Mongol! Page 2

  "I see the boy galloping," he said, "ever galloping like the wind and to places where only the wind has been. He wears rich garb and rides fine horses and is followed by many men, and behind him is a red river. And he has wives —"

  And here is where the vision became far too much for my father — and for me, too. For the old shaman, frowning, said then that he saw me with wives of many colors — even white! Now... how many colors of people are there? And where on earth were there people, I wondered, who were white?

  I had heard it said that the Khitais ruled by their Golden Emperor in Peking were rather gold in color, their skins being far more yellow than ours. I knew that the princeling Temujin, who became Genghis Khan, had strange, green-gray eyes and reddish hair. (He is of the Borte-chino, the blue-gray wolf people, as is his first wife, whose name is Borte: gray, for the eyes of her clan.) And once an old man told me that across the mountains to the southwest (but who could cross them?), were people who were brown of skin and large of nose, and worship, as we do, one God, whose name is Allah.

  But — people with white skin?

  My father laughed, and the shaman was angered and that winter my father's joint-stiffness began, so that he was sure it was revenge. Perhaps the shaman sent it upon him. Perhaps it was sent down by Tengri Himself, to punish the man who had laughed at His chosen one.

  I did not laugh. I was a dreamer, fascinated, and I thought much, staring out across the steppes and trying to see the future. In summer, when the grass waved tall and golden and then yellow and then brown, and a man strips off his hides and sweats even without a shirt. In winter, when children run and slide on the ice that must be broken daily for the animals to drink the icy water beneath, and when a man's piss freezes as soon as it strikes the ground and he durst not lick his lips. I stared out over the steppes, and I thought about what the shaman had told my father, and I dreamed.

  I was strong, and proficient with arms. Perhaps, I mused, I would be a great warrior, and the red river behind me was of blood. (The son of a smith, my father sneered, and I would skip away from his rheumy swipe at my head and remind him of the great — and young — leader Temujin, whose name means ironworker: blacksmith!) I was the best rider among the Besut, because I imagined myself part of the horse and am very strong of thigh and calf and guided my mount without need of reins. And I have always loved to gallop.

  Many wives, I thought, of many colors. Many wives... more than nine...

  Those things I thought of as I fled, a tribe-less fugitive, from the Kha-khan. My only possessions were my sword and my bow. I had not even arrows, for they had given me but two and I had sunk one in that white-nosed horse and covered my retreat with the other. I had the horse I rode, of course — a good animal with a magnificent black tail. But he was not even mine. Or, rather, I had stolen him, as I had stolen my life, from Genghis Khan.

  Cold, hungry, glancing ever back over my shoulder, I fled on through the larch and the pine, and I thought and dreamed — and laughed at myself.

  Many wives, of many colors...

  A fine Mongol girl of the steppes, perhaps a Nayman or one of those beautiful Onggirat girls, flat and broad of face and with cheekbones that gleam, so tight do they stretch the skin, with eyes of the eagle and breasts like pillows for my head and to feed my children and strong arms — for of what use is a thin wife? And a Khitan wife, with glossy blue-black hair and button nose and golden tits. (What color, I wondered, were the nipples of the women of Peking and Liao-yang? I thought they must be orange, for I was a fool.) And a... what were they called, those worshipers of Allah? Oh: Sart! A fine Sart wife, brown, with a great hooked nose (ugh!) and odd, straight-set eyes and... whatever else the Sart women had. And... but then I laughed.

  A white wife? Why, I thought, if there were such under Tengri they must have yellow perhaps blue hair, and pale eyes, and their nipples would be... pink! I laughed — and then hushed, glancing back. But they were not following. My belly rumbled.

  A day later my belly still rumbled, and I laughed no more. I thought of the man I fled: Genghis Khan.

  It is said that he was born clutching a clot of blood, and the shamans said that it was the world he would clutch in his fist. It is said that it was foretold to his mother that he would ride further than any man had ridden, and that knees would bend to him everywhere. It is said that she had a dream, once, in which she saw her son standing with his arms outstretched, and they touched the horizons. It was said that he had eyes of fire at birth, and that a strange light shone from his face.

  Such things are frequently said by proud parents. If their son amounts to nothing, the portents are forgotten.

  If he achieves much, or even a little, the predictions are oft-repeated. They seem to increase and to grow, too, like rolling hills growing up into mountains that caress the home of Tengri.

  I had seen him. The light on his face was a strange pallor, for he is a strangely pale man (but not white!). His beard was full (like a Khitan or a Kereit, not a Mongol), and he seemed tall. And certainly he was a big man.

  But — naturally he seemed tall, to me.

  He had destroyed my clan, destroyed my tribe, destroyed my life.

  I thought, slumping in the saddle, of how he had accomplished it. My horse plodded on.

  His men had attacked yelling and screaming and clashing their cymbals and loosing arrows at the gallop, and never had I seen such insane dodging about. Then they had retreated, and we had cheered and rushed after them. Into their trap. And there were no more Besuts, and no more Taychihut.

  I was a man without family, without wife or father or relatives or even... tribe. No wagons, by which a man's wealth is measured. Not even one.

  That thought sliced through me like the winter wind, and I reined in beside a tall, straight tree, and I leaned my head against it a moment.

  "I am to gallop, like the wind, and see lands that only the winds have seen? I? Am I to flee all my life, then? I am to wear rich clothes — I who have two rips in my blood-stained yak-skins? I am to have many wives, am I? And many men? O Tengri! O Great Spirit of the Great Blue Heavens, when? How? Why does your servant Jirgetai ride alone and cold and hungry and sad through these dark woods? Why was it thus for me, while you have chosen to give to Temujin a grand title and wives and many followers? I have not even a clan, while to him flock strong fighting men as numerous as —"

  I ceased my childish lamentation, and gripped the mane of my pony as I gazed with huge eyes, at nothing.

  And I turned that black-tailed horse. I nudged him, just in front of his flank, with my heel.

  "Go home, horse," I grunted, as he started forward (with what seemed joy in his step). "Carry me to your master, horse. If he slays me, why, what have I to lose? And if not — surely it is he who will lead men where only the wind has been!"

  And so I, who loved to gallop, came galloping across the steppes and along the river. Bedraggled, ragged of garb, my belly kissing my backbone, I came galloping to that great field of black wagons and white tents that stretched for miles. A man hailed me, and then stepped aside, frowning, for I did not slow. But I released the reins and held my hands high, so that he did not put an arrow in my back. I was forced to slow, wending my way among the tents and the wagons — more than I had ever seen or dreamed might exist. And children, and women. My horse was panting when I approached the hugest of the tents with its standards planted like trees, each with nine horsetails dangling from the tip.

  It was surrounded by many wagons and several other tents, a sign of great power and great wealth. I knew who it was.

  Men barred my way, two of them, one with bow and arrow ready and the other with hand on saber hilt. But I had already seen; he sat before the tent, on his dais, and I knew that it was the Open Time, when even the Khan of Khans may be approached without ceremony.

  "Here, ragtag, back to your master's kennel! You can't —"

  "I am a Mongol! That is my khan, and I have business at his feet!"

  They glanced about, for woe to him who feathered me with an arrow once I had said these words. From behind one of them a little face peered, a pale-eyed boy who hid behind the legs of one of the warriors.

  I winked at him.

  He winked back, using both eyes.

  "That man wants to talk to father," he called, piping like a cloudbird in spring. And he turned and ran to the dais on sturdy legs. "Father, father, that man with the squinty eye wants to talk to you!"

  Across the heads of the two men blocking my way, I looked into the cat's-eyes of the man on the dais. Those strange eyes stared back into mine. He said nothing, but the two sentries moved aside.

  I ran between them to fall to my knees before him, bowing nine times. Then I strained back my neck to look up at him. "O Kha-khan —"

  He was frowning as he gazed intently down at me, with the stare of a farseeing eagle. Suddenly his arm shot out, and the extended finger of its end pointed at my nose.

  "YOU WOUNDED MY WAR-HORSE AT KOYTEN!"

  I groaned and shuddered.

  "I shot that accursed arrow, Kha-khan, to save my life. How is your horse?"

  "How is my — he LIVES, you jackanape! I myself sucked the clotted blood from his wound, as Jelmi sucked it from mine. Why have you been such an idiot as to come here?"

  "Kha-khan, I have come to serve you. Punish me, kill me, but my blood would stain only a little bit of ground, no bigger than your left palm. Not so much as your horse lost. But if you show mercy, all my blood is at your service. I will be the scourge of all your enemies; I'll stem the angriest torrents; I'll split heads and grind skulls to powder."

  He bent forward to stare the harder. Suddenly he stood. I tried to bid my head goodbye, wondering if I could perhaps get to that dappled gray pony over there and —

  "LISTEN!" the Conqueror bellowed. And they listened, be sure. "Here kneels the man who put an arrow in my horse, a Taychihut!"

  I heard their angry murmur, felt their deadly eyes. I forgot the dappled gray. I was lost.

  "Now when a defeated foe comes before you," Genghis Khan told the surrounding people, "you do NOT expect him to boast of what he did against you!" He glanced down at me. "This boy, though, confesses it with open honesty. Let him come among us — he merits it! He is a rider, an archer, and..."

  Genghis Khan chuckled. "You say your name is Jergetai, of the Taychihut. But this day you take on a new clan, and a new name. With an arrow you wounded the horse of the Kha-khan — and henceforth he names you Arrow. You, Arrow, shall be my war-horse!"

  Thus I became Chepi: the Arrow.

  "Get up, Chepi. You now ride at my side. Ride well and I may perhaps let you pick nine men, when you've proven yourself worthy. Meanwhile all here know that I admire warriors, and daring, and honesty. You HAVE proven yourself a man. Nine women I will not grant you, but... Subotei! Escort our newest companion to the compound of the Khan, and stand by him while he chooses a woman from among the captives. He looks cold, and his night will need warming. Find him a tent."

  Again the Kha-khan looked down at me, who stood on trembly legs before him. He said nothing more. Nor did I. I turned and saw a tall, slender man beckon. I went to him. Despite his long-drooping but rather wispy mustache, Subotei looked only a little older than I.

  "Welcome, Taychihut Chepi," he said. "Come along."

  And I went.

  We had gone not twenty steps, I feeling very young and ragged and conspicuous — and scared — when a warrior stepped before me. He wore a woolen robe trimmed with sable that caressed his boots and wrists. I recognized him. Fortunately, he had missed. It was Bohorju, who had claimed me, and to whom Genghis Khan had loaned his horse — which I had shot.

  We looked at each other.

  "So Jirgetai the Taychihut is dead," he said.

  I did not reply. I was proud of the new name, but... I was a Taychihut. I AM a Taychihut... the last.

  "Good," he said, and he smiled. "I have a quarrel with that Taychihut named Jirgetai. But Chepi — he is a comrade!" And he stepped aside.

  We went to where the booty of the recent battle was gathered: a tenth part of it was for the Khan himself.

  It was very difficult. There are twenty young women there, seven of them naked above the waist — and shivering — and one had breasts like melons and arms made for squeezing a man, and a fine soft-looking belly. But among them was Karizu, with whom I had spent the night before the battle. Thin or not, she looked at me, and I could not choose another.

  Subotei was astonished. So were the other women.

  "Chepi has chosen you," Subotei said to her, with still another glance at me. "You are Chepi's. Follow Chepi." He wheeled. "Shotan! Find a tent for this man from among my new ones."

  Shotan did, and I trembled as I touched that tent, with Karizu standing just behind me. It was a Taychihut tent, a Besut tent.

  I raised the flap and entered, Karizu following. I turned to look at her.

  "Your family? Your father?"

  "They killed them. My father and my brothers. What are you doing here?"

  I told her of my escape, and of my return, and she stared at me with great eyes. "You came back to join him?"

  I slapped her. "I did. I do. Where is Jamukha?"

  "He — he withdrew," she said, "to muster another force and fight another day."

  I snorted. "He fled," I said, "and hid. Were he to come here he would be treated as a prince. But you are right: he will persuade others to follow him, and he will meet the Kha-khan again, and more fathers and brothers will die, and more girls will be slaves."

  "Am I a slave, Jirgetai?"

  "My name is Chepi. I don't know. I was told to choose a woman. I chose you. It was a mistake. You are too thin, you cannot carry more than an eight-year-old, you cannot warm my side at night, and you are too stupid to see that Jamukha was a coward and that there is only one man in the world to follow. His name is Genghis Khan."

  But she had gone to her knees before me. "I swear to be your woman, Jir — Chepi, and to follow the Kha-khan." Her hand lay on my groin, through the hides I wore. "I will carry, and I will eat to gain weight, and I will show you whether or not I can warm the blood of Chepi."

  I liked her position, and was about to make use of it when we were interrupted. It was that same Shotan, one of Subotei's woman, who brought curds and meat and a smallish jar of khumis. Karizu sprang to her feet and accepted them with thanks.

  We ate the meat and curds, and we drank the fermented mare's milk, although there was little of it, so that I gave Karizu only two sips. We sat on the furs that had been dropped over the cowhides flooring the tent. We said little. My elation, I think, is understandable, and I could hardly eat for thinking. Or think for eating, perhaps.

  When we had done she came to me to open my clothes, and her soft little lips and wet tongue went in to seek out my prick, which rose to meet her, with eagerness. She licked it and sucked it while I sat as still as I could, finishing off the rest of the khumis. She nibbled and chewed at it and laved it with her tongue, as if she were hungry and intent on gobbling it down. Now and again she clamped her teeth on the pulsing meat of my groin, and I shivered in that strange feeling of pain and pleasure. Smiling, I drew it back from her, and just as she started to look up at me, questioningly, I thrust the big swollen knob straight in past her soft lips.

  She made small throaty noises, her mouth full of hot, throbbing sex. It was good. She squirmed, her body brushing my legs. Her lip-softened teeth clamped and raked, and I watched the shaking of her body with rhythmic tremors of lust as her mouth engulfed me.

  She fondled it, squeezed it, licked it, and then settled down to the serious business of sucking it dry. I was in a dominant position, with her bent over my loins. And I remembered our argument, and my having slapped her. Smiling, I thrust my aching lance forcefully into her mouth, seeking the back of her throat. She opened wide her lips, making a little gagging sound, before she bore down hard on it. Her fingers made a snug circle around the lower shaft, aiding her sucking mouth by pulling and pushing. Thus she drew it in and out, wetly, in and out, rhythmically. Waves of excitement and aroused passion rolled through me so that I shivered and strained against her. Her mouth, her hand were tight-clenched about my staff. She sucked.

  She was a clever girl. When I began to jerk and groan and then to spurt, she continued sucking with strength. I was sure she knew the almost unbearable pleasure she gave me at the moment of my climax — and after. I had fallen back, moaning and shuddering at the sweet release, and soon she, too, sank down, with her hand clamped between her writhing thighs.

  After a time I reached down to pull her close against me, and we went to sleep.

  I was Chepi, a warrior of Genghis Khan, and I had a woman, as befits a warrior.

  FOUR

  My life as Jirgetai had lasted just over fourteen years. My life as Chepi very nearly ended in less than fourteen hours.

  Despite my exhaustion, I awoke instantly, aware of her movements. I knew that only a few hours had passed since we had drifted into sleep, and I smiled in the dark. So she wanted more! I opened my eyes.

  Well, I would impale her so deeply that —

  But I saw in horror that it was I who was about to be impaled: the girl had found my dagger, and was kneeling beside me. As I looked up at her she started the descent of her arm that would bury my own dagger in my belly.

  I moved, and moved fast. My arm shot out to block the blow, while with my other hand I grasped one of her smallish, bare tits. Her wrist jarred across my arm so that we both groaned, and the dagger dropped as her fingers straightened, twitching. It was cold on my belly, but it would have been much colder in it!

  With her breast enclosed in my hand I yanked, at the same time scooping up the knife with the hand I had used to knock it from her grasp. She fell forward onto me; I twisted both hands. As her warm body fell across mine she moaned and jerked, then continued jerking. I pushed her from me, rising to a sitting position as she rolled aside. I had turned my hand so that the dagger pointed up, of course, and as I drew her down she lost her balance. She had impaled herself, just at the top of the belly where the bone-arch begins.