The Mongoliad Book Three

?gedei leaned against the railing of the narrow platform, and stared thickly at the Darkhat host as if he could not account for their sudden appearance in his camp. Just as he seemed about to lose interest in their presence, one of the Darkhat shot to his feet and raised both arms in salute to the Khagan.

 

“Hail, ?gedei Khagan,” he said. “I, Ghaltai, welcome you to the lands of your father.”

 

“Hail, Ghaltai, faithful and eternal servant of my father’s legacy,” ?gedei replied. He waved an arm to encompass the other Darkhat. “Hail, faithful servants.”

 

Ghaltai was not a tall man, but he was stocky, with thick weather-beaten skin. His eyes were thin, almond-shaped slits in his face. “What brings you to these lands, O Khagan, with so mighty a retinue?” he asked.

 

“A pilgrimage,” ?gedei replied. “We will need your guides to take us through the mountain passes.”

 

“That we can gladly provide,” said Ghaltai with a bow.

 

“Oh, yes,” ?gedei said as if the idea had just occurred to him. “My father’s grave. I wish to see it.” His gaze roamed over the assembled Torguud until he spotted Munokhoi. “The caravan will continue without me,” he instructed. “I will catch up with it by nightfall.”

 

“My Khan—” Munokhoi began.

 

“You have your orders, Captain.”

 

?gedei shuddered slightly, surprised by the voice at his elbow.

 

Chucai stood a respectful distance behind the Khagan, but with his height, he still seemed to tower over the slumped figure of the Khagan. “Your task is to ensure the safety of the caravan,” he explained. “Namkhai and a few others will accompany the Khagan. As will I.” He inclined his head toward ?gedei. “With your leave, of course, Khagan. I too would like to pay my respects to your father, my late friend.”

 

“Of course,” said ?gedei thickly, a grimace twisting his mouth into an ugly sneer.

 

 

 

 

 

The windswept plain between the Kherlen and Bruchi Rivers was filled with wild grasses. Closer to the rivers, ash and cedar trees grew, leaning toward the flowing water. A rounded boulder, taller than a man seated on a horse, lay in the center of the plain. It was such an anomaly in the landscape that Chucai’s gaze was drawn to the distant crag of Burqan-qaldun, and he wondered how far the massive rock had traveled to end up in this field.

 

The stone was the only marker of Genghis Khan’s interment. There were no pavilions of gold and silver, no field of banners, no sculptures or monuments. Just the rock, in an untouched plain of wild grass, at the confluence of the Kherlen and Bruchi Rivers. As Genghis had wished.

 

Chucai, Ghaltai, and the rest of the honor guard remained at a respectful distance as ?gedei dismounted and approached the boulder. The Khagan sank to his knees, head bowed in prayer.

 

Before he had become Genghis Khan, ?gedei’s father was a simple man named Temujin. When he was nine, he was promised to Borte—daughter of Dei-sechen, of the Onggirat tribe—and he eventually married her six years later. Their marriage was interrupted by Merkit raiders who had never forgiven a theft by Temujin’s father. He had stolen Hoelun, a woman intended for their clan leader, and the Merkits saw the theft of Borte as due compensation for their loss. They also intended to kill Temujin, but after three days of searching for him among the woods and bogs surrounding Burqan-qaldun, they gave up. Temujin, as the stories went, stood in this valley and swore in the presence of Burqan-qaldun, the great mountain that had kept him safe, that he would rescue Borte.

 

Not only did he rescue his wife, but with the assistance of friendly clans he defeated the Merkits, beginning what was to become the unification of all the Mongol peoples under his rule.

 

The empire started here, Chucai reflected. One man. One promise. He shivered slightly, dismissing the chill as nothing more than an icy gust of wind finding its way inside the collar of his jacket. He recalled the vision thrust upon him in the wake of the Chinese attack on the caravan: the endless herd of wild horses, their manes flowing like clouds—the never-ending empire. Born out of Temujin’s love for Borte.

 

“Your tribe has dwelled in these lands for some time, have they not?” Chucai asked Ghaltai, pushing aside these idle, and yet troubling, thoughts.

 

“For many generations,” the Darkhat rider replied.

 

“After Temujin became Genghis Khan, he came back to Burqan-qaldun,” Chucai said. “What did he find here?”

 

Ghaltai made a show of looking around the wide plain, and then shrugged. “Open sky.”

 

Chucai gave him the look that normally withered visiting dignitaries who presumed to be important enough to warrant disturbing the Khan. Ghaltai, nonplussed, met his gaze.

 

“Tell me about the banner,” Chucai said. And when Ghaltai pretended to not understand, Chucai leaned toward the Darkhat and lowered his voice. “It was old when Genghis raised it as the standard for the empire, and it is older now. It should be a dead piece of wood, but why does it thrust forth new growth?”

 

Ghaltai’s weather-beaten face paled. “I—I do not know of what you speak,” he said.

 

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