Sarai

By Nathaniel H.C. Kim

In this final installment of the Qans Triology, Batu Qan strives to fulfill his fathers dream of leading the Golden Horde to glory and building their fabulous city of Sarai. Appointed Qan of the Golden Horde by his paternal uncle, the Qa Qan Ogodei, Batu discovers that a powerful enemy, the Merkit, stand in the way. With his brother, Berke, his sister, Holuiqan and their adopted mother, Aisha, Princess Aisha of Khwarazm, Batu sets out to complete the final leg of his lifelong journey and fulfill the vow he made to his father years before, or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462837793

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

Sarai is the third and final installment of the Qans Triology. Nathaniel Kim resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii with his two sons and is presently working on a fourth novel based on the legend of Chinggis Qan’s return eight hundred years after his death.

Book preview

Sarai

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NATHANIEL H.C. KIM

Copyright © 2005 by Nathaniel H.C. Kim.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

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

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

chapter thirty-one

chapter thirty-two

chapter thirty-three

chapter thirty-four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty-six

chapter thirty-seven

chapter thirty-eight

chapter thirty-nine

chapter forty

chapter forty-one

author’s note

DEDICATION

In memoriam to Cinggis Qan, his sons, his grandsons and all

who followed them; and, in appreciation for help from JY.

chapter one

PARRY. THRUST. PARRY. THRUST. PARRY… THRUST…

The clash and ring of steel blades and the sharp scrape of leather soles on stone filled the inner courtyard of the palace of Afrasiab. Breath came in spurts and grunts, rapid and crisp. Parry. Thrust. Parry. Thrust…

Yes! exclaimed a jubilant young man of dark chiseled features. Got you that time, Batu!

Batu Qan broke into a gracious smile and bowed, sweat rolling down the sides of his long angular face. Gleaming with the sheen of exertion, the smooth bare skin of his chest showed a bright red mark left by the felt tip of his opponent’s saber, the muscles of his arms, chest, and stomach lean and visible from the workout.

Well done, Sharif. What’s that make—one out of five? he teased.

The two men slapped each other on the shoulders and strolled over to a stone bench beneath a voluptuous willow tree, grabbing pouches of cool, sweet mountain water.

You’ve gotten better, Sharif, Batu said. Much better. He swallowed a mouthful and pulled a rag from the back of his leather belt to wipe his face. One day, you’ll even beat me.

Sharif ibn al Arabia laughed good-naturedly, using a cotton rag of his own to wipe sweat from his brow. Of Persian ancestry, he stood an inch shorter than Batu at six feet but possessed a more sinewy build. They’d met in Samarkand three years before when Batu and his family arrived from Karakoram and, immediately, struck up a friendship as members of the keshig. Sharif spoke a little Mughal, but Batu’s fluency in Arabic surprised and impressed the young Persian immensely. He learned later, it was Batu’s mother—the legendary Princess Aisha of Khwarazm—who’d taught him, his brother, and sister the high language of the Quran. In exchange for lessons in Mughal, Sharif agreed to teach Batu Persian; and together, they’d spend mornings teaching each other their languages and afternoons, practicing fighting skills or going for walks through the city. Many a young girl’s heart went into palpitations whenever the two handsome young men passed by along the avenues of Samarkand.

Batu squinted up. The sun was near zenith. Midday meal should be ready, he noted, taking a last draw of water. Come. I’m hungry.

Sabers in hand, the two barebacked young men climbed stone steps to the porch of the west wing of the palace, entered an arched doorway, and strode down a long corridor of latticed windows to a room at the end.

In the middle of the room, a low table of rosewood sat surrounded by firm cushions and pillows. Atop the table, neatly laid out, waited dishes of meats, humus, and flat bread along with a dark-colored bottle of otog—wine—and three golden goblets.

Smells delicious, Batu sniffed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Sit, sit, he gestured at Sharif. They set their sabers against a wall and were about to start when a raspy voice from the door to their left stopped them.

Ayi! Wash, first! An old woman with grey hair emerged from shadow and shuffled quickly into the room, the hem of an abaya flowing around slippered wrinkled feet, grey brows pinched together. And put shirts on! The furrows of her face deepened. For Tenggeri’s sake, you’re not animals!

Like two children, Batu and Sharif scurried into the adjoining kitchen, washed their hands in a bronze bowl of water, then moved to the linen room and slipped on fresh collarless silk undershirts. When they returned, the woman was sitting in a low chair busy knitting.

Food looks good, Qo’aucin, Batu said, holding up his clean hands in a gesture of appeasement before sitting down. The woman grunted and continued knitting. He helped himself to bread and meat, dipping pieces of the bread into the humus and stuffing all of it into his mouth. Where’s everybody? he mumbled.

"Your eke went to the market with your brother and sister, Qo’aucin replied. They should be back soon."

She took Berke? Batu chewed off a piece of roasted lamb. He hates shopping.

If she left him here, he’d want to practice with you. His ankle hasn’t fully healed yet. She saw no point tempting him.

A piece of bad luck, Sharif muttered through a mouthful of meat and bread. Your brother’s always getting hurt.

He needs to be more careful, Qo’aucin observed flatly. You all need to be more careful instead of rush, rush, rush. She gave a shake of her head. Slow down. Boys should enjoy life.

Boys? Batu glanced around. To whom do you speak, Qo’aucin? He winked at Sharif. I see only two handsome young men here. No boys.

Boys, Qo’aucin repeated.

I’m twenty, Qo’aucin. Sharif’s twenty-one. We’re men.

You’ve the minds of twelve-year-olds, she retorted, hiding a smile. Boys.

I’d bet the young ladies of the city don’t think so. Batu and Sharif exchanged mischievous grins. Slowly, Qo’aucin raised her head.

Never let your eke hear that a girl’s with child. A stern look planted itself on her face. Never.

Oh, come on, Qo’aucin, Batu chuckled. I’m kidding. Don’t be so serious.

The woman’s narrow shoulders shrugged. Doesn’t take much. A moment’s lapse. A bit too much… passion? Her bushy grey brows fluttered like wings. Batu and Sharif burst into laughter. She smiled. I know you’re smarter than that.

Bet your life, Batu quickly asserted. "Me and Sharif don’t want to end up like poor Digi. He’s younger than both of us, and he’ll soon be ecige [father]."

How true, how true, Sharif commiserated, filling their goblets with wine. He set the bottle down. Why is it there’re three goblets, Qo’aucin? Are you expecting someone?

I thought we might be honored with a visit from Subotei, she said. "The orlock told me early this morning; he might stop by."

Batu and Sharif stared at each other.

Subotei’s back in Samarkand? Batu uttered.

Arrived late last night.

That’s great news! A frown furrowed his brow. But you didn’t say a word to me, Qo’aucin.

I forgot.

Where is he? Is he coming here?

Maybe today. Tomorrow for sure. You were still sleeping when he stopped by this morning.

Batu gulped a mouthful of wine. I haven’t seen my uncle for months. Last I heard, he was still east, putting down rebellions.

Well, he’s back.

Qo’aucin, Batu said, with all due respect, you should’ve got me up or told me sooner. He stood. Sharif frowned.

Where’re you going?

To find him. He must be at the garrison. Batu walked out.

Wait! I’m coming! Sharif cried, snatching up a last piece of bread and hurrying after his friend.

The eastern quarter of the city bustled with activity as the two wound their way through throngs of people and animals filling the narrow lanes and alleys. Stalls lined the main avenue of the Registan, shelves crowded and piled high with wooden trays and large woven platters displaying a wide variety of produce and product; lintels dripped with necklaces of silver and gold, bronze and copper, and jewelry of semiprecious stones, lapis lazuli and brilliant exotic designs. Bearded, turbaned men hawked clay and ceramic wares; and veiled women held high their goods, wrists and forearms adorned with rows of bracelets that jangled with their every movement. Along the way, sunburned, wizen beggars offered up bony, gnarled hands to those who passed, mumbling verses from the Quran, pleading for alms and mercy. Others sang; a few juggled or performed feats of magic to the delight of the swarms of children who slipped between their parents’ legs and playfully ducked in and out of stalls. Batu loved the markets of Samarkand—the atmosphere was always festive and the sights and sounds and the people of such great variety. Especially those from distant lands in garments made of textiles—from silk to burlap, leather to dried reeds and all dyed with deep vibrant colors and turned into exquisite fashions.

Four years ago, Samarkand had been rebuilt and, once again, became a center of commerce and activity following its fall to the Mongol hordes. Under the governance of the basqaq, Yavlach, recently appointed by Batu’s uncle, the Qa Qan Ogodei, the city flourished. Trade and commerce returned along the Silk Road, the great city a merchant’s oasis in a desert of trade routes. Then, three years ago, his mother, the princess Aisha brought the family back to the city of her birth, desiring to reside in the place where she’d spent many happy days as a child. With the help of Ogodei and Yavlach, the western half of the old palace of Afrasiab was restored and refurbished; and while it didn’t attain the glory it once held under her late father, the Shah Muhammad, to Aisha and the children, it was home and, most importantly, comfortable and safe.

I don’t understand why my uncle didn’t send word he was returning, Batu ruminated as the two hustled down back alleys, ducking archways and overhangs, skirting stinking pools of foul water and piles of decaying trash. He always does.

A great general like your uncle doesn’t have lots of time, Sharif pointed out. Besides, you heard Qo’aucin; he was planning to come back. Sharif’s stomach growled, and he rubbed it mournfully. We should’ve waited at the palace and finished eating.

He didn’t want to wait. He missed his uncle. The orlock represented the last solid link to his father and all his fond memories of happier days. It’d been a year since Subotei went off to the east to assist in quelling the rebellious Chin and plan and prepare for the invasion of the southern Sung and the Solangas of the eastern peninsula. He would’ve gone too had his term of service in the keshig been finished.

They turned the corner of a two-story warehouse where the street ended at the eastern gates of the city’s garrison. The walls of the garrison towered thirty feet high, and guards in lamellar armor coats with long heavy axes stood on either side of oak and iron gates. Nearby rose the gold dome of one of the dozen masjids of the city with its accompanying minarets of colored tile and vegetal and geometric designs. The guards bowed as Sharif and Batu passed through the archway of arabesque and entered a large square filled with soldiers and hired help busy loading and unloading provisions while others engaged in the routine chores of an active garrison. To Batu’s right, mud-brick barracks stretched away, and to his left, a two-story stone building which served as the headquarters of the garrison’s commander—Tula Barula.

Barula will know where my uncle is, Batu said, heading toward the building. Another pair of guards in lamellar vests and conical steel helmets stood on either side of the twin oak doors. They bowed as Batu came forward.

Is Commander Barula in? he asked the one on his left.

Yes, my qan, the guard responded. He meets with the orlock, Subotei Ba’atur.

Glancing back at Sharif, Batu grinned and reached for the handle of the door. The guard stopped him.

Many pardons, my qan. But the two are meeting.

He’ll see us, Batu said and, without further hesitation, opened the door and walked inside.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the lower level of light in the room; but as they cleared, Batu saw his uncle sitting at a table in the center of the room. At the same time, Subotei turned, eyes widening, face swelling with joy.

Batu! The orlock’s swarthy frame rose from the chair, and he briskly strode forward, arms extended in greeting. Greatest and most well-known of the generals who had risen with the mighty Cinggis Qan, at fifty, Subotei Ba’atur still looked stout and full of vigor. The two embraced in greeting, patting each other on the back. Damn, good to see you, nephew, he said, stepping back to look Batu up and down. I swear, you keep growing. How tall?

Six one—

Six one! Subotei gave a fond shake of his head. His dark grey eyes noticed Sharif standing behind Batu. And if it isn’t Sharif ibn al-Arabia. He stepped pass Batu and gave Sharif a warm hug. Still seated at the table, Tula Barula quietly watched, a faint smile on his face.

Batu turned to the commander and bowed low. My apologies for interrupting, Commander.

Barula stood and came around the table. "None needed, my qan. I was as anxious as you to see the great orlock." He motioned for them to take seats at the table and clapped his hands. An orderly entered from a side door, and Barula had him bring cups and airag.

I was told you got back last night, Uncle, Batu said, sitting down.

Subotei nodded. I thought of visiting, but it was late. When I came by this morning, everyone was still asleep except Qo’aucin.

The orderly returned with a black lacquered tray and set silver goblets out, filling each with airag. When he finished pouring, Barula held up his goblet in a toast, and they drank to the orlock’s safe return.

First decent airag I’ve had in months, Subotei declared happily. Ran out of the stuff three months ago. What the Chin drinks tastes like water. He took another swallow. Batu watched, bathing in the warm glow of his uncle’s presence. He loved the man. Subotei had always been a second father to him, more so after his own father died.

Your uncle was telling me about the Chin rebellions, Barula said. He was a sturdy man of forty with a heavy brow and stout chin, deeply respected by the Qa Qan for courage displayed in numerous campaigns over the years against the Chin, Tartars, and Tanghuts.

Was it bad? Batu asked.

Subotei shook his head. Fortunately, the poison hadn’t spread to other cities or the countryside. Mainly criminals with a small following.

Your uncle’s being modest as usual, Barula noted. Two thousand criminals is what he faced. That’s not ‘small.’

What happened? Batu queried.

Subotei gulped down his airag. We trapped them in a blind valley. Tried to get them to submit. They refused. He grunted, twirling his cup. No more rebels. He smiled. I was going to come by and see you after my meeting. You beat me to it.

I only heard you were back, today, Batu noted. Qo’aucin forgot to tell me. Soon as she did, we came.

Subotei smiled. You must forgive the lady’s lapses of memory. She’s served your family well for many, many years. Just getting old. He leaned forward. How’s your eke? Brother? Sister?

All in good health, Batu said proudly. In fact, we just celebrated Eke’s twenty-ninth birthday two days ago.

The orlocks’ brows arched. Twenty-nine, he echoed. Time flees. A wily look filled his eyes. No special someone yet?

Batu shook his head. The last one came all the way from Syria. An emir. Brought two camels laden with incense, pearls, and fine rugs. A nice fellow, but she turned him down.

That must’ve been a disappointment.

He threatened to kill himself, Batu went on. Finally, Eke went to see him with me and Berke. She spent two hours trying to console him. He kept asking her what was wrong with him. She kept telling him nothing. She just wasn’t ready for marriage. He didn’t believe her. We finally had to drag her away, or we would’ve been there all night. Next morning, he went back to Syria, empty-handed.

A soft chuckle passed Subotei’s lips. Another poor soul. I’m going to have to speak to your eke about being so—picky. She breaks too many hearts. They laughed.

Are you staying in Samarkand now? Sharif asked, wiping airag from his lips.

For a while. Unless the Chin rebel again—

Excuse me, Barula interjected, rising. I need to make my rounds. Please make yourselves at home. If you need anything, clap your hands. The orderly will come. Barula grabbed his helmet off a peg by the door and went out.

Subotei clapped his hands. The orderly appeared with the pouch of airag. Just leave it on the table, he directed. Bowing low, the orderly set the pouch down, and Subotei refilled his goblet and topped off Batu’s and Sharif’s.

To the family, he bid, raising his.

To the family. They drank. Batu and Sharif lowered theirs. Subotei’s remained raised.

One more toast. His eyes settled on Batu. It is with great honor and humble pride that I am the first to salute the newly appointed commander of the Golden Horde—my nephew, Batu Qan!

Goblets froze in midair. Batu’s and Sharif’s mouth dropped open, eyes blossoming like flowers.

Subotei feigned a look of bewilderment. Something wrong?

I… I… Batu’s heart hammered in his chest. Suddenly, everything in the room took on a dreamlike, ethereal quality. Had he heard right? Was it possible? After all these years? His dream finally come true? The one thing he’d lived for?

On my way back, Subotei said, I received a summons from Karakoram. From your uncle, the Qa Qan. When I went to see him, he gave me this. He reached inside his kalat and pulled out a roll of parchment bearing the red-and-gold seal of the Qa Qan. He held it to Batu. I was told to give you this—personally.

Trembling, mouth dry, Batu took the parchment from the orlock, staring at the seal of red and gold. With great care, he broke the seal and carefully unrolled the parchment and began to read.

Well? Sharif exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously. C’mon, Batu. What’s it say?

Batu stared at his friend. It’s… it’s true, Sharif, he breathed, looking at him. The Qa Qan’s… He leaped to his feet, shouting, I’m the new commander of the Golden Horde! He grabbed a stunned Sharif by the hands, yanked him to his feet, and started dancing with him around the room. A great day! A great day! he shouted, joyously. Subotei leaned back in his chair, laughing, tears rolling down his swarthy cheeks.

The Golden Horde! Batu cried. After all these years, I’m the commander of my father’s horde! Through the window, the faces of the guards appeared watching the action inside with perplexed curiosity. This is the greatest day of my life, Sharif! The greatest day! Batu leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. Thank you, Tenggeri! Thank you, Father! Thank you, Grandfather! Thank you, Uncle Ogodei!

Subotei wiped tears from his eyes and sighed contentedly. Yes, indeed, thank you to all of them, he thought. Seven years ago at the top of a cliff, the western steppes spreading away to the horizon, a child of thirteen told him he’d one day become qan of the Golden Horde, follow in his father’s footsteps, bring his dreams to life, and, most important of all, build the city of Sarai—the future home of the Golden Horde. A city unrivaled in the Mongol empire. A city of tribute to the men and their families of the horde. Now, seven years later, the first steps had been taken though far from the last.

The two young men collapsed in their chairs, laughing and panting, gulping down airag. Sharif’s eyes glowed with happiness for his friend. How often he and Batu had talked of this very moment when he would assume command of the Golden Horde. Every time they spoke of it, their words would glow and burn with excitement and visions of glory. This was a magical moment for his best friend. A moment of pure joy. No strings attached. No doubts in anyone’s mind who the new leader was to be. Subotei sat up and rapped the tabletop with his knuckles.

Batu looked over.

Your mother will be overjoyed, he said, and very proud.

Yes, she will, Batu affirmed, imagining the princess’s elation. If not for her, none of this would’ve happened. I owe her so much.

She’ll tell you, you owe her nothing, Subotei said. She’ll say you did it all on your own. He paused to take a breath. A deep breath. A noticeable change appeared in his demeanor, eliciting a frown from Batu. The orlock’s countenance seemed to grow somber.

Today’s a good day, Batu, he said slowly, but much remains to be done.

Batu shot Sharif a puzzled look. This sounds ominous, he said.

What—ominous? Sharif scoffed. You’ve the appointment—the order. He pointed at the scroll on the table. Nothing ominous there.

It’s a piece of paper, Sharif, Subotei said.

The two balked at his words and the sudden change in his mood.

I… I don’t understand, Uncle, Batu said. It’s more than paper. It’s an order from the Qa Qan. A decree. All must obey.

All should obey, Subotei said, leveling a hard look at his nephew. But men don’t follow pieces of paper, Batu. They don’t follow ink on parchment. Men follow leaders. He leaned forward resting his thick elbows on the table. "It’s been seven years since your father—my beloved nokor—died. You’ve grown into a young man graced with courage, blessed with skill and intelligence. Respected by all who know you. He paused. But the men of the Golden Horde don’t know you, Batu. They’ve no idea what you are." Subotei took a swallow of airag and stood up. Batu and Sharif sat back in their chairs, stunned.

"After your ebuge was buried, the twin tumans of the horde were ordered back to the Egil—Volga to serve as the empire’s western shield. Acin Noyan was appointed interim commander. A good, brave young man and friend of your father. He married a Kama Bulgar—"

Sabreen, Batu muttered.

Subotei nodded. You remember her. He continued, "The men pitched their gers. Brought their families in. Established a camp. Sixteen thousand. Many hardened, experienced veterans of the Khwarazmian wars. The camp quickly grew into thirty thousand. Then a year later, tragedy struck. Acin and his second suddenly died, and not a single stone of the city of Sarai had yet been laid. Today, your father’s dream—his greatest dream—remains just that—a dream."

Then we must get started, Batu declared. I can— He startled at Subotei’s raised hand.

"I’m not finished. For the last six years, the men have been under the command of a Uduyid Merkit—Qa’atai Darmala. A jagun leader under your father. Today, leader of your Golden Horde."

The young qan’s eyes narrowed. Well, that’s going to change, he snapped, waving the scroll in the air. Sharif vigorously nodded.

The pacing stopped, dark eyes settling on the young man. Change it must if your father’s dreams are to be realized. But the Uduyid Merkit won’t give up his position—one he’s held for the last six years. Not for a piece of paper or the young wolf who bears it. His chest heaved a sigh. Nor is it certain the men of the horde will let him.

A cross look pulled at Sharif’s brows. Then, Batu will tell his uncle to send men to help take what’s been decreed, he retorted. No one can deny him this honor, Subotei. It’s his right!

The orlock said nothing.

You don’t agree? Batu ventured, growing more concerned.

Agree? Subotei echoed. It’s not a matter of agreement, nephew. He returned to the table, sat down, and leaned forward. Do you think your uncle—himself, newly elected Qa Qan—will send men of his army against other men of his army? Do you think that a wise thing for a new Qa Qan to do? Start an internal war? A civil war?

Batu sat, numb.

He won’t, Subotei answered frankly. He loves you like a son, Batu. He told me so, but he said this is something you must do yourself. Unless your life or that of your family are in danger, he can’t lift a hand to help you. Subotei sighed and sat back. And neither can I.

Anger colored Sharif’s face though the young basurman gripped his tongue. Batu sat, staring down at his hands in his lap.

You must go to the Egil, Subotei continued, Go there and win the hearts and minds of the horde—on your own—

"Baas! Shit! Sharif swore, flabbergasted. Why? Why does Batu have to win anything? The Qa Qan made him leader! All he’s got to do is go there and show the man the order!"

Batu grasped his friend’s forearm. I hear what my uncle’s saying, Sharif. He’s… right.

Sharif rubbed his face, making an odd sound like a whimper, a response Batu knew was his friend’s expressing frustration. He patted him gently on the shoulder.

Please explain, Sharif begged, right leg shaking like it was about to fall off. I don’t understand any of this!

Later, Batu said, turning to his uncle. This is the only way?

Yes.

Jaw muscles twitched. Should I leave soon?

Speak to Eke, first. Tell her everything I’ve told you. Listen to what she has to say. Then, you should leave.

Well, I’m going too, Sharif announced firmly. Batu’s not going anywhere by himself.

Of course not, Subotei agreed. He can’t do this alone. He shifted his chair to squarely face his nephew. "Just as your ebuge wove an empire out of fragments. Just as your father built a qanate from the tip of the spear. Now’s your turn, Batu. Time to prove you’ve earned the right to be qan of the horde. Not to me or the Qa Qan or anyone else. But to yourself and the men whom you’ll be leading."

Batu lowered his eyes and stared into his empty goblet. What had only moments before been unbridled elation and joy, now seemed brittle and bitter like frost on the fruit of the vine. Prove himself? It’d never occurred to him growing up that he’d have to prove himself to anyone. Prove he was capable of leading his father’s Golden Horde—tumans given to his father by his grandfather on the very night the first Mongols left for Khwarazm. It was Jochi who anointed them with the title Golden Horde, and in the days and weeks that followed, it was Jochi who forged great warriors out of the mettle of courage, discipline, and loyalty. The horde—tip of the great Mongol spear—first to fight for the great Cinggis Qan in a strange land, first to win victories which grew by the day until the very kingdom of the arrogant Shah Muhammad Ala ad Din lay in ruin. With these same men, then under Subotei and their beloved noyan, Jebe, the horde ventured west, met and defeated the Orusud, the Kama Bulgars, the Shirvans, Cumans, and Kibaca’ud. They proved themselves invincible, and the lands of his father—the qanship of the Golden Horde—spread north and west from Urgench in the south to the broad river and forests of the Egil in the west. He was thirteen when his great ebuge died a few months after his father, but he was old enough to understand the pledge he’d made to Tenggeri and his father to one day mount his horse under the banners and standards of the horde and lead them to glory from their city of Sarai.

Batu sighed, stood up, and walked to a window.

Sarai.

The city his father swore he’d build in tribute to his men. A city to be unequaled by any in the east. A city that’d be known as far west as the land extended. Home of the Golden Horde.

What’re you thinking, Batu?

Batu vaguely heard his uncle’s question still swimming in the backwash of his reverie. He turned.

Subotei’s swarthy, wrinkled face gazed at him. Sharif stared at the floor, heart heavy for his friend.

What am I supposed to do to prove myself? he asked. Fight this Darmala? Kill him? Beat him? Or be killed? he thought.

Subotei took a deep breath, back straightening. In life, each man chooses the path he takes. Sometimes the way is clear. Sometimes, not. Perhaps, not even visible. Yet, a man—especially those destined for greatness—must find the path, set their boots upon it, and stride forward, forging new ones for others to follow. He leaned forward. You’re destined for greatness, Batu, like your father and your grandfather. I feel it in my heart. But it can’t be given to you. Not I or the Qa Qan or your eke can do that. Only you can attain it. You must go to the camp. See what’s there. Set about earning the men’s respect and loyalty. You alone will decide how that’s to be done. He paused to sip airag, wiping remnants from his greying mustache. I’ve told you this because you must know; a leader is much more than an order or words on a scroll.

The door to Barula’s quarters opened, and the commander appeared, glancing behind him. Excuse me. There’s someone here to see, Batu, he said.

A pretty, dark-haired young woman popped her head into the room. She had dark eyes like her brother and smooth clean features.

Eke says to come home, Batu, Holuiqan said. Time to eat. She frowned when Batu beckoned her to come inside.

"I want you to meet someone you’ve heard a lot about, doyi," he said, rising. Subotei stood, eyes twinkling at the sight of Jochi’s only daughter. She’s pretty,