The little monk moved as jerkily as a bird, looking for the next threat. He caught her staring at him and only nodded, raising the stick he had used in salute.

‘Thank you,’ she said, bowing her head. She would reward him, if they survived it, she promised herself. Genghis would honour him before them all.

‘Come with me,’ he said, letting his hand rest briefly on her shoulder before he led the way through the gers away from the fire.

Chakahai looked at the blood staining the wrap on her right hand and felt only satisfaction at the memory. Genghis would be proud of her, if he still lived.

Ala-ud-Din turned his head as he heard a series of short, hard sounds. He did not understand the words, only that men were coming. His stomach twisted in panic that the khan had tracked him down already. He bawled new orders for his men to leave the gers and face the enemy. Many of them were lost to him in an orgy of destruction, their faces wild with fanatic madness. Yet Jelaudin heard as he raced in and two more of his sons repeated the orders, shouting until they were hoarse.

The smoke was thick and at first Ala-ud-Din could see nothing, hear nothing but approaching hooves. The sound echoed through the encampment and his mouth went dry. Surely there were thousands coming for his head?

Out of the smoke, horses came at full gallop, the whites of their eyes showing clearly as they ran. They had no men on their backs, but in that confined place, they could not stop for the shah’s men. With Jelaudin, Ala-ud-Din was fast enough to dodge behind a ger, but others reacted too slowly. The horses ran like a river bursting its banks through the camp and many of his guards were knocked down and trampled.

Behind the Mongol mounts came the maimed men. Ala-ud-Din heard their battle cries as they raced by in the host of horses. They were both young and old, many without limbs. One of them turned to kill the shah and Ala-ud-Din saw that the man carried only a heavy stick in his left hand. His right was missing. The Mongol warrior died swiftly under Jelaudin’s sword, but some of them held bows and the shah shuddered at the song of arrows. He had heard it too often over the previous month.

The smell of blood and fire was in the air, too thick to breathe as more and more gers took flame. Ala-ud-Din looked for his officers, but they were all defending themselves. He felt surrounded, helpless in the confining maze of gers.

‘With me! To your shah! With me!’ he roared, digging in his heels. He had barely been able to hold his horse. Released, the animal moved as if it had been shot from a bow, careering across the camp and leaving the smoke and terror behind.

Jelaudin repeated his order and the survivors followed, as relieved as their master to be away from the fighting. The shah rode blindly, standing high on his stirrups for some sign that he was heading the right way. Where was the river? He would have given a second son for an elephant’s height to let him see his way out. Even as his men fought free of the stampeding horses and the maimed men, he saw lines of children, boys and girls alike, rushing along the gers on either side. Arrows flew at his men and knives were thrown, but none fell and he did not stop until the river was in sight.

There was no time to look for a fording place. The shah plunged into the freezing water, the shock of it numbing him as spray spattered on all sides. ‘Allah be thanked it is not too deep!’ he thought, as his horse surged across to the far bank. He almost fell from the saddle as the animal struggled up through mud worn smooth by the river. At last he had firm ground under him and he rested, panting and looking back at the burning camp.

Kokchu cowered in the shadow of a ger as Arab warriors raced past, unaware of him. The maimed warriors pursued them with guttural yells and they were fearsome to behold. Kokchu had tended many of their wounds and cut limbs from screaming men as helpless as babies, but those who had lived had nothing left to lose. Men who could not walk could yet ride and many of them gave their lives willingly, knowing that they would never again have a chance to fight for the khan. Kokchu saw one who was missing his right leg to the knee. His balance was all wrong, but when the Arabs slowed on the narrow paths, the warrior caught a straggler and threw himself at him, sending them both to the ground. The warrior held on tightly, trying to kill before his enemy regained his feet. They had fallen next to Kokchu and the shaman saw the warrior’s gaze fall on him, desperate for help.

Kokchu stood back, though he fingered his knife nervously. The felled Arab plunged a knife into the warrior’s side and ripped it back and forth with savage strength. Still the man fought on, his arms iron-strong from years supporting his weight. One of them was around the Arab’s throat and it tightened convulsively, the fingers crushing. The Arab choked and stabbed in a frenzy as he grew purple.

Kokchu darted forward and used his knife to slit the Arab’s throat, gashing the warrior’s fingers as he did so. Blood poured as both men died together, but Kokchu stepped in, his fear vanishing in rage at a helpless enemy. As the Arab fell back, Kokchu jammed in the knife again and again, keening mindlessly to himself until he was chopping at dead meat.

He rose panting, his hands on his knees as he sucked great lungfuls of warm air. In the gloom of a nearby ger, he saw Genghis’ sister Temulun staring at him and wondered what she thought she had seen. She smiled then and he relaxed. He could not have saved the maimed warrior, he was almost sure.

The flames around Kokchu seemed to heat his blood, perhaps also the wildness that came from feeling death pulse under his hands. He felt strong as he took three strides to the ger and pushed his way in with her, yanking the door closed behind them. The thought of her golden skin taut with lines of dried blood filled his mind, maddening him. She was not strong enough to resist as he pulled her deel from her shoulders, exposing her to the waist. The lines he had drawn were still there, pathetic proof of her faith. He began to devour them, licking off the bitter taste. He felt her hands striking at him, but they were distant and brought no pain. He told himself she felt the same passion as he pushed her back on the low bed, ignoring the desperate cries that no one else would hear. Part of him screamed that it was madness, but he was lost for a time as he moved in her, his eyes like black glass.

Tsubodai and Jebe had seen the smoke from afar and arrived at the camp in the early evening, their horses lathered and exhausted. Almost ten thousand gers had been burned and the stink of it was sour on the breeze. Even then, there were hundreds of women and children roaming the camp with leather buckets, pouring river water on anything that still smouldered.

Dozens of the shah’s guard lay dead on the ground to be kicked and abused by children as they passed by. Tsubodai came across the bodies of five girls lying sprawled between a ger. He dismounted and knelt with them for a time, saying quiet words of apology that they could not hear.

When he rose, Jebe was there and both men shared a complete understanding. The shah would not escape them, no matter where he ran.