As he ate, Temujin thought of the months since coming back to his family. He could not have dreamed then of the hunger he saw in the men around him, the need to be accepted once again. Yet it had not always gone smoothly. There had been one family who joined him, only to steal away in the middle of the night with all they could carry. Temujin and Kachiun had tracked them down and carried the pieces back to his camp for the others to see before they left them for wild animals. There was no return to their previous lives, not after they had joined him. Given whom he had decided to take in, Temujin knew he could not show weakness, or they would have torn him apart.

Khasar came in with Batu, blowing and rubbing his hands together. He shook himself deliberately close to Temujin and Kachiun, scattering snow over them. They cursed and ducked against the soft pats of snow that spattered in all directions.

“You forgot about me again, didn’t you?” Khasar demanded.

Temujin shook his head. “I did not! You were my secret, in case there was a last attack when we were all settled.”

Khasar glared at his brothers, then turned away to get his bowl of stew.

As he did so, Temujin leaned close to Kachiun and whispered, “I forgot he was out there,” loudly enough for them all to hear.

“I knew it!” Khasar roared. “I was practically frozen to death, but all the time I kept telling myself, ‘Temujin won’t have abandoned you, Khasar. He will be back any moment to call you in to the warm.’ ”

The others watched bemused as Khasar reached into his trousers and rummaged around.

“I think a ball has actually frozen,” he said mournfully. “Is that possible? There’s nothing but a lump of ice down there.”

Temujin laughed at the wounded tone until he was in danger of spilling the rest of his own stew.

“You did well, my brother. I would not have sent a man I couldn’t trust to that spot. And wasn’t it a good thing you were there?”

He told the others about the rush of Tartar warriors that Khasar and Jelme had put down. As the airag warmed their blood, they responded with stories of their own, though some told them humorously and others were dark and bleak in tone, bringing a touch of winter into the warm ger. Little by little, they shared each other’s experiences. Little Batu had not had the sort of archery training that had marked the childhood of Yesugei’s sons, but he was lightning fast with a knife and claimed no arrow could hit him if he saw it fired. Jelme was the equal of his father with a sword or bow, and so coldly competent that Temujin was in the habit of making him second in command. Jelme could be depended upon, and Temujin thanked the spirits for the father and son and everyone who had come after them.

There were times when he dreamed of being back in that stinking pit, waiting to be killed. Sometimes, he was whole, his body perfect. Other times, it was roped with scars or still raw and bleeding. It was there that he had found the strange thought that still burned inside him. There was only one tribe on the plains. Whether they called themselves Wolves or Olkhun’ut or even tribeless wanderers, they spoke the same language and they were bound in blood. Still, he knew it would be easier to sling a rope around a winter mist than to bring the tribes together after a thousand years of warfare. He had made a beginning, but it was no more than that.

“So what next when we’ve finished counting our new horses and gers here?” Kachiun asked his brother, interrupting his thoughts. The rest of them paused in their eating to hear the answer.

“I think Jelme can handle the next raid,” Temujin said. Arslan’s son looked up from his meal with his mouth open. “I want you to be a hammer,” Temujin told him. “Do not risk my people, but if you can find a small group, I want it crushed in my father’s memory. They are not our people. They are not Mongols, as we are. Let the Tartars fear us as we grow.”

“You have something else in mind?” Kachiun asked with a smile. He knew his brother.

Temujin nodded. “It is time to return to the Olkhun’ut and claim my wife. You need a good woman. Khasar says he needs a bad one. We all need children to carry on the line. They will not scorn us when we ride amongst them now.

“I will be gone for some months, Jelme,” Temujin said, staring at Arslan’s son. His yellow eyes were unblinking and Jelme could not meet them for long. “I will bring back more men to help us here, now that I know where to find them. While I am gone, it will be your task to make the Tartars bleed and fear the spring.”

Jelme reached out and they gripped each other’s forearms to seal the agreement.

“I will be a terror to them,” Jelme said.

In the darkness, Temujin stood swaying outside the ger Arslan had chosen and listened to the sounds within, amused that the swordsmith had finally found someone to take the edge off his tension. Temujin had never known a man as tightly bound as the swordsmith, nor one he would rather have stood with in battle, unless it was his own father. Perhaps because Arslan was from that generation, Temujin found he could respect him without bristling or proving himself with every word and gesture. He hesitated before interrupting the man at his coupling, but now that the decision was made, he intended to ride south in the morning and he wanted to know Arslan would be with him.

It was no small thing to ask. Anyone could see how Arslan watched his son whenever the arrows were flying. Forcing him to leave Jelme alone in the cold north would be a test of his loyalty, but Temujin did not think Arslan would fail it. His word was iron, after all. He raised a hand to knock on the small door, then thought better of it. Let the swordsmith have his moment of peace and pleasure. In the morning they would ride back into the south. Temujin could feel bitterness stir in him at the thought of the plains of his childhood, swirling like oil on water. The land remembered.

TEMUJIN AND ARSLAN TROTTED across the sea of grass. To Arslan’s surprise, he had found he was comfortable with the silence between them. They talked at night around the fire, and practiced with swords until they had built a fine sweat. The blade Temujin carried was beautifully balanced and cut with a blood channel that allowed it to slide free from a wound without snagging. Arslan had made it for him and instructed him in maintaining its edge and oiling the steel against rust. The muscles of Temujin’s right arm stood out in ridges as he became completely familiar with the weight, and with Arslan as his tutor, his skill improved daily.

The days riding were spent if not in thought then in the peaceful absence of it. To Arslan, it was just as he had traveled with his son, Jelme, and he found it restful. He watched as Temujin rode a little ahead or scouted up a hill to see the best route south. The young raider had a quiet assurance about him, a confidence that could be read in every movement. Arslan considered the twists of fate that had led him to rescue Temujin from the Wolves. They called him khan in their little camp, though there were barely twenty men to follow him and only a handful of women and children. Still, Temujin walked with pride amongst them and they fought and won raid after raid. There were times when Arslan wondered what he had unleashed.

It was no easy task to find the Olkhun’ut. They had moved camp many times since Temujin had ridden away from them with Basan, the news of his father’s injury still fresh. It took two moons just to reach the lands around the red hill, and still Temujin did not know where to find them. It was even possible that they had begun another drift to the south as they had years before, putting them beyond reach. Arslan saw the tension grow in his young companion as they questioned each wanderer and herdsman they met, searching for any word of them.