The Genghis Tomb Read online

  THE

  GENGHIS TOMB

  DANIEL LESTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  * Copyright © 2012 Daniel Leston

  1st Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This book may not be used or reproduced in part or in whole without written permission from the author.

  This book is dedicated to my niece, Terry, whose encouragement and expertise made it all possible.

  Special thank you to Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Volnek for the cover art.

  2nd Adventure of Professor David Manning

  *Look for the third adventure coming Fall 2013

  THE GENGHIS TOMB

  PROLOGUE

  Autumn in the year 1166 C.E.

  The chill breeze had strengthened with the declining sun. Blowing out of the west, it now prickled against the boy’s exposed skin, and Temujen gave his arms a brisk rub before stooping to gather up his day’s meager catch.

  Five fish of only middling size didn’t seem like much for all his patient efforts—yet when combined with the two, snared ground squirrels in his cloth sack, he calculated it would suffice. Truth be told, he was actually improving at this daily chore, he thought with marginal satisfaction, gradually acquiring the necessary skills that separated survival from slow starvation.

  At least no one would sleep hungry this night.

  Clamoring up the river’s bank, the boy took the precaution of scanning the far side of the narrow valley a last time, his sharp eyes seeking anything untoward. A dusty radiance was fast building around the setting sun, various shades of red bleeding into the western sky. Thankfully, he discerned nothing to generate alarm. The distant handful of riders he’d spotted earlier in the day had obviously continued their drive south; doubtless now many leagues away and of no immediate threat.

  One less danger to occupy his mind.

  Grateful for this, Temujen slipped his bow and quiver over his chest before beginning the short trek back toward the rising face of the near mountain. The scent of advancing winter was already palpable in the air, and he was eager to reach the newfound shelter that was proving such a godsend to his small, desperate family. Without its opportune discovery only four days before, they almost certainly would be facing incredible hardship. Now, at least, they stood a fighting chance.

  As always, the responsibility of feeding and protecting his mother and younger brothers weighed heavy on Temujen’s thin shoulders, a constant burden almost too great to bear. Yet he was stoic in accepting his fate, knowing there was no one else willing—or remotely capable—of taking his place. To even daydream it might be otherwise was a luxury he could ill afford, for this all-consuming duty had fallen to him alone. Now their very lives depended on his ability to somehow lead them through this hellish nightmare—and he a mere a boy in his thirteenth summer.

  A short time later—and only after assuring himself no hidden eyes watched—he dropped to all fours and squirmed up under a huge, angled slab of stone jutting down to the river’s edge. Drawing his cloth sack in behind him, he then crawled even farther on his stomach, squirming his way up toward the narrow cavern entrance that nature had so cleverly concealed.

  Waiting for him within the cave’s black recess, his mother, Hoelun, sat alone beside a small fire, mending one of their few blankets. In anticipation of his return, she kept a single bowl near the low burning embers. Now lifting her eyes, she watched her firstborn approach out of the shadows, his free hand brushing loose dirt off his sleeveless tunic and frayed trousers.

  How like the very image of his father.

  Tall and lean, the youngster’s tangle of straight, reddish hair framed a long, chiseled face—and it amazed Hoelun how close their physical similarity had become over just the intervening months since Yesugei’s murder. Though the resemblance pleased her, it was also somewhat disconcerting, for she still deeply grieved her husband’s loss. This mere boy—one no longer a child—even shared his late father’s most striking feature, for the vivid green of his eyes was so intense as to be almost startling.

  The visible heft of the sack told her his day of foraging went well. But she also saw his present weariness as he set it down and stripped off his bow and quiver. As he sat cross-legged beside her, she put a wooden spoon into the bowl and handed it over.

  “I kept this for you,” she said, wishing there was something more substantial to offer him. It was a weak stew of sorts, the mixture more liquid than anything chewable. Answering his unspoken question, she added, “Both Qasar and Khajiun have already had their share.”

  “And what of you, mother?”

  “Enough to fill me,” she lied with ease. “Eat while it’s still warm, my son.”

  As was his habit, Temujen first poked at it with the spoon, seeking out any hidden shreds of meat it might yet contain. After a few quick mouthfuls, he asked, “So where are they now?”

  “Off doing what children do,” she replied. “Still exploring the cave’s depth.”

  She regretted her words at once, for a quick flash of resentment flitted across the youth’s face. To his credit, however, he said nothing, masking his momentary frustration as he continued to eat. If anything, this forbearance only enhanced her pride in him, for she acknowledged he’d every reason to feel jealous. And why should he not? Qasar was only a year younger than he, yet still basically a child with few responsibilities. The burden of being firstborn belonged to Temujen alone.

  When finished with his meager meal, he wiped his mouth on his forearm. “There were riders on the far side of the valley just after dawn,” he informed her. “Three, maybe more—each with a string of remounts.”

  “Meaning warriors. Tatars?”

  “Definitely.”

  She expelled an audible sigh. “I was beginning to hope they no longer hunted us. They—they didn’t—?”

  “See me? No, mother. But I’m sure they’ll keep at it right up to the first snows. After that, I suspect they’ll give up and let winter do their work for them, believing we stand no chance of making it on our own.”

  Hoelun agreed with his grim assessment. It was logical. After all, who would expect a mere woman with no man—burdened with young children—to long survive without help or adequate provisions? No sane person, for certain!

  Now she saw his eyes make the inevitable shift toward the bundle of blankets laying several paces off to her right—and how his lips tightened with barely controlled emotion. The temptation for her to speak was great, but his pained expression deterred her, she wise enough to hold her tongue. Let him gather the strength to broach the subject of Buri on his own, she thought, appreciating how deeply he loved his youngest brother—and how difficult it was for him to even contemplate the child’s impending death.

  Long moments passed before Temujen broke his silence.

  “It was difficult waking Buri before I left this morning. I got him to drink some water. But just barely. No nourishment of any kind.” He paused, looking at her as if seeking some assurance that all would be well. “Were—were you able to—?”

  She moved her head.

  “While you were gone I coaxed him into a few swallows of fish broth over the day, but he accepted nothing more. The fever is still upon him, weakening him with each passing hour. If anything, I fear it’s only become worse.” She hesitated, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. “For whatever reasons, the gods seem determined to claim Buri, and this we must both accept. There is nothing more we can do. When he stirs, he calls only for you, wanting no other to li
e beside him. Not even me. I know you’re tired, my son, but perhaps you could take some time to—”

  The boy nodded and got to his feet.

  Much later, as Temujen lay holding the sleeping six-year-old Buri in his arms, he found himself dwelling on those bitter days following his father’s murder by the Tatars—and how hopeless their lives seemed prior to the discovery of this vast cavern. After weeks of forced hiding—existing only on grubs, wild fruits, and occasional small rodents—he knew even Hoelun was fast losing all hope for their eventual survival. She never said as much, but he knew, for he saw the light inexorably fading in her eyes.

  It was at this juncture that Temujen—a boy who never before experienced the need to pray for anything in his young life—did so throughout a long night, imploring the great god, Tengri, for some form of divine intervention on their behalf. He swore to pay any price—make any sacrifice heaven demanded of him—if only Tengri would show him a way to save his family.

  His prayer was answered on the following day.

  Temujen felt the child beside him stir, and once again he was overcome with pangs of guilt. Tengri was exacting his due! Clearly heaven’s price was to be the life of little Buri, the brother dearest to him and, ironically, the one who accidentally led them to the cave’s concealed entrance along the river’s mountain shoreline. If Buri hadn’t tumbled into the fast moving current at the precise spot where he did—almost drowning in the process—Temujen would never have seen the dark opening lying up under the enormous slab of stone as he dragged the child ashore.

  Buri snuggled even closer, and it didn’t escape Temujen’s notice that the former bouts of coughing had ceased, the shallow breathing now little more than a low rasp in his tiny chest. Equally distressing, the child’s half-lidded eyes appeared dull and unfocused as he struggled to speak, his cherubic face bright with fever.

  “Temu? Is that—?”

  “I’m here, little brother. How do you feel?”

  “Sort of strange. I’m so very tired. I—I think I was dreaming about father. He was calling to me—from far, far away. But he’s dead, isn’t he, Temu?”

  “Did it frighten you?”

  Buri seemed to consider this; then gave a faint shake of his head. “If—if it really was father, I’m not afraid to go to him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I think maybe he’s lonely. Those bad men—they left him for the wolves to have, didn’t they?”

  “Who told you this?”

  Another pause. “It—it was Qasar, I think. Or Khajiun. I—I really can’t—”

  Watching as the child once again drifted into the silence of sleep, Temujen took the opportunity to readjust the child’s blankets. While doing so, he saw how Buri’s small hands continued to clutch the thin, iron knife he’d given him not three days before. As it still remained sheathed, he saw no practical reason to take it away. Perhaps he drew needed comfort from it. And with his last hours so near . . .

  “Temu?”

  The faint voice startled him, for he thought the child beyond further speech.

  “I’m still here, little brother.”

  “When it happens, you—you won’t leave me alone, will you? Not like they did to our—”

  “Never.”

  “Good. I—I’m not afraid to die. Really, I’m not—”

  “I know,” Temujen managed to say, swallowing with difficulty. “Trust me. I will be with you always. You’ll never be alone, Buri. Not now, not ever.”

  A tremulous smile of satisfaction crossed the child’s lips. “Is that a promise, Temu?”

  “Even better, little brother. My solemn word.”

  Late spring in the year 1912 C.E.

  Forty-seven year old Valentin Sedov opened the front of his sheepskin jacket and heaved a sigh of utter satisfaction as he sat on a flat outcrop of yellow-gray rock. Morning was by far his favorite time of day. The wide expanse of sky was a brilliant azure, the vast and uninhabited landscape surrounding him so still and beautiful as to take ones breath away. And oh, the magnificent solitude of it all! he thought as he puffed on his pipe, his eyes taking in the panorama of forested hills and wide, open valleys. Surely, his was the best job in the entire world!

  This was the beginning of his second full year working as Chief Surveyor on the Amur-Baikal Mistral’—and not a day passed that he didn’t thank his lucky stars for being offered the position. In a very real sense, he felt himself a key player in the making of history, for the long-planned trunk railway system here in eastern Russia was certain to be a major addition to the existing Trans-Siberian Railway. Not only would it open up vast new territories for settlement, it would also be vital in transporting Siberia’s great natural wealth in coal, timber, gold, and other minerals, back to the west. Yet it wasn’t the implied prestige of all this that made him so infinitely grateful. Not a bit of it! Simply put, it was his daily sense of pure joy at just being here.

  Valentin held one nagging regret over his extended absence from Moscow, this being the forced separation from his only child, Galina. She was fifteen when he signed on for this great adventure; quite young, to be sure, but past the age of requiring his constant presence. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn’t as if she lacked proper adult care or supervision, for this wasn’t the case. After the loss of his wife a full decade before, Valentin wisely brought two spinster aunts into his household—in retrospect, a very beneficial decision for all concerned.

  Reflecting on this, he smiled as he stroked his drooping mustache, wondering how his distant family might react to his present appearance. Probably not well, he imagined with growing amusement. In the colorful jargon of his young assistant—an industrious young fellow now preparing breakfast outside their shared tent in the valley below—Valentin had definitely ‘gone native’ over the past thirteen months. And not just because of the additional facial hair. Beneath his sheepskin coat his regular apparel was now the traditional garb of the local Cossacks—the long-sleeved shirt called a rubakha, and the full, baggy trousers referred to as sharovary. All things considered, he found it a most comfortable way to dress.

  He again stood. In his estimation, hot coffee and porridge remained another fifteen minutes away, allowing him ample time for some poking around. And he knew where to begin, for his curiosity was already piqued by something visible farther up the rugged hill—something long and white that seemed somehow out of place. Perhaps the bones of a large animal?

  He took the opportunity to find out.

  As he climbed toward it, he soon realized his initial guess wasn’t far off the mark. Here were bones, no question—but not those belonging to any wild animal! Would that they were! Instead, here lay the unmistakable remnants of a human leg—a narrow foot still attached—the bones sticking out from beneath an enormous boulder.

  How very extraordinary!

  Valentin pursed his lips in concentration as he stepped around the grotesque object, examining the immediate area from several different angles. In his opinion, this couldn’t possibly be an exposed burial. Quite the opposite, in fact, for what he saw bore all the markings of a sad accident . . . and in his mind’s eye he could easily envision what befell this poor devil. In truth, it wasn’t all that mysterious, for the physical evidence was rather obvious—even down to the direction of the prevailing winds. A lone hunter, most probably; someone making camp for the night against the lee of a craggy hill. If this was the case, then it was obvious the poor fellow never took into account the innate danger from the precarious rock formations overhead. His apparent lapse in judgment had proved fatal. At some fateful point, a large section had come loose—possibly the result of heavy rains—the freed boulders instantly crushing the man where he lay.

  Tragic, certainly—yet mercifully quick.

  As to exactly when this incident occurred, Valentin’s best estimation was at least a full century ago. Perhaps even much longer. He based his conclusion on the size of the tilted pine rising above him, its thick, gnarled ro
ots intricately interwoven amongst the tumbled rocks. This alone said the accident was no recent event.

  Prepared to leave, Valentin’s eye now detected something that until this moment had escaped his notice. Close behind the fateful boulder were others of lesser size—and protruding from beneath the packed surface was the tip of something brown and tapered. Obviously, it was one of the man’s possessions. Curious, he knelt and worked it free, holding it up in both hands for closer examination. It was a leather-wrapped horn of some sort, but its unusual size and shape was a puzzle to him, completely unfamiliar.

  Well, he finally concluded after brushing it off, it would definitely make a distinctive souvenir. Perhaps it was something even Galina might appreciate. But as he ambled back down the hill, the unique shape of his prize continued to perplex him.

  Just what the hell kind of horn was this?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Salonika, Greece – The present

  “It’s an aurochs horn,” said Professor David Manning, answering his son’s query. “And it’s old and very fragile . . . So you and Marko be careful around it, okay?”

  “Can we pick it up?”

  David set his paperwork down, smiling at the two inquisitive youngsters on the opposite side of the lab table. Both were five years old, best friends—and being the same height, their expectant little faces just managed to clear the table’s high, metal surface. The tempting object of their latest fascination lay in front of them, cushioned on a folded piece of cloth toweling. Well within their reach. “You already know the answer to that, Jake. I think we’ve been over this before, haven’t we?”

  “But I promise,” he pleaded, “we’ll really be very—”