that moment he was too tired to think much about it.

Temujin had a thousand things to ask but knew that first there were still other things to be done. The night would be long and cold, and they would need food. Pushing the bundle of brush inside the mouth of the cave, he took up the bow he had stolen from the yurt of Zhoutai's. Slinging the quiver to his back, he said to Casca, "Wait here, Old Young One. I shall be back soon with food. Rest, for later we have great things to speak of."

He looked at Casca as if the Roman should have understood the significance of his words. Casca gave him only a blank stare and nodded his head in agreement.

"Right. You go and get something to eat and I'll wait. Sounds like a plan to me."

Temujin left him squatting at the mouth of the cave breathing deeply as he tried to suck the thin air into his lungs. As Temujin made his way back down the narrow trail, he felt a bit confused.

It wasn't until after night fell and they were picking over the bones of the large mountain hare Temujin had nailed with his long compound Mongol bow that Temujin at last sat still, expectant, his eyes never leaving Casca.

Casca felt it was a bit odd. The young Mongol who said he was called Temujin of the Merkit seemed to be waiting for something from him, and he didn't know what. And why did the young man risk his life to free him? There were questions he wanted answers to also. So they just sat and stared at each other as they worried over the narrow bones of the stringy-fleshed hare.

It wasn't until the constellation of the Hunter passed over the rim of the ragged peaks that Temujin finally broke their awkward silence with, "Well, Old Young One. What secret things do you have to tell me? I am waiting."

Casca cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know, young master. What do you want me to tell you?"

Temujin looked at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. Was the Old Young One playing a game with him or somehow testing him?

Casca saw the puzzlement on his young companion's face. The boy was sincere and he wasn't being stupid. There was an intense intelligence in the pale eyes. A fire burned there, but not one of madness. "Temujin, you want something from me. I owe you for what you have done. If I can, I will give you what you desire. But first I must know exactly what it is you wish from me. Perhaps it would be easier for both of us if you told me why you think I have anything for you."

He tossed the last bone of the hare into the fire and folded his hands across his lap to wait for Temujin's response.

Ahhh, thought Temujin. That is it. He wished to make certain that I am the one for whom he has been sent. "Very well, Old Young One. I will tell you, and then we will speak of the thousand things I have to know and learn, and you will teach me."

His face warmed by the coals of the fire, Temujin began his tale. Of the moment of his birth and the portents of the heavens. Intensely he told Casca of his mother's promises, and the soothsayers', as to what was to come to pass.

How he would meet the Old Young One, who would guide and teach him. Of how he had been expelled from his tribe and his people. Of Jemuga and Bitkichi-khan and how when he saw Casca fighting the Black Khitan and their eyes had touched, he had known without doubt that he was the one of whom the qams had told him. Temujin finished his tale and Casca sat as if frozen. The winds whistled softly outside the entrance to the cave.

Was fate playing another hand with him? That there was magic in the world, he didn't doubt. He was the living proof of that, if his existence could be called living. And if all of this was pure chance, then what difference did it make? He had nothing to lose if he went along with the young Mongol, for there was something about the boy that made him different, as few men had ever been.

Casca had met a few in his long years with the feel to them that this skinny boy carried about him like a king's robes. But they had all been either cursed or blessed with something outside the pale of normal humanity or inhumanity. This one had the touch to him. He was something more than just a wide-eyed boy from an obscure Mongol tribe. And if Casca was to teach him, there was only one thing he knew how to teach. War and fighting!

"Very well, young Temujin. If I understand correctly, you wish to learn of war and the waging of war."

Temujin bobbed his head up and down. "Yes, Old Young One, that and much, much more. Not just the manner of killing but the manner of ruling. To be one of the Great Ones is not just to kill many. There must be an order to things. That is what I must also learn. How to rule. To make something that lasts beyond my time. I have to know everything. Teach me! I promise you I shall never forget anything you say. Teach me everything you know, have seen, and have done. Make me more than I am now, Old Young One. For I weary of being a small person among a small people."

Casca sucked in a deep breath. He was right. There was something about this savage young Mongol boy from the tribe of the Buryat. He would one day walk the earth as a giant among men. With or without his help there would be blood, rivers of it. But perhaps he could give the young man at least part of that which he sought so desperately and, by the giving, perhaps reduce the rivers to a stream.

He knew much; that was true. He had all those long centuries of experience. He had known great and small. Had seen empires rise and fall into the dust. Surely there was something he could give this young man, something he could use, for he was different from Casca. Casca knew these things, but to know something and to be able to apply them were two very different things. This one he had no doubt could and would apply all that he learned.

"Very well, Temujin. I will teach you." Temujin moved closer to the fire, with eyes locked on those of Casca. "First let me tell of one called Sun Tzu, who lived behind the Great Wall several hundred years ago. He was a great and famous tactician and strategist. More than that, he knew the hearts and minds of people and how to control them and win them to a cause or person. Listen, then, to the tale of Sun Tzu and his Art of War."

Though weary, Casca talked all that night till the chariot of the sun pushed away the cloak of darkness and shadows. In this first long night, Temujin sat unmoving, his eyes bright in the glow of the fire as he did as he had promised.

Every word Casca told him was permanently set in his mind. He forgot not a word. Especially that Sun Tzu had stated clearly and often, "All war is based on deception. Use deception when you have not the power to confront a foe on the open battlefield. Make him believe you are stronger than you really are. Use deception when you have not the power to win in open battle, and to reduce your losses when you do." For ofttimes one could win a battle and lose the war by the depletion of one's resources. This and a hundred other things more he heard, and more important, with the instincts of one born to command, he understood them.

At last, with the coming of the dawn, he could no longer hold his eyes open, and he slept huddled, half sitting against the wall of the cave. He didn't hear when Temujin left the cave. Temujin was not yet ready to sleep. His heart pounded strong within his thin breast. Sleep was yet far away. He knew now that he had been right. This was the Promised One. The one who would make him whole.

Now there was much to do and things they needed to make the way easier. "Deception," Sun Tzu had said. The first lesson. Good, then that was what it would be. Deception to regain control of his tribe of the Buryat Mongols.

Casca slept deeply, his body pleased to be free of the weight of the chains that had held them down for so many months. It was good to sleep as a free man again. Or was he? Something in his mind said that he might have forged new chains with the young Mongol this night. Chains stronger than those of Zhoutai, for these were of his own making and might be much harder to free himself from.

It was late in the afternoon when the sun had passed over the mountain range, casting the valleys below into deep blue shadows, that Temujin returned. He had been back down the mountain to the river plains. The crunching of his feet on small stones jerked Casca's head around, his hand going to the long dagger in his belt as Temujin entered the mouth of the cave.

"It is good to see you are awake, Old Young One. Yes, very good. Now we must travel, for there is much to do, and the way is long to the lands of the Buryat. You shall teach me as we ride. But first I think we should change our clothes for others more fitting."

"Change?" Casca queried him. What had been going on while he'd slept?

"Yes, Old Young One. This night we ride well dressed. I returned to Qura-Qurom and took from there something we forgot last night. Zhoutai's underlings were so busy celebrating his death and their good fortune that they took too much of the kumass. It was easy, for no one would think that we would return so soon. Come and see what I have brought for us, for now we are men of property."

His joints creaking, he followed Temujin outside the cave and back down the trail a way to where he saw three horses tied to a clump of greasebrush. Zhoutai's horse was among them. All were loaded with the belongings of the Tatar. In the packs were weapons, food, clothing, and even a few poor pieces of armor from Syria. Nothing grand, but better than nothing.

Touching Temujin for the first time on the shoulder, he laughed. "Well, if you do not have the makings of a great general, you certainly are a first-class horse thief."

Temujin did not smile, though to be called a good horse thief was certainly not an insult. "Trust in me, Old Young One. I have the makings of much more than just another general or horse thief. This you shall see. I promise you this, and my promises are always kept. To the death they are always kept."

A chill ran over Casca's back. To the death. He wondered whose and how many? He knew that Temujin would make others pay the same price he would if a promise was not kept or dishonor shown. To the death, that was it.

Temujin leapt to the back of what was once Zhoutai's horse and turned to Casca with a puzzled expression on his face, making it for the first time the face of a boy.

"Old Young One, I have something I have to ask you, for it was not made clear in the prophecies."

Moving up close to the horse's head to where he could better look Temujin in the eyes, Casca could smell the sour odor of horse sweat. The animals had been ridden hard. "What is that, Temujin?"

"Old Young One, I know that I am destined for great things, but for now, are you to serve me or am I to follow you?"

Casca laughed for the first time since Zhoutai had taken him. "Let us just say, young warrior and future king, that we shall serve each other. But you are the one with ambitions, for I have none. Therefore to all other eyes I shall be your loyal vassal, and I will serve you until I wish to do so no more."

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was with pleasure that Casca changed his rags for those in the packs of Zhoutai: a pair of fine trousers of gray wool and an undervest of the same material; over that, a leather jacket of sheepskin with the hide to the outside, to protect him from the ice-cutting winds that blew in the mountains; a turban of dark green cotton with the long tail to wrap around his face when needed; and a pair of soft boots to cover his callused and horny feet. He was feeling almost presentable.

Temujin, as it appeared was going to be his manner, took nothing but the best. Boots of red leather of Samarkand. Trousers of deep blue wool. A long white cotton undershirt with the tail hanging below the waist, and over this a surcoat of the fine cloth of Chin made from the spinning of worms embroidered with three toed dragons of gold. On his head he chose to wear a spike-tipped helmet of the Syrian style, with a red cotton band around the brim and the tail of it hanging to his shoulders. He almost looked the part of an Oriental warrior-prince.

Casca was fully lost by midday, but Temujin kept moving through the maze of valleys and canyons, sometimes dropping two or three thousand feet only to climb four or five. Temujin was in the front, Casca behind. Somehow Casca felt this was the way it would be for all who came into close contact with the young Mongol. He would always lead. It was his nature and it would be hard to keep up with him.

He saw how Temujin's mind had absorbed all that he had given him, and cataloged it neatly for recall. He knew also that it was just the beginning. This boy was a sponge who would suck him dry of all he knew. He and a hundred like him would not be enough to satisfy the youth's craving to learn.

Courage he had. It was obvious. A sense of honor of sorts, too, was demonstrated by his intensity about keeping his word. Here was the raw, unrefined material of one of the Great Ones, that is, if he wasn't killed first. Even an elephant can be brought down by a pack of jackals if there are enough of them. From the sun and the stars he knew they were moving to the north, always to the north. On the ride Temujin asked few questions. Casca felt that Temujin wanted to wait till they rested, when he could devote his complete attention to his questions and to the answers he was given.

For now, this first day of his new freedom, he enjoyed the clear skies and ragged ice-capped ranges that rose and fell around them. The air was crisp but not freezing. The great cold would come later, when all this land would be impassable save for a few herds of wild yaks who paid little attention to man or nature.

Death of a thousand sorts had ridden through these wild passes, and of their sign there was little remaining: a patch of white where the rib cage of an animal or human glistened cleanly in the high, cold sun; a patch of fur beneath the cleft of some rocks where some unfortunate had sought shelter and died. Some signs but not many. For time, the elements, and the animals had kept these mountains pristine and free of the trash of humankind or its passing.

Temujin rode as what he was: one born to the saddle. His back was straight; the war bow unstrung and in its sheath to protect it and its strings from the elements; his sword flapping comfortably by his side; strands of wild, unclipped hair peeking out from under his helmet to play with the wind. The boy was happy. Everything in his manner showed that. He had a goal and he was going to achieve it. Casca felt that even Temujin had no idea of his limits, if he had any.

By the forces or gods or whatever elements ruled over the universe, it was good. His mother had been right. All of that would come to pass. He had found the Old Young One and bound him to him.

It was amazing, though. This scarred man from legendary Rome talked of the past as if he had been there, not like the storytellers of his tribe, who kept the memories of the past alive for the young.

This one spoke as if all had just recently happened in his memory. And he knew much. But Temujin knew that he was going to have to pull all of it out of him. The Old Young One didn't know how much he knew. He thinks he has forgotten much. But I shall make him recall everything and give it to me. He is bringing me the gift of knowledge from centuries past, and I will know how and when to use his gift.

At midday Temujin called a rest, more for their horses than for them. He could have ridden for six days, even easing his bowels from the saddle if need be. But the horses had to rest, and they were far too valuable to abuse. Without them they would have to walk again, like moles on the ground. He shuddered at the thought.

He picked for their resting place, a rise where long valleys stretched to the north and south between peaks that touched the skies. He squatted, content beside the trail, waiting for Casca to come up with the packhorse and join him.

When Casca reached him to do likewise and dismount, it was with relief. He had never been much of a cavalryman, and this first day on the back of the horse had spread his thighs almost to the breaking point. For him it was a pleasure to sit down on his rump and stretch his legs out, feeling the joints crack and stretch. It felt good, and he sighed in the pure pleasure of it. Temujin looked at him with just a touch of the contempt all horsemen felt toward those who preferred to travel on their own two feet.

Casca caught the look and didn't let it pass. "Temujin, if you want to get along with me, wait until you have done something of note before passing judgment on others. I have ridden more miles than you will ever see. I have had more women than you have days in your life. I have slain more men and generally kicked more ass than you will ever do by yourself. And one thing more." He whispered so softly, it was almost lost on the winds. "I shall be here long after you and all you have known, loved, hated, and done has turned to dust."

Temujin shivered, not from the winds but from his words. There was truth in the Old Young One's words. The braggadocio about women and killing didn't bother him; he had heard such a thousand times before around the campfires of the Buryat. But the part about him being here long after he, Temujin, had turned to dust – that, and the way it was said, had truly bothered him. It was not a boast, it was not a threat. It was a statement from one who knew it to be true. "You are right, Old Young One. I apologize. It is my failing to have little tolerance for others and their customs. I will try to control my words. I know you are sent to help me. Perhaps humility is a subject we should soon touch upon, for I feel I have great need of it."

Somewhat mollified, Casca grunted his acceptance of the apology. Natural-born leader or not, he was not going to put up with any lip from a wet-nosed kid – even if the kid had killed four or five men in the last couple of days.

Temujin pointed to the east. "I know that there is the empire of the Tang. Beyond the Great Wall and to the north of my tribe, there are only frozen lands and great dark forests. To the west are the Rus, and south and west of us there is the khanate of the Khitan. Beyond this I do not know very much. Tell me of the other lands you have traveled through. Who rules them and how are they ruled?  I would know of their religions and leaders."

Casca thought for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and let his flashing moment of temper pass. "Very well. As you said, to the south and west there is the Black Khitan. They are between you and the Ghuzz. Next in line, running from the Caspian Sea north of the Ghuzz, are the Cumans. On the other side of the Caspian are what remains of the Alans, then the Kingdom of Georgia. South of that are a number of smaller emirates and sultanates, like that of the Seljuk Sultan of Hahamadan in what was once Persia. Another Seljuk rules in Iconium at the borders of the Byzantine Empire, which is all that is truly left of the Old Roman Empire, and I feel that its days are truly numbered.

"Beyond that is Europe, which is in disarray, and the largest and most powerful state at this time is the German Empire."

Sitting on the side of a trail, Casca wanted to explain the tactics of all the participants he had mentioned but was not able to do this very well. Most of the followers of Muhammad were in essence light cavalry, with some auxiliaries trained as infantry and for sieges. They had excellent infantry, but their light cavalry was their sword and their shield. The Alans, too, were in the same category, as were the Seljuks.

The Byzantines and the Germans, as was true of all Europeans, depended on heavy cavalry and large numbers of infantry. It was then that Casca tried to explain to Temujin that the types of troops a nation needed depended on their application, and if one planned to fight in another land, he had to learn what kind of terrain and troops he would encounter there. In the high steppes and plains of the deserts, light, fast forces were in favor because of the distances that had to be traveled, and the need for mobility to maneuver. In much of Europe and the Caucasus, there were great mountains and valleys and forests where the use of cavalry was limited and strong ground forces were more in favor. In a set piece battle between different types of cavalry where there was no room to maneuver, the heavier armored cavalry and foot soldiers of the German and Franks would crush the lighter cavalry and infantry of the Tatars, as all peoples north of the Ghuzz were called. Therefore, he explained, to fight heavy cavalry or heavy infantry, one needed to use maneuvers to place the troops in the site of choice for an engagement.

Temujin broke in. "But what of the Attila? He and the Huns were much as we are. As you say, light cavalry. But did he not march to the gates of Rome and into the mountains of the Poles and the Germans?"

Casca nodded his agreement. "Yes, that he did. But as he progressed from one land to another, he made them provide him levies to supply him with the troops he would need later. He gathered to him men of science and wisdom from many lands, and when he conquered a city, he would take from it their engineers and technicians who knew the use of siege machines. From the conquered he gained his auxiliaries, which he used to open the doors to the Roman Empire. Without them he would not have gone very much farther than the plains. Also, Attila was educated in Rome and in Roman tactics and strategy. He knew he would need these kinds of troops if he was to prevail. He planned ahead and was no simple savage leading an ignorant horde of horsemen. He planned, and planned greatly, and almost succeeded. But even he forgot some of the rules of warfare and thought he was above them, and for this he failed, as many others have failed before him, and his empire and glory were of short memory."

Temujin was silent for a moment, laying his head back against his arms and watching the high clouds race past overhead. "What, then, were his mistakes, and why did the Empire of Rome endure for so many years? They, too, had occupied many nations with different peoples and cultures. But they survived. How and what do you think destroyed them?"

Casca picked up a stone and tossed it over the edge of the trail to bounce and roll down into a canyon and disappear. "That's a good question and a hard one, for there is no one single thing that you could say went wrong. It is usually a compilation of things. None by themselves of any great import but, when put together, have great effect. Like that stone. It was not large or dangerous to anyone below. But if it had dislodged enough other stones, each of no greater size than itself, they could destroy a village or a caravan with ease. That is what happens with empires as they rise, so they fall by many little things.

"As for Rome and Attila, I think I shall save that for another day and give both you and me a chance to think more upon it. Just remember, warfare in the field is not the same as managing a government or an empire. Just because one may be a great soldier does not mean that he is qualified to lead a nation in non-warlike matters and in the intrigues of power. The treachery and jealousies of enemies and family have brought more than one so-called great man into the dust and out of memory. Especially beware members of your own family. If you have them, you must find a way to bind them to you so that there is no envy or lusting after your power. If you cannot do this, then it is best to kill them all immediately and never have any sons of your own. And while you're at it, kill all your friends too. For it is certain that one day one of them will turn on you."

Temujin eyed Casca suspiciously at the last remark. Casca laughed pleasantly. "Good, you're learning. But I don't think I will count as one of your regular friends. I'll tell you this now. I will accept no great rank or power from you, if by chance you do become one of the Great Ones. I will ask for no reward, and when I am ready or you ask it, I shall go. Recall this for the future in all things between us. I said ask, not order, and I shall go on my way. For to be sure, the rising or falling of empires means less to me than the rising and falling of the tides of the seas."

Temujin looked at him cautiously. "Do you mean to say that the seas actually rise and fall?"

Casca recalled with humor that young Temujin had never seen a sea, or any body of water larger than the lake near which he had been born. "Yes, the seas rise and fall. There may still be a thing or two you have to learn, young master. By the way, can you read?"

Temujin nodded his head up and down. "Yes, my father had the qams teach me to read and write the script of the Uighar." Temujin shook his head. A good beginning. The Uighars were the only tribe of the high-plains peoples to have a written language, and most of the other tribes that needed to have any kind of a written record used their script for such purposes as they were needed.

"Very good, Temujin. Very good. But you will need to learn much more. As soon as possible, we must find you one to teach the script of Chin, for they have knowledge in books and scrolls that go back to even before I was born. I am, as you keep calling me, a very Old Young One."

Climbing back into the saddle, Temujin went on ahead, leaving Casca still sitting on the trail laughing to himself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The mountain passes were mostly barren here, and the winds that brought the rains were few and far between. Everything had to fight for survival: the scrubby conifers from whose seeds the Mongols made bread, to the gray-leafed brush that had roots longer than its branches as it sought moisture between the cracks in rocks.

Once every few days or so, the travelers would crest a ridge, and below would be a valley, lush and green with tall trees and fields in which animals grazed peacefully. The smoke from their huts would spiral up for a distance, then be whisked away by the stronger winds that raced over these few small sanctuaries.

They had been in the mountains for nine days, and only in the valleys did they see signs of human life. So far Temujin had chosen to bypass these oases. Casca figured that he didn't want to give their presence away in case there was to be any pursuit, which Casca didn't think was likely at this point. They were well out of the lands near Qura-Qurom, and who was master here was open to conjecture.

The herdsmen of this region were defiant, stubborn, and as vicious as half-starved dogs. If left alone, they usually would do likewise. There were more of them than it would appear. Threaten or attack one and they would come out of holes in the ground; they would scramble from the mountains and crags until they had a horde numbering in the thousands. They would then attack, kill and sometimes eat whoever it was that had bothered them, then go on about their business.

Casual travelers, too, were not welcome, which was one reason why Temujin would lead them around their camps and wouldn't even permit Casca to steal one lousy goat for their supper, for the hillsmen would have been after them with a vengeance. To make his point, he told  Casca something about the hillsmen. "Remember this, Old Young One, a hillsman thinks like this. 'My wife yes, my children maybe. My goats never!"

When at last they started to descend from the mountains, Casca could make out Lake Baikal while they were still a hundred miles away. It seemed to float in the air.

Temujin halted his mount and breathed deeply. "This is my air, my land. It is there that I was born that night of storms and signs, and at last it is to there to which I am returning."

Casca pointed to the north. He had never been that far before. "What is to the north of the lake, Temujin?"

Temujin smiled at him, his eyes squinting. "The dead white lands of eternal winter. The tundra. A sea of trees that go on until there is no more. Trees, wolves, and the cold – cold such as you have never known. The earth itself is always frozen. In the summer, dig down a foot or two and you get ice. It never thaws. A cruel, vicious place. Too hard for even the Mongol to live in.

"The people who live there cannot be truly called people. They are barely above the level of the beasts they hunt for food. It is said that in hard times – and they have more of them than good – they will eat one of their own. Usually an old person or one who has been injured and no longer can hunt or fish for his food. They leave him out in the open, waiting for a pack of wolves to come and surround him. Then, when the wolves are involved with eating the sacrifice, the rest of the tribe surround the wolves, then kill and eat them. But that is only a legend."

Casca grimaced. It sounded like one place to stay well away from.

Temujin pointed to a string of smoke plumes rising from the plains below. "First we must pass through the grazing lands of the Tatars. To the far north of them are the Merkits. There are other tribes or bands between the Tatar and my father's lands, and some of the tribes he led are between the Urtigurs and the Merkit.

"Once past the Tatars, I will find us friends. To go around on the other side of the lake would take us two weeks more, and we would have to go through the lands claimed by too many other tribes. Also, if we have to fight, I think it best we fight those I already have a quarrel with and leave the rest for later."

Casca couldn't find any argument against this, but he still needed to learn more about the Mongol tribes. "Tell me, Temujin, how are the tribes structured? To whom and what do they owe fealty and why?"

Temujin looked over his shoulder, dodging the branches of a conifer. "We are a mixture of everything, which is why we have nothing. My father, Yeshugei, was master of a group of small tribes from different clans. There were Urtigurs, Merkits, and even Uighars who are not truly part of us at all. He formed an alliance that has now been destroyed by Jemuga. As for the nature of my people, they follow only the strongest. Even among one's own tribe, that is the rule. Loyalty depends on strength. Where power is concerned, even your own tribe will willingly follow another if he is strong enough and gives them gold and glory. They will follow.

"The Mongols and all the people of the steppes need and demand a master. And that is what I shall be one day, master of all the tribes of the steppes – not just the Mongols, but all of them."

Casca thought, At least Temujin's father had planted a few seeds of intelligence in his son's mind. Once a leader could get past the mental blocks of race and incorporate all into a larger design, he had great potential.

Temujin motioned for him to watch his head as he went under a granite overhang. Casca lowered his body half over and followed after Temujin as he led the way down the narrow, twisting trail.

As they came out to the edge of the plain, they were still in the cover of large scattered boulders. They could hear in the distance a familiar sound. A fight. Someone was dying and doing so quite painfully. Casca could almost see Temujin's ears stand up. "Take it easy. Do you think we should get involved with anything this early?"

Temujin stood up on his saddle to better see across the distance. Casca hated him a little. This youngster could actually ride at the gallop, standing on his saddle, while it was all he could do to hang on at a trot.

"Let me decide this, Old Young One. If there is a fight and we are wise and pick the right side, it might be an opportunity for us to gain friends."

Casca grumbled under his breath. "Fat chance of that. Out here, your friends, the ones who like you kill you quickly, instead of an inch at a time."

Sliding back down into his saddle, Temujin pointed to the northeast. "The fight is coming from over there in a valley. I couldn't see who, but there are thin trails of dust in the air showing that men are on horseback and riding hard."

Temujin took his bow from its case, placed one tip of the bow in the stirrup of his saddle, and bent the compound bow till he was able to string it. A good fighting bow could drive an arrow through three men. Testing the tension, Temujin clucked his lips. He was not completely satisfied, but it would have to do.

Reluctantly Casca checked his own gear, loosening the sword in its sheath then hefting the light lance for balance. Temujin looked at him, his question unspoken. Casca needed his head.

"Good, then let us go, Old Young One, and see what we may see. Perhaps this will be a good day for us, some fighting and some booty."

In his mind Casca mocked him in a high, tinny voice: Some fighting and some booty. Good God, don't people ever change?

He had to kick his beast in the flanks to speed it up. Temujin was getting too far ahead and not looking back. A bad habit. He would have to break him of that.

Breaking clear of the boulders, they had a clear run for three hundred meters, where they achieved cover in a small grove of pine trees near a hollow. Beyond this was where the sounds of fighting were coming from. As usual, Temujin was in the lead, slowing his animal to a walk so the sounds of drumming hooves would not give them away. He slowly walked his horse to where he could just see over the crest of the small hill, then moved back for a hurried conference with Casca.

"I think we are in luck. From the looks of them I would say they are Qura-khitans. Probably no more than just a raiding party after horses and women. There are eight of them right now from whom they are keeping their distance. I think it is three men who have taken cover in some pines. From there they are keeping the Khitans at a distance with their bows.

"There are several bodies on the ground. I think most of them are Khitans but not all. As you may have noticed, the screaming has stopped. The Khitans had a prisoner and were entertaining themselves with him. The last I saw, they were pulling his guts out of him, but he was already dead by that time, I should think, as he had no arms or head. Therefore the last act was of no real importance except perhaps to aggravate those in the trees. That is all I saw."

He ended the statement flatly. His head had popped over the ridge for no more than five seconds, but Casca had no doubt that he was right about what he said.

"All right. If there are three in the trees with us, that makes five against eight. Not too bad. It sure as hell could be worse."

Temujin looked at him with a question in his strange East-West eyes. "Now what shall we do? You have told me time and again that war is all deception of one form or another. I would like to see an example of it."

Casca knew that whatever time he spent with Temujin, this was going to occur time and again. "All right. I'm going to take a look for myself." Temujin started to become indignant. "You don't believe me-"

"Yes, dammit, I believe you. I believe! But people do not always see the same things the same way. I may be looking for something you are not aware of yet," he said, qualifying the statement.

Leaving his horse behind, he crept up to the top of the hill, staying on his belly and letting the grass provide him with some cover. He probably could have stood up and not have been noticed.

The Black Khitans' attention was on the small stands of pines about two hundred meters in front of them, leaving their backs to Casca and his hill. To the east a wide stream cut across the open end of the field. It didn't look to be deep. To the west the hill he was on narrowed until it nearly intersected another hill. The sides of both hills were steep, but not so steep that a horseman could not get up them. It would be slow going for him, though.

Right now the Black Khitans seemed to be holding a conference on horseback about what to do with the three men in the trees, at the same time keeping an eye out for the occasional arrow that sped their way from the pines. There was some shaking of hands and heads. Several of the Black Khitans waved their hands to the south, seeming to want to cut off the attack and head in that direction.

The corpse of the disemboweled and dismembered Mongol lay off to their left. That his death had been horrible there was no doubt, but Casca felt no pity for the Mongol. If it had been the other way around, he would have been no gentler with the Khitans than they were with him. It was hard in the Altai.

Checking the sun, he figured they had perhaps an hour and a half until the sun began to set. When the numbers were against you, the dark could be a welcome ally. Sliding backward on his belly till he was sure his head couldn't be seen by the Khitans when he stood up, he walked back down the hill to Temujin.

Walking up to the Mongol, he spoke softly. "You were right about everything. As for a plan, I think we should wait until dark. I have an idea but it's not anything fancy. With a little luck, it should work. We'll have the advantage of surprise, and that's about all. Maybe it will work, maybe not. It depends on a number of factors, but we'll just have to wait and see."

CHAPTER NINE

He and Temujin moved their horses back into a line of trees where if any of the Khitans rode to the top of the hill they wouldn't be seen. Settling down in the trees, they waited out the coming of dark as Casca explained his plan to Temujin.

"Ha! Is that the best you can do for a plan, after all your talk of deception and fine strategies? I would do as well myself without you."

Temujin's remarks were caustic, but Casca had no real comeback. He was right. It was simple and obvious: Sneak up on the bastard while they were busy with their front and shoot them in the backs. It made sense to him. There was a time for fine tactics, and time to do the obvious, but he didn't feel like getting into an argument with Temujin at that moment.

There was still close to an hour before full darkness set in. If the Khitans were to make their move, they probably would do it before then. Once night came, the men in the trees would have an opportunity to escape, or if the Khitans entered the dark of the trees, the night would help to even the odds in the favor of the Mongols.

Whatever happened, the next move would be up to them. Until they did something, he and Temujin would just have to wait.

He knew a bit about the Khitans and the other tribes of the steppes. They originally descended from the Mongol tribes the Chin caned the Hsien Pei, from the region of Lianing and Eastern Mongolia bordering the Great Wall.

Their greatest leader had been a brilliant, totally vicious barbarian named Apaochi, who united the different clans and tribes of the Hsien Pei and overran a large part of the lands to his south, across the Great Wall, and established the Empire of the Liao. This occurred in the year by Christian reckoning of 944. They had used their fast cavalry to sweep down on the Imperial capital of the Chin, Kaifeng, and taken the emperor prisoner.

From then on, the succeeding dynasties and kings all had problems with the Khitans. There were only a few choices open to one in dealing with them. One was to go to war against them; the second was to pay them tribute to leave you alone; and the last was to try to hire them to fight your enemies. None of these options worked very well to the advantage of anyone but the Khitans, who, though in their courts affected much of the mannerisms of the conquered, never were far from their Mongol customs and traits.

And as Mongols, they fought the way they knew best and controlled the subject peoples in the same way. Ride fast and kill all who oppose or kill them any way if there just happened to be too many of them in the region. Fear, the sword, and the bow were their allies. Entire regions were depopulated, so the passage of their horses as they grazed would not be hindered by plowed fields and villages.

There were others who plunged deep into the soft belly of the south. The tribes and hordes of the Jurchen, Hsuing Nu, Hsien Pei, and Tatar. All had come from the desolate plains of the steppes and Mongolia.

Even though it sometimes took centuries, all the invaders of the celestial kingdom were beaten. One after the other, they had been pushed out – sometimes by the armies of the Sung and T'ang, sometimes by being assimilated into the very peoples they conquered.

Always the conquered peoples were so numerous that it was impossible to kill them faster than they gave birth. The farmer will always outnumber the nomad and, by doing so, prevail over them – even if it takes centuries to do so.

The steppes at this time, however, seemed to have a never-ending supply of new tribes arising from family clans to take their predecessors' place in line at the gang rape of Chin.

Temujin had explained it to him this way: "Ah, Old Young One! It is in this manner that we of the steppes always have the men and horses to wage war. Let us take, for example, the Jurchen. They are of the same blood as we. But when they moved to the south and conquered, all the tribes of the Jurchen went with them. This created space on the steppes for others to grow. Let me give you an example of how a family becomes a tribe and a tribe a nation. It begins with one family, the leader of which is always the father. We have, as you know, many children. Say this father has five sons that live to manhood. They in turn have five sons each. Therefore, in just one generation the family has grown to twenty-five males. We do not count women. Then each of the twenty-five has five sons. By the time the original family head is an old man, there will be one hundred and twenty-five males. The family has become a tribe. Carry this on a bit further and you can easily see how in just a hundred years or so the family could become a nation numbering in the tens of thousands. This is what happened to the Jurchen. They grew. Made alliances and absorbed other small families and tribes into them. Then, when they were strong enough and had found a leader, they moved to the south. There is no other way to go accept to the west, and there are many strong enemies and little plunder. The south beyond the wall has always been our historical hunting grounds.

"Once they have conquered and subjugated the people there, they move with most of their nation into the occupied lands. For as you know, the life here is very hard. This means they leave lands open for new tribes to use and grow strong in. If, as happened with the Jurchen, they grow soft and have dissension among themselves, they are finally driven out. They can no longer return to their original lands. For now other tribes sit upon them. They may be able to take and hold some of their original lands, but as they grow strong, so are the new tribes coming into their tower. And remember, in their time in the lands of the south they have grown softer. Usually, rather than fighting the new owners, they move to the west as did the Qura Khitans and others. There, where the enemies are not so fierce, they may find and take new lands. And that is how it is always certain the steppes will never run out of men or horses."

Now the Khitans and those who had come before them had been pushed to the west, they in turn dislocating other tribes who were forced to seek new lands and other conquests.

This is what happened to the Huns and the Tatars, who were now feeling pressure from the rising power of the Mongol tribes.

And as with all migrations, there were some who stayed behind like these Khitans and the band of Tatars by the lake. Tribal boundaries were loose at best, and power determined who had the best of it.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, for him to tell Temujin that he had fought against many of those nomadic invaders as a baron of Chin long centuries before he was born. But he knew them and knew them well. They had not changed much over the last few hundred years. Their tactics stayed the same, and they stayed the same unless, as with a few, the peoples they conquered assimilated them and by default won the long victory. The conquerors became them.

"Okay, Temujin, it looks like they're starting to move. There are two to each side to flank the men in the trees, and the other four are staying in the clearing at the edge of bow range to keep the enemy occupied while the others flank them. That will be our chance: the flankers will have to dismount. That leaves only four on horseback. We move up behind them as close as we can. I know you're good with the bow; you should be able to take a couple of them out before they know we're there. By that time we might close enough to rush them. The men in the trees will have to deal with the flankers themselves."

The Khitans began to spread out, the four flankers heading to the right and left, out of bowshot. The four in the center were moving up closer on horseback. When they were a hundred paces from the line of trees, they halted their animals and waited till the flankers were in place. Casca wondered why they were so anxious to take the three Mongols in the trees. Normally, when nomads took too many losses, they left. If they were still going after the Mongols, it meant there had to be good reason. Well, with a little luck he would find out soon enough what it was.

Temujin prepared his war bow and shafts, carefully inspecting each arrow for balance, eyeing down the length of each shaft for trueness. He loved the bow for this was the true weapon of the Mongol. Mounted archers moving fast would always be the heart of Mongol warfare.

Casca checked his own weapons. A sword and light lance. The bow work he would leave to Temujin. There was not anything more to do. They were ready, as ready as they could be now that it was time for the Khitans to move, and they did.

The flankers had reached the woods and dismounted on either side of the defenders. There was no way the defenders could have sent anyone to meet them; they had to stay together. The Khitans in the center began to let shafts fly into the woods to no effect, but it forced the Mongols to stay put as the other Khitans worked their way on foot closer to them.

Casca and Temujin mounted up. Temujin had one arrow already notched to fly. He could let loose an accurate shaft every four seconds. While the first was in the air, the next would already be on its way. Casca had never been able to master the bow to that degree of skill. He could shoot one with normal accuracy, but what the Mongols had was a gift, a talent they were born to. He was better at the close work, where his size and strength would take away the advantage of distance the archers had.

Shadows were reaching long and dark across the field, and the sun was setting in the face of the Khitans. Soon it would be dark, but by then it would all be over one way or the other.

By moving slightly to the front, Temujin assumed command of his less than impressive horde. Casca didn't mind. This could be considered part of the young man's on-the-job training, so to speak. Temujin needed no hands to control his horse. This he could do with just knee pressure. The beast would go where the Mongol wished. Casca would have to kick and jerk reins to get his mount to do half as much. But that was the way it was, and there was no use trying to change it.

Leading the way over the top, Temujin raised the war bow and with the typical style of the nomads of the steppes – with the bow close to his face and pushed forward with the left hand till the cord was drawn taut, his right hand's fingers with the thumb ring holding the notched end of the shaft by his right ear without seeming to spend more than a breath on sighting – he let fly. His right hand was a blur as he drew the next shaft from the lacquered quiver and notched it.

Casca pushed slightly ahead of him, whipping the flanks of his horse with the haft of his lance, trying to get all the speed out of it he could. Without having to ask, he knew that Temujin would pick the next man in line for the next target.

As he drew nearer to his prey, the familiar beat began to pound. His heart picked up the rhythm. He saw the first arrow strike its target. The broad-bladed war arrow of the leaf style went in, the tip horizontal so it could slide between the victim's ribs and sever his spinal cord. Which was exactly what it did. From a distance of fifty meters, the leaf-shaped tip severed the enemy's spinal cord directly between the shoulder blades, slicing through the Chin-style lacquered armor as though it were paper, entering deep, till the bright tip of the leaf sliced open the heart.

The Khitan slumped in his saddle. He knew not why, but suddenly his body went cold. His arms and legs felt incredibly heavy. There was the taste of blood in his mouth and he knew not why. The cold of death was on him as he fell from his saddle to the earth, one foot caught in the stirrup of his saddle. His head hit the earth as his horse shied and whinnied, then raced off to the east, dragging his corpse behind. He knew he was dying but knew not why.

The second shaft from Temujin's war bow hit its target, this time a bit off center, as the other Khitan's horse shied when the first shaft struck. This time the leaf-tipped arrow entered the right lung. A scream issued forth from the mouth of its target, followed by a bright spout of foam-red arterial blood. He was dead, but it took a moment or two longer for Temujin to be certain of it.

Casca was nearing his target, a Khitan with the face of a gargoyle. His front teeth had long since been knocked out by the kick of a horse. His nose rested flat against his face. From the side he had no profile. Wispy strands of hair hung from his upper lip and chin. A helmet of undetermined origin covered a recently shaven pate, probably to rid it of the lice and fleas that normally inhabited his scalp.

The two surviving Khitans had begun to turn. The sound of horse hooves drumming toward them was too clear not to hear. The drumming, combined with the two Khitans who had suddenly sprouted backs with arrows sticking out of them, drew their attention around to their rear.

Casca leaned forward, locking his lance under his right armpit, trying to place his body as close to that of his horse as possible to avoid the possibility of a return shaft hitting him. He could smell the grass underhoof as his horse tore up the ground.

He let himself ride with the animal, adding its speed and strength to his own. The lance was steady; he had picked his man.

The Khitan tried to swerve and move out of his way. But Casca's war pony knew what was expected of it and shifted to intercept the horse. Even if the rider was not a master horseman, the animal knew its job. Nostrils flared, red-rimmed wild eyes rolling, the war-horse locked in on its target. Nothing save death would stop it.

Temujin was unable to lay into the last Khitan on horseback.

The man had dropped over the side of his horse, using the animal's body for cover as he tried to put some distance between him and the unexpected attack from their rear. He was heading to the far end of the glade, where his fellow tribesmen were working their way into the trees. He wanted company.

Leaning forward as far as he could along the neck of his horse, Casca extended his arm almost to the locking point but not quite. He needed to have a little flexibility in the arm when they hit. If the joint was locked, it might break his arm when the lance hit. The Khitan was on the other side of his horse. The only clear target Casca could get was the horse, and that was not what he wanted.

Well, you took what you had, not what you wanted! He dug his heels into the horse's flank, urging the animal for the last spurt of power. The lance entered the neck of the Khitan's horse. The animal screamed as the bladed point exited the other side, ripping through the scalp of the Tatar, who tore off his helmet, taking a patch of flesh with it the size of a man's hand.

Casca's horse never slowed its charge, striking the Tatar's horse like a battering ram. The Tatar rider was thrown free, rolling onto the earth, his hand already drawing out a long, broad bladed dagger of the kindjal style from the Caucasus. Casca flew over the head of his own animal, cursing as he tumbled through the air to join the Tatar on the ground.

Temujin was in a race with the last horsemen, hard on his heels. The Tatar, like Casca's man, was attempting to reach his comrades in the trees. Temujin was nearing him, but if he did not close fast, the Tatar would get away.

Rising up in his saddle, he straightened his legs as much as he could, pushing down on his feet till his ass was clear of leather. He raised his bow, leaving the horse to follow his instincts with some gentle guiding from Temujin's knees. One arrow after another he sent after the fleeing back of the Tatar, cursing his misses and the other's skill at avoiding his shaft. The Tatar came from the same school as he. He twisted and moved, laying his body now on this side of his horse, then on the other. Never staying still, he gave Temujin no target for more than a heartbeat.

With regret Temujin did what he had to do and picked the larger target. He shot the Tatar's horse, something he truly regretted, for horses were always of value. From the rear the shaft entered lengthwise, the point entering the neck just in front of the shoulder. The tip severed the great artery. The horse went down on its front legs as if it'd been poleaxed. Its rider was unable to get free. He had been bent over, leaning far to the horse's right flank when the shaft had hit. The horse collapsed, pinning the Tatar under it as Temujin pulled up, leaping off his own animal to stand at the head of the trapped Tatar horseman.

Casca had no time to see what Temujin was doing. He was involved with problems of his own.

His man had come up off the ground first. Casca's only piece of luck was the torn scalp that covered the Tatar's face and eyes with blood. It ran in a free stream down his face as he shook his head, trying to clear his eyes of the sticky liquid. Casca had landed on the Tatar's back, knocking the air out of him. It took all of his reserves just to drag himself wobbling to his feet and to refill his lungs. His right arm was numb and painful. When his horse hit and threw him, it damn near tore his arm off at the shoulder.

The Tatar wasn't in much better shape. He had shaken his head to clear the blood because his right arm was twisted out of shape. Partially clearing one eye, he tried to focus on Casca. When he thought he saw him, he came on, swinging the kindjal like a scythe. Casca had to tumble back to keep the wildly swinging blade from ripping his gut open. Rolling back on his heels, he stumbled and fell. There wasn't anything to do but keep on rolling till he got enough distance to regain his feet. When he came up this time, he had a rock in his hand the size of a baby's head.

The Tatar swung again.  His vision was getting a bit better, but he was slow; his injured arm made it difficult to move properly. Casca's breath had come back – at least most of it had – but he was still panting hard as the Tatar tried another lunge. Something most tribesmen don't do. Twisting to the side, Casca put himself on the Tatar's left. It might not have been very elegant, but it worked. He swung the rock against the tribesman's wounded arm, fracturing it above the elbow. The Tatar screamed in pain as he went off-balance; trying to face Casca, he felt a deep, burning vomit-inducing pain below his waist. Casca had landed a full swinging kick in the man's balls, rupturing him. He went down, dropping his blade. The finish was just as messy as Casca beat the Tatar's brains out with the rock.

Stumbling back to his feet, he saw Temujin standing over his still living tribesman. The bow was resting on the earth. Temujin had exchanged it for his skinning knife. Leaning over the Tatar, he sat down on the man's chest, locking the Tatar's arms to his side with his knees and legs.

Smiling pleasantly at him, he began to saw at the man's neck, ignoring the gouts of blood that spurted out of the severed artery into his face. It took a moment longer than it should have. He had misjudged where the connections between the vertebrae in the back of the neck were. He had to saw and twist the head back forth as he cut and ripped at it. At last the head came free in his hand. Temujin stood up, holding it by its topknot, smiling like a pleased child at Casca, who grumbled at him.

"You would have done better to start at the back and work forward. That way you wouldn't have made such a mess of it."

CHAPTER TEN

The two Tatars who had entered the forest to flank the defenders had almost as much bad luck as those who met Temujin and Casca. Of the two, the smartest gave up his attempt to attack, fled back to his horse, and disappeared down a forest trail.

His companion had no such luck. For now he was outnumbered. As Temujin and Casca took care of the horseman, their unknown allies in the woods saw to the lone Tatar. As Casca was critiquing Temujin's head-taking style, screams came from the woods – terrible gurgling screams that could send shivers up the spines of the stoutest warriors, which they did.

Temujin remounted his horse and went to gather Casca's, which had stumbled stupidly back on its feet. Once mounted, they moved to the edge of the line of trees. Between screams they hailed the men in the trees.

Temujin called out loudly and firmly. "Ho, friends! The dogs are dead." Holding up the severed head, he continued. "See, I have brought you a gift. We are not your foemen. I am of the tribe of Yeshugei. Come out and bid us welcome or we go our way without it."

A figure detached itself from the shelter of the pines and moved out into the open, palms up and empty. The man was typical: short, bowlegged, with thin wispy mustaches and the stringiest of beards. A leathern helm set with a band of iron rested on his head. His age was indeterminate, as it was with many of this region. The sun and winds soon cut deep lines into the faces of all, young or old. In his hand was the ever-present laminated bow. A quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder, and a sword of the Indus pattern was in its sheath, hung at his side, the tip of the scabbard nearly touching the ground.

His voice, when he responded to Temujin's call, was surprisingly deep and strong. "Ho, young warrior. Come and be welcome. Know that you have the thanks of Bolar Khan, master of the tribe of the Borjigin." The Mongol chieftain drew himself up to his full height of five-foot-four, expanded his chest, and pointed to the younger man beside him, who was nursing a deep, ragged slice in the flesh of his upper left arm.

"This is my eldest son, Chagar. He, as I, never forgets a debt of honor. To the death we never forget."

Casca cringed. He'd only too recently heard pretty much those words from Temujin. Perhaps there was something guiding this young man's steps to some great goal.

Bolar Khan tugged at his thin, dangling mustaches. His eyes were as dark as blackest obsidian as he looked over his erstwhile rescuers. After carefully analyzing Temujin, he turned his attention to Casca, his nostrils flaring as he tried to figure out what kind of man he was and from what tribe. Casca did not match up to the physical characteristics of those normally found in these regions, and Bolar Khan had so far in his life found no reason to travel much beyond the boundaries of his pastoral domain.

The screaming was beginning to diminish a bit. Casca was glad. It always unnerved him a bit to hear one in great agony. He had experienced too much of it in his life not to have some empathy, if not sympathy, for the suffering party.

Their host motioned for them to enter the wooded area. Dismounting, they followed Bolar and Chagar to the source of the anguish. Casca saw what the Tatars were so hot after. Bolar had six women with his party, five of them young. The oldest was and had seen no more than sixteen summers.

It was she who was devoting most of the attention to the Tatar staked out at the girl's feet. The older woman, a hag, again of indeterminate years, was coaching the girls in their work.

They were literally dismantling the Tatar while he was still alive. They were taking him apart, a knuckle and a joint at a time. The poor bastard was lying in a dark, widening pool of his own blood.

The best Casca could wish for him was to die soon before the women thought of something else. He was too late. The screaming intensified tenfold.

The young girl had moved her dripping knife to his groin and under the muttered instructions of the hag was removing his testicles. The Tatar gave one great, convulsive scream and passed out as the young girl gave a firm jerk with her left hand and pulled out his testicles. Casca wouldn't interfere. The Tatars had been trying to kill or take them captive, and as long as it wasn't his balls in the girl's hand, he would keep his nose out of it.

Noting Casca's attention to the proceedings, the young girl caught his eye. Smiling shyly, she wiped her face with a bloody hand, moving a stray wisp of hair back from her eyes, forgetting she had the balls hanging from her hand. They slapped her gently across the bridge of her flat nose.

Temujin had moved up beside Casca. His eyes fixed on the face of Bortei. Casca could almost feel the shiver that ran through Temujin's body.

Quickly, as if a child caught doing something embarrassing, she dropped the testicles to the ground. Casca quickly looked away. He was glad for Temujin's presence and the girl's obvious preference for him.

For a Mongol maid, the girl was not bad-looking, but the sight of a man's balls dangling by the tendons from a girl's hand for some reason always made him think of far-distant places and monasteries. He would make certain to keep some distance from her and leave her to Temujin. He wanted no part of Bortei, except as an ally.

Bolar put an ending to the proceedings with a jerk of his hand. Scuttling over to the unconscious Tatar, the hag took the knife from the young girl and expertly slit open the Tatar's throat.

Returning his stony gaze to Temujin, he queried stiffly, "And to what tribe do you belong? I would know that I may send gifts and my thanks to your khan or hetman."

Temujin bent over to take a necklace of large, gummy-looking amber stone from around the neck of the dead Tatar at their feet. Pushing his lips out, he tried it on over his own neck, smacking his lips in satisfaction at the contrast they made against his tunic. As if he were a Great One already, he barely glanced at Bolar Khan.

"I am Temujin, son of Yeshugei. I am returning from exile to reclaim that which was stolen from me by the dog Jemuga with the help of his first wife's father, Bitkichi of the Buryats. On them I shall extract my vengeance.

"However, know ye that I am the rightful leader of the tribes of Yeshugei, and as such, any thanks you might wish to give shall come to me."

Bolar Khan pursed his lips, sucking on one tip of his straggly mustache. He'd been placed in a quandary. He had made a pledge based upon his honor, and yet he was not certain if this young braggart was telling the truth or not.

Then again, did he wish a quarrel with Ong Khan or Jemuga, neither of whom he had any great fondness for? Yet they were strong enemies for a tribe alone. But if this arrogant young one was telling the truth and if he could rally to him others of his tribe, then it might be worth aligning himself with him.

For he, too, had a debt he wished to collect. Not from Jemuga but from Ong Khan. As he always kept his word, he also never forgot a wrong. He and Ong Khan had a debt to settle that went back twenty years. It would be good to see the dog eat his own filth while he, Bolar Khan, did as Ong Khan had, and taken from him his favorite wife or girl child, Ayii! Yes, that would indeed be sweet.

Now... how to phrase words correctly so as not to dishonor his words but also not commit too much too soon. "Be that as it may, Temujin. I will not yet name you khan, for that has not been proven. If you are able to gather to you those of your tribe who oppose Jemuga, and they name you the rightful khan, and they are in sufficient strength to oppose Jemuga, then I will rally to you with the warriors of tribes and aid you against Ong Khan. For I have my own score to settle with him.

"For now we shall ride to the encampment of my tribe and there take rest and food while we speak of the future. Also, in my yurts are some who knew your father, or who you claim to have been your father. It may be that they also know your face. If that is so, then we may yet have more to speak of. For the moment I have promised you all that I may."

Temujin locked his eyes on those of the older warrior; they did not flinch from the direct contact. His voice lowered to barely more than a whisper. "Ahhh. Good, Bolar Khan. Know this: you shall serve me as shall your son. Be the first to rally to me and you shall not be among the least when I have fulfilled my destiny.”

Casca stood to the side watching all pass, not really knowing what to say; in truth, he didn't feel that anything he could say would change matters. All that was happening was in Temujin's hands.

Temujin moved closer to Chagar. As happened before, he felt power inside his being and in his words. Not all could hear or feel this power, but there were some who could. Chagar was such a one. Temujin knew it instinctively, as he knew it with the Old Young One. Chagar would understand and believe.

Stopping three paces away from Chagar, he forced the son of Bolar Khan to look at him. Chagar felt water run through his bowels and legs as Temujin drew Chagar to him without speaking, till Chagar was no more than a double handsbreadth distance from the would-be khan of khans. Temujin's voice dropped even lower. No further intensity was added to his words, but they burned into the soul and eyes of Chagar.

"You know that what I say is true. Do you not. You feel it and know it is true." Chagar tried to lower his eyes away from those of Temujin but could not. He wanted to urinate, but not in fear. It was something more than that; it was more as if one stood in the presence of God.

"From this moment on you are mine. You will come with me and do all that I bid, even to the taking of your own life. Will you not, Chagar? Tell this not to me but to your father. Whose man are you unto the death?"

Bolar Khan had stood silently as he watched the stripling speak to his son. The words were ridiculous. Who did this boy think he was, Great Attila? But then what was happening to Chagar? He stood as if frozen.

"Well, my son," he called to Chagar, "what are you waiting for? Tell this foolish child that you have no intention of going with him. You are of the tribe of your fathers and owe fealty to no one but your own father and khan."

Chagar said nothing; he was being absorbed by the presence of Temujin. Casca felt it too. He knew that something which occurs only very rarely in a thousand years was taking place. Chagar was being absorbed. Bolar Khan had lost his son to another, greater force than even family or clan.

Chagar moved to stand beside Temujin and faced his father. The eyes of the wiry Mongol khan grew narrow, suspicious of something he didn't understand. Blood still dripped from the open slice in Chagar's arm, dripping down to gather on the tips of his fingers, then falling to the earth.

"It is as he has said, my Father. I am from this moment, to the death, his man. Do not ask me how or why. I cannot tell you, but that is how it must be. I have no choice in it. I just know that it must be."

Bolar Khan felt rage rise to his face. The yellow around the rims of his black eyes grew darker as they infused with blood.

Chagar ignored his father's rage and lowered his body to the earth, prostrating himself at Temujin's feet. Lying on his face, he placed the right foot of Temujin on the back of his head, symbolizing to all his submission.

Bolar Khan started to move forward but for some reason stopped when Temujin raised his hand, palm toward him. "You do not understand now but you will. For now let us go to your camp. You said there were some there who knew my father. I would meet them, and from them you might learn more about me, for I am the promised one.

"Your son has just gained great merit, for he is the first of the legions who will perform obeisance to me. For that alone he will become a great man. Greater than you, Bolar Khan."

The sight of his firstborn son lying at the feet of the boy was almost more than he could bear. He never had submitted to anyone in his life. He was a free man of the Altai. How could this have happened?

Sorcery! The word touched his mind and he reached for the small bag of amulets all men of the Altai carried in small bags. Stroking his fingers over it, he could only think that the young man was using evil magic of some sort to take his son away from him.

Temujin laughed pleasantly as he signed for Chagar to rise and stand beside him. "Fear not, Bolar Khan. If I am a wizard, it is a magic you will never understand, and it will make you, your son, and all who ride with me more than we are now. Take me to your camp and fear not, for all will be well."

Not knowing what to do, Bolar Khan looked at Casca and pointed his sword at him. "And what of him? He is not of these lands – of that there is no doubt. Is he under your spell also?"

Temujin commanded Chagar to strip the bodies of the dead and gather their horses. He spoke over his shoulder at Bolar Khan, showing his lack of fear of the khan by turning his back to him. "Ahhh, the Old Young One is something special. As to why he is with me, you must ask him."

Bolar Khan did just that. He was anxious to strike out at someone – anyone – in his confusion and anger, and this was one from outside. There would be no blood feuds involved if he slew this ugly, long-nosed dog the boy called the Old Young One, though in truth he did not look to be very old, just ugly. He just stood there like a lump of dogshit, doing and saying nothing.

"Well, why are you at the side of this... this boy, who would be master of all? Answer or I'll split you open, outsider!" Bolar Khan raised his sword to accent his threat.

Casca was not particularly concerned with Bolar Khan's threats. The dwarfish khan was just confused a bit, as he had every right to be. "I am with the young master because it has to be that way. Don't ask me why. I couldn't answer it any more than our own son could. Perhaps as you said, he has a spell of sorts over me and our son. If that is so, we will not be the last. And lower your sword, Bolar Khan. You have no quarrel with me unless you wish the same quarrel with Chagar, for he also is Temujin's man now."

Bolar Khan lowered his sword. He was not certain that if Temujin gave the command that his son would not fight against him. It was a question he had no desire to put to the test. Perhaps this insanity would pass with a little time. "Very well, for now I will leave things as they are and we shall ride to my camp. There, as you say, young Temujin, son of Yeshugei, we may learn more."

Barely controlling his rage, he yelled at his women. "Ho, sluts, bind the wound of my son and gather our horses! We ride this instant!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As the band moved out, Casca understood why the Tatars had wanted to take it so badly. Not only were there the women and mounts for riding, there were also five packhorses and two of the ugly, hairy double-humped camels of the north loaded with goods. Salt, bars of iron for the making of swords and arrowheads, bolts of Georgian wool, and the dozens of small things for which the men and women of his tribe had placed their orders.

Bolar had been trading. One of the things he had bought was the young girl, Bortei, who had castrated the Tatar. She was to be Chagar's first wife.

Buying wasn't exactly the right word, but it was close enough. Bolar had to pay a bride price to gain her for his son, and gain for himself Ashif Khan as a kinsman in the tribes of the Quonqurat. As for the other goods, he doubted that the Tatars knew what was in them, but anything that was transported to this remote area had to be of value.

It irked Casca a bit to see the women riding. They were all better horsemen than he was. Mongol women could ride nearly as well as their men. They proved this time and again as they crossed mountain ranges and rivers, places where Casca was not always successful in keeping his seat. Twice he fell off during river crossings to the Mongols' great amusement, and they had obvious contempt for one who rode as poorly as he. Bolar couldn't see what even Temujin would want with a man who could not stay on his horse.

Temujin wasted no time. Every minute they were together alone, he made Casca teach him. But this was always done out of earshot of the others. Temujin guarded his new knowledge as a miser does his gold or an old man a young wife.

"So, Old Young One. Let me see if I understand correctly. There are similarities between the empires of the Chin and those of the West with one exception. The Chin have very seldom gone outside their own borders. They do not seem to have a lust for conquest.

"The Romans, on the other hand, were much more aggressive but were able to keep control of their empire with relatively few warriors. Now how was this done?"

Casca rocked in his saddle as his beast made a small jump over a log. Regaining his balance, he answered a bit irritably, for he thought his horse was trying to humiliate him again. This made him touchy, for he was certain the animal had done it on purpose. The log was not that big. The horse could have just stepped over it.

"Well, Temujin, the one thing Rome did right was not to fuck excessively with the occupied countries. By that I mean that they did not try to change too many customs. They left the different people's religions alone and even adopted many of the different gods themselves.

"There were temples to Egyptian, Persian, and Greek gods in Rome itself. Second, they made Roman law apply to everyone equally. Of course, we know that nothing is ever truly equal. But in most cases it was more fair than the occupied people's own systems. Then, of course, the occupied people could become Roman citizens with all the rights of such. And we have had emperors who were born in the provinces. From Spain, Africa, and Gaul.

"Of all the things you may learn, one of the most important is to make an empire where all that you conquer or who submit to you feel they have become part of your empire and are the better for your coming.

"If you fail to do this, you will have only two choices: You will be emperor of a desert filled with nothing but the dead; or you will always be enemies within your empire, which one day will rise against you.

"Make your laws but make certain they apply to everyone. Religion, tribe, or nation should make no difference. Make all that you meet a part of you, and you will be the greater for it.  Secure lines of communication, tax fairly, make punishment sure and certain, as well as reward. Do this, and who knows, you might become one of the Great Ones. Fail to do this and your memory will turn to dust, as will your bones and all that you build."

Temujin frowned a bit, wrinkling his face in the process.  “If Rome did all these things, then why has the empire fallen apart?"

"Good question. Rome rotted from the inside out. Most of the things I told you took place in the early centuries of the republic. Later the leaders became corrupt, decadent. One faction against the other. There was no continuity of leadership. A great man would be followed by a fool who was only a tool used by the ambitious for their own enrichment or power. Laws did not apply to the powerful, only to the weak.

"Rome no longer advanced and didn't take enough people into her system. Too many barbarians guarded the frontiers but were not part of Rome. They took what they learned and returned to their people with that knowledge, and it was to kill Rome later.

"The people lost faith, and Romans no longer wished to serve in the legions. They relied on mercenaries who had no loyalty to the empire.

"But remember, even with these corruptions, the foundation the Republic built was strong enough so that the empire lasted more than six hundred years, and even today the remnant of it exists in Constantinople, and may yet survive for some centuries to come. But I doubt it, for the eastern empire is even more corrupt than the western one was."

Temujin nodded his head. "What you say makes sense. If I have only my own people at the head and only enemies for my body, the head will surely fall."

Proudly he drew himself up, sticking out his skinny chest. "When I take power, I shall do these things. Of course, they will have to be modified a bit, for mine are a savage and primitive people. I will have to do things in such a manner that they understand, for such things as philosophy and justice have never entered their heads. Rape, war, and plunder they understand.

"The other processes may take a bit of time, and some examples will have to be made to make certain they understand my laws perfectly. To insure this I will make a book of laws, a Yasa. In that book will be listed crimes and their punishments. The law will apply to all, regardless of tribe or religion. The law will be the law."

Casca nodded his head, smiling bitterly. "We shall see, young master. Many others have begun with good ideas and intentions. True men of honor and courage. But power corrupts. Few have ever escaped the fear and insecurity that comes with power. Kings fear those of their own loins and blood. They hear whispers, have dishonest councillors who lie to them for their purposes. It is not enough that the kings must be above corruption – so must their advisers and generals be."

Casca had his doubts. Temujin was something exceptional – that was certainly true. But his savage heritage was what bothered Casca. How much would it influence him? He had once asked Temujin a hypothetical question about tactics. What would he do if he had plunged deep into a hostile land for a long-term campaign and during the campaign he brought a city under siege? What would be his actions in the event of a strong defense against him, and what would he do once the city was taken?

Temujin had said, "First I will ask them to submit to me. If they do this, then I will spare all and take only the goods and gold I need and, as you said, make them part of my body. If they resist me, then I shall destroy them completely. Every living thing within those walls shall perish."

Temujin had pronounced this as if it were already a fact. The answer didn't really surprise Casca. After all, he had seen the handiwork of another from the steppes, Attila. "Do you mean even the children, too, Temujin? Would you kill them also?"

Temujin had looked at him as if he were a fool. "Of course. What do you think I am? If I kill all the adults, the children will have no family to care for them. Do you think I would leave them to die a slow, terrible death by starvation? Of course they have to die – it is the only merciful thing to do. Obviously in the middle of a campaign I cannot stop the war and provide for thousands of children. Killing them is the only way to be merciful. Of course, I am speaking of extreme circumstances. There may be times when I can take them into my body and make them part of me. If it is possible to do so, then I will, as long as it would not jeopardize the campaign."

Casca had a hard time trying to find a reasonable response to Temujin's answer. In the end he found none. There was a certain mad logic to it, if Temujin kept his word. The example of a few cities being utterly destroyed would probably influence many more to open their gates to him and lose only their gold. This would reduce casualties on both sides. He pushed away the doubt that if and when Temujin took to the field he would not do exactly as he said.

The boy was such a conflict of different terms and reasoning. Casca doubted that he would ever understand him completely, and all he could do was to advise and possibly guide some of Temujin's thinking processes. Not that he was even very certain he could do that.

Temujin listened to him, took all the information that he had, and stored it in his vast warehouse of memory, but how he would use it was something that Casca couldn't answer or forecast. Temujin was in the growing process; what he would finally become was beyond his powers to speculate.

He had said to Temujin, "Perhaps that is why I will never be, and could never be, a conqueror. A good fight I like, but I have no ambitions so strong that I could kill a child for them."

Temujin took his words seriously, though he didn't understand completely. "What is this thing you have about the difference in a life that is young or one that is old? Death comes to all, some sooner than others. It is the natural course of things. It is a force of nature not to be denied, as I am a force of nature and I will not be denied. I will do that which is in my nature to do, for that is natural also." He looked at Casca with no understanding or compassion in his grayish eyes. "You are right, Old Young One. You have learned many things in the years of your life, however many they be, I do not know. You have had great adventures and experiences. You have much knowledge but not the will to use it.

"You are right. You have not the soul of a conqueror. You will always be what you are. A soldier whom others will use to their glory and not yours. You are a solider, and that is what you will always be and no more." With that Temujin had shut him out.

Bolar watched the two talking. There was something strange about both of them, though not in the same way. Temujin had something Bolar recognized when he saw it, or perhaps "felt it" was a better way to say it. He felt something in the young warrior, not to the degree that Chagar did. But there was something there. A power, a magnetism. But he was old and he had met others who had that feel to them. They made no difference to him. He had his own people to lead.

He was not ambitious. He was content with what he had and he would not let anyone take that away from him. Those who dream of great power usually die very young. Perhaps this Temujin, son of Yeshugei, would also die young.

It was Chagar who saw them first. A band of eight riders heading for them across a yellow plain of short grass. Bolar cursed himself for his weakening eyes. Even a year ago he would have seen the riders before his son. Temujin and Casca started to draw weapons but were waved down by Bolar. "Peace, these are of my tribe. I keep warriors posted at all times on the approaches to my lands. We are close now. A few more hours ride and we will be at my camp by the River Shamiq. There we will rest and learn more of each other."

It was with joy that Chagar rode ahead of them to greet his fellow warriors. Shouting and waving, he whipped his horse on a cloud of dust, rising behind him as he rode out. Bolar watched him with pride and some vague feelings of unease. His son had always been good and loyal to him.

Now he did not know. It was confusing. He was not one for complicated plots and schemes. A simple life was all that he asked for, and now, with the coming of these strangers, he felt himself being drawn into something that was beyond his grasp. He did not like it. True, it was that he probably owed them his life and the lives of those in his party, including his son. But he had not asked them to interfere, yet he had made them a promise. "To the death," he had said.

By the time they reached Chagar and the outriders, Chagar had obviously explained to them all that happened. He had removed from a sack one of the Tatar heads for their approval, and Casca could tell from his hand gestures and the way they were laughing how his wife-to-be had deballed her victim. Therefore they were in a great and good mood when Temujin and he reached them.

Bolar silenced their laughter quickly and demanded from them if they had seen or heard of any other incursions by the Tatars or other tribes into his lands. A great shaking of heads and denial comforted him little.

"Leave three men behind to watch. The rest will escort us to the camp."

The tribesmen snapped to. Obviously Bolar ran things with a firm hand.

When they had ridden four more hours, Casca saw lying in a green valley the camp of Bolar: yurts of felt and tepee structures of animal skins stretched out along the bank of a rushing white-water river twenty meters wide, which was fed by melted snow from the mountains. The campsite was good. The goats and horses grazing along the banks under the watchful eye of children were fat and healthy. Smoke from the campfire rose easily to the clear skies, to be blown away by the stronger winds that washed over the mountains sheltering the camp. Bolar moved to the head of the band, ignoring the look from Temujin, which seemed to indicate the young man thought he should have been at the forefront.

They were greeted at first with cries of joy at their return, then a wailing from the women began as they discovered that not all had returned. There would be a great wailing this night from the families of the slain, then life would go on as usual. The widows would either find new husbands or members of the slain ones' families and the tribe would all contribute to the widows and their children enough food and goods to keep them alive till the children were old enough to hunt and kill, or for the girl children to take husbands.

Gruffly Bolar ordered for Temujin and Casca to be taken to the yurt of one of the slain warriors who had no family. There they could rest. Bolar eyed Temujin with ill-concealed dislike and Casca with obvious dislike. "We shall speak more tonight. As guests, you shall eat with me and we shall see what comes to pass on the things we have talked of."

With that he gruffly ordered Chagar to see to the animals and the packs, then to come to him later. For now his bones ached and he knew that he would not make many more rides of that distance. The days when he would be able to move with the herds from one pasture to the next were growing short on him. Too many winters.

It would be good, he thought, to be able to stay in one place and rest out the cold before a good fire cared for by your women and children, as was the custom of the Chin. Angry at himself, he resisted the temptation to pound at his own head to remove such thoughts. He was Mongol. The life of city dweller would kill him even faster than the terrible winters of the steppes.

Bitter and tired, he entered his yurt after ordering that Chagar's bride be put in a yurt with one of his daughters, of which he had three.

As soon as they had unloaded their horses and Temujin had made certain that the horse of the dead Tatars they had killed were hitched together to graze (he wanted to make certain that his property was not lost in the herd of the Quonqurat), Casca went to wash himself in the river. This was finally accomplished with a great deal of cursing, swearing, and shivering as he wished fervently for the hot baths of more civilized climes. He hated cold water. Every time he came in contact with it, he thought his nether parts were going to climb all the way up to his throat.

It was with even more regret that he lay down on the sheepskin robes left behind by the former owner of the yurt, for soon he was not alone, as the dormant insect life came awake at the warmth of his body. Only exhaustion and a sore, aching back and ass forced him to sleep as the small associates he had acquired crawled over his skin.

They crawled but they did not bite. Sometimes having bad blood was a blessing. He smiled to himself just before he fell asleep. He heard Temujin scratching and mumbling as he tried to sleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was the following night before they met with Bolar Khan again. The old man was still furious at Temujin and his ugly companion, and even more so at his son, Chagar. He tried to explain his feelings to Darbai, his younger half-brother by fifteen years. He couldn't find the words. This was outside of his experience.

He knew how to run his tribe, and he thought he knew how to run his children. Chagar had disappointed him, and he had the feeling that Bortei, Ashif Khan's daughter and younger than Chagar by two years, was going to be a problem for him too.

It seemed their family was to be cursed with unruly children. Chagar had always been a bit different but still a good boy and son, and now, in the matter of an instant, he had turned against his own father. He wondered now if he had made a good match or not.

Ashif had told him he was relieved to be rid of his daughter, for she gave him no peace. He had told Bolar that Bortei had always been much too bull-headed for any ordinary man. It would take a strong one to deal with her. Perhaps Chagar was not that man – unless he returned to his senses.

That night they came to eat with Bolar Khan and his family. The Borjigin khan had a semi-permanent structure of logs and hides for his home. It was spacious enough for twenty people to sit around a low, flat, circular table on well-worn carpets and dusty furs to sip cha with lumps of yak butter floating on the top.

At the gathering were Bolar Khan, Chagar, Darbai, and his soon-to-be daughter Bortei, to serve them the roasted goat and the sweet bread made of the pignon seeds, of which all peoples of the steppes were fond.

Bolar Khan forbade talk of business until they finished their meal. He knew that if they began talking before they ate, he would lose his appetite – and he was hungry.

Casca noticed that Bortei, the wife-to-be of Chagar, almost completely ignored him and made certain that Temujin got the best cuts of the goat, serving it to him over his shoulder, her breasts brushing his shoulder. Casca could see the blood rise in Temujin's face.

Chagar didn't seem to notice, though Bortei was a beauty by nomad standards. Her face was full, with a longer nose than normal among steppes people. Probably like Temujin, she had a mixture of blood, some of which jumped a generation or two and could show up in one child and not the other.

Once the goat was done and they were served more of the vile cha with butter, Bolar Khan permitted them to get down to business. "As I said, Temujin, I have one here who was in Yeshugei's domains for some time. He is waiting outside. Should I send him in?"

Temujin nodded his head vigorously, his gray eyes flashing. He wanted this done. "Yes. Please do, Bolar Khan. Let us see what he knows."

Bolar Khan roared out at the top of his lungs for the man to be sent in. The flap to the cabin opened, permitting what looked like a man, but it was difficult to tell under the filthy skins, scraps of cloth, and scum. The man's face had collapsed in on itself. The teeth in the back had been ground to stubs, and the cheeks sucked in over the jawbones. His eyes were lost in folds of loose skin, like those incredibly ugly dogs Casca had seen in Chin.

With him came also an odor of things long dead, or which at least ought to be. He groveled his way over to the round table, keeping out of the group, his loose lips quivering at the aroma of cooked meat.

Bolar Khan had no liking for this so-called qam or seer. But it was never wise to let them know it. Somehow people tended to die when they offended one of these horrible creatures too much. Of Temujin he demanded, "Do you know this man?"

It took a moment for Temujin to see through the crust and make out the man's features. The creature answered before him.

"Yes, you know old Aq-Tagh, the one named after the mountain. It was I and Teb-Tengri who read the stars that night of your birth, young master. Ah, yes. We told your father, Yeshugei, and your mother of the portents."

He squinted his eyes to see better the face of Temujin. "Are you yet master of all the tribes?"

Bolar Khan rose to his feet. "Master of the Tribes!" he screamed. "It is bad enough that you take my son from me, but to claim to be my master is more than I can bear. I swear that if the spirits of my fathers do not strike me down this instant, I shall drive you from my camp and people."

Bolar Khan's face went pale. A sudden great, crushing weight set upon his chest. He tried to claw at his heart, then fell forward, spilling the pot of cha. He was dead before any could touch him.

Darbai backed away in horror. This was a powerful omen. Bolar Khan had asked for his father's spirits to take him, and they had. There was a power in the room. He could feel it. Sweat broke out on his forehead and under his arms.

Chagar held his father's head off the table, wiping the cha and yak butter from his face. Bortei stood to the rear, her eyes never leaving Temujin.

Darbai didn't know what to say. Fear sat on him. Battle he knew, but this was something he wished he had not seen. "I do not know much of what has passed between you and my brother, Temujin. But obviously he was in the wrong." To Chagar he asked, "What do we do now, Nephew? You are the next in line?"

Chagar laid his father's head down, covering it with a scrap of hide. "I don't know, Uncle. I do not want to be Khan of the Borjigin. I have already found my master and will serve him. If he wishes it, I will accept. If not, then it should be you. You have the most experience and wisdom. The tribe will be better served if you take my father's place and leave me to serve Temujin Khan."

Temujin saw an opportunity. Walking to where he could see clearly the faces of both Chagar and Darbai, he pronounced, "You heard his words. Bolar Khan died of his own words." To Aq-taqh he commanded, "Tell Darbai of the signs."

Aq-Tagh did as he was bade and relayed the story of Temujin's birth and all that had passed that night.

Darbai broke into an even greater sweat, for there was sorcery or magic here this night. He understood now why Chagar had pledged fealty to this boy of his own age, and why Bolar Khan had died of his own words. "Then it is for you to tell us what is to be done, Temujin Khan."

Temujin liked the sound of it. For the first time he had twice this night been called Khan. "Very well. This is what shall be done. I will have need of Chagar. You will take the place of Bolar Khan as head of the tribe, and you will render me assistance in throwing out Jemuga."

Those were orders, not requests. Darbai nodded his head in acceptance. He was a good man but not overly bright.

Seeing Bortei's eyes shining brightly at him, he made another decision, for he had noticed that Chagar did not seem truly anxious to wed her. Perhaps like Casca, the sight of a man's balls in her hands had been a bit unnerving. "Chagar, Bortei, answer me true. Do you wish to wed each other?"

There was an awkward silence at first, but Bortei gave Chagar the opportunity to speak first. Clearing his throat, he avoided her eyes. "It is not that I do not wish to wed, Lord. But I think I can best serve you if I am free of any attachments at this time."

"Bortei, do you wish to be free of this marriage so that you may make your own choice of a husband?" His words sent rivers of chills over her body. She knew what he was saying.

Demurely she lowered her eyes. Her voice was as honey. "Yes, there is another I would take to husband. I do not think I would be a good wife for Chagar."

Temujin felt the blood begin to pound in his temple. "Who would you be a good wife to, Bortei?"

She raised her eyes and looked deep into his soul, and what she saw, she wanted. This was the man, more than a man. He would beat her when she needed it and make her obey. "You, Temujin Khan."

Casca watched all this in amazement. In one hour's time Temujin had put the Borjigin under his control and taken the woman promised to a man who vowed to serve him to the death, and the man looked relieved for it.

"Chagar!" Temujin asked. "Would you have me take the responsibility for this woman from you?"

Chagar felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. "Aye, Lord. If it is your pleasure to do this for me."

"Then it is done. You, Bortei, shall be my first wife. The ceremonies will be held on the morrow, and immediately you will begin to bear me sons. Is that understood?"

Bortei dropped to her knees, lowering her head to the floor in submission, as she would never have done to Chagar, and whispered gently, "Yes, Lord. It is quite clear."

After they had left the cabin, for Chagar and his uncle to deal with disposal of the dead khan, Temujin gave a full grin, showing his bright teeth in the darkness. "We did good this night, Old Young One. And did you see the relief on Chagar's face when I took Bortei from him? I think he was truly frightened of her. The fool. She is truly a treasure, and fit to give birth to a race of kings."

Casca laughed with him. But he would forever carry in his mind the image of Bortei, the Tatar's balls slapping her gently between her soft brown eyes. He shivered, and it was not from the cold of the night. Temujin would not let him sleep that night until it was almost first light. He talked and talked.

"Did I not promise that I would find us allies once we came close to my land? We have them, and now, with Bortei as my first wife, I can make a claim on the Quonqurat. Already we have the Borjigins of Chagar."

Casca grumbled sleepily. "Why didn't you just take over the tribe yourself? Both of them were ready to give it to you."

Temujin laughed at him merrily. "Old Young One, where are your brains? It is not yet time for me to do so. Let Darbai become Khan here, and Chagar serve me. That way I do not alienate the people and continue to keep the Borjigin under my control. It is much better that way, and more secure for the future."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was as Temujin said. The next day he took Bortei to wife. The ceremony was simple; he broke bread and salt, she ate, and that was it. She was his. A quraltai was called for the Borjigin, and as expected, Darbai was proclaimed Khan of the Borjigin.

They spent six weeks with tribe. Casca and Temujin practiced swordplay, use of the battle-ax, and the morning star, and every day and sometimes through the night when Temujin could get away from Bortei, who was determined to live up to her promise to bear him sons.

They discussed tactics and strategy, including movement, terrain, politics, and the structure of different political administrative formulas. Casca was amazed how much he recalled. But Temujin made him dig for the most obscure pieces of information, hidden in the recesses of his memory.

Bolar Khan was buried under a pile of rocks in the woods. Two male slaves were executed to serve him in the afterlife – if there was one.

The quraltai was a tradition according to which the tribe could nominate a different leader if enough of them so chose. They seldom did. It was always easier to let others do the thinking, and Darbai was well liked and respected.

Chagar felt nothing but relief and gratitude to Temujin for taking Bortei off his hands, and probably his back, for the rest of his life. He had never wanted the marriage, but his father had insisted on it for political reasons.

He was not political. It was enough that he had a master, and he would sit sometimes with Casca and Temujin, listening to them talk of places far away and what things had happened in the years past and what might come in the future. He was a believer, as one who follows a religion blindly. So he would follow Temujin all the days of his life. Even in those first days there was nothing that could break his faith. He was a loyal dog. The death of his father didn't bother him. He had never liked the old man very much, anyway. Not that he would have done anything to harm him. He was just neutral. Now that he was gone and Darbai was master of the Borjigin, he was free to follow Temujin and the strange foreigner.

In the six weeks they were there, Temujin was able to gather about him young men who were bored with the pastoral life. The story of his birth and what had happened to Bolar Khan when he'd challenged him spread rapidly through the camp. Temujin won deference and even a bit of superstitious fear. But young men love good stories, and this had the making of one. Of an adventure.

The old shaman did his best to enhance the story with each telling, for as he told the story he would be permitted to eat from the common pot, taking the most succulent pieces of flesh, especially those dripping with great yellow globs of heavy fat, which he would worry between his toothless gums till it was limp and slick enough to slide down his gullet.

If he had chosen to, he probably could have taken most of the young from the tribe with him. But to do so would make too many enemies. Instead, after speaking with Casca, he let Darbai give him the loan of one hundred young warriors between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Casca said these were the years at which they would have the best chance of learning new things. And he wanted them to learn.

At first they were reluctant to try anything new, but as Casca and Temujin showed them in practice that those who fought in the old way would die, they soon began to pay attention. Casca had Temujin organize them in tens. With Chagar as the leader of the hundred, Temujin would remain – whether in command of one hundred or one hundred thousand – the master.

It came the time when Temujin was to return to his lands. He had left a pauper, alone and without wealth or weapons. He was returning with one hundred well-trained young warriors who believed in his destiny.

Before they left, Temujin had Darbai arrange to return Bortei to her tribe of the Quonqurat and there inform her father of the changes in her life and to await word from him. He and his band of stalwart warriors would be coming close to the borders of the Quonqurat, but he was not yet ready to meet her father. She was pregnant when she left. She was not showing yet, but she knew the seed of Temujin was alive and strong in her womb.

Casca watched Temujin lead his small army out of the camp of the Borjigin. He strutted, if it was possible to do so from horseback. His eyes shone with pride and promise. Casca wasn't so sure. A hundred men was still very far from an empire. But who knows? And he had nothing better to do, so he rode along to see what would be the conclusion of this story.

From the village they passed through the last of the Khanghai range onto the plains between the Rivers Selenga and Orkhon, skirting the lands of the Kereit of Ong Khan. One more river crossing and they entered the ancestral lands of the Mongols. Here, where the plains ran as far as the mind could reach, was the breeding place of the savage tribes of the steppes.

To the west were the Quonqurat of Bortei; to the north the Merkit; and behind them three hundred miles, the Naiman, the Tumat. Quigiz and numerous large family clans too small to be called tribes were to be found in the Sayan mountain range, along the Rivers Tannu-Qla and Yenesei.

Water was the stuff of life. Those who could claim land along the river were blessed. The other poorer, less powerful tribes, were pushed out into the Gobi or Tien Shan deserts to scratch as best they could for life.

To the south was the River Tula and Ulan Bator, the only city of any consequence for hundreds of miles. And it was no more than a pigsty fit for traveling bandits and beggars.

Temujin led them past this to an alley in the Kentei Mountains. There he had them make camp. The journey had been slow and uneventful. Ten days to cover only three hundred miles. Normally they could cover a hundred miles a day, but Temujin wanted the time on the trek to get to know his army better.

The trail told one many things about the people he traveled with – who was a slacker and who would do more than his share. It was an excellent testing ground. However, he had done well in the selection of his warriors. With the aid of Chagar and Casca, they had weeded out the troublemakers early. These hundred would serve him well.

Once camp was made and the animals cared for, Temujin called a war council, consisting of he, Casca, and Chagar. It was time to find out what was happening in his village where the Qiyat, the tribe of his fathers, awaited his return. It would be good to talk with his brothers Jochi and Temuge. Temuge was his youngest full brother and was three years younger and his favorite. Elchitei and Belgutei were not in the camp. They had gone on Jemuga's orders to another village near the junction of the Rivers Orkhon and Shilka. Jemuga thought four of Yeshugei's brats in the same camp might be too much to keep the peace.

Casca would have gone, but Temujin was concerned that he might be recognized by someone who had been to Qura-Qurom, and if that occurred, they might be able to place him and Temujin together.

Jemuga was very suspicious, and that could prove exceedingly painful. No, it was best if Chagar went on this mission and brought his brothers here to him. From them he would find out all he needed to know. Then they would make plans for the removal of Jemuga.

The way Temujin spoke of Jemuga made Casca think that it would have been a good thing to have one like him on their side. He had once asked Temujin if he thought there was any possibility of bringing Jemuga over to them.

Temujin had laughed bitterly, replying with a touch of the sadness that memories bring, "I wish that it were so, Old Young One. Jemuga was one of the best men I have ever known. But it has gone too far between us now. He must be put to rest for my mind to be free. I must pay my debt to him.

"None will have faith in me if I forgive him or let him go. You do not yet know very well my people, Old Young One. Vengeance they understand. What you call mercy is a strange and alien concept to most of them. But do not feel compassion for Jemuga.

"If you think I am a savage, it is only because you have not yet met him. I don't know what happened. But something changed him. He was the friend of my childhood, and now he is a wild animal that I must destroy. I can never rest completely as long as I know that he draws a breath upon this earth."

It took Chagar four days to return from the village of the Qiyats. He had followed behind mounted on a shaggy bay gelding, a smaller replica of Temujin's. The boy looked to be about fourteen years old and was armed to the teeth with bow, sword, lance, and even a small ax hanging from a leather thong attached to his saddle.

When they were spotted coming, Temujin swung into the saddle, racing out to meet them. From where Casca sat on a boulder, he saw at first much backslapping, hugging, then, as if aware of his dignity as a leader of warriors, Temujin swung back into his saddle and stiffly rode back to their camp, with Chagar and Temuge following behind.

Temujin always had to be in the lead. Well, that was his nature. At least he did show the first bit of normal human feelings for another. Maybe there was hope he could become civilized. Casca thought about that for a moment, then shook his head from side to side. No way!

After leading them all away from the rest of the men, Temujin introduced his youngest brother to Casca. Temuge looked at him with awe, as though a ghost story had come true. Temuge kept his distance from Casca, though he never took his eyes off him for very long. Temujin laughed at his brother's actions, saying, "Don't worry, Temuge. He is on our side. I know he's ugly, but you will get used to him after a time. Now tell us what has happened since I left. Where is Jochi?"

Temuge relaxed a bit. His voice was higher and he was smaller and thinner. Other than that, Casca thought he knew exactly how Temujin looked when he was the same age, which was not that long ago. "First, my brother. Jochi thought it was best if only I came. As I am the youngest, Jemuga does not pay much attention to me. He will not miss me if I am gone for a few days. On the other hand, he watches Jochi like a hawk. He knows every time he goes to empty his bowels."

Temuge broke into a high-pitched, boyish laugh. "Jochi says that he goes to shit so often, hoping one day he'll look down and there will be Jemuga spying on him."

Everyone joined in the laughter. It was good and broke up much of the tension as everyone was waiting to hear about Jemuga and what plans could be made to eliminate him.

"That's good, little brother. I am glad to see you can still laugh. But now tell me of Jemuga and the tribe."

"As you say, Temujin, Jemuga is not well loved. There are few who follow him willingly, but he has some who do. They prey on the rest of us like wolves on sheep. The slightest wrong word or look and you die. But if you are to take Jemuga, then you must get rid of those who stand by him. Many are from outside the tribes, though all are hated."

Temuge sat down, pursing and sucking his lips. "How many will fight for Jemuga?"

Temuge looked around at Casca and Chagar. "I don't know. If you meet him in open battle, there will be many who will be afraid not to join with him. On the other hand, if you can take his men, who number about four hundred in the camp though there are more who oversee the rest of the camps, he will have little if any support. Most will just wait and see who survives. They remember our father well, but they know you were driven out by Jemuga. Take our camp. Throw out Jemuga and all will follow you. Fail and be driven out again and they will have no faith that you will ever take over our father's place."

Casca liked the way the boy thought. Like Temujin, he was young but seemed to have a good mind. Their father, Yeshugei, must have been a hell of a man, for he'd certainly trained his son well.

Temujin stood up, dusting off the seat of his trousers. "I think you are right, little brother. As the Old Young One once said, `Take the head and the body follows.' Or words to that effect. He says the same things so many different ways sometimes, it is hard to keep them all straight. But anyway, that is what it means. We will go after Jemuga. If his men get in the way, we'll be ready for them."

Putting his arm around Temuge's shoulders, he gave him a hug. "Now return to the camp. I know there are some there who remember me and would like to see me regain the khanship of our father. As soon as you return, don't waste time sleeping or resting. Immediately seek them out and speak to them – but only those you are absolutely certain of.

"Tell them I will come with men five nights from now. We will attack just before dawn, going straight for Jemuga's yurt. All my men have to do is hold his off long enough for me to kill him, and they will fall apart.

"Now, before you make the ride back, show us the layout of the camp – where the guards are stationed and, most important, the location of Jemuga's yurt. And once you return, do not forget to tell Jochi to be ready from the moment you return."

Once Temuge had drawn the layout of the camp, Temujin took him back to his horse and hugged him firmly, saying with affection, "One day, for what you and Jochi have done, I shall make you kings. Now ride, little brother, and remember to tell Jochi to be ready from this moment on."

Temuge leapt into the saddle with an ease and grace that Casca hated, reared his horse back on its hind legs, waved his sword in salute, heeled the bay, and was gone in a cloud of dust.

"Temujin," he asked, "do you think it wise to have him tell anyone of the time when we are going to attack?"

Temujin turned to look at him. "Old Young One, you are forgetting your own classes and the words of Sun Tzu that all war is deception. Well, I have just deceived my own brother. He will do as I said and tell only the most trusted of our coming. But I will guarantee you that Jemuga has subverted at least one of them. Jemuga will be looking for us in five days. We will hit him the same night that Temuge returns."

Turning to Chagar, he commanded, "Get the men ready to ride in two hours. We go to win back that which was lost to me."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Temujin called his warriors to him. Quickly he made his plans. Sketching out the camp, he made certain that each of them knew exactly where they were supposed to be. This would be fast. "No time to play, and remember, kill only those who oppose you, for they are my people."

Using the dirt map at his feet, he pointed out the yurts of the guard who served Jemuga, where his yurt was located, and the pastures where the horses and camels were kept. To each one he drew lines and assigned them to one of the tens of which the hundred was made up.

They were to be broken down into three main parties. Each would have its target and its time to move. He would command one, taking Casca with him. Chagar would take control of the other elements.

Once the situation was laid out, he gave the command to mount and ride. They would be three hours behind Temuge, keeping their distance.

They rode long into the night. Temuge would not stop until he reached the camp. His brother was returning.

Temujin told Casca as they passed an outcropping of sun- blistered and freeze-cracked boulders, "It is important that we do not lose any time. Temuge will ride fast. Once we are there, we will have to go into action immediately. That will give him three hours to spread the words of our return. In that time Jemuga will hear of it.

"If we wait any longer, he will take Temuge and Jochi. I cannot let that happen. If they are in his power, he will try to use them as hostages against me. And I would have to let them die.

"One can never give in to threats of that nature. There is only one response. The hostages pay the price and you kill those who took them, preferably in the most painful and memorable manner possible, to discourage those who would try such acts again."

Several times in the distance they saw the dust trail of Temuge as he rode across the plains. Temujin was careful to keep their distance. Temuge stopped only long enough to rest his horse, then he was off again, alternately riding and walking to make the best time. Temujin's force emulated him.

It was near dusk of the second day when Temujin called a halt. They were near the camp of Qiyats. Now they must wait until dark fell before they moved any farther. Temuge had just entered the camp. Temujin didn't see it, but he knew.

Now they would rest for an hour, then move in closer, staying in one group till they were closer to the camp, where they would break up into their separate units.

They had taken up hiding behind a ridge of low hills overlooking where the camp was laid out beside the River Kerulen. Behind the camp, rising to the heavens in that strange glowing orange light of the Gobi, were the Kentei Mountains, their peaks aflame with reds and golds as the sun died for another night.

Once more he called his leaders to him. Pointing to one place, then another around the valley, he gave them detailed descriptions of the features of the land.

Other dust trails rose from the plains, those of the camp's outriders. Temujin made note of them and spoke to his commanders. "Mark them well – and their numbers. We will try to go between them. It is best not to engage them at this time. But don't worry, when we have taken the camp, you will have an opportunity to try yourselves against them when they return. By then we will have all the men of the Qiyat behind us."

It was time. They moved slowly as soon as the dark had set enough to cover the trails. When they were an hour from the village, Temujin detached two ten-man elements and showed them where to station themselves. They were to guard against the outriders or messengers from the observation posts coming to warn or aid Jemuga. If they did return, they would have a warm welcome.

This was his land and he knew they would take the same trails back; they always did. "Habits," the Old Young One had said, "were to be avoided at all costs. Never repeat yourself except when your enemy expects you to do something different. Break patterns and thinking, and you will always be ahead of your foe."

Jemuga's outriders were not large in number. Bands of five or ten men at the most. They served only to watch over the valley. But they were late and the valley was large. Most of them would take up posts on high ridges to watch for dust trails, then send fast riders to warn the camp if the strangers appeared to be in large numbers. Temujin knew where all of these posts were.

With the fall of night they could make out the camp by the fires, which burned softly in the camp like fireflies in heat. Ahead of his units he sent his own outriders, ones who knew how to kill silently and quickly. It was for them to reduce or eliminate anyone between them and the camp, but only if it was possible to do so without noise. If it looked as if it would get messy, they were to try to avoid them and look for another way.

Two miles from the camp, they split into their three separate elements, Temujin taking Casca, fifty men, and going to the left; Chagar taking the other two units to the right.

When they could clearly see the outlines of the tents and yurts in the dark, Temujin waited no more. With a cry he launched the attack, driving over several sentries, who had little time to cry out warnings. But it wasn't necessary; the sound of drumming hooves was well known on the steppes. Men rushed from tents with weapons, and Temujin and his men cried out that Temujin had returned and that they were friends with the Qiyat: They only wanted Jemuga and the traitors. Most listened; a few did not, and they died.

Temujin rode straight for the baragah of Jemuga, Casca with him and the rest coming fast behind. They broke through the first line of bodyguards to reach the baragah of Jemuga. Casca was first to hit the line of guards with the chest of his horse, half running into the tent.

Rolling out of the saddle to where his feet were on dry, solid ground, he faced off with two warriors. They had no chance; just as he was not at home on horseback or aboard ship, they were not well suited to fighting on the ground.

He hit one with the round, spiked shield, slapping the man's sword to the outside, then driving the four-inch spike of the shield into his chest. The weight of the man's body dragged it from his arm. The other Mongol tried a wild, wide side cut to Casca's head, under which he dropped, then Casca sank his sword deep into the Mongol's armpit, severing the large artery and puncturing the upper lobe of the lung.

As he came to his feet, regaining his shield and sword, he was nearly knocked on his ass by a heavy blow to the shield. Stumbling backward, he swung wildly with his sword to keep whoever had hit him from following up until he regained his balance.

He made a solid hit on the other's weapon, a type of ax he had not seen since he'd left the land of the Germanii tribes centuries past: a heavy, two-handed, hardwood shaft topped with a single-sided massive blade as large as a man's two hands spread together.

The man wielding it was equally impressive, taller than Temujin and much wider-shouldered. Unlike many of his tribe who preferred shaven pates, he had a full head of rich, wild black hair streaming in a mane down his shoulders. Thick mustaches hung to the tips of his jawline, the ends swinging free as he hefted the battle-ax for another try to rip Casca's head off.

The blow was stopped but only just barely. Another sword came to his aid. Temujin was there, standing beside him, hacking at Jemuga, teeth clenched. It took both him and Casca to drive the man back into the tent.

Jemuga handled the heavy ax with ease. From his hands it swung as lightly as a wand. Twice more Casca tried to close upon him so he could get under the ax and sink his blade into his opponent's stomach. If he could do that, he would then be content to step back and wait for him to die without taking any further risks. One kiss of that wide blade and you lost an arm or leg, if not your head.

Jemuga's men were rallying to him. Emerging from holes they cut in the walls of the yurt, they bunched around him. More were coming, and Temujin's men were hard pressed to hold their own. Jemuga's warriors were well trained and alert. They knew their jobs. They formed into a solid vee formation. Not bunching up, they gave each other enough room to use their weapons and still keep the formation solid.

Casca knew he had been right. It would have been much better, if possible, to have had Jemuga on their side. But that was wishful thinking. Right now he had to do his best to keep the Mongol from chopping him to bits, along with Temujin, who was ever mindless of his own safety.

Jemuga added another to Temujin's long list of scars, this one running along his rib cage. The ax had just kissed him, but he thought it had caved in his side. Once more Temujin threw himself at Jemuga, screaming in rage as he tried to get to the man who had betrayed him. It was the first and only time he saw Temujin lose complete control.

Jemuga's men were beginning to push them back, gaining the advantage, and Casca thought the day might be lost. The fighting grew even fiercer, and Temujin's men began to tire while new fighters appeared at Jemuga's side.

To keep Temujin from throwing his life away, Casca had to grab him and push him into the rear of their diminishing line.

Jemuga was screaming, as had Temujin, for his men to reach the would-be king and kill him. Jemuga took the faces of three of their Borjigin warriors in less time than the telling takes, and another lost a leg above the knee to that great, swinging, bloody ax.

Casca began to think it was just about all over, except the screaming, when Jemuga's men began to move strangely. He saw a look of confusion on their faces. The pressure against them lessened, and he heard a new war cry over the camp. "Temujin!"

All of a sudden, Jemuga's men were going down. From out of the dark a mob had appeared, throwing themselves at Jemuga's warriors, beating at them with clubs and knives.

A bright shining face jumped up in front of Casca, and he almost cut it off when he recognized Temuge, with another taller man with a distinguished look to him – if such a thing was possible for a Mongol in the midst of battle.

"The village has risen against Jemuga, Temujin," he cried. "Jochi started organizing the minute I told him you were coming back."

The one called Jochi caught Casca's eye and smiled briefly, then turned back to the battle. They were reducing Jemuga's men by the handful. Over the heads of the fighters he could see Jemuga taking his toll of the attackers. Then he was gone from sight.

Temujin screamed for them to let him through to get to Jemuga himself. Casca thought it might be best if he let the others dispatch him – preferably from a distance and with arrows.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The last of Jemuga's men lay down their arms.

Temujin ran over the corpses and wounded, looking for Jemuga. He wasn't to be found. "Where are you?" he cried at the top of his lungs.

From the dark a voice answered, laughing. "Don't worry, Temujin. I am with you. I will always be with you – till this thing between us is settled. We shall meet again. Have patience, it may take some time to come back. But I shall. I promise you, I shall return."

Jemuga was gone. Temujin had lost him. Casca didn't doubt that the man meant every word. They had not seen the last of Jemuga.

From around the village, cries of welcome were spreading. The men under Chagar's command were riding through rows of tents, many wounded and holding bloody weapons. They'd had the job of taking out several large communal tents where many of Jemuga's warriors slept near the edge of the village.

When the battle started, Jemuga's men had enough discipline that they did not fall into the trap of standing and fighting against the attackers. They would have won in time. But they knew their duty, and most of them fought their way out to come to Jemuga's baragah and help him against Temujin and Casca's force. Whatever Jemuga was or was not, he was a hell of a fighter whose troops knew their jobs.

It all might have been lost had it not been for Jochi, who once he heard Temuge's report from Temujin had immediately begun to gather men to him, putting them into a group near the southern edge of the village. There were not many, no more than forty.

When Temuge had told him to get ready the moment he received the message that Temujin was returning, Jochi knew that there could be no delay. He and Temujin had played games too often. When Temujin said from this moment on, that was just what he meant. And he, like Temujin, knew that three days was too long a time to wait and keep the secret of his coming from Jemuga. Still, he was surprised at how soon his brother had made it there.

Once the fighting started, they had been on the side of the camp near where Chagar's unit had attacked the tent of Jemuga's guards. At the top of their voices they cried to the people not to fight against them, for Temujin had returned.

Most of the people had listened, though Jochi had to kill a few to get their attention. Once the Qiyats believed that these were Temujin's men, they began to attack the warriors of Jemuga.

It took a few minutes, but soon they were hunting them down all over the camp. Those who had stayed to tie down the forces of Chagar met the same fate as those at Jemuga's baragah. They died or were taken prisoners.

Casca was just relieved that it was over and had not turned out too badly – though there had been a price to pay. Of Temujin's hundred, less than forty were able to breathe air. The rest had gone down.

Torches were lit, and a great fire built in the center of the camp. Jochi and Temuge proclaimed that their brother had returned to claim his father's place as head of the tribes. He was the rightful khan.

His first orders to his people were to set out new guards and to strangle the captured guards of Jemuga, along with any who had actively aided him while he had been away. This came to over a hundred guards and three hundred of his own people.

That night, before the sun rose over the rim of the world, Temujin removed all opposition to him and all support in the village for Jemuga. His next command was for a force to be immediately mounted to get after Jemuga and keep him moving. Other riders were sent to the rest of the villages and camps to tell of his return and victory, and still others to ride to his other brothers and tell them to take command of their camp in his name and kill any who opposed them. His greatest concern was not to give Jemuga time to rest.

Temujin had to secure his position among the other villages before Jemuga could manage to regroup or have men sent from his father-in-law's camp. He would send Jemuga's wife back to her father. As she had no child, he was not concerned about her bearing an heir to claim the khanship of the Qiyat.

A feast was being prepared. Cattle, sheep, and goats were slaughtered. Wine and kumass were brought out. Casca thought the warriors Temujin had strangled had gotten off easy. If the Mongols had taken to drink before killing them, it would have been very messy. He left the circle of the campfire to walk among smiling teeth in the dark, Asiatic faces. He smiled back vacantly.

At the edge of the village he could hear the voices being raised in song as tambours and cymbals were brought out of the yurts and tents. Women danced with hair streaming. Around the campfires, songs were being made up on the instant of the return of Temujin, the promised one, and his ugly companion.

Casca smiled alone in the dark. Well, the boy had done it. Everything he'd said he would do had been done. He had returned. And now what? He didn't think that Temujin would be content with just his one small piece of the world. He wanted more, and Casca felt with a chill that he would get it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The years after Temujin threw Jemuga out of the camp were ones in which he spent his time consolidating his power among the tribes. In this, brothers were invaluable. Casca knew them all well. When they first had met, they were little more than what would be considered children in the west. Here in the Altai, at fourteen, they were warriors and men to be reckoned with. They learned fast from he and Temujin. But he was never able to get rid of that wild streak of cruelty that he finally guessed was just part of their nature. Killing was something they did because they liked it.

They all did their part to one common goal: the mastery of Temujin over all the tribes of the steppes and Altai. Jochi and Temuge would always be his favorites, but Belgutei and Elchitei were nearly as smart and tough. He wished he could have met the man who had sired them. He had brought into the world a family unlike any ever seen before.

With their help Temujin had added to his standards elements from a dozen tribes, who, dissatisfied with their masters, had come to him for protection.

He accepted all. Five separate bands of Merkits came to him, freely asking for him to accept them as subjects. These he put under the overall command of Subetei, who was the first of the Merkit Noyans to come to his side and offer his loyalty, thus adding three thousand more warriors to his force.

All came to his camp – even Hindi from the Indus, Turkomen and Tatar, Jurchen and Khitan. Temujin gathered them to him, increasing his numbers every season.

Darbai grew fat and rich, and as Chagar, he never forgot that terrible night when Bolar called down death on his head. He was always there and ready when Temujin had need of him. Yet Temujin did not abuse him.

Always he was respectful and honored Darbai for his loyalty and friendship, and Darbai knew he rested under the umbrella of Temujin's protection. Of course, the hundred warriors he had loaned Temujin never returned. Some had died in battles, and others were men of import and Noyans of the tumens of Temujin. He never forgot one who was loyal, or failed to share all that he had with him. Only one of those who rode with him against Jemuga ever betrayed him. In exchange for gold he had tried to betray Temujin's plans to an enemy.

For that, his death was horrible. He was flayed alive. Day by day the skin first was stripped from his body, then the raw, red tissues rubbed with crystal salt. When all that was left was the skin of the eyelids, Temujin had them cut off.

Temujin then had him placed in the desert over an anthill. No one knew exactly when he went mad. They only heard the screaming for two days. No one else ever betrayed him from among the Borjigin.

He'd also in this time made friends with Ong Khan of the Kereit to his west and south. Ong Khan was the most powerful of the khans of the steppes, with over twenty thousand warriors to call upon. He and Temujin visited often, and Ong Khan admired the younger man for his abilities.

That is, until the seed of corruption was planted in his heart.

Jemuga had come again as he had promised. To Ong Khan's sons he whispered things about Temujin and his ambitions; how they should notice that every day he grew in strength and was never far from the lands of the Kereit. They would one day fall to him. The family Ong Khan would be no more than serfs to their Mongol master.

The Merkits had come to him from the north, and the Quonqurat were known to follow his wishes. And now he was making approaches by offering one of his sons in marriage to the family of the leader of the Naimans to their east. Soon the Kereit would be surrounded and cut off.

There was no stopping the ambition of Temujin. He would come, and when he did, if they did not do something first, they would be destroyed and their wives and children taken for his pleasure. All this and more Jemuga put into the ears of Jirchi and Barlas, the sons of Ong Khan. And as is the habit among many men of ambition and dreams, they saw and believed. Jealousy fed their beliefs.

And in turn they put this drop by drop into the soul of the father. And as it is with most who have power, they were jealous of it and afraid of it and even more afraid of losing it. For without it, who or what would they be?

In time Ong Khan also began to see a plan to Temujin's actions, to hear lies behind the pleasant words he spoke and see traps to blind him in the gifts sent from the young khan to his camp. All of these became evidence to prove to Ong Khan that Temujin was planning to move against him. And it would not be long in the coming.

He made Jemuga welcome in his camps, but not the ones visited by Temujin or his men. He kept Jemuga away in the mountains. There he had to be content to wait for the day when Ong Khan would have to put an end to the plots and treacheries of Temujin Khan.

He knew Temujin's history in warfare. The young man had been in almost constant action to one degree or another for the past fifteen years. And never had he failed. All that met him were defeated.

True, the battles were not usually of any great size but each time, instead of taking the customary tribute and slaughtering the defeated warriors, he gathered them to him. And in a few months all who were once his enemies were now his greatest supporters, each band, tribe, or race vying to prove they were the most worthy of his love and attention.

That was not to say that Temujin showed this unusual mercy to all. Ong Khan knew full well of the cruel side of the Mongol khan. Those he defeated in open battle had the best chance to survive through his mercy.

But those who resisted after he called for them to give up their struggle or insulted him were truly destroyed – men, women, and children. In some villages where he had lost men he valued in the fighting, even the dogs and rats were sentenced to death.

Ong Khan had seen the value of this incredible violence at other times. When Temujin Khan was in siege of a fortified town or village, all it took was for him to demand they open their gates to him or perish. Most did, without an arrow being shot.

Temujin gathered whole towns and tribes to him in this manner, and with each addition Ong Khan knew he was a greater threat to the Kereits.

Jemuga he did not trust. He was a brave and good fighter and shrewd. But too shrewd. His hatred for Temujin Khan made him unstable.

But in this Ong Khan felt he was right. One day he would either have to bow his neck to Temujin or destroy him. Therefore the sooner he destroyed him, the better – before he grew too strong.

Ong Khan was committed. All he needed now was the opportunity, the right time. To Temujin he showed honor and respect, as he always did. It wouldn't do to have Temujin suspect that the Kereit were going to move against him. Only he, his sons, and Jemuga knew that. And only he of all of them would know the time.

The days became weeks and the weeks months before the right time presented itself to Ong Khan. There would soon come the time when he would invite Temujin to come to Ulan Bator, as he did every year. There they would enjoy the games, trade, and the rink and perhaps buy a few comely slaves to ease the chill of the long winter that was soon to be upon them.

With the winter, he said, he would not have the opportunity to see much of his friend. Therefore he wished for them to have this time together before the great cold came.

As always, Temujin accepted. He liked Ong Khan. The old chieftain had never been anything but a man of honor to him. Showing him great courtesy and respect, Temujin had thought that he might even marry off one of his sons or daughters into Ong Khan's clan, thereby increasing the bond between them.

He knew nothing of Jemuga's return or who he was with. If he had, he might have thought differently about accepting Ong Khan's invitation to Ulan Bator.

As this would be the last of the days to trade and buy before the snows, Temujin awarded to his best warriors the right to accompany him to Ulan Bator. Some three thousand were permitted to come.

Most of these came from the tribe of the Merkits and the Borjigin warriors who were a gift from Ashif Khan, the father of Bortei, who wished now that he had seen and witnessed his son-in-law's rise to power, to strengthen their friendship. He knew that Temujin Khan liked nothing better than good fighting men.

In addition, it would ease the strain on his supplies during the winter when food and forage was in short supply. Temujin could feed them, though, in fact, he knew that he would never get them back. Once you went to Temujin Khan, you never left him, except if he was dead. That was of little worry. After all, he was the grandfather of Temujin's firstborn sons and the father of his premier wife. The power Temujin gathered would reflect well on wisdom in permitting Bortei to stay wed to him.

Temujin made camp on the dusty plains running on the banks of the Tula. His wagons and cattle he had driven before him. Three thousand men, and perhaps as many more women and children, eat a great deal. To bring his women and children to Ulan Bator was the strongest sign that he was coming in peace and suspected nothing.

This time he had brought with him from his brothers only Temuge. The others had to keep control of the rest of the tribes and make things ready for the winter move to summer pastures.

Ong Khan knew his time to strike was near. Sending for Jemuga, he gathered his sons to him, giving them their orders in secret. They met on horseback, away from the tents and yurts, out on the open plain where no one save the wind could hear. Jemuga, Jirchi, and Barlas were to gather their men from among the different clans. A hundred here, a thousand there. They were to say nothing of their mission.

As Temujin had no more than three thousand coming with him, Ong Khan figured that eight thousand would be sufficient to deal with them, especially as he would have the advantage of surprise. Most of them would die before they knew what had hit them.

Jemuga was to stay with him to advise him on Temujin and his tactics. Jemuga knew more about him than anyone else in the world. It had become his driving force.

But Ong Khan always remembered that blind hate always covers the eyes of truth. Keeping that in mind, he wouldn't believe or trust everything Jemuga would tell him. He would balance out what was said against what he knew and would make his decisions, and not always the ones Jemuga would have preferred. However, Jemuga had no choice but to accept the old khan's conditions if he wanted to be in on the kill of Temujin.

Ong Khan gathered his warriors. From where they were hidden, it would be a two-hour ride to the encampment of Temujin. Once there, they would ride over them. His eight thousand, to Temujin's three, would be like a wave.

The plains area was perfect for the use of his horse archers. They would strike at first light, riding out of the sun to blind the defenders, and be among them like wolves on puppies before they could stumble from their tents and yurts. He would have them all, including the women and goods that were Temujin's. Once he finished him off, he would take over all of Temujin's tribes for his own and make himself the greatest power on the steppes in a hundred years.

Once Ong Khan committed to the battle, his nomad warrior heart soared with the thought of blood and booty. His past friendship meant nothing. He was what he was, Khan of the Kereit, and would bow to no man. Ong Khan kept his secret until the time came to gather his forces. Then the word leaked out. Men love to talk, and when they do, some who listen do not like what they hear.

This was the case of Kishlik and Bada, two Kereits who had brothers and family with Temujin. From them they found that Temujin had been fair and honest with them, more than they could say of the old bandit, Ong Khan. They rode with their tumen under the command of Barlas until they camped for the night. All knew that in the morning they would attack the sleeping camp of Temujin.

Kishlik and Bada knew that if Ong Khan won, their brothers in the camp of Temujin would be put to the sword, if they were lucky. More than likely Ong Khan would have them torn apart one piece at a time with red-hot pincers for being traitors to the Kereit.

They made their decision and arranged that they would stand guard at the same hours, patrolling the perimeter of the Kereit camp. On that night when the restless sleep that comes before death rests heavy on men, they slipped away, riding for the camp of Temujin.

When they approached the camp, they cried out the alarm. The guard forced them to halt under the watchful eyes of a dozen bowmen. Exhausted, they asked to be taken before Temujin. The day was still three hours unborn.

To wake the master from a sleep for things of little import was something not to be undertaken lightly. Therefore the guards did the things all common soldiers do and looked for someone else to do it for them. They woke Casca from his slumbers.

It was with regret that Casca moved away from the side of Magaly, a dancing girl from Khotan. He had taken up with her two years past and was content with her services and care. As he tried to rise, she threw one shapely brown leg over his to keep him by her. She wanted the warmth of his body to fight the chill of the night. Cursing his foul luck, Casca rose, put on a robe, picked up his sword, the blade bared, and went to see who was raising such noise outside his yurt.

Bada and Kishlik threw themselves to their faces in front of him. "Master," cried Bada, "we have come from the camp of Ong Khan and must speak to Temujin Khan. Now, this instant."

Casca thought that a bit odd. Common cherigs, soldiers, did not demand to see the khan before the sun was even creeping over the rim of the world. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Casca cleared a piece of phlegm from his throat, spat it on the earth beside them, and said somewhat squeakily, "If you want to wake Temujin at this hour, it had better be important or you'll never see the sun rise. Tell me one reason why I should wake him."

Kishlik raised a face an inch from the earth, blowing dust through his open mouth and nostrils. "Lord, Jemuga rides here this night with Ong Khan!"

That did it! Telling them to rise, he walked through the gathering crowd of onlookers and warriors. As he did, he gave the command for all men to make ready to ride, their horses and weapons at the ready. More outriders were to join those guarding the perimeter. These and a dozen more orders he gave as he strode purposefully toward Temujin's baragah. The Kereits followed in his wake as he parted those in front of him. When he got to Temujin's baragah, Chagar was already there, with Subetei and Temuge, waiting to see what was going to happen.

Temujin had risen from his bed. News of trouble travels fast, even when no words are spoken. It has a feel of its own that seeps into the very air and dust. The excitement of men sensing battle woke Temujin from his slumbers.

Casca charged in past the guards, waving them away from Kishlik and Bada. As soon as they were inside, Temujin was already on his feet, and like Casca had done, he was with a bared sword in hand. Kishlik and Bada fell to their faces before him.

Temujin glanced at them, then asked of Casca, "What passes here this night, Old Young One?"

Casca pointed to the two men on the carpets of his tent. "These two have just ridden in. They say that Jemuga has returned and rides with Ong Khan, and that they are on their way to attack us this night. That means soon, for the sun will be up in a couple of hours."

Temujin moved to stand over the two Kereits. "And why would Kereits come to warn me of an attack by their own tribe?" He touched each lightly on the nape of the neck with the cold point of his sword. "Speak true. I will not ask again. I will either believe you or I will kill you. Speak!"

Not raising his eyes as he had done to Casca, Bada blurted out their reasons. "Lord, we are here to save our brothers. In truth, it is not for you that we have done this thing. But if Ong Khan wins, our brothers who serve you will be put to death. That is all. However, if you will accept us into your ranks, we will serve you fairly. Our brothers have told us you were a fair and good master to them."

Temujin smiled; the answer was a fair one. Pricking them with the tip of his sword, he demanded, "And how can I trust you when you betray Ong Khan, your master?"

Kishlik found his voice, barely controlling the stammer in it. "Lord, if you asked us to go against our brothers, who are all the family we have, then we would also be against you."

Moving back from them, Temujin thought for a moment. "I see. But you have said you have no other family in any of the tribes of the Kereit or any other. Is that true?"

"Yes, Lord," answered Kishlik. "Our brothers are all that we have. The plague took all the rest these four years past. Everyone in our village died, save us. For we were away when the vomiting, shitting, and death struck."

Temujin accepted that. "Good. Then you will serve me well, and I shall honor you for your courage in speaking the truth to me thus. From this day on you are of the family of Temujin and Noyans. I have no warriors from the Kereit with me at this time. You shall have to wait to greet your brothers."

Temujin interrogated them for a few moments as to the numbers and disposition of the army of Ong Khan, with questions especially about Jemuga, who he had thought he had lost for these many years past. It was good to know that he was still around and still hated. It gave Temujin a spice to life that was lost without him.

To Casca and his officers he ordered, "Break camp, but leave the wagons and tents. Form up the warriors to ride. Send messengers to Jochi, Belgutei, and Elchitei. Warn them and tell them to gather our tribes together for strength. Send the women and children away. Give them horses if they have none. They must not be here when Ong Khan arrives.

"Send them to my home village of the Qiyats. There they will be protected. Assign an escort of two hundred to ride with them. We shall leave an empty camp for Ong Khan. For now we cannot fight him here. With eight thousand against our three, we will have little chance. We must pick our place to fight, and I know of one.

"Ong Khan will come after us. It is I he needs to destroy. The women mean nothing to him at this time. He must come after me or he knows that I will soon go after him. Therefore, let us lead him on a merry chase till we reach the place where we shall destroy him."

In less than fifteen minutes the warriors were mounted, ready for combat. They took with them only food and water and weapons. The women and children took a little longer, but Temujin would not let the warriors ride till the women had started on their way. That took nearly an hour.

Kishlik and Bada were frantic, for they knew Ong Khan could ride over the horizon at any moment. This time luck was on their side, and the women and children were well away, heading back across the plains, leaving empty tents and yurts still standing by burning campfires.

As Casca ordered, they, like the warriors, took only food with them. All the rest would be left for the Kereits. Temujin hoped they would lose some hours picking through the tents and packs before they were able to take up the chase.

The flankers were out. Point and drag men in place, Temujin gave the order to march. They left the camp in good order. Not running, nothing frantic. Temujin knew that rumors and hasty action could give way to senseless panic, even before the enemy reached them. He led, taking point, setting a good but not hasty pace. He wanted his men alert and better rested than those of Ong Khan. And this time he would need every bit of advantage he could get. It was a long way to the gorges and springs of Baljuna.

According to his plan, Ong Khan came upon the camp at first light. He was surprised by the lack of security around the camp. Perhaps Temujin was getting careless. No matter. His horsemen lit fire arrows and fired freely into the camp. Fire was always good for spreading fear and confusion. His men attacked following the fire arrows, rising through empty rows of wagons, tents, and yurts, many of which were beginning to burn. One hasn't smelled shit until he has smelled the burning felt of the yurts, made from woven yak hair.

Cries of joy reached Ong Khan, who waited at the edge of the camp with his bodyguard to see how the fight was progressing.

"They have run and left us the camp." His men dismounted and began to tear at the tents and yurts, diving inside to snatch at whatever they could reach – pots and pans, bottles and jugs, clothes and spoons. It had all been left behind.

Ong Khan raged. Temujin had escaped him, and these fools thought they had won a victory and were looting the camp. It took him two hours to regain control and have them get rid of the extra weight they had acquired. His scouts picked up two sets of tracks leading from the campsite. One was obviously those of warriors on horseback. The other showed the prints of women, and Ong Khan saw through that. The women they could take later. It was Temujin and his band that must be destroyed first.

"We do not rest until we have Temujin in our hands," he cried, leading the way into the desert and not yet knowing what fate he was going to encounter when he finally did come to grips with Temujin at the springs of Baljuna.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ong Khan was coming for them, and Jemuga was with him. Temujin whipped his men on. He had to pick the ground he would fight on. Ong Khan had too great a superiority in numbers, so he had to find a way to reduce the Kereit's advantage. "Turn disadvantage into an advantage," Casca had told him time and again. "Think, do not just react."

As they rode, Temujin called Temuge and Subetei to him. With Casca advising, he told them of his basic plan. These were not the lands of Ong Khan, he would not know the terrain, and from what he knew of Jemuga, he had never been in these parts, either. If he had been, he doubted that Ong Khan would listen much to him.

The old man was very stubborn and bull-headed and always thought he knew better and more than anyone else. Someday that attitude was going to kill him. It might do so this day. He, Temujin, would pick the killing ground and the time. Casca and the others listened closely. The pupil had learned his lessons well. He found nothing wrong with the plan, and he could think of nothing better.

Temuge and Subetei rode off to brief their Noyans on what was to be expected of them without giving them too many details, only that the master had a plan and they were to obey instantly all orders.

On either side of them, the mountains hovered dark against the brightness of the night sky. The shadows cared not about this petty event of mankind, for they were involved with the things of millennia.

To Kishlik and Bada Temujin gave the honor of commanding the rear guard. They had earned this sign of favor to be put in the most dangerous position. Their orders were to keep Ong Khan in sight, so his scouts would not lose contact. He would repay them for their loyalty ten thousandfold if he could survive the next few days.

The Old Young One was as always close to his right hand. Temujin still knew little about him. Sometimes he doubted if the man really existed or was just a part of some fantastic dream. The Old Young One could have been a great king if his feelings hadn't gotten in the way. He was a great general, and Temujin knew that his successes were due in large part to this big scarred nose from the legendary lands of Rome.

"Old Young One, I think now is the time. Do you agree?"

"Yes. If as you said the killing ground is no more than an eight- or nine-hour ride ahead, we will need all the time we can save to prepare. I'll ride on ahead and have things ready for when you arrive with the main party. If I send word back, be ready to pick a spot to fight a delaying action in the event that we need to buy a little more time."

"As you say, Old Young One."

Casca called out to Subetei to follow after him with his thousand troops, then gave the order to Chagar to break his yeser free of the main body and move to the front. With two thousand warriors, each taking with him an extra horse, they would have to ride hard and fast.

Chagar led the way as his thousand fell in behind him. Casca stayed near the front. There would be nothing to fear from the rear for the time being. Temujin and his main element would have to be encountered before anything could get to them.

Soon it would be getting dark. They had to reach the springs of Baljuna before midnight. Any longer than that and Ong Khan might not be in position. And if he attacked them in force before they were ready for him, all might well be lost. Hanging to his saddle and reins as best he could, he let his horse be swept along with the others. It did not matter if they rode their animals to the death.

Between dark canyons they thundered. The wild warriors of Chagar and Subetei were caught up in the spirit and movement. They rode like demons through the night, these small, wild warriors of the steppes, eyes wild as blood pounded in their temples.

Going upstream, they had to slow as the ground, covered with boulders and rock, grew ever rougher. The clear area bordering the stream and the forest was too narrow; no more than twenty or thirty men could ride abreast at any given time.

This was the type of ground Casca wanted. It would be somewhere along this stream, which fed into the River Kerulen, that things would be decided.

The forest grew dark. Trees standing in groups along rocky banks spread their branches out to whip and snag at them, tugging at their clothes and raking across unprotected faces. No one stopped. If a man fell he was left behind to face the wrath of Temujin when his party encountered them. No one fell.

The horses' nostrils flared wide and red with flecks of blood and foam, seeming as eager as their savage masters to run until they died. Chagar watched for this. They made haste, but at regular intervals he gave the order, and the Mongol warriors, while in full flight, would leap from one animal's back to the next, then lash their new beast on to greater efforts, giving the other a chance to rest from the weight of their bodies.

They reached the springs before midnight. A hundred and thirty-two horses died when they stopped, as if once they were no longer needed, they permitted their hearts to burst. These were butchered and would feed the two thousand this night.

Quickly Casca gave Chagar his orders, himself taking on a labor party to perform the task that would have to be accomplished before the horde of Ong Khan came upon them. The Mongols of Chagar's tribe and the Merkits of Subetei worked like madmen. Once they understood what was expected of them and what the results of this night's work could accomplish, they fell to with eager will. Their swords turned into axes, trees were felled and brush was gathered.

Like ants, the men scrambled over the sides of the gorge wall surrounding and lining the way to the springs of Baljuna. There was no rest for anyone, except for the short time it took for pieces of red, steaming horsemeat to be passed on to them.

Two hours before dawn, Casca had Chagar send a fast rider with spare mounts back to the main body of warriors. They would not have their work finished before first light. It was for Temujin to hold back Ong Khan. Casca moved down to the spring. Lying on his stomach, he lowered his face into the icy, cold waters and drank deeply, letting the cold revive his energy. What he wished done had taken too long.

Those five hours' work might well determine if Temujin was to fulfill the destiny he believed was awaiting him. Or, if Temujin did have a destiny, then would his work here this night make any difference? Was it all preordained?  If that was so, then nothing he did would matter. Or would it?

The question was too deep for him; philosophy had never been one of his strong points. He would be true to himself and leave the mysteries of the universe to minds better suited to handling or dealing with ideas of abstract and unprovable values.

Slaking his thirst, he called to Subetei to gather his men. There was still work to do, but it was back the way they had come. He needed to put himself into the mind of Ong Khan.

With the coming of first light Casca had Subetei's men cut and mark trees at intervals along the way to the spring. Once he found what he was looking for, he had the Kereits dismount and the horses sent back to the spring to be put in the common herd. They would have no need of them this day.

The spot he picked was steep and narrow. Rocky ledges and cliffs proved to be more than sufficient cover. Subetei and his Kereits clambered up the sides of the gorge. Casca made them push all the way to the top of the ridge before he let them rest, and then it was only for long enough to catch their breath. There was still work to be done before Temujin and the main body arrived.

As soon as they had caught their breath, he set them to work again, gathering logs and boulders and brush, but not from the side of the canyon walls that faced the trail leading to the springs of Baljuna. Here there must be no sign of their presence. He looked back the way they had come and wondered how Temujin was faring. If he failed to hold back Ong Khan for just another hour, their work wouldn't matter.

It was, he had found over the years so many times, just a matter of minutes or even seconds that determined victory or disaster. Time... always time dictated, and men lived or died by some invisible timekeeper who watched over the petty struggling of antlike humanity and laughed as he flipped a dinar to determine who he would let live or die this time.

Temujin, too, was concerned with time. The message from Casca was urgent. He wanted to buy all the time that he could for Casca and his party without wasting away his main force. At a place in the canyon where no more than a hundred men could ride abreast, he called a halt.

He would have no more than one or possibly two hours before Ong Khan and the Kereits came upon him. He needed that hour to rest his horses and the men he would keep with him. From his main body he separated two thousand. These would stay with him. To his brother, Chagatai, he ordered that he advance to the next blocking point, an hour's ride into the canyon, and prepare his men there.

From there Temuge was to take the rest of the force ten minutes' ride deeper into the canyon and await his arrival. He would conduct a fighting retreat until they reached Chagatai's position, where the fresher, unbloodied warriors under his command would take over the burden of the fight and Temujin would go until he reached Temuge.

From there he would take command again of the main body and leapfrog farther into the canyon, where he hoped that Casca had all in readiness for them. By that time Ong Khan would be hot on their ass and time would have run out.

Once Chagatai had gone on ahead, Temujin gave his orders. His men were to be formed in eight ranks of one hundred each, each rank fifty paces behind the one in front. The balance of the warriors were to dismount and take to the sides of the gorge, forming the right and left flanks, with his cavalry at the center. Their orders were to kill the horses first, the men second. At this time a dead horse was the same as a dead man, and they were much easier to hit.

Some of his Noyans started to object. They should have known better. He killed one himself, and had the other reduced to a common soldier. It was not for them to question him in times of stress. They must obey. There are circumstances where one simply does not have the time to explain his reasons. They must obey and believe. If they did not understand, then they would have to die. If just one of the men to whom he explained his plans was taken prisoner and talked, then all would be lost.

Ong Khan was pushing his men as hard as he could. He knew they were close to Temujin. He cursed himself for the stupidity of allowing his warriors to loot Temujin's abandoned camp instead of listening to Jemuga, who urged him to move on after Temujin. It had cost him time. All this night he had ridden hard. His men's spirits revived only after he had three of them decapitated. "Keep your dogs hungry and afraid" was his theory.

Normally he would have preferred to have rested his men and animals, but this was not his land. And if he halted, Temujin and his men might escape. If they did, he had no doubt that they would come again, stronger and more dangerous than ever.

Now he had the odds on his side. Five, perhaps six to one. This was his only chance to destroy the growing might of Temujin. If he lost, then he felt deep in his bones that his life and all that he owned would soon fly from his grasp into the hands of the young Mongol chieftain.

The more he thought of it, the more he knew his sons had been right. It was naturally Jemuga who told them of Temujin and his ambitions. He didn't like Jemuga, but he had been useful and he was correct about Temujin, of that he was certain. It was only a matter of time before he would lose everything to Temujin's growing might and popularity. That he could not let happen.

To have a pup take away what was his by right of birth and conquest was too great an indignity to bear. There was nothing personal in it. He liked Temujin. But this was a thing of power and respect, neither of which he would lightly give up to another without a fight. He knew the stories of Temujin's birth and that many people believed in them, even some among his own tribe. That he could not tolerate. If Temujin had been just another gifted leader, he could have dealt with that. But to place himself as a mystic leader... never!

He wasn't far wrong. Temujin liked the old war-horse greatly. Ong Khan had honored him many times, but his thinking was wrong. He was high on Temujin's list of people to be replaced. If Ong Khan had not moved against him, eventually he would have taken over the old man's tribes and power for his own.

Now it seemed that perhaps the day had pushed ahead when he would have his confrontation with Ong Khan. That he could fail never entered his mind. A setback was the worst that could happen, but that only delayed the inevitable. He would triumph. It was promised to him.

And now, if he won this day, not only would he have the indescribable pleasure of having Jemuga in his hands, but he would become the greatest of all the powers of the Mongol tribes, and he would gather to him all that had been Ong Khan's: his warriors, his wealth, and his power. All would be his, and then he would be ready to make the first of his moves on the outside world.

The sun had pushed back the shadows that lay in the heart of the gorge. Casca was ready. From his position on the edge of the granite ridge, he looked back down the gorge. Soon Temujin would come – if he was able to.

Even now they might be in desperate battle against the superior forces of Ong Khan. Casca hoped that Temujin would be able to orchestrate the battle properly. A fighting withdrawal is the ultimate test of a great leader. To attack was easy; to control panic and keep discipline among your warriors when they were faced with greater numbers by a brave and vicious foe was something else.

It required great skill and strength of personality, to enforce your will on thousands of men who logically knew their life expectancy would be greatly increased if they just broke and ran. At least that's what they would think at the moment. The truth of the matter was they would be hunted down like wild animals and, like animals, be slaughtered.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Casca could hear the sounds of battle in the distance. Temujin had engaged Ong Khan. His men were resting but they, too, heard the sounds that came on the breeze. At this distance the screams and cries of the dying and wounded were softened by the miles, but still they reached them, echoing through the canyon walls.

Subetei came to him, his face serious but not frightened. He was concerned, not for his own sake but for that of his master. "What do you think is happening?"

Peering down the gorge toward the unseen battle, Casca mumbled, "Just one of two things can be happening. Either we're winning or we're losing. The only good thing, if it could be called good, is that if Temujin falls, then perhaps Ong Khan will be content with that and call off the battle. If I were he, I wouldn't waste my time looking for us. Without Temujin he knows that our forces will fall apart soon enough. Then he can hunt us down at his leisure and with little risk."

Here, at the ambush site, it was exactly as Temujin had told him. The trail widened out to a small glade, where as many as a hundred or more men on horseback could stand shoulder to shoulder. This glade stretched back for a distance of three hundred meters toward the entrance to the canyon, the direction from which Ong Khan would have to come.

At the end that led to the springs, the glen bottlenecked down to where no more than fifty men could pass at any given time. The stream, which was no more than knee-deep on a man, ran swift and white. On either side of it, pines and poplars mixed company to provide shelter.

A pleasant scene. Tranquil now, but it was a transitory calm that would soon pass as men filled this narrow space and the dying began.

Casca made one more trip down to the bottom of the gorge. From there he inspected the position of the Merkits. Several groups had to be ordered farther back over the ridge or behind patches of trees. He wanted no head to show, no glint of bared steel to reflect the day's light. All here would have to be unseen and silent.

He had ordered Subetei to tell all that the first man who uttered a sound or moved without an order was to die at that instant. None would move on their own. They had to wait for the right second. And only Casca would give that order. Till then they would have to remain in hiding, and most of them would not even be able to see the fighting beneath them. They would only hear. He knew it would be hard for these wild men of the steppes to obey, but Temujin had performed wonders in instilling in them a discipline that even Rome at its best had seldom matched.

Sometimes it was even harder for him than for the common warrior who faced death. He faced not death but continuance. He couldn't remember the number of times he had received what should have been his death blow. These men at least had a beginning and an end to their existence. He had... what? Another century, another thousand years of waiting? It had been so long. He wished that for one last time he could go into battle knowing that he might not survive it. He could be hurt, and he had been so many times that death would be a blessing – and an end to the nights of terrible dreams and memories, faces that rushed upon him every time he closed his eyes, the tens of thousands of screams from the dead and dying that echoed in the dark chambers of his memory. If he had to be cursed, why could he not have been given the blessing of forgetfulness? Then this existence might be a bit more bearable. To recall endlessly the past was the worst of his living.

Temujin was facing the moment of his own truth. Kishlik and Bada had raced with the rear guard back into the safety of their own ranks. As their animals were exhausted, Temujin sent them on ahead to join Temuge. They had done their job and brought Ong Khan and Jemuga to this place.

The first two attacks by Ong Khan had failed. His men had held them. He had used his cavalry as Casca had told him the Romans used infantry: each line supporting the one in front; the first two ranks with spears leveled, forming a hedgehog of spear points; the ranks behind using their bows to send flight after flight of arrows overhead, seeking soft, warm flesh – whether it was man or horse made no difference to them.

Several times he saw Jemuga in the forefront of the battle. Twice they touched eyes. Smiles of hatred crossed over the field of battle. Each thought this day would end things between them. As always, Jemuga was not afraid to put himself at risk. He rode like a demon. Bow and sword were one with him. He slew many of Temujin's warriors. He had the luck of a djinn. His hide-covered circular shield studded with small round iron plates was filled with arrows. But none touched him. Temujin felt the gods were saving Jemuga for him personally, and he was glad that his enemy survived.

The Merkit archers he had placed on the flanks were slowly being pushed back as their numbers were reduced by counterfire from Ong Khan's own bowmen. But they were serving their purpose here in the confining wall. Ong Khan's horsemen were also crowded in on each other. The ranks behind, eager to get in the fight, pushed against the rear of their comrades bunching them. Any attempt at maneuvering was futile.

Jemuga was filled with frustration. In disgust he left the fight, riding back to Ong Khan. Temujin could see him waving his sword in the direction of the battle and knew he was complaining about the tactics Ong Khan was using.

When Temujin's front rank was reduced or exhausted, he had them fall in an orderly manner through their own ranks. The second line would take up their position in the front, and the rank behind them exchange their bows for lances to keep the Kereits of Ong Khan from breaking through. His bowmen fired as fast as they could. Temujin had given orders for them not to save the shafts. When they ran out was when he planned to break contact and retreat to where Temuge awaited him.

Ong Khan was in a rage. There was no way for him to advance without terrible loss. But he had the men to spare, and he could see Temujin in the front ranks, directing the controlled defense of his men. He cursed his own for being idiots. But he knew that he could still carry the day. Soon Temujin's bowmen would have exhausted their supplies. He had more men than weapons. But he would not play Temujin's game anymore.

Lashing his horse forward, he struck right and left with his sword, ordering his Noyans to force their men back to open a space where they could engage Temujin with their own bowmen. At this point his men were so close and packed together that his bowmen were hitting more of their own men than Temujin's Merkits. At last he forced back enough of the Kereits to the rear ranks to where those engaged could pull back and form a line just inside bow range. From there they could attack with better than equal odds.

His Noyans aided him by slashing and whipping their men to the rear. The space in front of them was covered with dead and wounded, horses' legs kicking in their death throes as they screamed through bloody, blubbery lips.

The Kereit who were not dead suffered mostly in silence, for they knew that the great darkness would be coming to them soon. Few would survive. For when Ong Khan charged next, it would be over their bodies. They felt no anger at their own tribesmen for this. They would have done the same with no regret.

When Ong Khan pulled back, Temujin took advantage of it. It would take the Kereits a few moments to get organized again. He gave the signal for his archers to pull back from the flanks into the rear of the center and mount their horses, which was done with some relief, for they were at the end of their supply of arrows.

At the command Temujin's warriors turned as though on a parade field, and in good order began to pull out. The first three ranks remained where they were, to give Ong Khan the impression that Temujin was going to remain and fight.

Once the trail was clear enough for them to move, they, too, wheeled on command, formed up into columns, and raced away, leaving the field of battle to Ong Khan and his Kereits.

Ong Khan saw Temujin retreat down the canyon. They were breaking and running. Now was the time to finish them. Changing his orders to his Noyans, he ordered the charge. It took three or four minutes before the minds of the Kereits could adapt to the new situation. First it was attack, then it was withdraw and use bows, now it was to attack again.

Jemuga argued with him. "Be careful. Temujin is a treacherous fox. I like not the looks of the place."

Ong Khan mocked him. "You do not like it. Who has asked you what you like? I am the khan of the Kereit, not you. Remember that well, or I may take more than Temujin's head this day, Merkit traitor. You sell out your own tribe because you hate Temujin. I may use you. However, that does not mean that I like or respect you. Now get away from me. Fight or leave – whichever you choose, it matters not."

Jemuga rode away, fuming at the insult. He knew Temujin better than anyone else. There was something that was not right about this fight. He was not doing things in the manner of the Mongol. The tactics were different, and the warriors also conducted themselves differently. Something was not right, and he didn't know what it was. The only thing he was certain of was that Temujin was in this canyon. He was going after him. The deaths of a few thousand Kereit meant nothing to him. All he wanted was Temujin.

Temujin had disappeared around a bend before the first of the Kereits began to move out. Whipping their horses to the front, the rest of the horde followed, eager to be in on the kill. They rode over the bodies of those who had fallen earlier.

Temuge had prepared for this, following the same plan Temujin had used: archers on the flanks; cavalry in the center, formed in ranks, with lancers for the first two ranks and archers behind. The only difference was that he had his men formed in two columns lining the side of the trail. This would allow Temujin's forces to pass through to the rear, and then he would close the gap and await Ong Khan.

Temuge had also been worried about his brother. Temujin took too many risks. It was with relief that he saw him coming down the trail. The first units had already reached him and passed through to the rear. Temujin was the end. When he did come into the lines, Temuge immediately gave the order to begin closing the gap.

Laughing, Temujin greeted his brother. "Ho, Temuge. It is going well. We have bled the dog badly, but still he comes on like a blinded pig. This will be your turn to hold the pig at bay. I will go and see if the Old Young One has all ready." He said this even though he had no doubt that Casca would have done as he should. The Old Young One always did as he should, which was sometimes his worst fault.

As Temujin rode down the gorge, something struck at the edge of his memory. He didn't know it until he passed by. Then it came to him. Calling a halt, he rode back fifty meters, and there it was: a small cleft in the wall of the gorge. It was hard to see, as brush covered most of the entrance. The cleft widened out farther in, a place where men could lie in wait.

This might work very well with what he and Casca had planned. Ordering the rest of his party on ahead, he whipped his horse back to Temuge and gave him his new orders, then rode on to catch up to the main party.

Ong Khan came upon the defenses of Temuge. This time he was in the vanguard and forced his screeching warriors to hold. He would not fall in the same trap a second time. He did as he planned to do at the first battle and drew his men up in lines and ranks from which they showered the Merkits with arrows. This was what should have been done in the first place. A war of attrition he could win.

Temuge did as he was ordered. His men held the line, those in the rear filling up the first ranks as the shafts took their toll. It was not one-sided. Their arrows hit more targets than did those of Ong Khan, simply because there were more targets. But the price was beginning to be heavy. He could not hold for very long, but then, he was not supposed to. Temujin had told him, "When it looks as if Ong Khan is getting ready to charge, start moving back, one after the other. It will be up to you to come get us. From this moment on, I cannot help you. Do as you see best. But do not waste lives. I will have need of them later."

Temuge did hold until he knew that further resistance was certain death for all, and his brother had said he would need all the men he could get. Ong Khan would not wait much longer. Temuge's warriors were getting tired, and their stock of shafts was low. Sounding the retreat, Temuge's band turned, as Temujin's had earlier raced away down the gorge. This time, though, they paid a price for it. Over two hundred did not make it. Ong Khan was readier this time and in better control. As soon as Temuge moved to the rear, he attacked.

At the cleft in the gorge, Temuge ordered another short defense in just enough time to get five hundred of his men off their horses, into the cleft, and hidden. He went with them, turning command, of the rear party over to Qubulai, a Qiyat who served as his second-in-command. The entrance was then even further covered by brush, so no sign of the passing would be seen. He needn't have worried. As soon as he tried to break contact again, Ong Khan initiated an assault. He and his Kereits had eyes only for the retreating backs of the Merkits.

Casca felt a great weight lifted off his shoulders when he saw the first units of Temujin's force begin to enter the area of the springs. Though near exhaustion, they set about their tasks with an iron will. Other units soon joined them, each finding its place in the plan. At last Temujin rode in with the main party. He wasted no time and began to direct them in their actions.

Casca called to him from the ridge, "How did it go?"

Temujin smiled back at him and cupped his hands to make his voice heard better by all. "It went well. We hurt the Kereits greatly. They lost five or more to our one. Right now Temuge is holding them, but I don't think he will be able to do so for very long. I would expect him to be coming within the hour. Is all in readiness?"

Casca yelled back at him. "As ready as we will ever be. Now it's up to Ong Khan and you. We will do our part."

"Good enough, Old Young One. Rest assured that we also do ours. Now, I have work to do. Also, I have changed the plan a bit."

Casca didn't like the sound of that. To change plans this late in the game could be very bad. When Temujin told him what he had in mind, Casca saw the logic of it immediately. It could work well to their advantage.

Now that Temujin was in the springs, Casca told Subetei to find Chagar and have him bring his Borjigin warriors to where they would be opposite Casca's on the ridge wall. He had held them near the springs in case the pursuit of Temujin had been too hot and he needed some ground support.

Now that Temujin was there and in good case, he could go back to his original plan. There would be two thousand warriors on the high ground. This was where horses would do no good at all. Temujin and the main body would keep them from the springs, which was the only place where large numbers of horsemen could dismount and climb the gorge walls.

To keep Ong Khan locked up once his troops were committed, Casca would block the trail behind with a landslide of boulders, which his Merkits had gathered. Temujin would then take the hundreds of chest-high stakes that Chagar's men had cut and stacked and form a palisade. When set into the earth, the stakes would reach at just about the exact height it took to enter the chest of a standing horse.

Behind this wall, his warriors would dismount and fight as infantry, and as at the first battle, lancers to the front and archers behind. It was time to find out if they had learned their lessons during the long days of training.  Temujin had Casca run them through it. The Mongols had protested and cried like babies when forced to dismount and fight on their feet. A few quick executions by hanging and the rest obeyed. Now it would be to time to put it to the test. He had told Temujin that time and again. Well-trained infantry had defeated cavalry attacks when they did not have to fight in the open and had their choice of terrain. It would be interesting to see if they could hold the line.

But they wouldn't be alone. Once the trap was sprung, they would be complemented by the bowmen of the Merkits and the Borjigin of Chagar. They would have the high ground. Return fire from the Merkits would be ineffective, while their shafts would reach their targets with more than enough force to kill or maim.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ong Khan bypassed the cleft in the wall of the gorge. His eyes were on the retreating backs in front of him, for they led to Temujin – and an end to his worries for once and all. This day he would put all things in order.

Still, the tingle at the back of his neck told him to be careful. Temujin was clever, too clever – that is why he had to be disposed of before he grew too strong.

He did not like these sheer walls, which stretched high on either side of him. This was not ground for horsemen. The pass narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again, making it slow going for his warriors. But if Temujin could ride and fight here, then so could he. He had won more battles than the young upstart had had women, and never had he been defeated.

Temujin had his front ranks form fifty meters in front of the spring, the right and left flanks slightly advanced. The rest of his archers waited behind the spring on higher ground. From there they would have the advantage of distance, being able to fire over the heads of their own men in safety.

Ong Khan's lead riders came into the open ground of the glen and saw the Temujin's array before them. Not on horseback, they had been taken away to the rear. No, they stood on foot, with lances facing to the front. Smiles spread across gap-toothed faces. This was good. They were used to defeating those who fought on foot. Horsemen always won over those who walked.

Reining in their animals, they waited. The memory of those they had ridden over who had fallen to the Merkits was still fresh in their mouths, and the anger of Ong Khan for them for attacking without orders. They waited until the rest of their force, or what part of it could, entered into the glen with them. Over half of its main body remained behind then, between the narrow walls of the gorge, waiting their turn.

Jemuga did not feel so good. All this day he knew that they were being drawn into something. There was a very bad feel to this place. Ong Khan rode to the front, just out of bow range, and took his time. Jemuga stayed to his rear. Temujin was there. They could see him in the front lines of his warriors. The Merkits were steady, standing in orderly ranks. He recognized them by their standards and headgear.

But where were the Borjigin and the foreigner Temujin called the Old Young One? Perhaps they had deserted rather than face his wrath. That must be the answer, for he could see there was no way out of the box in which Temujin had placed his men. The others must have deserted. So much the better. That would teach Temujin to put his trust in foreign dogs. He would hunt them down later; meanwhile, their desertion reduced Temujin's strength to no more than three thousand. That he could easily deal with.

Jemuga also asked the same questions in his mind as Ong Khan. Where were the others? Temujin was up to something. Ever since he had come back with the scar-faced one, he had not been the same. The bad feeling sent shivers up his spine. He had not survived these many years by not listening to his instincts. He began to move away from Ong Khan Once he was clear of him, he rode through the bunched-up warriors to the end of the column.

Once free of the crush of men and animals, he moved more rapidly, spurring his horse into a gallop and then a full run as he broke out of the gorge into the open ground. He wanted only to put as much distance between him and the gorge as possible. Something bad was going to happen in there, and he wanted no part of it. He was not a coward, but he was also not a fool.

He had bypassed the cleft in the wall of the gorge where Temuge waited with his force. Once more luck was with him: They let him pass. Temuge could not take a chance on killing him and having their position exposed too early. He saw Jemuga but he had to let him go, and the letting-go ate into his soul like acid. Another day, Jemuga, another day. Your luck will not hold forever. One day my brother will take you.

Ong Khan didn't notice Jemuga's desertion, and if he had, it would have meant nothing to him. He had told him to go if he wished. Now he had more important things on his mind. For the first time during all the day's activities he was going to let his sons go into battle and command the first and third ranks.

He moved from one side of his ranks to the other, watching the Merkits closely. Still wary but not knowing of what, it looked as if Temujin had made a great mistake by placing his center in front of the springs.

If he pushed hard enough, the main body of Temujin's force would find themselves in ass-deep water. Ong Khan laughed for the first time that day. He had them, and there was no way out. To his trumpeters and Noyans he gave the orders. On the first blast the first rank – under the command of Jirchi, his eldest and heir – would charge straight for the center and Temujin. Kill him and the heart would go out of the rest of the men he led.

Behind them, the second rank was to split and take on the archers on the flanks. The third – under Karlas, his youngest –  was to ride through, support his first element, and reinforce them. This would create room at the rear for more of his men to come through the narrow pass and form new ranks.

Crying out for all to hear, his words echoed back and forth off the stone walls. "Whoever brings me the head of Temujin shall have his pick of fifty horses from my own herd, and ten bashliks of good Persian silver!"

With that, he signaled the trumpeter to sound the attack. The first wave surged forward. At the orders of their Noyans, they had lances in their hands instead of bows; they would charge down and let the weight of their horses carry them into the Merkit ranks. The Kereit in the main body advanced to bow range behind them, giving them support from their bows. The second rank split, taking on the archers of Temujin on the right and left flanks.

Ong Khan saw that his first wave was advancing in good order. The solid line of Merkits facing him did not move. They were shoulder-to-shoulder. Stupid! He thought. His men would trample them underfoot. He waved the third rank into the battle; they were only seconds behind the first. Their added weight would surely force the Merkit center back into the springs. Then it would be only a matter of dispatching them at his leisure.

The Kereit swept down on the Merkit, who stood as if they were frozen to the piece of land on which they stood. Their comrades to the rear had to stop firing for fear of hitting their own men.

Temujin stood in the center of his first rank, sword raised. Behind him, Merkit archers began to fire in volleys. His archers on the flanks were not able to render much support as they were hard pressed by Ong Khan's second rank. But those behind the spring on the high ground did deadly good work. But it would not be enough to stop the Kereits from reaching them. It was not intended to.

When the first wave of Kereit horsemen were no more than thirty meters from his front rank, Temujin's own trumpeter, who had been watching for the signal, sounded a single flat, wavering oblast on his ram's horn trumpet.

The first rank of Temujin's warriors stepped to the rear three paces. Each man had been standing in front of one of the hundreds of sharpened stakes that Casca had prepared for them. Their bodies concealed them from the view of the Kereit and Ong Khan.

The Kereit were too close to stop their charge, and the second wave behind them was at full gallop. They had to go on to where those terrible pointed stakes the thickness of a man's arms were waiting to disembowel their horses.

Waiting above, Casca saw everything. It was almost time for him to act but not quite yet. Ong Khan had to be fully committed.

The first wave rushed onto the stakes. The horses screamed and tried to shy away but couldn't. They were packed too close. The stakes reached deep into the chests and shoulders of the horses, driving the animals insane with pain. Three hundred went down in the first rush, littering the earth with the kicking, jerking, bleeding bodies.

As the first charge came to a standstill, the second wave crashed into their own men. It was mass confusion – those behind wanting to close with the enemy, and those in front trying to get away from them.

Ong Khan lost control of the battle in those first minutes.

From the sides of the gorge and the high ground behind the spring, Temujin's archers kept their shafts flying with deadly efficacy.

Ong Khan was in a blind, bloody rage. It was to grow worse, for this was the time when Casca gave his command to act to Subetei and Chagar. A triple blast from his trumpeter's horn and the Merkit and Borjigin who lay in hiding came out to do hell's work.

Stacks of boulders gathered by them earlier and stacked up to where they were restrained from falling by logs camouflaged with brush were set free. Tons of boulders fell down on the Kereits from the crest of the gorge. Brains were crushed out of their bony pans. The spines of horses snapped like dry twigs. And with the boulders came clumps of dry brush tied to stones and logs, set on fire to spread the confusion.

Over six hundred died in the avalanche, and as soon as the boulders were done, Casca's men went to work with the bows and lances. Their orders were to shoot for the Noyans of the Ong Khan first. Try to kill the leaders. And they did. All Noyans were distinctly marked by the colors of cloth or feathers on their helmets; this was done so their own men could recognize them from a distance. It also served Casca's purpose quite well. The Noyans went down one after the other.

He could have taken Ong Khan out several times, but Temujin had asked that if possible Ong Khan was to be taken alive. He had plans for him. Smoke filled the gorge, blinding, choking, driving men and animals crazy.

Ong Khan didn't know what to do. Some of his men were still trying to force their way over the stakes to get at Temujin. Others were trying to fight their way to the rear through those still trying to advance. The men in the narrows of the gorge were equally as bad off.

Another trumpet blast from farther down the gorge and Casca knew that Temuge was on the scene. Even without him coming at this critical moment, Casca thought they might have had a more than even chance of winning.

The losses suffered earlier, which Ong Khan had taken from the attack on the stakes and now the deadly toll falling on them from the cliffs, had brought the numbers on both sides to equal nearly six thousand men on each side. But with Temuge and his men bottling up the rear and they holding the Kereits to the front, it was going to be a slaughter.

And a slaughter it was. Temuge's men held the only way out of the pass. They blocked it with their bodies. Ong Khan tried four times to break through to the rear. But the smoke and panic among his men made it impossible for him to gain any control over the battle, and nearly all his Noyans were dead.

From the dead Temujin's men gathered more shafts and spears, using their enemies' weapons to finish them off. There was no way for them to miss as they shot at the milling mass of terrified warriors, who saw themselves as dead if they could not get out of the cauldron the springs of Baljuna had become. The grass would grow dark, lush, and green here for many years to come, fed by the blood of this day's work.

The battle was drawing to a close. Ong Khan had lost the day and six thousand five hundred of his men. Those who were not dead were blinded by terror.

Ong Khan saw his world being destroyed. But it would not end for him at Baljuna. Rallying to him the men of his guard, his sons, and several Noyans, he cut his way through his own men back down the gorge.

In the smoke and confusion Temujin and Casca couldn't locate him. They were involved with the killing of their own. Ong Khan came through the last of his men; who were hand-to-hand with Temuge's. Cutting, slashing, and crying out as they killed each other.

Temuge did not have power to stop Ong Khan from breaking through with his sons. Spurring their horses mercilessly, Ong Khan and the few survivors of  Baljuna sped away and there was nothing that could be done to stop them.

One thing about the barbarian: when he is winning, he is confident there is no one more dangerous or valiant. But when he thinks he has lost, he just quits if he cannot run. Ong Khan's warriors had quit and were awaiting their destiny.

Temujin ordered his men to cease firing. With their men, Casca, Subetei, and Chagar began to climb down onto the floor of the glen. Temuge and his force came in from the rear, slicing open the throats of those wounded but not yet dead. A Mongol mercy.

To the survivors of the Kereit he gave them one chance. "There are only two choices for those who oppose me. Submit or die. I make this offer to you. Make your decision now. Bow down before me as your lord and master and live to serve me.

"I will give you your lives. But know that they no longer belong to you. They are my property.  I merely lend them back to you for a time. Now tell me what is your choice. Your master has run away, leaving you to your fate. I am your fate and your new master, and like dogs, you cannot live without one. Submit or die!"

Awkwardly, slowly, the Kereits who were still mounted left their horses to join those on the ground. They knelt upon the earth, then bowed over their knees, touching their heads to earth in Temujin's direction.

All submitted, and such was the discipline of Temujin's men that only two had to be killed for raising a complaint about sparing the Kereits.

Temujin and Casca were both content with the day's work. They had replaced their own losses, and the survivors of Ong Khan's horde had become Temujin's property. Temujin knew the next move would be to take the lands of all the Kereit of Ong Khan under his arm. He would ride there immediately, and as he had dreamed, all that had been Ong Khan's was now his.

The only bad thing about the day was the loss of Jemuga. Temuge had told him of Jemuga's desertion. Temujin did not hold that against him. Jemuga was not a coward.  He was just smart.

But at least he still would have the pleasure of looking forward to the day when they would meet again. It was always good to have an enemy who was implacable in his hatred. It kept one constantly on his toes and alert.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

To the Kereit warriors who had pledged fealty it did not seem strange to have a new master. After all, their old one was dead, and so were his sons. And as Temujin had said, "All dogs want a strong master."

He wanted to move on the homelands of the Kereit immediately but it was not yet time. As of this moment, most of his warriors were Kereits. He needed to bind them to him, and there was nothing like a small war to do that. Give them some bloodletting and some plunder and they would soon fall into line, even if it meant fighting members of their own clans and tribes.

Indeed he had a respectable-sized force at his command now. Men who were fit for the ride numbered nearly four thousand of his own and a few hundred less than six thousand of the Kereit – nearly ten thousand warriors. Many empires had begun with much less.

To all he cried out, "Rest this day. Bind your wounds, for on the morrow we ride--"

He was about to say "...to the lands of the Chin." But a signal from Casca stopped him. He therefore said only, "We go for glory and plunder. All Noyans, present yourselves to me this evening. This includes the Noyans of the Kereit. There is much for you to learn of how I do things, and this you must inform your warriors of. At sundown come to me."

There was a silence spreading over the battlefield as the warriors who only seconds before had been trying to kill each other now found that their master wished for them to leave immediately for a campaign against an unknown place and people. And each of the new factions was not yet sure of the other. The Borjigin and Merkits had shared bread and blood together. Till they proved themselves, the newcomers would be watched closely.

The wounded were treated as best as they could be by their companions. Hot irons were applied to sword cuts, thin-bladed knives used to remove arrowheads stuck deep in flesh. Many of the wounded died shortly after these tender ministrations.

Weapons and usable gear were gathered from the dead. Temujin ordered for all booty and weapons to be put into a common pile. Later, to each man in his force he would allot the same amount of gear. It was important to standardize equipment as much as possible. Each would have the same minimal number of arrows, lances, and horses, two horses to each man. The rest were put into the common herd to provide spares they rode. Only food, weapons, and robes against the cold of night were permitted. All other things were to be left behind.

There was some grumbling when among the effects of the Kereit were found items that had belonged to the Borjigin and Merkits, recently acquired when the Kereits had raided their abandoned camp.

Only those personal items were permitted to be returned to their original owners. Mostly they were of little value – amulets, some knives of poor iron, and other such trash. Temujin would not permit their possession to cause a disruption between his forces.

As for the wounded who could still ride but were not fit to fight, they were to return to his camp. There they would gather the women and children who had fled to the hills and return to the camp. Under pain of death, the wounded Kereit were not to leave for their own encampment. To insure this he also dispatched with them a force of two hundred of his Merkits to serve as guards and security.

To Ashif Khan, the father of Bortei, he sent word of his victory, sending the captured standard of Ong Khan as proof. With it came the request that he send forces to the camp of Ong Khan and there take command until the return of Temujin from his raid.

He was then to send the standard of Ong Khan on to the Reldas, khan of the Naimans. The gift of Ong Khan's horsetail standard should please him greatly, for this was the end of an open wound between them that went back many years. He was also to say that the tribes of Ong Khan were now under Temujin's banner and the enmity between the Kereits and the Naimans would soon be no more.

He, Temujin, ally of the Quonqurats and khan of the Merkits and the Borjigin, and who also commanded the survivors of the army of Ong khan, would come at the first opportunity and pay his respects to Reldas, khan of the Naimans.

Once Ashif had done these things, he was to move the tribes of the Borjigin and Merkit to the winter pastures in the south.

The Kereit tribes would be in disarray, and it would soon be too late in the season for any other tribe to mount a campaign. He would have only enough time to make one quick raid, then return before the great cold of the Gobi swept across the plains to close the land.

Temujin saw all this, and Casca watched him carefully to see how he would manage the situation and bind these different tribes together. For now he had three. His own Merkits, the Borjigin, and now the Kereits of Ong Khan. If he was able to take this force and gain plunder and slaves, many of the other smaller tribes and clans would willingly submit to him.

The dead or too badly wounded horses were butchered quickly and the meat cut into thin strips over campfires. Horsemeat would be their staple until they found plunder. Each of the nomads was to have the same portion as the other. Most would place it under their saddles to tenderize the flesh as they rode.

It was fortunate that there were more than enough dead Kereits to provide pack animals for the extra gear and weapons and still leave a sufficient number for the wounded to take back to his camp so they could move to the south. All things considered, with the exception of the escape of Jemuga, this had been a most rewarding day.

That evening there was a strange atmosphere in the campground. The piles of the dead had been gathered together and moved away from the springs. After having them buried in a mass grave, Temujin ordered them covered by the loose boulders that had killed many of them. A mass grave with over six thousand bodies under the boulders. There were other graves in the gorge at the site of the first and second engagement with Ong Khan. There another three thousand had to be disposed of.

Temujin thought about this. Masses of dead would always be a problem, and the Old Young One had told him of the many times when the dead had caused sickness to spread among healthy soldiers. The dead must always be disposed of as rapidly as possible.

That evening, before the pale gold sun of the Gobi set and the Noyans would come to him, he sat by his campfire and spoke with Casca. "Old Young One, why did you stop me from speaking this afternoon? I had much to say."

Spreading his fingers, Casca warmed his hands at the fire. Looking down at the coals, it was as if he were seeing something that was lost to the rest of the world. Shaking his head, he raised his eyes to Temujin. "I was afraid that you were going to say you were going to go into Chin."

Temujin was shocked. Why should that have bothered the Old Young One? "I was going to say that. Do you think it is wrong? It has always been where we go when we have the power."

Casca nodded his head, the red of the fire turning his weathered face a reddened bronze. "That is the problem. From what you have told me and what I know, the Empire of the Chin is now controlled by the Jurchen, who, as you said, came from these same steppes. They are like you, Mongols. To the south of them is the Sung Empire, whose members are the real Chin. But they are too far away for now.

"If you go against Chin, you go against the Jurchen, and I don't think we are ready for that now. You can put less than ten thousand in the field. They, if what you told me is correct, can mount several hundred thousand. Those are not good odds.

"Sun Tzu said, `There are some bridges not to cross, and some battles not to fight.  I think this would be one of those, for even if you were successful in a raid on a single town, do you think the Jurchen would not mount a force against you in the spring? Remember, they think and fight much as you do."

Temujin pursed his lips as he had the manner of doing when troubled or in deep thought. "What you say is true. I spoke too rapidly. But I have promised them a battle and booty. This they must have, for I have said it, therefore it must be. If we are not yet to go against the Jurchen of Chin, then we shall raid into lands of the Tatar through the wide valleys in the great Khinghan Mountains to the north and west of the Chin and attack the Tatars. From there we can take passes that would lead us swiftly to our winter pastures.

"I do have a great need for a victory to bind the wounds of my army. I must give them one. We will make a quick raid and return before the snows fall."

The Noyans came to him at the appointed time, the Kereits under the suspicious eyes of the Merkits and Borjigin. Temujin sat on a saddle. He said nothing. When they were all gathered, Subetei and Temuge gave the command to prostrate themselves before the master. There was a moment of confusion among the Kereit Noyans. They had never done this before with Ong Khan.

Subetei and Temuge each took a head from the shoulders of one of the Kereit Noyans. The rest understood. They, along with the other Noyans, prostrated themselves facedown, arms outstretched, palms down on the earth. Only Temuge, Subetei, and Casca remained standing.

He let them lie on their faces long enough for the fear to work, for sweat to gather on brows and faces as each wondered if he was going to be able to rise and still have his head. "You may stand."

He rose also, going to where the campfire was between him and the Noyans.

"It is time for you to understand what you have become part of.  I am Temujin, son of Yeshugei. But I am more than that, and so shall you too be more than you are if you serve me well. This day you lost a battle, but you may have gained an empire where each of you will be as wealthy as the greatest kings of Chin or Persia. You lost a battle, not because of your lack of courage but because of a lack of leadership."

There was a muttered grumbling of agreement from the former Noyans of Ong Khan. And the talk of wealth was always a sure way to the heart of a nomad. Temujin gave his words time to register. "As you have now one and all sworn fealty to me, I tell you this: after we finish the raid we will return to your tribes and peoples. Nothing will be taken from you. Your cattle and your horses, your women and your children are safe and will not be harmed. For they, too, are now mine. And it is a fool who damages his own property.

"From this day forth, all who face us will have the same options: resist us and die; submit and become part of us and prosper. There is no other way."

Temujin paused to take a drink of water from the Baljuna springs. Cleansing his mouth, he spat out the remainder into the coals of the fire, pleased at the hissing steam that rose from it. "As we ride, you Noyans of the Kereit will each have one of my Noyans with you. This is not to watch you but to instruct you. I have a different manner of waging war, as you well know."

At this the Kereit Noyans laughed freely. They knew they had been drawn into a trap, and they admired the one who could do it.

"See and note well these men about you, for they are tarkhan to me. Temuge, my brother; Subetei, my chief Noyan; and over here, the one with the scarred face, is Casca-Bahadur my chief adviser and counsel.

"Obey them as you would me. When an order is given, hesitate not for the beat of a heart or I will have yours torn out of your chests.

"The first thing you will do is return to your bands. There they are to be reorganized into tens, with one as leader of each ten. Then tens shall be under the command of a leader of ten tens, and they under a leader of a thousand. You Noyans of the Kereit will decide among yourselves who is to be your leaders and who will be your chief commander.

"From this moment on, no man may leave his ten or hundred or thousand on pain of death. No other tribe or band may offer one who leaves his ten shelter or food. To do so is to die. To leave your command without permission is to die.

"Think not that this is excessively harsh. Think upon it. Each man in the ten will know well the others, their strengths and their weaknesses. Each will know where he is to be at all times, and this will make them stronger, and your hundreds stronger, and the thousands stronger.

"For we will fight with one mind and one will. Each of our separate parts will be stronger. And that is what we need if we are ever going to be able to take and plunder the land of Chin from the Jurchen, or the fabled cities of Baghdad and Samarkand for our own.

"All are equal before me. The road to my favor is excellence and loyalty. Tribe or religion matters not – that is your affair. Serve well and prosper. Fail me and die."

Casca was amazed. The captured Noyans broke into a spontaneous cheering for Temujin, calling his name over and over at the tops of their lungs.

At a sign from Temujin their weapons were returned to them. With bared blades in their hands, they vowed eternal loyalty to the death.

Casca smiled bitterly, for that was exactly what it would be.

CHAPTER TWENTY

At sunrise the new army moved out of the valley and onto the plains. Once clear and they had room to move, Temujin formed up his new power. The Kereit Noyans had taken him at his word. Everything was organized, as he had said. By tens, hundreds, and thousands.

There on the plains he called another meeting of the Noyans, giving them his orders for the march: how to form in columns and lines, and how to maneuver in attack and defense. This he demonstrated by using pebbles on the earth. The first lessons were basic, simply how to keep in formation when on the march and how to form up if attacked.

The Kereits he broke up into units, placing them at point and in the center, surrounded by his Merkits and Borjigin. He was not ready to trust them completely. Not just yet. He had some time in which to gain their loyalty. At this moment they were lost, without any leader to unite them. He knew his words had brought many of the Noyans over to him. But that was a thing of the moment. The moment would pass if he was idle, and they would find a leader in their own ranks. That must not happen.

Overall training and discipline he turned over to Casca.

Every dawn before forming on the march, Casca took one man out of every hundred of the Noyans and gave them training in maneuver and tactics, discipline and obedience. Mock battles were staged in slow motion as he showed the effect of cavalry on different enemy formations. To their displeasure he also made them learn to maneuver on foot. It took only one reminder that the Merkits had broken the Kereit when their feet were on the ground.

Each of the hundreds were to return to their units and brief the commanders of tens. From them the new commands and formations went to the common warriors. Mistakes were not tolerated. There were few, and no one ever had the opportunity to err twice. Several Noyans were removed from their ranks when they just could not grasp the new ideas. Their places were taken in some cases by common warriors in whose eyes or manner Casca thought he saw intelligence and a willingness to learn.

Temujin observed closely all of Casca's actions and his new selections. He made it a point to encourage Casca to appoint young men under thirty years, as were most of his commanders in the Merkit and Borjigin, to the new positions. He spent much of his free time having the young Noyans visit with him. There they learned they could discuss things openly, present ideas and arguments.

Temujin never laughed or mocked. Everything they said he took as a matter of import, even if it was nonsense. That told him at least who could use their minds and who could not. And even these he did not replace at once. That was for Casca to do. And there are times when men who are not very intelligent but very loyal also have their use. It is good to have some who are willing to die for you with no questions and consider it an honor.

True to his word from the beginning, Temujin rewarded excellence, This appealed to the common warriors who, before this, would never have had the chance to reach positions of command. All of these actions were designed with two purposes: first, to make them loyal to him; and second, to make them more efficient in the hard days ahead. They still had many leagues to travel across deserts and plains.

The route of the march was straight across the plains and deserts of the Gobi to where the Khinghan Mountains watched over the barren plains and gave water to the thin green strips along the Rivers Shilka, Argun, and Khalkha.

It was the eighth day of the march before Temujin told his commander of his plans to go into the region of the River Khalkha and raid the Tatar camps. There were several walled cities near the borders of the Mongol and Tatar territories. It was to one of these that they would go. He knew which one, but that he did not choose to relate at that time. It was Khalkak, the strongest Tatar fort, which lay across the River Khalkha directly across from the lands of the Quonqurat. If, as he requested, Krichka had moved all to the summer pastures, the Tatars would be much more relaxed and less wary, their strong, known enemy across the river departed until the following spring.

His choice of a target pleased all. The Tatars had been the enemies of all one time or another for centuries, and usually they had the best of the fights they were in. The Mongols looked forward to the opportunity to kill and pillage in their lands. Normally it was the Tatars who raided and took what they wished, leaving widows and burned villages behind them to mark their passage.

Temujin was also pleased with the reaction of his warriors. Having a common enemy would unite them more than anything else, which was exactly what he needed at this time. From that day on, all worked and trained with a ready will. Complaints and grievances came to stop.

A three-week march brought them to where they were moving along the banks of the River Khalkha and into the Gobi Desert. The Khalkha was the line separating the Quonqurat tribes from the Tatars.

This was his most important reason for going. If he defeated the Tatars on the banks of the river, he would remove a threat from the tribe of Bortei. Her father was close to recognizing him as overlord now, and this would complete it. The old man knew it was better to arrange a marriage with a power than to fight that power.

Casca had told him repeatedly over these last... how many years was it now? Fifteen, sixteen? "Never leave an enemy behind you." Now, if he destroyed the Tatar power base, and he would, he'd have a line drawn around the perimeters of Lake Baikal. Once the last of the Kereit tribes were finally subdued, and that should come in the spring, he would have almost all of it.

To the north of the Kereits were the Naimans. Then the Khirgiz, Oirats, and Buryats. Each would fall easier than the first, for as they fell, they would add to his strength.

He would have a secure base, with no enemies for a thousand miles in any direction. To the south were the Chin and Tanguts of Hsi Hsian. To the north there was nothing but the frozen lands of the Tungus. To the west lay the Empire of the Black Khitans, which had enemies in plenty on all sides. Beyond them were the sultanates of Persia and Iraq. To the east there was little, except forest and rocky mountains till one reached the sea across which lay the islands of the Nihonji.

The physical wealth of these lands did not matter. He wanted not gold and slaves. It was power for the sake of power. His riches and wealth he gave to those who served him well. And now, this one final move and he would be the first since Attila to have the power at his disposal to accomplish that which all warriors of the steppes dreamed of. The great conquest. The founding of his own dynasty, a line with him as the fountainhead of kings that would last through the centuries. That was a true dream.

In the shadows of the Khinghans, where the white waters streamed out to be absorbed by the sands and rocks, Temujin called a halt to rest the animals.

Casca took advantage of it to hold mock battles, first in slow motion then faster and faster, having them play against each other so they would know both sides of a situation. Then at night around the campfires, he would have the Noyans question and answer their actions of the day.

After three days of rest Casca pronounced them to be ready. If not perfect, they were better than before, and they would obey without question or hesitation. It was time for them to be bloodied as warriors of Temujin and become part of his nation.

Between these incredible peaks and ranges lay wide valleys protected from the wind and snows by the wall of mountains. It was into one of these that Temujin ordered his army to advance. His scouts had brought back word that ahead lay the fortified Tatar city called Khalkak, which had perhaps fifty thousand inhabitants. It lay on the junction of trade routes that led to Hsi Hsian and to the lands of the Chin, or by taking the passes between the Tanguts and Chin, traders could reach the southern Sung.

This made it a permanent place where caravans came and went with frequency, and some even had to spend the long winter months if they arrived too late and passes were closed by the snows. It was garrisoned by uniformed warriors who had been seen patrolling on foot in and around Khalkak, and on horseback on the approaches to the city. Their exact numbers, however, were not known.

Temujin ordered his armies to halt still three days' ride from the river. They found refuge away from the caravan routes that had grazing for their horses in a wide valley, where they would be sheltered from passing eyes. Here they would wait a while, rest, and plan.

As Casca advised, "Know your enemy. Take nothing for granted." To this end, Temujin sent spies in the city. There they were to note everything. To cover their reasons for being in the city, he gave them a small herd of sixty good plains horses to trade and barter. Horse traders always know everything about who comes and goes. From them they were able to learn the strength of the city's defense. It was strong. Almost seven thousand soldiers, but only two thousand were cavalry. The rest were garrisons for the city walls.

Casca advised caution, If Temujin lost this battle, and he well could if he was not careful, those in defense behind stout walls are always stronger man for man those in the attack. Temujin could not afford a costly victory. If he only lost one for one, it would decimate the strength he had acquired at Baljuna.

When the spies returned, they met first with Casca, then with Temujin. At Casca's counsel they were sent back into the city to wait and observe. Casca wanted to know the patterns of everything: the hours at which sentries were posted and relieved; their actions while on duty; where they alert, did they sleep? He had the spies listen to the talk in the taverns where the officers drank. Wine had killed more than one man, and sometimes even cities.

As they listened to the reports, Temujin and his staff, overseen by Casca, planned. They would have to get inside the walls. A siege was out of the question. They would have to hit and take the city quickly, or allies of the Tatars might come to the aid of the besieged.

The other problem was they knew that sooner probably than later their presence would be discovered. It was difficult to keep nearly ten thousand men and their horses a secret for long.

"I think, Temujin, that I may have a way." Casca walked with Temujin in the shadows of the valley, away from the rest of the men and prying eyes and ears. "Send a caravan into the city. Let them have only the arms they would normally need for an escort. I suggest a caravan of one hundred packhorses. Fill them with the booty taken from the Kereits, but not with weapons. If they are searched, our trick will surely be discovered. Only the guards a caravan would normally employ to protect it, some twenty in number, will have arms of war-bows, lances, and the like. The rest will have only personal weapons and can buy what they wish one at a time in the bazaar. But not before they are ready to use them.

"From there they will move to the gates, the one facing the river and the other the open ground. At a signal they will attack and open the gates. Then our men will pour through and secure the parapets and strong points while most of our enemies are still in their dreams."

Temujin sucked his lips. It was not fancy, and it wasn't bad, but simple, easy to understand. The Tatars here had been secure for many years. True, there were always a few skirmishes between their bands and their neighbors, but nothing had been attempted on a large scale for over forty years. "All right, Old Young One. We will try it. But how are you going to get horses around on the river side without being seen?"

"Simple. We won't bring the horses. We will come down the river, taking cover in the night and in the water. We will attack on foot. Horses aren't going to be of much good on the parapets.

"That will be our main concern. That and preventing the Tatar warriors from being able to mount a counterattack. We will hit them while they are still in their sleep. The night and surprise will give us the advantage if we move quickly and plan carefully."

Temujin called a staff meeting. After he permitted them to rise, he told them of his plans to take the city. "As the Old Young One has suggested, we will practice the attack." To Subetei he ordered, "Prepare for me in this valley a copy of the city – its boulders and strong points, the barracks of their warriors, the stables and the marketplaces, all buildings that can serve as landmarks so our men will know their location and where to go. Use rocks and boulders to simulate these things for me. We shall  rehearse as for a play."

Rising from his saddle chair, he pointed a finger at the faces of all. "Yes, we shall rehearse for a play and let no one forget their part, for I surely shall not."

With that he dismissed them, Subetei to arrange the layout of the city, Casca and Temuge to prepare the warriors for their roles.

Casca would lead the Kereits and Temuge the Merkits. The Borjigin would be under Subetei. The Merkits and Borjigin would enter through the front gates, and Casca would take the river route.

Temujin was about to attack his first fortified city.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was the next morning before the caravan of "traders" was ready to go. From their valley to Khalkak normally took three days. But Casca told them not to enter until the fourth, to take their time. He would need time for the training of the attack forces. They would enter the gates on the afternoon of the fourth day. They would have that night and the next day to prepare.

Casca had personally selected the eighty-three tribesmen for their roles, picking the least warlike-looking. There were not too many fat men among them, so he picked those who looked the most dishonest.

There were numerous objections to having scalp locks removed and mustaches shaved. He almost had to have several executed when they found they would not be able to take their bows and swords. Wardrobe presented little problem. After a long crossing of the deserts and mountains few, if any, wore good apparel. Robes, trousers, and turbans were the norm.

As they were not prepared with an inventory of many trade items, they filled the packs with whatever personal items the tribesmen had among them: trinkets of gold and silver; pieces of amber and jade; amulets; and spearheads that had to be removed from their shafts.

Temujin ordered a firm accounting to be kept of all items and who contributed which, for there would be a reckoning after the city was taken. If anything was lost or had to be used as a bribe to the officials at the gate, its value would be added to the owner's share. It sounded more difficult than it really was, for they had ten thousand men to pick clean. The horses' packs were full.

The caravan, under its escort of twenty fully armed warriors, was sent off with much whistling and jeering. All knew that if just one made a mistake, they would all be put to death, most certainly in an exceedingly painful and unpleasant manner. Casca had repeated this to them several times, till he was certain that everyone knew the fate for failure.

Once they were gone, he put the rest of the men to work climbing the mountain sides and cutting timbers for scaling ladders. Lariats were modified to be used with grappling hooks, which were forged from the surplus weapons. And there were the rehearsals. Over and over again he and Temujin, with Subetei and Temuge observing, had the Mongols practice their movement and approach to the city.

Scaling the walls was rehearsed on the faces of some of the more convenient cliffs. Casca had to demonstrate over and over again how to climb the ropes. Three of the Mongols fell to their deaths, and eight more broke bones, which meant they would be left behind with the spare horses. It crossed the minds of those who would not be going that if all the others were killed, they would be very rich men.

They left on the second day after the caravan, moving at night. They would have only cold camps till they were through with the attack. There could be no chance of fires being spotted. Outriders were sent ahead to watch for Tatar patrols. If one was spotted, they were to go to ground, make no move to arouse suspicion, and report back to the main body as soon as possible. All contact was to be avoided.

From the beginning Temujin divided his force into two commands: the one under Casca; and his, which consisted of the Merkit and Borjigin and two thousand of the Kereits.

The scaling ladders were broken down into sections, to be reassembled the night of the attack and loaded on horses. For the rest, every other man carried with him a rope made from their lariats with which to climb the walls.

During the long nights they rode quickly, till they reached a point from a rise where they could see the walls of Khalkak thirty miles away. That was at sunset of the third day.

When night fell, Casca took his force and moved to the east, circling far around to avoid detection. Three times their outriders had seen Tatar mounted patrols. Now that they were close, the risk of detection was increased at least tenfold. Casca had to push it. He couldn't spare the horses, as he had farther to go to be in position by nightfall of the fourth. This didn't bother him. Once the horses delivered him to the staging area, they wouldn't matter much.

When they made it to a deep gully running along the banks of the river, it was five hours after sunset the night of the fourth day. They were only an hour's march on dry land to the city walls. The way they had to go in out of the banks of the river it took two. Casca was concerned that they would be late, and that Temujin would start the assault before they were in position.

Sending out scouts to the front and right flanks, he moved the Kereits out immediately. He had to admire them. After weeks in the saddle, any warrior from the west would be totally exhausted, but it didn't seem to affect these bandy-legged, flat-faced barbarians any more than an hour's outing with the ladies. They fell to with a will and followed orders to the letter. There was no talking; no one was doing anything except exactly what he was supposed to.

The defenders were as Temujin thought, very slack. When the Quonqurat pulled out, they relaxed their vigil even more. They were confident in the strength of the wall and their defenses.

The Tatars had learned some things from the time they had spent in Chin. They knew how to set up fortifications and man them. But they had lost the edge, which was something that came from years of walking up and down walls that were never attacked. Men got careless. They took turns sleeping while one watched for the officers.

Every tower and the number of men in it was known, as well as the location of the barracks and the hours at which the guards changed shifts. On the walls at night there were normally six hundred and thirty men, half of which were normally outfitted with crossbows of the Chin pattern. There were some arbalests, but they would be of little use close to the wall.

According to his spies, there were other machines for defense, but they were in bad repair. And they doubted from conversations they had overheard that the defenders were even well enough trained to handle them. Out on patrol were at least another two hundred horsemen. All of that reduced the odds considerably. But if they were not able to get inside and scale the walls rapidly, the alarm would be sounded, and it was well known that Tatar women fought nearly as hard as their men. There were still nearly fifty thousand people in the city. How many of them would come to its defense was open to conjecture.

From the north, clouds moved in patches overhead, blocking out the light of the quarter moon, harbingers of the great cold that would soon set upon the land. Casca took advantage of them to move his men close to the wall facing the river, where the gate was waiting for them.

The Kereits, as they had been instructed, spread out along the wall, grappling hooks at the ready. They were eager for this night's work. It was an opportunity for them to recover their pride. One Kereit began to cough and couldn't stop, so his younger brother strangled him with his lariat. He had just been made by Temujin a Noyan of a hundred, and it was his responsibility.

From their position close to the walls, he wouldn't be able to see the signal from Temujin. He hoped he would see the response from the Merkits inside the city walls. If not, the first he would know about it was when he heard either the sound of men dying or the gate creaked open to admit them.

Inside the walls, the "traders" had formed up into their two separate units. Weapons were hidden beneath long robes as they moved out in groups of three and four.

It would soon be the hour for morning prayer among the Moslem population. Even now, behind some of the walls, they could hear the rustling, coughing, and farting sounds that said people were rising from their slumber to face another day. They had to hurry.

The streets were bare, even of patrols. Only the scurrying of rats – and sometimes of a starved cat in hot pursuit of one –  made any sound. The only winds this night were high in the skies, moving the northern clouds overhead.

Each of the gates was manned the same: four men on permanent station by the gates to lift the bars securing the gates if they had to be opened in an emergency. Above them, in guard towers on each side, were four more men in each. Farther down on the parapets, sometimes the heads and shoulders of the guards could be seen as they walked, talked, or slept to fight off the boredom of long hours staring out at nothing.

The "traders" were pleased. All had been able to barter goods for bows of the Tatar style, which, though they hated to admit it, were superior to those of the Mongols.

Moving steady, not rushing, they spread out to cover the gates. One detachment of ten men each was to go for the gates and open them. The rest were to kill or keep the other guards from interfering until the raiders had passed through.

Earlier in the day, they had placed two of their number on a rooftop to watch for the signal from Temujin that all was in readiness. When they saw a single flaming shaft in the night sky, they would each turn and fire flaming arrows from all four directions at the edges of the city and keep firing them, setting fire to as many buildings as possible.

To the east, one of the sentries on the wall saw for a long moment a glowing streak of light through the night sky. Touching the amulet given to him by a Persian qam, he said the words to ward off the evil that lights in the sky are known to bring. That is odd, came the thought, as another burning streak of light flew over his head, landing outside the walls in the dirt. In the time it took for him to register that what he had seen were fire arrows, it was too late. A shaft from the Merkits below struck him in the base of the neck above his padded tunic.

The infiltrators hit the men guarding the gates with all they had. The sentries went down, looking like pincushions. One had to be dispatched with a knife to the throat, opening up the jugular. Before his heart ceased pumping blood into the dust, the Merkits were raising the bar and swinging, the gates open. As they did this the rest of the group went for the towers and parapets. They did not have to take the entire wall, just enough to secure the gates for the main body of Temujin's army to enter.

They did, with Temujin in the lead. He had slow-walked his men to a low place in the fields outside the city where they would be unseen from the towers and walls. He took with him only one thousand. The rest were to come after the gates were secure, or to use their grappling hooks to scramble over the walls.

The same actions were taking place on the river gate. When Casca saw the fire arrow streak overhead, he gave the order. His Kereits went into action, as they had been trained. Grappling hooks were thrown up to snag whatever they could on the wall.

Like ants, they scrambled up the walls. The sentries on watch were stunned. They tried to fight back, but the Mongols swarmed over them, mindless of their own losses.

As the first hook hit the lip of the parapet, the gates swung open. Casca and the main party surged inside over the bodies of the guards. They spread out to the right and left to attack the walls. Casca took one detachment with him. He had the job of tying down the barracks, which was only two blocks away from the wall in a lightly guarded compound.

The sentries were sleepy and bored. They heard muffled sounds and what sounded like a scream but thought nothing of it. Screams were not uncommon as some husband beat his wife or a group of late-night revelers often fought among themselves.

From the time the gate opened to when the Kereits came to the barracks was less than one minute. They swarmed over the man-high, ornate gate that served as the entrance to the barracks area.

The sentries went down, but not before one of them sounded the alert. His cry was stopped when Casca stuck the blade of his kindjal through the man's mouth and out the back of his skull, twisting the blade as he passed him to break it free of the bone.

Into the barracks streamed the Kereits. For the first time they gave war cries. They struck like demons in the dark among the sleeping or half-asleep Tatars. Eight of their own men went down from wild blows swung by their comrades.

The Tatars were completely unprepared. This was happening in every barracks. Few of the Tatars managed to reach their weapons. Of those that did in the cavalry barracks, they rushed outside after killing the Kereits who had entered the sleeping quarters. Banding together, they looked for the enemy and found them.

Four hundred Kereit archers were waiting for them in four ranks. They fired in volleys, one rank, then the other. A steady flight of arrows reduced the Tatars to a remnant of their original strength. In a matter of three minutes, the survivors, some six hundred, retreated back into their barracks, barring the door and preparing for a fight to the death.

Casca gave the order for the Mongols to pull back from the barracks. He ordered the survivors inside to lay down their arms and live. They would not be killed or tortured. This was his word. Resist and all would die.

One barracks responded to the offer by firing a flight of arrows from the windows. This Casca had torched, and as the Tatars ran outside, he had them all killed. The other barracks saw. First one, then the others, surrendered as they saw that they were not going to be immediately butchered by the Mongols. Casca had them disarmed and returned to two of the barracks and placed under heavy guard. Cooking oil for the kitchens was spread over the roofs of the barracks, and, Mongols stood by with lighted torches.

To those inside, Casca commanded, "Stay where you are. Give us no trouble and you will live. If we wanted you dead, that already would have happened. If any of you tries to escape or resist, then the barracks will all be set on fire and you will have your funeral pyre while still alive."

The balance of the Kereit force was clearing the walls as fires started up over the city. Casca took his detachment and moved to the bazaar to secure it. There was no plundering. All had been told they would receive their share, and any who took something and did not report it would lose both of his hands, if not his head.

People were beginning to stream into the streets, seeking refuge from the flames, not yet knowing their city was under attack.

When flames came too close to the bazaar, Casca had the Kereits fight them. The bazaar had to be kept intact. He reminded them that anything that burned up was in truth theirs. The Mongols worked like madmen, tearing down structures too near the bazaar and smothering out small fires to keep them from spreading. Several citizens wondered who these wild men were who fought so hard to save their city from the flames consuming it.

Temujin was making progress to the palace of the Tatar khan a white, baked-brick, three-story structure, the tallest in the city. To his men he had given much the same orders. Once they knew the city was in their hands, they had to save it. It was his, and he would not lightly destroy his own property.

Leaving behind Subetei and the two thousand Kereits he had taken from Casca's force to secure the walls and the gates, he and his Merkits and Borjigin rode straight for the palace through narrow streets beginning to fill with smoke and people. Those in his way were trampled under the hooves of their horses.

He was not interested in the civilian population at this point. Only the palace and the khan. It struck him that he did not even know the man's name. No matter... he would find him. Kill the head and the body dies quicker.

Around the palace wall was an area cleared for a distance of a block – a plaza. Temujin's warriors did not even stop their rush. They went straight on over the walls. Grappling hooks were thrown as the warriors swung out of their saddles to scramble up them, attacking the defenders on the wall.

The palace guard was more alert as they took a toll of the attackers, but not alert enough. The gates opened and Temujin was inside. He forbade the use of torches in the place. His men did the next best and killed everything that had balls or was too old to enjoy in bed. The guard of the khan died to the man –  seven hundred before the butchery stopped.

The khan was found locked behind the door to his chambers, standing with a saber in his hand, his personal guard of twenty in front of him, bared swords and shields at the ready. They were swarmed over and pulled down as the Mongols piled into the room. The guards died.

The Mongols came on them so quick that when they made a kill, there wasn't time enough to withdraw their swords and spears before five more of the savages were on them, clinging, stabbing, and ripping at them, sometimes with bare hands, in their lust to kill.

Temujin had to repeat himself three times for them not to kill the khan. He personally had to strike down two of his own men who in the battle rage heard nothing and were attacking the khan, who was ably defending himself.

The Tatar master of Khalkak moved to face his attackers. Temujin liked what he saw. The man was near his own age. Smooth face, dark eyes. His hair was cut short to the nape of the neck. Behind him were his six women, who cowered behind curtains. Temujin also admired his taste in womanly flesh.

Spotting Temujin as the leader, the Tatar faced him squarely, speaking calmly and with no trace of tremor to his voice.

"Ho, Mongol. It is good that you have come at this time. A month later and it would have been different. Before I die, I would have you know that I, Sarjan Khan, will give you good sport. Now, how is it you wish to finish the game? One at a time or as the dogs you are, sent like a pack to bring down one man?"

Temujin's men grumbled and started to move forward to cut down the insolent swine who would dare speak to their master thus. Temujin stepped them with a wave. The man had courage and had said something that tickled Temujin's interest. Why, if he had come a month later, would things have been different? Waving his men back, Temujin walked slowly forward to just outside the range of the man's sword.

He, too, spoke calmly, with no anger or rancor to his voice or words. "Lay down your weapon, Sarjan Khan."

For a long moment they looked steadily at each other. As if the man had been a longtime friend who had only been in his cups a bit too much, Temujin walked over to him and removed the sword from his hand.

"Fear not. Your women are safe, and I believe that we will have much to speak of. For now, rest. There is still fighting in the city and I have much to do."

Sarjan Khan didn't know why he had let the Mongol take his weapon from him. He was truly ready to die. It seemed as if it were the thing to do. Still, he tried to find some anger within himself. "Yes, I know the history of your people. We are not so different. You will kill and burn and loot till there is nothing left."

Temujin shook his head from side to side, as if he had to explain things to a hotheaded child. "No, Sarjan Khan, that is not what I shall do. I go now to stop the killing and put out the fires. Listen to me in this matter. I have things of much greater import to do than raze this one small city. I would speak of these things to you later."

Sarjan Khan did not trust his words completely. This was not the Mongol manner. "If what you say is true and you are going to spare the city, then I should come with you to order my men to stop fighting until we have had our `talk.' After that..." He shrugged his shoulders elegantly.

Temujin took him at his word. All that night they rode together. And Sarjan Khan ordered bands of warriors who were still resisting to cease fighting until, as Temujin had said, he and the Mongol had had their "talk."

True to Temujin's word, he saw the Mongols fighting to put out the flames. In the bazaar the tribesmen of the Kereit, under the command of a large-framed man with pale hair and a scarred face, were winning their battle to save the bazaar. The Mongol chieftain saluted him as an old friend.

Patrols of Mongols rode through the streets, ordering all to remain inside on pain of death. No one was to leave their buildings. Those who had earlier come into the streets were whipped back into whatever door was nearest. No one entered a building or took hostages from them. He saw something very strange also. Under the Mongol command were Merkits, Borjigin, and Kereits.

Somehow this Mongol with the grayish eyes had managed to band them together, and it was not just for plunder. As Temujin appeared, all of them, regardless of their tribe, saluted him wildly.

Only once did he see a Merkit gone mad with the killing fire. He dragged a woman from her house, tearing at her clothes. A twitch of the finger from Temujin and a dozen arrows from other Merkits ended his madness.

To Sarjan Khan he said, "There is nothing done that is not by my command. Nothing."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The city was secured. Contrary to their nature, the Mongols explicitly obeyed every command given them by Temujin and his Noyans. The prisoners were confined to the barracks under guard. The people were told to stay off the streets, except for two hours in the morning when they could go for food and water.

Temujin held his meetings in the court of Sarjan Khan. On this, the second day after the fall of Khalkak, Temujin had time to speak to Sarjan Khan alone. His guards were stationed outside, at the doors to the court. "We have something to speak of, Sarjan Khan. First on my mind is, what did you mean when you said that if I had come a month later, it would have been very different?"

Sarjan Khan sat down at the foot of the chair of power that was to have been his, resting his haunches on soft cushions of felt. "By that I meant that in another month those slackers your men met on the walls would have been much different. I arrived in Khalkak only two days before you. My father, who was master here, died three months earlier. It has taken me that long to travel here from the court of the Sultan Muhammad of Khorasan at Merv. It was to there that my father sent me to be educated. He much admired the sultan and felt there was much to be learned in the West. It was there that I received word of his death and returned.

"For the last years my father – may his rest be merciful – had let discipline grow slack. With the coming of his years he found more interest in things of the mind and spirit. Consequently my warriors were in the sorry state in which you encountered them.

"I think it would have taken a month to put them back into proper order. For if one is to be a warrior, he has to pay attention to his trade and art. Discipline is the first rule of success."

He eyed Temujin, looking up at the dark face of the man who had taken his heritage from him. It was exceedingly strange that he felt no rancor toward him. To sit at his feet did not seem to be a thing of shame, but somehow quite natural. "I suppose now that I will never know if I would have been a good leader or not."

Sipping good, hot green cha from Chin found in the kitchens of the palace, Temujin smacked his lips in satisfaction over its taste. It was seldom that he found time to enjoy the pleasure of his senses in anything other than war. "Do not think that, good Sarjan. If it is a warrior you wish to be, my coming may be a blessing for us both. This city of Khalkak is only the first. Already I have done the things to bind the most powerful of the tribes and nations of the steppes to me. There is only one thing left unfinished, then I shall have them all.

"If it is war you wish, come with me. Why do you think I spared your Tatars? From the first moment we laid eyes on one another I knew that we would come to this. It is our kismet that we met. When I leave here, Chagar will take command of the city. You will have no need of it. I will return to you your Tatars and see if you can make them into proper warriors, for you and they will ride with me. From this day on, you are the Noyan of all the tumens of the Tatars."

Sarjan Khan was not surprised at Temujin's words. He, too, had felt this thing the Mongol had mentioned. Now he would find out if he was a great leader and warrior. For, to speak truly, the idea of spending his life in this backwater mud-hut city of ignorant nomads and itinerant traders was not to his liking after the courts of Mery and Baghdad and all the great cities and learned men of Persia and Iraq. It was almost a sentence of death for him to return to these barren wastes of his childhood. "As you wish, Lord Temujin. But you know that I am a Muslim, and a follower of the Koran and the laws of Allah, blessed be His name."

Temujin smiled at him taking another sip of cha. "That is one thing I do not care about, Sarjan. Your gods belong to you, but do not put them above your duty to me. I am sure, Sarjan Khan, in all books of all religions there are some passages permitting you dispensation in special cases. Be assured that I am a special case. I have Christians, Buddhists, animists, Moslems, and others I cannot recall in my service. To me, all are equal. Argue your philosophy, debate who is right endlessly, but do not persecute another for his race or religion. I am the only one who may do that."

Setting aside his cup, he clapped his hands for the guards to re-enter his presence. The doors opened wide and he ordered, "Bring Casca-Bahadur to me."

The sentries bowed and hastened to obey.

"I would have you meet my chief councillor. He has been with me many years. A most strange man, as I am sure you will agree once you have had the opportunity to know him better. He is one I think you would have an interesting time with in a debate about religion. I do believe that he has views that may be completely original.

"Now, if you have offered your services to me, I accept. Therefore your first duty when Casca comes will be to cooperate with him in all things. One of your most important duties will be to assist him in the levying of soldiers from the male population."

Sarjan Khan started to say something but stopped. Temujin did not have to say more. Sarjan Khan knew from this moment on that everything he had was the property of Temujin. It was his to do with as he chose. Wisely he bowed his head and said only, "As you wish, my lord."

Temujin was pleased at how quickly the Tatar learned. And there were things he wished to learn from him also: how things were done in the courts of the sultan; the manner of their warriors; the weather and terrain; the feelings in the court; who was plotting against whom. He wanted to know it all. As Casca said, information was never wasted. And in time, who knows what value Sarjan Khan might have for him.

Casca came into the court, bowed to Temujin, and sat without being invited on one of the brightly cushioned divans clustered around the room. For this part of the world, the room wasn't bad. There were tiles arranged in geometric patterns in the Arab style, hanging plants, and some carpets from Bukhara and Samarkand. Brass decorations and ornaments of war hung from the walls. Not bad at all. Obviously the Tatar chief had some feelings for the better things in life, much unlike his half-wild kinsmen.

"Ah, Old Young One, welcome. I would have you meet a new member of our family. You saw him briefly the first night of our visit here. He is Sarjan Khan. I would have you know him better."

Casca gave a half bow from his seated position. He knew who the Tatar was already, and most of his history, at least what was known around the palace. "Did I understand, Sarjan Khan, that you have decided to join us?"

Sarjan Khan nodded. "Yes, there are some things in life which are inevitable and unbeatable. I feel that this is one of those things. I bow to my destiny."

Casca watched him carefully. He had been so long among the Mongols that he wasn't quite certain of what to do with one like Sarjan Khan, who obviously was well educated and intelligent. "Then welcome. But be prepared for a long, hard road. Temujin is not known for sitting in one place very long. I would bet that he has already made preparations to leave Khalkak. That is, as soon as he takes from it that which he wishes."

Turning to Temujin, he continued. "I have done as you ordered. The markets are open for business. The traders have been assured that all will be as before, and perhaps even better. From the warehouses of the khan I have separated out the things you wished. We are well supplied with cloth, weapons, and salt.

"For the warriors I have arranged a distribution of the tribute we extracted from the city for losing the battle. It does not come to as great a treasure as those paid by Chin, but it will suffice. It comes to sixty thousand pieces of silver and twenty thousand ounces of gold. That is all I was able to discover in the treasury.

"As you wished, the silver has already been divided among the men, with special rewards to those who showed the most valor. As for animals, we have acquired some hundreds of camels, mules, donkeys, and a goodly stock of fine-blooded horses. I presume they were those of the Tatar guard."

Temujin nodded at him, smiling. "Well done, Old Young One." Turning to Sarjan Khan, he asked, "Is there anything he missed?"

Sarjan Khan nodded. "Not much, but there is in my rooms a hiding place, where, as was the custom of my father, I keep jewels and gold for emergencies."

Temujin was well pleased that Sarjan Khan had told him this, for he already knew it. Hot tongs applied to the sensitive inner parts of the thigh and sexual organs elicit answers from the most unresponsive. One thing about palaces: nothing is truly secret. There is always one who knows. The problem is in finding him. "Very good, Sarjan Khan, thank you. They shall be put to good use.  I assure you. Now, to business! Old Young One, make ready to ride. Leave here three thousand of my men, one thousand from each tribe. I will make Chagar governor of this city in my name.

"When we leave, Sarjan Khan will be in command of the tumen of the Tatars. They, too, will join us after we make them the same offer we do to all. I think they will see the wisdom of accepting our offer. In addition, Sarjan Khan will assist you in acquiring another two thousand young men between the ages of fifteen and thirty for the civilian population.

"Next, search me out men of learning in the sciences – engineers, mathematicians, and such. It is time for our own people to start learning how to do more than eat and ride and kill. We must become a nation fit to rule, and I cannot do that by myself, even with your help. I must have men of intelligence and skill to call upon when I need them. We will not always have the advantage we did here. We must prepare for those days."

As he wished, so it was done. In three days they were ready for the march to the winter pastures and the rest of Temujin's people. Casca referred to them as Temujin's people or as Mongols, for they were fast becoming a united force, not separate, petty clans. It had taken a long time in human terms for Temujin to reach this point. But now he was truly and strongly on the path he had sought for so long.

Sarjan Khan did as he was bid and assisted Casca in all matters. He even told him how to squeeze another ten thousand in silver out of the rich of the city. It pleased him to watch the misers give up their wealth. As always, they were asked only once. Those who hesitated regretted it. The Mongols knew how to elicit answers. And refusal also meant that the men's families became the property of the Mongols. Many a daughter or young wife would find her way to the yurt of a savage tribesman and bear him sons, whom Temujin would send into battle.

The number of slaves had to be kept to a minimum, as there would be little to feed them once they reached the pasture. Each man was permitted only one slave. These came mostly from those already in the city who had been the property of others. Only those who opposed them were taken as slaves. Temujin divided most of his portion among the soldiers, keeping only the jewels and five thousand ounces of gold, as Sarjan Khan had said, for emergencies.

On the dawn of the third day they rode out. As he had forecasted, the Tatars had seen the wisdom of becoming part of his force. And with Sarjan Khan to lead them, there was little grumbling. In truth, many of them were happy to be on the move again. The life of a city dweller was not for a nomad. The open lands were in their blood, and their fathers' fathers had been sired in the same wild lands that had bred the Mongol. They were, if not brothers, then at least first cousins.

Casca, Temujin, and Sarjan Khan stood mounted outside the gates of Khalkak as the array passed by. Temujin had never looked better. The years had been kind to him. He was healthy and fit for his thirty-five – or was it thirty-six – years. Casca didn't know for certain.

Even though he had acquired wealth, he kept his personal dress simple, though it was always the best to be had. Now, instead of robes of half-cured goat hide, he had the soft, rich furs of the northern weasel draped around his shoulders to keep out the winds. For a helmet he wore a simple steel-spiked, bowl-shaped helm with a neck guard of chain mail. His weapons were much the same – simple but of the best quality.

As the army passed by, Casca could tell that Temujin was becoming one of the great ones. At least that is what history would call him, as it had Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. The families of the thousands who would die to gain him that title might have a different name for him. Casca knew that he had been especially merciful to Khalkak. That would not always be the case. There was still a wildness in him that no amount of talking to could take out of him. He was a Mongol, and a Mongol he would die, though surely he was one of the most exceptional men that the world, for good or evil, would ever see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

That was the true beginning. As he forecast, the Quonqurat came to him, adding their strength to his. He gathered to him all the poor clans and families of tribes of no import and in the gathering made both them and him stronger. The outcasts of Chin, India, and the West who had no tribe became part of his, each adding his portion to the power of Temujin.

Those who came thinking they would only pay service with their lips soon paid with their heads. After several more battles Ong Khan finally fell. He had lost the faith of his own people, and as Temujin had said, this took place in the spring of the following year.

Casca saw the old man surrounded by his dead, knowing that all which was his was now gone – his tribes, retainers, wives, and daughters were now the property of Temujin. Ong Khan, mounted on his horse, stood still, head downcast. He had lost. The deaths of his warriors meant nothing compared to the loss of his pride.

Temujin had beaten him. He knew now that the prophecies were true. He should have just handed over his tribe and pledged fealty to the young man, and all this would have been avoided and he'd still be a great man.

The cries of his wounded being put to the sword did not penetrate to the depths of his own personal sorrow and grief. Only when his two sons, Jirchi and Barlas, were dragged before him did his eyes raise from the bloodied and stinking earth. Temujin stood with them.

Around them were the brothers of Temujin, Temuge and the scar-faced Old One. He had always meant to ask Temujin why he called him that. For assuredly Casca-bahadur was younger in years than he. Now he knew he would never have the time to ask the question – not that it mattered anymore.

It was a sickness of the spirit to know that he had been used, and used badly. Jemuga had poisoned the hearts of his sons, and they had passed the disease on to him. Now they would all pay. All save Jemuga. And that was another question to which he would never know the answer. Would Temujin finally have his revenge on him? He hoped so.

All of his warriors had been disarmed and were being bound by the victors, who had by Temujin's command treated them gently enough. Only the badly wounded were put to the sword. Temujin would need replacements for the men he'd lost. But first he would have to make an example for the captives so they would believe him.

"Greetings, Ong Khan, This has been a long day for the both of us. If you will dismount, please – we still have a few things to take care of before we all can rest."

Ong Khan summoned up the last of his pride and strength, dismounted with grace, and stood erect, facing his captor squarely. "Yes, it has been a long day, Temujin, though there have been longer. But before we finish this thing, tell me truly: Did you plot to take that which was mine?"

Temujin moved closer to the old Mongol khan. "Ong Khan, I have always planned to take all of the tribes of the steppes under my standard. Yours was no different. Sooner or later you would have had to submit to me as your liege or be destroyed. There were, and are, no other options for anyone who opposes me.

"But know this: I bear you no personal ill will. All that I do is necessary. I do nothing out of hate. I can understand why you came against me, and if the situation had been reversed, I would have done the same."

Turning away from Ong Khan, he gave a command to Temuge, who relayed it to their Noyans. All the captives were made to turn and face Temujin, Ong Khan, and his sons. "Because I respect you, Ong Khan, and you did show honor to me in the past, I shall make this quick but no less certain. I shall at least spare you the sight of your sons dying."

With that he struck, driving his sword deep into the belly of the older man, twisting the blade up to where it would cut open the pumping muscle of his heart. Ong Khan died near the shores of Lake Baikal, and Temujin, true to his word, made certain that Ong Khan would not live to see his sons die. Jirchi and Barlas followed him in the next few seconds.

He had them beheaded, for they were the instigators of this day's events. He had to give their due. They died well enough – with pride, extending their necks with dignity to await the blows from the headsman's ax. If they had not listened to Jemuga, he might have had a chance to bring Ong Khan into his fold without blood being spilled. But what was done was done, and kismet is ever at the head of and at the end of life's trail.

After Ong Khan fell, Temujin rolled over the other tribes. One by one they came to him, either in battle or by their desire to be part of his nation. The Oirats and Buryats had to be subdued.

Temujin next struck into Hsi Hsian against the Tanguts, then he crossed into the Chin against the Jurchen. All the time he gathered peoples to him. Those that would not come to him voluntarily were destroyed, for Temujin, true as ever to his word, offered only that to resist was to die, to submit to prosper.

Sarjan Khan gathered to his standards many of the Tatar tribes, extending the boundaries of Temujin's power to the west where he was now on the borders of the Empire of the Black Khitans.

His sons grew into manhood. Tashi, the eldest, he made master of the hunt, which was a post of high esteem. To Chagatai, the next eldest, fell the administration of the laws, and the Yasa was written. Ogedei he chose for administering the growing kingdom, and to Toli, who always had the taste for battle in his mouth, went the command of the organization of the troops and their equipment.

Among his sons he divided the tribes and armies. They would command these as well as perform their other duties. He built his foundation from the bottom to the top, never forgetting that the wild warriors who rode the steppes without the knowledge of book or bath were the true source of his power.

Casca saw it all and wondered if he had done right. Or would it have made any difference? The wild blood of Temujin was not to be denied, at least not very often. There were times when Casca was able to convince him to show mercy to any city or tribe who resisted, but it was not very often. Still, perhaps that in itself was better than nothing, for he knew that Temujin would have reached this point without him. It might have taken a bit longer, but that was all.

It was hard for him to recall all the names of all the tribes and peoples that came under his standard. They were legion, and all were treated equally; that is to say, not overly gently. But one could ride across his lands with bags of gold and no guard, for such was the power of the Yasa, and the punishments for breaking his laws were always kept to the letter.

Stations were established, running the length and breadth of his kingdom, where fresh riders and horses were always kept. Travelers could resupply themselves there at costs determined by the law. To steal was to die. To rob was to die. And in the beginning, the dead were as cordwood stacked along the trails to testify to the law. The wise learned and the ignorant perished.

It was in the time after Temujin had absorbed the rest of the Kereits and the Oirats that the shaman Kokchu, whom some called Teb-Tengri, meaning "most heavenly," which he certainly was not, came onto the scene. Casca and Temuge disliked him from the first. But Temujin welcomed him, for he had been one of the qams who read the signs on the night of his birth and had forecasted his rise to glory.

Temujin began to listen to him about too many things. The shaman would read the stars and the burned, cracked bones of sheep, and always he told Temujin that which he wished to hear and not the truth as it really was. The only thing he did that Casca agreed with was to say that soon Temujin would become the Ghengiz Khan. Universal, oceanic, the khan of all khans.

Teb-Tengri had other problems. He was inordinately fond of wine. To this end, Temuga and Casca decided at first opportunity to end the influence of this half-crazed alcoholic holy man, who had a tendency to fondle either young girls or boys, whichever happened to be around at the moment.

It was during a banquet when Teb-Tengri began to provoke Temuga. Of course, he used terms and frames of reference that could have been interpreted several ways. In this manner, if Temujin called him to account, he could say that he was misunderstood. At any rate, he and Temuge came to blows, and Temujin ordered them both out of the banquet. Once outside, Casca grabbed Teb-Tengri and quickly and efficiently snapped his spine. He could not permit a mad shaman to influence one such as Temujin.

Temujin was furious, but who was he to punish? The Old Young One? Unthinkable – and he wasn't certain he could. His own brother, who had never been anything but loyal and willing to give all to him? Impossible. It was therefore best just to forget the whole matter.

As Temuge had said, "The shaman started it, and being the brother of Temujin, I finished it." Casca said nothing, feeling it was wiser to let Temuge handle things. At any rate, Teb-Tengri went to his ancestors, whatever kind of slimy creatures they were, leaving behind him a title for Temujin. Perhaps he was a great shaman and able to forecast the future. But if that was the case, then he missed reading about his death.

In the spring of A.D. 1206 at Qura-Qurom, a great quraltai, a gathering of the tribes of the steppes, was held. There Temujin was proclaimed the Ghengiz Khan. Casca stood at his left side and Temuge to his right as he ascended to what was to be the first throne of the Mongol Empire.

And the different tribes no longer said they were Kereits or Oirats, Tatars or Uighars. They were the Mongols. A nation.

Casca looked upon Temujin, remembering him as the thin, half-starved boy who had freed him from his chains, then thought of what he was now: the master of a great nation. In just a few years he had begun to change his people into more than what they were, as he had promised years ago.

But for Casca he knew the wars were just beginning. Soon Temujin, the Ghengiz Khan, would move to the west and on to Persia, Arabia, and Iraq. And he was weary of the killing. It was not that the Mongols were any worse or better than the more civilized peoples behind the wall.

He, for instance, remembered that one case centuries earlier when the Chin has massacred the army of Chao. Nearly four hundred thousand captive warriors were put to the sword. A fine and sensitive culture does not always breed the best in man.

He had seen it too many times: Scratch the thin veneer of what man called culture or civilization and in most cases you would find a barbarian waiting to be set free.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Ghengiz Khan was ready to move to the west. The Sultan of Khorasan had destroyed the Black Khitans, saving him the trouble of doing it, and by doing it, the sultan had unwittingly removed the only buffer between his empire and that of the Mongols.

All of his internal enemies had been disposed of at last. It had taken some time, but as the Old Young One said, "Never leave an enemy behind you." Now that he was secure, he would turn his attention to Muhammad Sultan of Khotan and to vassal Inalchuq, the governor of Otrar, who was kinsman to Terken. Khatun, the sultan's mother, and called himself Ghayir Khan, the mighty khan. The sultan and Inalchuq had killed his emissaries. That would be avenged, they would pay for their crimes, and according to the Yasa, the punishment was death.

"Bring me the Old Young One," he commanded Qubulai, who as always was in attendance of his master's words. "After I have finished with him, bring to me my son, emirs and Noyans. For we have much to prepare for. This mighty khan and his master, the sultan, have at their disposal a well-trained force. But it will not be sufficient to resist us, and the streets of Otrar will run with blood for the insult they have given us. They force this war upon us, and there can be no road but that of justice and vengeance.

"All must believe in the laws of the Mongols, without which all we wrought will be as sand between a drunkard's fingers, and our enemies will come upon us, and our families as desert jackals, feeding on the bodies of those better than they!"

The Ghengiz paused in speech. He liked the sounds of the words. The Old Young One had taught him that also: that all power and wealth begins with the ability to communicate, to make your needs and orders known and clear, to convince by words and save the sword. Both to destroy and to make well was in the power of the word, but when that failed there was always the sword and the torch. "Once you have picked up the sword, never put it down while your enemy lives or refuses to submit."

"As you command, my lord."

Qubulai lowered his graying head, the two long braids hanging and swinging over his shoulders as he paid obeisance and turned to stride from the tent with the rolling gait of a horseman.

Qubulai found Casca inside his yurt, squatting cross-legged on a carpet of soft hides of weasel and fox. At first Qubulai thought he might have been indulging in that strange practice of the magi, called meditating. But no, he was just bent over, gnawing on a particularly tough but tasty portion of roasted camel haunch.

"Welcome and be seated, Qubulai. Would you care for a piece of this unfortunate beast, which most assuredly died of meanness to be so tough?"

Qubulai smiled, showing the gap in his teeth where three front teeth had been knocked out by a morning star swung at him by a Turkoman eight years before. He liked the Old Young One but was not comfortable around him. He had known him now for many years, and he had never changed. At least not to one who watched him closely as he had. The Old Young One had let his hair grow long to his shoulders, and a beard covered much of his face, leaving only those strange eyes that reminded him of the master's. Perhaps the Old Young One was older than even he thought might be possible, Qubulai thought.

As it was easier than searching for answers, he shook the uneasy questions about Casca out of his mind. He was a good warrior and over the years had advised the master well and never asked anything for himself. He could have been the lord of a great domain. This Qubulai knew for certain, for he had heard the master offer him such more than once. Each time this Old Young One called Casca would just shake his hairy head and reject the offer.

This simple yurt, of a cherig with his few personal retainers were all it appeared he wished for and would have had even less if the master had not insisted that he maintain at least a minimally proper image for one in command and in favor. "The master wishes for you to come to him, Casca-bahadur."

Tossing the half-gnawed haunch of recalcitrant camel into a corner, Casca wiped his fingers in his beard to cleanse them of the grease and rose to his feet, groaning. "Just as well. I think the camel was going to win the fight, anyway. He was just too strong for me."

Gathering his weapons to him, he belted on his sword and dagger and followed after Qubulai to the baragah of the Great Khan Ghengiz. As they left, two of his household guards waiting outside fell in behind them as they made their way through the encampment, passing by the fires that provided warmth for the sixty thousand warriors from a dozen tribes. One was the personal guard, which attended the master on his travels.

He was hailed a few times by those who had fought at his side from time to time, with comradely calls of "Come sit and tell us of your travels, Casca-bahadur." "Take wine with us, Old Young One," another would call.

But to all Casca only replied, "I have to attend the master.”

And that was enough. For none would dare to even dream of interfering with obeying the commands of the master of the Mongols.

Around the baragah of Ghengiz, the kebeul, his night guard, had just taken up their positions. A hundred chosen warriors stood guard around the tent. Bared weapons glinted in their hands. Their commander, a Noyan of one thousand, greeted Casca and Qubulai with a sweep of his blade as he stood under the standard of the Khan of Khans. The yak tails swung limply in responding without care to the evening breeze.

Casca's two-man escort stopped outside the outer perimeter of the night guards. To go one step farther was to die. Going on ahead to the entrance of the baragah, Casca did not leave his weapons, and neither was he searched. He, as was Qubulai, was tarkhan, one of the privileged.

Lowering his head, he entered the huge tent, which was large enough for a hundred men to stand in ranks without discomfort. There was no majordomo to announce his entry, replete with titles and honors, of which he had many.

The Mongols had little time for courtly ceremonies and kept things as basic as possible. The furnishings were spare but rich. Now, when Ghengiz had the wealth of a dozen nations to call his own, he still dressed much the same as his guards. Plainly but rich, nothing but the best, as always.

His surcoat was of silk of Chin, embroidered with designs of gold dragons and lions rampant upon a field of blue. Beneath this, he wore a simple wool tunic of pure white, tucked into trousers that had seen better days. Casca smiled as he saw the knee of one had a patch on it. But they were comfortable. These and red boots of the finest leather of Samarkand and the master was as he always was.

He was not interested in the trappings of wealth for himself. Only power and the influence that wealth could give him was of any import. His lowest house guard normally wore more costly robes than he, except on the occasions of state when the master received the kings and nobles of other nations.

He was alone. A bared yatagah and curved, laminated Tatar bow lay close at hand. Other than those two weapons, he was unprotected. But Ghengiz had been a warrior before he was the master. The sword near his hand would still cut deep and certain.

Lowering his head a fraction to acknowledge the entrance of Casca and Qubulai, with a slight movement of his fingers he signaled for Qubulai to leave them alone.

Qubulai would now send messengers to the other khans and sons of Ghengiz that they would be ready when he finished with the Old One. The great khan bid Casca to sit, motioning him close. His voice was as dry as sun-whipped salt grass, but behind the dryness there was a touch of humor. Casca set aside his sword to be more comfortable and sat cross-legged by Ghengiz Khan.

The baragah was lit on by the flickering flames of lamps fueled by yak butter. He could have had perfumed oils from Persia, but Ghengiz liked the smell. The aroma of rancid yak butter always reminded him of his youth and the days of poverty. It was good to keep those things that kept life in perspective close to hand in case one forgot his reality and became lost, or drugged by riches.

Ghengiz, half closing his pale eyes as though a dream had fleetingly washed over him, departed to ride the evening winds. "We march again in the morning." He opened his eyes to lock them on the gray-blue ones of his guest, friend, and mentor.

Casca nodded his head wearily. "Yes, I know. This time to the city of Otrar and the lands of Sultan Muhammad."

The Ghengiz nodded his head slowly up and down. A smile touched the corner of his thin lips, set in a face blown into leather by the winds of the desert and mountains. "Yes, Old Young One, to Otrar and beyond. You have always been able to read my plans in advance, ofttimes even before I knew of them myself." He poured cha from a battered brass pot, dropping a lump of the rancid yak butter into the steaming brew.

"Yes, but then you should be able to, for it was you who set me upon my path. You were my first friend. Perhaps even now you are my only true friend. Oh, to be certain, I have those who would gladly die at my command to honor me. But that is not a friend. And I am not certain that you would die for me, or even that you could. You and I are what destiny has made of us."

He passed the thin, lacquered cup held between the fingertips of both hands to his guest, as a sign of honor. Casca bowed his head, accepting the brew. The Master of the World sipped with relish at the cha, smacking his lips in appreciation over its taste. Casca did likewise, though in truth he could hardly stand the taste of the scummy-looking brew. He waited for Ghengiz to continue.

Setting the cup aside, Ghengiz leaned closer to him, as if he did not wish the winds outside his baragah to hear his words. "I fear that you will not be long with me, my friend. There is something about you that tells me that you are going to leave my side very soon. Is this true?"

The words were spoken but not as threats, for Ghengiz knew this was perhaps the only man he had ever met he could not, and truly would not, threaten. The words were said only as a matter of concern.

Casca leaned forward, rocking on his haunches. "Yes, I, too, have felt that it is time for me to go on. I have been with you these many years, Temujin, and it is best if I continue my travels, for I weary of the slaughter. It serves me not,"

The Master of the World smiled gently at Casca's use of his boyhood name. Temujin the ironworker – for when he had made blades and stirrups at the forge of his uncle. A childhood name. Now he wore the one which, in truth, Casca, not Teb-Tengri, had given him the right to bear. Ghengiz Khan, Oceanic Khan, Universal Khan, Khan of all Khans, the Master.

Ghengiz sipped at his cup, continuing with, "That is what I thought. The qams have read this to me from the signs in the heavens. You will go, but it may be that we shall meet again. That was not clear. For the sake of our long friendship, may I ask of you one more thing, Casca-bahadur?"

Grinning, Casca responded, "You may always ask, my lord."

Ghengiz grinned as well, for he had never been able to give Casca an order, except those that he knew he would obey. "Will you stay at my side in the battle against Sultan Muhammad? It is not a great thing, but I would like for us to campaign together one last time before you depart from my eyes. Also, I have learned that the biruni, auxiliary arm of the sultan, is commanded by one who calls him Kok Khan. Kok Khan is Jemuga. Perhaps this time we can end the game once and for all."

Slowly Casca shook his head from side to side. "No, I think it is best if I leave this night. I have no desire to see more dead people or burned cities. And when you kill Jemuga, what will you do? You wanted him the way most men would lust after gold or women. Once he is gone, you will have lost much of your reasons to continue.

"Your trail is firm. Your brothers and sons are loyal and capable. You don't truly need me anymore. You have gone far beyond what I was able to teach you. Now you are the master and I the student. But most of all, Temujin, you know that the killing is not to my liking, even when necessary."

Nodding his head very slowly, Ghengiz, picked his words carefully. "Yes, I know. But we are a barbaric people, a hard people who have lived like animals for centuries. To change will take time, more time than I will have under these skies. But my sons, and their sons, will continue the work we have begun.

"For remember, it was you who taught me the conduct of war, the tactics and strategies. I have only adapted them to suit my people. And we have one thing now that was not there before. We have the book of laws. The Yasa.

"As you say, there has been much killing but that, too, is part of us. I do not deny that sometimes in moments of pique I have lost my temper and acted overly harsh to some. But then, I am only an ignorant and savage Mongol, am I not?"

Casca thought that perhaps Ghengiz had taken his teaching to the extreme. But the Mongol khan was a man of honor who respected loyalty and courage above all else. He had sometimes pardoned and ennobled those who had fought against him with honor. For he believed that one who has resisted you with courage and not broken his vows, then comes to you honestly, has greater value than those born to you who have no honor.

And he did reward and promote equally among the subject peoples. Only ability was the criteria. Tatar, Persian, or Black Khitan – all could achieve wealth and power. Christians, Moslems – or idolaters, as they called followers of Buddha. Serve him well and prosper. Resist and perish.

They spent a few more minutes together. Then, with a sigh of reluctance, Ghengiz asked Casca to excuse him, for he had to meet with his commanders and prepare for the morrow. "As you have chosen not to go with us, there is no need for you to tire yourself with this meeting."

He rose, escorting Casca to the entrance of the tent. "Leave now, Casca-bahadur. But remember this: you have been my true friend these many years. All that I have achieved and won upon the path of my destiny has come from your words and, I think, perhaps even love. If ever there is anything that you wish or need while in the domains of the Mongol, it shall be yours.

"You know that all I have is yours. Even before the seed of my own loins, my own sons. I would make you a king of any land you wished. Gold and slaves, power and glory can all be yours if you will but nod your head, not as a subject but as a friend. No more than that. Anything you want you have but to ask.

"That, too, is my word and my law. Before this night is done, a yarligh with the al-tamgha, the vermilion seal of my house, shall be sent to all corners of the empire carrying that message. None in my lands may do you ill, Old Young One."

Casca bowed his head at his friend's words, then for the first time in private, he performed a kowtow. Not as an act of subservience but as one of respect, for he knew that Ghengiz was greater than he could ever be, even with all his years behind him. He backed his way out of the presence of the master and into the dark.

Qubulai was waiting with those Ghengiz had summoned to him. For a second he thought he saw a strange thing on the scarred face of the Old One – a drip of crystal at the corner of one eye. But no! That could not be. Warriors do not cry.

Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 25 Halls of Montezuma

Casca returns to the United States to escape from British justice, and becomes involved in saving a family of Irish immigrants from the clutches of an evil brothel owner. Hunted by the Brotherhood as well as the criminal’s associates, Casca opts for the safety of the American army just as war with Mexico breaks out.  And Case Lonnergan – as Casca calls himself – soon finds he is fighting in a war where every attack is directed against well defended positions.  Teaming up with a unit of Marines, Case becomes part of the birth of a legend, and in front of the forbidding Chapultepec Castle he leads them in a suicidal head-on assault!

For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net

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