Lords of the Bow
Lords of the Bow
Conn Iggulden
The second in the bestselling new Conqueror series on Genghis Khan, it is a wonderful, epic story which Conn Iggulden brings brilliantly to life.The gathering of the tribes of the Mongols has been a long time in coming but finally, triumphantly, Temujin of the Wolves, Genghis Khan, is given the full accolade of the overall leader and their oaths. Now he can begin to meld all the previously warring people into one army, one nation. But the task Genghis has set himself and them is formidable. He is determined to travel to the land of the long-time enemy, the Chin and attack them there. The distances and terrain-the wide deserts, the impenetrable mountains-make it a difficult venture even for the legendary Mongolian speed of movement, but the greatest problem is that of the complex fortifications, a way of fighting wars of a settled urban population which the nomadic Mongolians had never come across. Finding ways to tackle that and keeping his tribes together in a strange environment presents another new and exciting challenge for Genghis Khan.Not only must Genghis succeed in this incredible campaign, but he must also reconcile the restless factions among his own generals, mediate between his ambitious brothers and cope with his own reactions to his growing sons. The young warrior has become a notable and victorious military commander of thousands: he must now learn to become a great leader of peoples of many different races and religions.Lords of the Bow is a deeply satisfying novel. It is epic in scope, convincing, and fascinating in the narration of an extraordinary story. Above all Genghis Khan continues to dominate the scene as he matures from the young boy of Wolf of the Plains to the great Conqueror.
THE CONQUEROR SERIES
LORDS OF THE BOW
CONN IGGULDEN
Copyright (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2008
Con Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780007201778
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007285358
Version: 2016-10-10
Dedication (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
To my daughter, Sophie
Map (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Contents
Title Page (#u0615c2ee-e489-5798-b473-04d79f423714)Copyright (#u1a88b7c6-a956-540d-927b-c7e0dc1925fd)Dedication (#u5effe79e-3469-584d-923e-9aa610ffad6a)Map (#u911c79d0-bd27-55bf-a745-8a9ee42005d1)Part One (#uabe836d4-7ffa-5e15-8985-ec706e659e43)Prologue (#u35531752-fd77-5cb0-b019-86be85636fe8)Chapter One (#u4242f180-0346-55c8-b956-cd42c5aa8e0f)Chapter Two (#ud212d231-6dcb-57c2-9b94-f71695c8ea12)Chapter Three (#u9d08e8f3-6626-5636-93b3-ebf2eb0e0912)Chapter Four (#ub6856f18-7cb6-534c-8020-4a97a9faf4de)Chapter Five (#u22e443ed-abf7-5e0f-8c6a-894c00de76e4)Chapter Six (#u183e5d32-17b5-5601-b94d-36cbb3ea4ced)Chapter Seven (#ue4abc73b-6a60-5cc2-bccb-745649a41f76)Chapter Eight (#ud590a1f3-68fe-5073-82e4-efca2138ae31)Chapter Nine (#u44a2fdc3-5cab-5336-8570-c2225c5f0224)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapterr Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)Sample (#litres_trial_promo)Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also By Conn Iggulden (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
‘Behold, a people shall come from the north, and a great nation. They shall hold the bow and the lance; they are cruel and will not show mercy; their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle.’
– Jeremiah 50:41, 42
PROLOGUE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The khan of the Naimans was old. He shivered in the wind as it blew over the hill. Far below, the army he had gathered made its stand against the man who called himself Genghis. More than a dozen tribes stood with the Naimans in the foothills as the enemy struck in waves. The khan could hear yelling and screams on the clear mountain air, but he was almost blind and could not see the battle.
‘Tell me what is happening,’ he murmured again to his shaman.
Kokchu had yet to see his thirtieth year and his eyes were sharp, though shadows of regret played over them.
‘The Jajirat have laid down their bows and swords, my lord. They have lost their courage, as you said they might.’
‘They give him too much honour with their fear,’ the khan said, drawing his deel close around his scrawny frame. ‘Tell me of my own Naimans: do they still fight?’
Kokchu did not respond for a long time as he watched the roiling mass of men and horses below. Genghis had caught them all by surprise, appearing out of the grasslands at dawn when the best scouts said he was still hundreds of miles away. They had struck the Naiman alliance with all the ferocity of men used to victory, but there had been a chance to break their charge. Kokchu silently cursed the Jajirat tribe, who had brought so many men from the mountains that he had thought they might even win against their enemies. For a little time, their alliance had been a grand thing, impossible even a few years before. It had lasted as long as the first charge and then fear had shattered it and the Jajirat had stepped aside.
As Kokchu watched, he swore under his breath, seeing how some of the men his khan had welcomed even fought against their brothers. They had the mind of a pack of dogs, turning with the wind as it blew strongest.
‘They fight yet, my lord,’ he said at last. ‘They have stood against the charge and their arrows sting the men of Genghis, hurting them.’
The khan of the Naimans brought his bony hands together, the knuckles white.
‘That is good, Kokchu, but I should go back down to them, to give them heart.’
The shaman turned a feverish gaze on the man he had served all his adult life.
‘You will die if you do, my lord. I have seen it. Your bondsmen will hold this hill against even the souls of the dead.’ He hid his shame. The khan had trusted his counsel, but when Kokchu watched the first Naiman lines crumple, he had seen his own death coming on the singing shafts. All he had wanted then was to get away.
The khan sighed. ‘You have served me well, Kokchu. I have been grateful. Now tell me again what you see.’
Kokchu took a quick, sharp breath before replying.
‘The brothers of Genghis have joined the battle now. One of them has led a charge into the flanks of our warriors. It is cutting deeply into their ranks.’ He paused, biting his lip. Like a buzzing fly, he saw an arrow darting up towards them and watched it sink to its feathers in the ground just a few feet below where they crouched.
‘We must move higher, my lord,’ he said, rising to his feet without looking away from the seething mass of killing far below.
The old khan rose with him, aided by two warriors. They were cold-faced as they witnessed the destruction of their friends and brothers, but they turned up the hill at Kokchu’s gesture, helping the old man to climb.
‘Have we struck back, Kokchu?’ he asked, his voice quavering. Kokchu turned and winced at what he saw. Arrows hung in the air below, seeming to move with oily slowness. The Naiman force had been split in two by the charge. The armour Genghis had copied from the Chin was better than the boiled leather the Naimans used. Each man wore hundreds of finger-width lengths of iron sewn onto thick canvas over a silk tunic. Even then, it could not stop a solid hit, though the silk often trapped the arrowhead. Kokchu saw the warriors of Genghis weather the storm of shafts. The horsetail standard of the Merkit tribe was trampled underfoot and they too threw down their weapons to kneel, chests heaving. Only the Oirat and Naimans fought on, raging, knowing they could not hold for long. The great alliance had come together to resist a single enemy and with its end went all hope of freedom. Kokchu frowned to himself, considering his future.
‘The men fight with pride, my lord. They will not run from these, not while you are watching.’ He saw a hundred warriors of Genghis had reached the foot of the hill and were staring balefully up at the lines of bondsmen. The wind was cruelly cold at such a height and Kokchu felt despair and anger. He had come too far to fail on a dry hill with the cold sun on his face. All the secrets he had won from his father, surpassed even, would be wasted in a blow from a sword, or an arrow, to end his life. For a moment, he hated the old khan who had tried to resist the new force on the plains. He had failed and that made him a fool, no matter how strong he had once seemed. In silence, Kokchu cursed the bad luck that still stalked him.
The khan of the Naimans was panting as they climbed and he waved a weary hand at the men who held his arms.
‘I must rest here,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘My lord, they are too close,’ Kokchu replied. The bondsmen ignored the shaman, easing their khan down to where he could sit on a ledge of grass.
‘Then we have lost?’ the khan said. ‘How else could the dogs of Genghis have reached this hill, if not over Naiman dead?’
Kokchu did not meet the eyes of the bondsmen. They knew the truth as well as he, but no one wanted to say the words and break the last hope of an old man. Below, the ground was marked in curves and strokes of dead men, like a bloody script on the grass. The Oirat had fought bravely and well, but they too had broken at the last. The army of Genghis moved fluidly, taking advantage of every weakness in the lines. Kokchu could see groups of tens and hundreds race across the battlefield, their officers communicating with bewildering speed. Only the great courage of the Naiman warriors remained to hold back the storm and it would not be enough. Kokchu knew a moment’s hope when the warriors retook the foot of the hill, but it was a small number of exhausted men and they were swept away in the next great charge against them.
‘Your bondsmen still stand ready to die for you, my lord,’ Kokchu murmured. It was all he could say. The rest of the army that had stood so bright and strong the night before lay shattered. He could hear the cries of dying men.
The khan nodded, closing his eyes.
‘I thought we might win this day,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘If it is over, tell my sons to lay down their swords. I will not have them die for nothing.’
The khan’s sons had been killed as the army of Genghis roared over them. The two bondsmen stared at Kokchu as they heard the order, their grief and anger hidden from view. The older man drew his sword and checked the edge, the veins in his face and neck showing clearly, like delicate threads under the skin.
‘I will take word to your sons, lord, if you will let me go.’
The khan raised his head.
‘Tell them to live, Murakh, that they might see where this Genghis takes us all.’
There were tears in Murakh’s eyes and he wiped them away angrily as he faced the other bondsman, ignoring Kokchu as if he were not there.
‘Protect the khan, my son,’ he said softly. The younger man bowed his head and Murakh placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to touch foreheads for a moment. Without a glance at the shaman who had brought them to the hill, Murakh strode down the slope.
The khan sighed, his mind full of clouds.
‘Tell them to let the conqueror through,’ he whispered. Kokchu watched as a bead of sweat hung on his nose and quivered there. ‘Perhaps he will be merciful with my sons once he has killed me.’
Far below, Kokchu saw the bondsman Murakh reach the last knot of defenders. They stood taller in his presence; exhausted, broken men who nonetheless raised their heads and tried not to show they had been afraid. Kokchu heard them calling farewell to one another as they walked with a light step towards the enemy.
At the foot of the hill, Kokchu saw Genghis himself come through the mass of warriors, his armour marbled in blood. Kokchu felt the man’s gaze pass over him. He shivered and touched the hilt of his knife. Would Genghis spare a shaman who had drawn it across his own khan’s throat? The old man sat with his head bowed, his neck painfully thin. Perhaps such a murder would win Kokchu’s life for him and, at that moment, he was desperately afraid of death.
Genghis stared up without moving for a long time and Kokchu let his hand fall. He did not know this cold warrior who came from nowhere with the dawn sun. Kokchu sat at the side of his khan and watched the last of the Naimans go down to die. He chanted an old protective charm his father had taught him, to turn enemies to his side. It seemed to ease the tension in the old khan to hear the tumbling words.
Murakh had been first warrior to the Naimans and had not fought that day. With an ululating yell, he tore into the lines of Genghis’ men without a thought for his defence. The last of the Naimans shouted in his wake, their weariness vanishing. Their arrows sent the men of Genghis spinning, though they rose quickly and snapped the shafts, showing their teeth as they came on. As Murakh killed the first who stood against him, a dozen more pressed him on all sides, making his ribs run red with their blows.
Kokchu continued the chant, his eyes widening as Genghis blew a horn and his men pulled back from the panting Naiman survivors.
Murakh still lived, standing dazed. Kokchu could see Genghis call to him, but he could not hear the words. Murakh shook his head and spat blood on the ground as he raised his sword once more. There were only a few Naimans who still stood and they were all wounded, their blood running down their legs. They too raised their blades, staggering as they did so.
‘You have fought well,’ Genghis shouted. ‘Surrender to me and I will welcome you at my fires. I will give you honour.’
Murakh grinned at him through red teeth.
‘I spit on Wolf honour,’ he said.
Genghis sat very still on his pony before finally shrugging and dropping his arm once more. The line surged forward and Murakh and the others were engulfed in the press of stamping, stabbing men.
High on the hill, Kokchu rose to his feet, his chant dying in his throat as Genghis dismounted and began to climb. The battle was over. The dead lay in their hundreds, but thousands more had surrendered. Kokchu did not care what happened to them.
‘He is coming,’ Kokchu said softly, peering down the hill. His stomach cramped and the muscles in his legs shuddered like a horse beset with flies. The man who had brought the tribes of the plains under his banners was walking purposefully upwards, his face without expression. Kokchu could see his armour was battered and more than a few of its metal scales hung by threads. The fight had been hard, but Genghis climbed with his mouth shut, as if the exertion was nothing to him.
‘Have my sons survived?’ the khan whispered, breaking his stillness. He reached out and took hold of the sleeve of Kokchu’s deel.
‘They have not,’ Kokchu said with a sudden surge of bitterness. The hand fell away and the old man slumped. As Kokchu watched, the milky eyes came up once more and there was strength in the way he held himself.
‘Then let this Genghis come,’ the khan said. ‘What does he matter to me now?’
Kokchu did not respond, unable to tear his gaze from the warrior who climbed the hill. The wind was cold on his neck and he knew he was feeling it more sweetly than ever before. He had seen men faced with death; he had given it to them with the darkest rites, sending their souls spinning away. He saw his own death coming in the steady tread of that man and for a moment he almost broke and ran. It was not courage that held him there. He was a man of words and spells, more feared amongst the Naimans than his father had ever been. To run was to die with the certainty of winter coming. He heard the whisper as Murakh’s son drew his sword, but took no comfort from it. There was something awe-inspiring about the steady gait of the destroyer. Armies had not stopped him. The old khan lifted his head to watch him come, sensing the approach in the same way his sightless eyes could still seek out the sun.
Genghis paused as he reached the three men, gazing at them. He was tall and his skin shone with oil and health. His eyes were wolf-yellow and Kokchu saw no mercy in them. As Kokchu stood frozen, Genghis drew a sword still marked with drying blood. Murakh’s son took a pace forward to stand between the two khans. Genghis looked at him with a spark of irritation and the young man tensed.
‘Get down the hill, boy, if you want to live,’ Genghis said. ‘I have seen enough of my people die today.’
The young warrior shook his head without a word and Genghis sighed. With a sharp blow, he knocked the sword aside and swept his other hand across, plunging a dagger into the young man’s throat. As the life went out of Murakh’s son, he fell onto Genghis with open arms. Genghis gave a grunt as he caught the weight and heaved him away. Kokchu watched the body tumble limply down the slope.
Calmly, Genghis wiped his knife and replaced it in a sheath at his waist, his weariness suddenly evident.
‘I would have honoured the Naimans, if you had joined me,’ he said.
The old khan stared up at him, his eyes empty.
‘You have heard my answer,’ he replied, his voice strong. ‘Now send me to my sons.’
Genghis nodded. His sword came down with apparent slowness. It swept the khan’s head from his shoulders and sent it rolling down the hill. The body hardly jerked at the tug of the blade and only leaned slightly to one side. Kokchu could hear the blood spattering on the rocks as every one of his senses screamed to live. He paled as Genghis turned to him and he spoke in a desperate torrent of words.
‘You may not shed the blood of a shaman, lord. You may not. I am a man of power, one who understands power. Strike me and you will find my skin is iron. Instead, let me serve you. Let me proclaim your victory.’
‘How well did you serve the khan of the Naimans to have brought him here to die?’ Genghis replied.
‘Did I not bring him far from the battle? I saw you coming in my dreams, lord. I prepared the way for you as best I could. Are you not the future of the tribes? My voice is the voice of the spirits. I stand in water, while you stand on earth and sky. Let me serve you.’
Genghis hesitated, his sword perfectly still. The man he faced wore a dark brown deel over a grubby tunic and leggings. It was decorated with patterns of stitching, swirls of purple worn almost black with grease and dirt. The boots Kokchu wore were bound in rope, the sort a man might wear if the last owner had no more use for them.
Yet there was something in the way the eyes burned in the dark face. Genghis remembered how Eeluk of the Wolves had killed his father’s shaman. Perhaps Eeluk’s fate had been sealed on that bloody day so many years before. Kokchu watched him, waiting for the stroke that would end his life.
‘I do not need another storyteller,’ Genghis said. ‘I have three men already who claim to speak for the spirits.’
Kokchu saw the curiosity in the man’s gaze and he did not hesitate.
‘They are children, lord. Let me show you,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply, he reached inside his deel and removed a slender length of steel bound clumsily into a hilt of horn. He sensed Genghis raise his sword and Kokchu held up his free palm to stay the blow, closing his eyes.
With a wrenching effort of will, the shaman shut out the wind on his skin and the cold fear that ate at his belly. He murmured the words his father had beaten into him and felt the calm of a trance come sharper and faster than even he had expected. The spirits were with him, their caress slowing his heart. In an instant, he was somewhere else and watching.
Genghis opened his eyes wide as Kokchu touched the dagger to his own forearm, the slim blade entering the flesh. The shaman showed no sign of pain as the metal slid through him and Genghis watched, fascinated, as the tip raised the skin on the other side. The metal showed black as it poked through and Kokchu blinked slowly, almost lazily, as he pulled it out.
He watched the eyes of the young khan as the knife came free. They were fastened on the wound. Kokchu took a deep breath, feeling the trance deepen until a great coldness was in every limb.
‘Is there blood, lord?’ he whispered, knowing the answer.
Genghis frowned. He did not sheathe his sword, but stepped forward and ran a rough thumb over the oval wound in Kokchu’s arm.
‘None. It is a useful skill,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Can it be taught?’
Kokchu smiled, no longer afraid.
‘The spirits will not come to those they have not chosen, lord.’
Genghis nodded, stepping away. Even in the cold wind, the shaman stank like an old goat and he did not know what to make of the strange wound that did not bleed.
With a grunt, he ran his fingers along his blade and sheathed it.
‘I will give you a year of life, shaman. It is enough time to prove your worth.’
Kokchu fell to his knees, pressing his face into the ground.
‘You are the great khan, as I have foretold,’ he said, tears staining the dust on his cheeks. He felt the coldness of whispering spirits leave him then. He shrugged his sleeve forward to hide the fast-growing spot of blood.
‘I am,’ Genghis replied. He looked down the hill at the army waiting for him to return. ‘The world will hear my name.’ When he spoke again, it was so quiet that Kokchu had to strain to hear him.
‘This is not a time of death, shaman. We are one people and there will be no more battles between us. I will summon us all. Cities will fall to us, new lands will be ours to ride. Women will weep and I will be pleased to hear it.’
He looked down at the prostrate shaman, frowning.
‘You will live, shaman. I have said it. Get off your knees and walk down with me.’
At the foot of the hill, Genghis nodded to his brothers, Kachiun and Khasar. Each of them had grown in authority in the years since they had begun the gathering of tribes, but they were still young and Kachiun smiled as his brother walked amongst them.
‘Who is this?’ Khasar asked, staring at Kokchu in his ragged deel.
‘The shaman of the Naimans,’ Genghis replied.
Another man guided his pony close and dismounted, his eyes fastened on Kokchu. Arslan had once been swordsmith to the Naiman tribe and Kokchu recognised him as he approached. The man was a murderer, he remembered, forced into banishment. It was no surprise to find such as he amongst Genghis’ trusted officers.
‘I remember you,’ Arslan said. ‘Has your father died then?’
‘Years ago, oathbreaker,’ Kokchu replied, nettled by the tone. For the first time, he realised he had lost the authority he had won so painfully with the Naimans. There were few men in that tribe who would have looked on him without lowering their eyes, for fear that they would be accused of disloyalty and face his knives and fire. Kokchu met the gaze of the Naiman traitor without flinching. They would come to know him.
Genghis watched the tension between the two men with something like amusement.
‘Do not give offence, shaman. Not to the first warrior to come to my banners. There are no Naimans any longer, nor ties to tribe. I have claimed them all.’
‘I have seen it in the visions,’ Kokchu replied immediately. ‘You have been blessed by the spirits.’
Genghis’ face grew tight at the words.
‘It has been a rough blessing. The army you see around you has been won by strength and skill. If the souls of our fathers were aiding us, they were too subtle for me to see them.’
Kokchu blinked. The khan of the Naimans had been credulous and easy to lead. He realised this new man was not as open to his influence. Still, the air was sweet in his lungs. He lived and he had not expected even that an hour before.
Genghis turned to his brothers, dismissing Kokchu from his thoughts.
‘Have the new men give their oath to me this evening, as the sun sets,’ he said to Khasar. ‘Spread them amongst the others so that they begin to feel part of us, rather than beaten enemies. Do it carefully. I cannot be watching for knives at my back.’
Khasar dipped his head before turning away and striding through the warriors to where the defeated tribes still knelt.
Kokchu saw a smile of affection pass between Genghis and his younger brother Kachiun. The two men were friends and Kokchu was beginning to learn everything he could. Even the smallest detail would be useful in the years to come.
‘We have broken the alliance, Kachiun. Did I not say we would?’ Genghis said, clapping him on the back. ‘Your armoured horses came in at the perfect time.’
‘As you taught me,’ Kachiun replied, easy with the praise.
‘With the new men, this is an army to ride the plains,’ Genghis said, smiling. ‘It is time to set the path, at last.’ He thought for a moment.
‘Send out riders in every direction, Kachiun. I want the land scoured of every wanderer family and small tribe. Tell them to come to the black mountain next spring, near the Onon River. It is a flat plain that will hold all the thousands of our people. We will gather there, ready to ride.’
‘What message shall they take?’ Kachiun asked.
‘Tell them to come to me,’ he said softly. ‘Tell them Genghis calls them to a gathering. There is no one to stand against us now. They can follow me or they can spend their last days waiting for my warriors on the horizon. Tell them that.’ He looked around him with satisfaction. In seven years, he had gathered more than ten thousand men. With the survivors of the defeated allied tribes, he had almost twice that number. There was no one left on the plains who could challenge his leadership. He looked away from the sun to the east, imagining the bloated, wealthy cities of the Chin.
‘They have kept us apart for a thousand generations, Kachiun. They have ridden us until we were nothing more than savage dogs. That is the past. I have brought us together and they will be trembling. I’ll give them cause.’
CHAPTER ONE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
In the summer dusk, the encampment of the Mongols stretched for miles in every direction, the great gathering still dwarfed by the plain in the shadow of the black mountain. Ger tents speckled the landscape as far as the eye could see and around them thousands of cooking fires lit the ground. Beyond those, herds of ponies, goats, sheep and yaks stripped the ground of grass in their constant hunger. Each dawn saw them driven away to the river and good grazing before returning to the gers. Though Genghis guaranteed the peace, tension and suspicion grew each day. None there had seen such a host before and it was easy to feel hemmed in by the numbers. Insults imaginary and real were exchanged as all felt the pressure of living too close to warriors they did not know. In the evenings, there were many fights between the young men, despite the prohibition. Each dawn found one or two bodies of those who had tried to settle an old score or grudge. The tribes muttered among themselves while they waited to hear why they had been brought so far from their own lands.
In the centre of the army of tents and carts stood the ger of Genghis himself, unlike anything seen before on the plains. Half as high again as the others, it was twice the width and built of stronger materials than the wicker lattice of the gers around it. The construction had proved too heavy to dismantle easily and was mounted on a wheeled cart drawn by eight oxen. As the night came, many hundreds of warriors directed their feet towards it, just to confirm what they had heard and to marvel.
Inside, the great ger was lit with mutton-oil lamps, casting a warm glow over the inhabitants and making the air thick. The walls were hung with silk war banners, but Genghis disdained any show of wealth and sat on a rough wooden bench. His brothers lay sprawled on piled horse blankets and saddles, drinking and chatting idly.
Before Genghis sat a nervous young warrior, still sweating from the long ride that had brought him amongst such a host. The men around the khan did not seem to be paying attention, but the messenger was aware that their hands were never far from their weapons. They did not seem tense or worried at his presence and he considered that their hands might always be near a blade. His people had made their decision and he hoped the elder khans knew what they were doing.
‘If you have finished your tea, I will hear the message,’ Genghis said.
The messenger nodded, placing the shallow cup back on the floor at his feet. He swallowed his last gulp as he closed his eyes and recited, ‘These are the words of Barchuk, who is khan to the Uighurs.’
The conversations and laughter around him died away as he spoke and he knew they were all listening. His nervousness grew.
‘It is with joy that I learned of your glory, my lord Genghis Khan. We had grown weary waiting for our people to know one another and rise. The sun has risen. The river is freed of ice. You are the gurkhan, the one who will lead us all. I will dedicate my strength and knowledge to you.’
The messenger stopped and wiped sweat from his brow. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Genghis was looking at him quizzically and his stomach tightened in fear.
‘The words are very fine,’ Genghis said, ‘but where are the Uighurs? They have had a year to reach this place. If I have to fetch them …’ He left the threat dangling.
The messenger spoke quickly. ‘My lord, it took months just to build the carts to travel. We have not moved from our lands in many generations. Five great temples had to be taken apart, stone by stone, each one numbered so that it could be built again. Our store of scrolls took a dozen carts by itself and cannot move quickly.’
‘You have writing?’ Genghis asked, sitting forward with interest.
The messenger nodded without pride.
‘For many years now, lord. We have collected the writings of nations in the west, whenever they have allowed us to trade for them. Our khan is a man of great learning and has even copied works of the Chin and the Xi Xia.’
‘So I am to welcome scholars and teachers to this place?’ Genghis said. ‘Will you fight with scrolls?’
The messenger coloured as the men in the ger chuckled.
‘There are four thousand warriors also, my lord. They will follow Barchuk wherever he leads them.’
‘They will follow me, or they will be left as flesh on the grass,’ Genghis replied. For a moment, the messenger could only stare, but then he dropped his eyes to the polished wooden floor and remained silent.
Genghis stifled his irritation.
‘You have not said when they will come, these Uighur scholars,’ he said.
‘They could be only days behind me, lord. I left three moons ago and they were almost ready to leave. It cannot be long now, if you will have patience.’
‘For four thousand, I will wait,’ Genghis said softly, thinking. ‘You know the Chin writing?’
‘I do not have my letters, lord. My khan can read their words.’
‘Do these scrolls say how to take a city made of stone?’
The messenger hesitated as he felt the sharp interest of the men around him.
‘I have not heard of anything like that, lord. The Chin write about philosophy, the words of the Buddha, Confucius and Lao Tzu. They do not write of war, or if they do, they have not allowed us to see those scrolls.’
‘Then they are of no use to me,’ Genghis snapped. ‘Get yourself a meal and be careful not to start a fight with your boasting. I will judge the Uighurs when they finally arrive.’
The messenger bowed low before leaving the ger, taking a relieved breath as soon as he was out of the smoky atmosphere. Once more, he wondered if his khan understood what he had promised with his words. The Uighur ruled themselves no longer.
Looking around at the vast encampment, the messenger saw twinkling lights for miles. At a word from the man he had met, they could be sent in any direction. Perhaps the khan of the Uighurs had not had a choice.
Hoelun dipped her cloth into a bucket and laid it on her son’s brow. Temuge had always been weaker than his brothers and it seemed an added burden that he fell sick more than Khasar or Kachiun, or Temujin himself. She smiled wryly at the thought that she must now call her son ‘Genghis’. It meant the ocean and was a beautiful word twisted beyond its usual meaning by his ambition. He who had never seen the sea in his twenty-six years of life. Not that she had herself, of course.
Temuge stirred in his sleep, wincing as she probed his stomach with her fingers.
‘He is quiet now. Perhaps I will leave for a time,’ Borte said.
Hoelun glanced coldly at the woman Temujin had taken as a wife. Borte had given him four perfect sons and for a time Hoelun had thought they would be as sisters, or at least friends. The younger woman had once been full of life and excitement, but events had twisted her somewhere deep, where it could not be seen. Hoelun knew the way Temujin looked at the eldest boy. He did not play with little Jochi and all but ignored him. Borte had fought against the mistrust, but it had grown between them like an iron wedge into strong wood. It did not help that his three other boys had all inherited the yellow eyes of his line. Jochi’s were a dark brown, as black as his hair in dim light. While Temujin doted on the others, it was Jochi who ran to his mother, unable to understand the coldness in his father’s face when he looked at him. Hoelun saw the young woman glance at the door to the ger, no doubt thinking of her sons.
‘You have servants to put them to bed,’ Hoelun chided. ‘If Temuge wakes, I will need you here.’
As she spoke, her fingers drifted over a dark knot under the skin of her son’s belly, just a few fingerbreadths above the dark hair of his groin. She had seen such an injury before, when men lifted weights too heavy for them. The pain was crippling, but most of them recovered. Temuge did not have that kind of luck, and never had. He looked less like a warrior than ever as he had grown to manhood. When he slept, he had the face of a poet and she loved him for that. Perhaps because his father would have rejoiced to see the men the others had become, she had always found a special tenderness for Temuge. He had not grown ruthless, though he had endured as much as they. She sighed to herself and felt Borte’s eyes on her in the gloom.
‘Perhaps he will recover,’ Borte said. Hoelun winced. Her son blistered under the sun and rarely carried a blade bigger than an eating knife. She had not minded as he began to learn the histories of the tribes, taking them in with such speed that the older men were amazed at his recall. Not everyone could be skilled with weapons and horses, she told herself. She knew he hated the sneers and jibes that followed him in his work, though there were few who dared risk Genghis hearing of them. Temuge refused to mention the insults and that was a form of courage all its own. None of her sons lacked spirit.
Both women looked up as the small door of the ger opened. Hoelun frowned as she saw Kokchu enter and bow his head to them. His fierce eyes darted over the supine figure of her son and she fought not to show her dislike, not even understanding her own reaction. There was something about the shaman that set her teeth on edge and she had ignored the messengers he had sent. For a moment, she drew herself up, struggling between indignation and weariness.
‘I did not ask for you,’ she said coldly.
Kokchu seemed oblivious to the tone.
‘I sent a slave to beg a moment with you, mother to khans. Perhaps he has not yet arrived. The whole camp is talking of your son’s illness.’
Hoelun felt the shaman’s gaze fasten on her, waiting to be formally welcomed, as she looked at Temuge once more. Always he was watching, as if, inside, someone else looked out. She had seen how he pushed himself into the inner circles around Genghis and she could not like him. The warriors might reek of sheep turds, mutton fat and sweat, but those were the smells of healthy men. Kokchu carried an odour of rotting meat, though whether it was from his clothes or his flesh, she could not tell.
Faced with her silence, he should have left the ger, or risked her calling for guards. Instead, he spoke brazenly, somehow certain that she would not send him away.
‘I have some healing skill, if you will let me examine him.’
Hoelun tried to swallow her distaste. The shaman of the Olkhun’ut had only chanted over Temuge, without result.
‘You are welcome in my home, Kokchu,’ she said at last. She saw him relax subtly and could not shake the feeling of being too close to something unpleasant.
‘My son is asleep. The pain is very great when he is awake and I want him to rest.’
Kokchu crossed the small ger and crouched down beside the two women. Both edged unconsciously away from him.
‘He needs healing more than rest, I think.’ Kokchu peered down at Temuge, leaning close to smell his breath. Hoelun winced in sympathy as he reached out to Temuge’s bare stomach and probed the area of the lump, but she did not stop him. Temuge groaned in his sleep and Hoelun held her breath.
After a time, Kokchu nodded to himself.
‘You should prepare yourself, old mother. This one will die.’
Hoelun jerked out a hand and caught the shaman by his thin wrist. Her strength surprised him.
‘He has wrenched his gut, shaman. I have seen it many times before. Even on ponies and goats have I seen it and they always live.’
Kokchu undid her shaking clasp with his other hand. It pleased him to see fear in her eyes. With fear, he could own her, body and soul. If she had been a young Naiman mother, he might have sought sexual favours in return for healing her son, but in this new camp, he needed to impress the great khan. He kept his face still as he replied.
‘You see the darkness of the lump? It is a growth that cannot be cut out. Perhaps if it were on the skin, I would burn it off, but it will have run claws into his stomach and lungs. It eats him mindlessly and it will not be satisfied until he is dead.’
‘You are wrong,’ Hoelun snapped, but there were tears in her eyes.
Kokchu lowered his gaze so that she would not see his triumph glitter there.
‘I wish I was, old mother. I have seen these things before and they have nothing but appetite. It will continue to savage him until they perish together.’ To make his point, he reached down and squeezed the swelling. Temuge jerked and came awake with a sharp breath.
‘Who are you?’ Temuge said to Kokchu, gasping. He struggled to sit up, but the pain made him cry out and he fell back onto the narrow bed. His hands tugged at a blanket to cover his nakedness and his cheeks flushed hotly under Kokchu’s scrutiny.
‘He is a shaman, Temuge. He is going to make you well,’ Hoelun said. Temuge broke into fresh sweat and she dabbed the cloth to his skin as he settled back. After a time, his breathing slowed and he drifted into exhausted sleep once more. Hoelun lost a little of her tension, if not the terror Kokchu had brought into her home.
‘If it is hopeless, shaman, why are you still here?’ she said. ‘There are other men and women who need your healing skill.’ She could not keep the bitterness from her voice and did not guess that Kokchu rejoiced in it.
‘I have fought what eats him twice before in my life. It is a dark rite and dangerous for the man who practises it as well as for your son. I tell you this so you do not despair, but it would be foolish to hope. Consider him to have died and if I win him back, you will know joy.’
Hoelun felt a chill as she looked into the shaman’s eyes. He smelled of blood, she realised, though no trace of it showed on his skin. The thought of him touching her perfect son made her clench her hands, but he had frightened her with his talk of death and she was helpless against him.
‘What will you have me do?’ she whispered.
He sat very still while he considered.
‘It will take all my strength to bring the spirits to your son. I will need a goat to take in the growth and another to cleanse him with blood. I have the herbs I need, if I am strong enough.’
‘What if you fail?’ Borte asked suddenly.
Kokchu took a deep breath, letting it shudder from his lips.
‘If my strength fails as I begin the chant, I will survive. If I reach the final stage and the spirits take me, then you will see me torn out of my body. It will live for a time, but without the soul it will be empty flesh. This is no small thing, old mother.’
Hoelun watched him, once more suspicious. He seemed so plausible, but his quick eyes were always watching, seeing how his words were received.
‘Fetch two goats, Borte. Let us see what he can do.’
It was dark outside and while Borte brought the animals, Kokchu used the cloth to wipe Temuge’s chest and belly. When he pressed his fingers into Temuge’s mouth, the young man woke again, his eyes bright with terror.
‘Lie still, boy. I will help you if I have the strength,’ Kokchu told him. He did not look round as the bleating goats were brought in and dragged to his side, his attention fully on the young man in his care.
With the slowness of ritual, Kokchu took four brass bowls from his robe and placed them on the ground. He poured grey powder into each one and lit a taper from the stove. Soon, snakes of white-grey smoke made the air chokingly thick in the ger. Kokchu breathed deeply, filling his lungs. Hoelun coughed into her hand and flushed. The fumes were making her dizzy, but she would not leave her son alone with a man she did not trust.
In a whispering voice, Kokchu began to chant in the most ancient tongue of their people, almost forgotten. Hoelun sat back as she heard it, remembering the sounds from the healers and shamans of her youth. It brought back darker memories for Borte, who had heard her husband recite the old words on a night long before, butchering men and forcing slivers of burned heart between her lips. It was a language of blood and cruelty, well suited to the winter plains. There was no word in it for kindness, or for love. As Borte listened, the ribbons of smoke seeped into her, making her skin numb. The tumbling words brought a rush of vicious images and she gagged.
‘Be still, woman,’ Kokchu growled at her, his eyes wild. ‘Be silent while the spirits come.’ His chant resumed with greater force, hypnotic as he repeated phrases over and over, growing in volume and urgency. The first goat bleated in desperation as he held it over Temuge, looking into the young man’s terrified eyes. With his knife, Kokchu slit the goat’s throat and held it while its blood poured and steamed over Hoelun’s son. Temuge cried out at the sudden warmth, but Hoelun touched her hand to his lips and he quietened.
Kokchu let the goat fall, still kicking. His chant grew faster and he closed his eyes, reaching deep into Temuge’s gut. To his surprise, the young man remained silent and Kokchu had to squeeze the lump hard to make him cry out. The blood hid the sharp twist as he undid the strangled piece of gut and shoved it back behind the wall of muscle. His father had shown him the ritual with a real tumour and Kokchu had seen the old man chanting while men and women screamed, sometimes yelling back over their open mouths so that his spittle entered their throats. Kokchu’s father had taken them so far past exhaustion that they were lost and they were mad and they believed. He had seen obscene growths shrink and die after that point of agony and faith. If a man gave himself utterly to the shaman, sometimes the spirits rewarded that trust.
There was no honour in using the craft to fool a young man with a torn stomach, but the rewards would be great. Temuge was brother to the khan and such a man would always be a valuable ally. He thought of his father’s warnings about those who abused the spirits with lies and tricks. The man had never understood power, or how intoxicating it could be. The spirits swarmed around belief like flies on dead meat. It was not wrong to make belief swell in the camp of the khan. His authority could only increase.
Kokchu breathed heavily as he chanted, rolling his eyes up in his head as he pushed his hand deeper into Temuge’s belly. With a cry of triumph, he made a wrenching movement, pulling out a small piece of calf’s liver he had hidden from sight. In his grip, it jerked like something alive and Borte and Hoelun recoiled from it.
Kokchu continued to chant as he yanked the second goat close. It too struggled, but he forced his hand past its yellow teeth, though they gnawed at his knuckles. He pushed the foul meat down the gullet until the animal could do nothing but swallow in jerking spasms. When he saw the throat move, he stroked it hard, forcing the liver into the goat’s stomach before letting it go.
‘Do not let her touch the other animals,’ he said, panting, ‘or it will spread and live again, perhaps even get back into your son.’ Sweat dripped from his nose as he watched them.
‘It would be better to burn the goat to ashes. She must not be eaten as the flesh contains the growth. Be sure with this. I do not have the strength to do it again.’
He let himself slump as if his senses had left him, though he still breathed like a dog in the sun.
‘The pain has gone,’ he heard Temuge say wonderingly. ‘It is sore, but nothing like it was before.’ Kokchu sensed Hoelun lean over her son and heard him gasp as she touched the place where his gut had come through his stomach muscle.
‘The skin is whole,’ Temuge said. Kokchu could hear the awe in his voice and chose that moment to open his eyes and sit up. He was dull-eyed and squinted through the haze of smoke.
His long fingers hunted in the pockets of his deel, pulling out a piece of twisted horsehair stained with old blood.
‘This has been blessed,’ he told them. ‘I will bind it over the wound so that nothing may enter.’
No one spoke as he took a grubby ribbon of cloth from his deel and made Temuge sit up. Kokchu chanted under his breath as he wound it around the young man’s gut, covering the stiff piece of hair with line after line of cloth and heaving each one tight until it was hidden from view. When he had knotted it, Kokchu sat back, satisfied that the gut would not pop out and spoil all his work.
‘Keep the charm in place for a turn of the moon,’ he said wearily. ‘Let it fall and perhaps the growth will find its home once more.’ He closed his eyes, as if exhausted. ‘I must sleep now, for tonight and most of tomorrow. Burn that goat before you leave her to spread the growth. She will be dead in a few hours at the most.’ Given that he had laced the liver with enough poison to kill a full-grown man, he knew he spoke the truth. There would be no suspiciously healthy animal to spoil his achievement.
‘Thank you for what you have done,’ Hoelun said. ‘I do not understand it …’
Kokchu smiled tiredly.
‘It took me twenty years of study to begin my mastery, old mother. Do not think to understand it in a single evening. Your son will heal now, as he would have done if the growth had not begun to writhe in him.’ He thought for a moment. He did not know the woman, but surely she would tell Genghis what had happened. To make certain, he spoke again.
‘I must ask that you do not tell anyone of what you have seen. There are still tribes where they kill those who practise the old magic. It is seen as too dangerous.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is.’ With that, he knew the tale would spread right through the camp before he woke the next day. There were always some who wanted a charm against illness, or a curse on an enemy. They would leave milk and meat at his ger, and with power came respect and fear. He longed for them to be afraid, for when they were, they would give him anything. What did it matter if he had not saved a life this time? The belief would be there when another life hung in his hands. He had dropped a stone in the river and the ripples would go far.
Genghis and his generals were alone in the great ger as the moon rose above the host of his people. The day had been busy for all of them, but they could not sleep while he remained awake and there would be yawns and bleary eyes the following day. Genghis seemed as fresh as he had that morning, when he had welcomed two hundred men and women from a Turkic tribe so far to the north-west that they could not understand more than a few words of what he said. Still, they had come.
‘Every day brings more of them, with two moons left of summer,’ Genghis said, looking round proudly at men who had been with him since the first days. At fifty years of age, Arslan was growing old after the years of war. He and his son Jelme had come to Genghis when he had nothing but his wits and his three brothers. Both had remained utterly loyal through hard years and Genghis had let them prosper and take wives and wealth. Genghis nodded to the swordsmith who had become his general, pleased to see the man’s back as straight as ever.
Temuge did not attend their discussions, even when he was well. Of all the brothers, he had shown no aptitude for tactics. Genghis loved him, but he could not trust him to lead others. He shook his head, realising that his thoughts were wandering. He too was weary, though he would not allow it to show.
‘Some of the new tribes have never even heard of the Chin,’ Kachiun said. ‘The ones who came this morning dress like nothing I’ve ever seen. They are not Mongols, as we are.’
‘Perhaps,’ Genghis said. ‘But I will make them welcome. Let them prove themselves in war before we judge them. They are not Tartars, or blood enemies to any man here. At least I will not be called to untangle some grudge going back a dozen generations. They will be useful.’
He took a draught from a rough clay cup, smacking his lips at the bitterness of the black airag.
‘Be wary in the camp, my brothers. They have come because not to come invites us to destroy them. They do not trust us yet. Many of them know only my name and nothing else.’
‘I have men listening at every fire,’ Kachiun said. ‘There will always be some who seek an advantage in such a gathering. Even as we speak here, there will be a thousand other conversations discussing us. Even whispers will be heard. I will know if I have to act.’
Genghis nodded to his brother, proud of him. Kachiun had grown into a stocky man with an immense breadth of shoulder from his bow practice. They shared a bond that Genghis could claim with no one else, not even Khasar.
‘Still, my back itches when I walk through the camp. While we wait, they grow restless, but there are more to come and I cannot move yet. The Uighurs alone will be valuable. Those who are already here may test us, so be ready and let no insult go unpunished. I will trust you in your judgement, even if you throw a dozen heads at my feet.’
The generals in the ger met each other’s eyes without smiling. For every man they had brought to the great plain, two more had come. The advantage they held was that not one of the strongest khans knew the extent of their support. Anyone riding into the shadow of the black mountain saw a single host and gave no thought to the fact that it was composed of a hundred different factions, watching each other in mutual mistrust.
Genghis yawned at last.
‘Get some sleep, my brothers,’ he said wearily. ‘Dawn is close and the herds have to be moved to new grass.’
‘I will look in on Temuge before I sleep,’ Kachiun said.
Genghis sighed.
‘Let us hope the sky father makes him well. I cannot lose my only sensible brother.’
Kachiun snorted, throwing open the small door to the outside air. When they had all left, Genghis rose, cracking the stiffness out of his neck with a swift jerk of his hands. His family ger was nearby, though his sons would be asleep. It was one more night when he would thump into the blankets without his family knowing he had come home.
CHAPTER TWO (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Genghis eyed his younger brother with disquiet. Temuge had spent the morning telling anyone who would listen about the cure Kokchu had wrought. The camp was a stifling place despite its size and any news spread quickly. By noon, it would be in the mouths of the newest wanderers off the plains.
‘So how do you know it was not a strangled bit of gut?’ Genghis said, watching him. Temuge seemed to stand a little taller than usual in the family ger and his face was lit with excitement and something more. Whenever he mentioned Kokchu’s name, his voice would dip almost to a murmur. Genghis found his awe irritating.
‘I saw him pull it out of me, brother! It squirmed and writhed in his hand and I nearly vomited to see it. When it was gone, the pain went with it.’ Temuge touched his hand to the place and winced.
‘Not completely gone, then,’ Genghis noted.
Temuge shrugged. The area above and below the bandage was a mass of purple and yellow, though it was already beginning to fade.
‘It was eating me alive before. This is no worse than a bruise.’
‘Yet you say there is no cut,’ Genghis said, wonderingly.
Temuge shook his head, his excitement returning. He had explored the area with his fingers in the darkness before dawn. Under the tight cloth, he could feel a split in the muscle that was still incredibly tender. He felt sure it was from there the growth had been torn.
‘He has power, brother. More than any one of the charlatans we have seen before. I trust what I saw. You know the eyes do not lie.’
Genghis nodded.
‘I will reward him with mares, sheep and new cloth. Perhaps a new knife and boots. I cannot have the man who saved my brother looking like a beggar.’
Temuge winced in sudden doubt.
‘He did not want the story to get out, Genghis. If you reward him, everyone will know what he did.’
‘Everyone does know,’ Genghis replied. ‘Kachiun told me at dawn and three more have come to talk about it before I saw you. There are no secrets in this camp, you should know that.’
Temuge nodded thoughtfully.
‘Then he cannot mind, or he will forgive if he does.’ He hesitated before going on, nervous under his brother’s gaze.
‘With your permission, I will learn from him. I think he would take me as a pupil and I have never felt such a desire to know …’ He broke off as Genghis frowned.
‘I had hoped you would resume your duties with the warriors, Temuge. Do you not want to ride with me?’
Temuge flushed and looked at the floor.
‘You know as well as I do that I will never be a great officer. Perhaps I could learn to be competent, but the men will always know I was raised for my blood and not my skill. Let me learn from this Kokchu. I do not think he would be unwilling.’
Genghis sat perfectly still as he considered. Temuge had more than once been the subject of mirth in the tribes. His archery was abysmal and he won no respect with his red-faced efforts with a sword. He could see his youngest brother was trembling, his face tight with fear that Genghis would refuse. Temuge was out of place in the tribes and there had been many evenings when Genghis had wished for him to find something he could do. Yet he was reluctant to let him go so easily. Men like Kokchu stood apart from the tribes. They were feared certainly, and that was good, but they were not part of the family. They were not made welcome and greeted as old friends. Genghis shook his head slightly. Temuge too had always been outside the tribes, a watcher. Perhaps this was the way his life would go.
‘On the condition that you practise with a blade and bow for two hours each day. Give your word on that and I will confirm your choice, your path.’
Temuge nodded, smiling shyly.
‘I will. Perhaps I will be more useful to you as a shaman than I ever was as a warrior.’
Genghis’ eyes became cold.
‘You are still a warrior, Temuge, though it has never been easy for you. Learn what you want from this man, but in your private heart, remember that you are my brother and our father’s son.’
Temuge felt tears come to his eyes and dipped his head before his brother could see and be ashamed for him.
‘I do not forget it,’ he said.
‘Then tell your new master to come to me and be rewarded. I will embrace him in front of my generals and let them know he is valuable to me. My shadow will ensure you are treated with courtesy in the camp.’
Temuge bowed low before turning away and Genghis was left alone, his thoughts twisting darkly. He had hoped Temuge would harden himself and ride with his brothers. He had yet to meet a shaman he liked and Kokchu had all the arrogance of his kind. Genghis sighed to himself. Perhaps it was justified. The healing had been extraordinary and he remembered how Kokchu had passed a blade through his own flesh without a drop of blood. The Chin were said to have workers of magic, he recalled. It might be useful to have men to match them. He sighed again. Having his own brother as one of that breed had never been in his plans.
Khasar strolled through the camp, enjoying the bustle and noise. New gers were springing up on every spare bit of ground and Genghis had ordered deep latrine pits dug at every intersection. With so many men, women and children in one place, new problems had to be tackled each day and Khasar found no interest in the details. Kachiun seemed to enjoy the challenges and had organised a group of fifty strong men to dig the pits and help erect the gers. Khasar could see two of them building a shelter for bundles of new birch arrows to protect them from rain. Many warriors made their own, but Kachiun had ordered vast numbers for the army and every ger Khasar passed had women and children busy with feathers, thread and glue, bundling them up in fifties to be taken away. The forges of the tribes roared and spat all night to make the arrowheads and every dawn brought new bows to the ranges for testing.
The vast camp was a place of life and work and it pleased Khasar to see his people so industrious. In the distance, a new-born child started squalling and he smiled to hear it. His feet followed tracks in the grass that had been worn down to the clay beneath. When they left, the camp would look like a vast drawing of shapes and he struggled to picture it.
Relaxed as he was, he did not at first take notice of the disturbance at a meeting of paths ahead of him. Seven men stood in an angry knot, wrestling to pull a reluctant stallion to the ground. Khasar paused to watch them geld the animal, wincing as one flailing hoof caught a man in the stomach and left him writhing on the earth. The pony was young and powerfully muscled. It fought the men, using its huge strength against the ropes they had on it. Once it was down, they would truss the legs and render it helpless for the gelding knife. They seemed hardly to know what they were doing and Khasar shook his head in amusement, beginning to walk past the struggling group.
As he edged around the kicking beast, it reared, pulling one of the men off his feet. The pony snorted in fury and backed up into Khasar, stepping on his foot so that he shouted in pain. The closest man to him reacted to the noise, back-handing him across the face to get him out of their way.
Khasar erupted with a fury to match the bound horse. He hammered a blow in return. The man staggered, dazed, and Khasar saw the others drop their ropes, their eyes dangerous. The pony took advantage of the unexpected freedom to bolt, racing away through the camp with its head down. All around them, the other stallions of the herd whinnied in response to its calls and Khasar was left facing furious men. He stood before them without fear, knowing they would recognise his armour.
‘You are Woyela,’ he said, looking to break the tension. ‘I will have your horse recaptured and brought to you.’
They said nothing as they exchanged glances. Each of them shared a resemblance and Khasar realised they were the sons of the Woyela khan. Their father had arrived only a few days before, bringing five hundred warriors as well as the families. He had a reputation for quick temper and a prickly sense of honour. As the men crowded around Khasar, he thought the same traits had been passed to his sons.
Khasar hoped for a moment that they would let him go without a fight, but the one he had struck was wild with anger and it was he who pressed closest, bolstered by the presence of his brothers. A livid mark showed on the side of his face where Khasar had hit him.
‘What right do you have to interfere?’ one of the others snapped. They were deliberately crowding him and Khasar could see the bustle of the camp had stopped around them. There were many families watching the exchange and, with a sinking feeling, he knew he could not back away without shaming Genghis, perhaps even risking his hold on the camp.
‘I was trying to get past,’ he ventured through gritted teeth, readying himself. ‘If your bullock of a brother had not struck me, you would have had that pony on the ground by now. Next time, truss his legs first.’
One of the largest spat on the ground near his feet and Khasar clenched his fists as a voice cut through the air.
‘What is this?’ The effect on the men was instant and they stood still. Khasar glanced at an older man who bore the same stamp of features. It could only be the khan of the Woyela and Khasar could do nothing but bow his head. It had not yet come to blades and he knew better than to insult the one man who might control his sons.
‘You are brother to the man who calls himself Genghis,’ the khan said. ‘Yet this is a Woyela camp. Why are you here to anger my sons and spoil their work?’
Khasar flushed in irritation. No doubt Kachiun would have been informed of the confrontation and would have men on the way, but he did not trust himself to answer at first. The khan of the Woyela was clearly enjoying the situation and Khasar did not doubt he had seen it from the beginning. When he had mastered his temper, he spoke slowly and clearly to the khan.
‘I struck the man who struck me. There is no cause to see blood spilled today.’
In reply, the khan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He had a hundred warriors within easy call and his sons were ready to beat humility into the man who stood so proudly before him.
‘I might have expected such a response. Honour cannot be set aside when it is not convenient. This part of the camp is Woyela land. You trespass upon it.’
Khasar assumed the cold face of the warrior to hide his irritation.
‘My brother’s orders were clear,’ he said. ‘All tribes may use the land while we gather. There is no Woyela ground here.’
The khan’s sons muttered amongst themselves as they heard his words and the khan himself seemed to stiffen.
‘I say there is and I see no one of rank to challenge my word. Yet you will hide in your brother’s shadow.’
Khasar took a slow breath. If he claimed the protection of Genghis, the incident would end. The khan of the Woyela was not such a fool as to challenge his brother in the camp, with a vast army at his call. Yet the man watched him like a snake ready to strike and Khasar wondered if it had been chance that put the brothers and the wild stallion in his path that morning. There would always be those willing to test men who presumed to lead them in war. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Kachiun enjoyed politics and manoeuvring, but he had no taste for it, nor for the posturing of the khan and his sons.
‘I will not spill blood here,’ he began, seeing the triumph in the khan’s eyes, ‘but I will not need my brother’s shadow.’ As he spoke, he slammed his fist into the chin of the nearest brother, knocking him cold. The others roared and leaped at him almost as one. Blows rained on his head and shoulders as he moved backwards, then braced his legs and struck hard into a face, feeling the nose break. Khasar enjoyed fighting as much as any man who had grown up amongst brothers, but the odds were impossible and he almost went down as his head was snapped back and hard thumping blows crashed against his armour. At least he was protected there and as long as he remained on his feet, he could duck and slip their punches while hammering back at them with everything he had.
Even as he formed the thought, one of them took him around the waist and dumped him on the ground. Khasar kicked out hard, hearing a yelp as he covered his head against their stamping boots. Where was Kachiun, by the spirits? Khasar could feel blood pouring from his nose and his lips had begun to swell. His head was ringing from a kick to his right ear. Much more of this and he would be permanently injured.
He felt the weight of one of them straddling him, trying to pull Khasar’s arms away from his face. Khasar peered through a gap at the man. He chose his moment and shoved a thumb hard into his attacker’s eye. It seemed to give under his strike, and he hoped he had blinded him. The Woyela son rolled off with a cry and, if anything, the kicks intensified.
A shout of pain came from somewhere close and, for a moment, Khasar was left alone to try to get to his feet. He saw a stranger had leaped among the Woyela brothers, knocking one to the ground and kicking another hard in the knee. The newcomer was little more than a boy, but he could punch with all his weight behind a blow. Khasar smiled at him through broken lips, but he was too dazed to rise.
‘Stop this!’ ordered a voice behind him and Khasar knew a moment of hope before he realised Temuge had not arrived with a dozen men to help him. His younger brother ran straight up to the struggling mass and heaved one of the Woyela men away.
‘Get Kachiun,’ Khasar shouted, his heart sinking. Temuge would accomplish nothing but getting himself beaten and then there would be blood. Genghis might accept one brother fighting, but a second would be a personal attack on his family too great to ignore. The khan of the Woyela seemed oblivious to the danger and Khasar heard him laugh as one of his sons smashed a fist into Temuge’s face, knocking him to his knees. The young stranger too had lost the advantage of surprise and he was suffering under a rain of kicks and punches. The Woyela sons were laughing as they transferred their efforts to the two newcomers and Khasar raged to hear Temuge cry out in pain and humiliation, fending off their kicks as he struggled to rise.
Another sound came then, a series of hard cracks that had the sons of the Woyela yelping and falling back. Khasar continued to protect his head on the ground until he heard Kachiun’s voice, tight with fury. He had brought men with him and it had been their sticks Khasar had heard.
‘Stand, if you can, brother. Tell me who you want dead,’ Kachiun snapped to Khasar. As Khasar lowered his hands, he spat red phlegm onto the grass and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mass of bruising and blood and the khan of the Woyela stiffened at the sight, his amusement fading.
‘This was a private matter,’ the khan said quickly as Kachiun glared at him. ‘Your brother claimed no formal rank.’
Kachiun looked at Khasar, who shrugged, wincing as his bruised body protested.
Temuge too had regained his feet, looking as pale as milk. His eyes were cold and his shame made him angrier than Khasar or Kachiun had ever seen him. The third man straightened painfully and Khasar nodded to him in thanks. He too had been battered, but he grinned infectiously as he rested his hands on his knees and panted.
‘Be careful,’ Kachiun murmured to his brothers, barely loud enough to hear. He had brought a bare dozen of his workers, all he could grab when he heard of the fight. They would last only moments before the armed men of the Woyela. Hard eyes in the crowd watched the scene and the khan regained some of his confidence.
‘Honour has been satisfied,’ he declared. ‘There is no grudge between us.’ He turned to Khasar to see how his words had been received. Khasar stood smiling crookedly. He had heard the sound of marching feet coming closer. All of those who stood there stiffened in alarm at the jingling approach of armoured warriors. It could only be Genghis.
‘There is no grudge?’ Kachiun hissed at the khan. ‘That is not for you to decide, Woyela.’
All eyes turned to see Genghis coming. He walked with Arslan and five other men in full armour. All carried drawn blades and the Woyela sons glanced at each other in dawning worry at what they had done. They had talked of testing one of the brothers of Genghis and that part had gone beautifully. Only the arrival of Temuge had dragged them into deeper water and none of them knew how it would be resolved.
Genghis took in the scene, his face a mask. His gaze lingered on Temuge and, for a moment, the yellow eyes tightened at the sight of his little brother’s trembling hands. The khan of the Woyela spoke before anyone else.
‘This is already settled, lord,’ he said. ‘It was merely a diversion, a fight over a horse.’ He swallowed dryly. ‘There is no need for you to rule on this.’
Genghis ignored him.
‘Kachiun?’
Kachiun controlled his anger to reply in a calm voice.
‘I do not know what started it. Khasar can tell you that.’
Khasar winced at hearing his name. Under Genghis’ stare, he considered his words carefully. The entire camp would hear eventually and he could not be seen to complain like a child to his father. Not if he expected to lead them in war afterwards.
‘I am satisfied with my part in this, brother,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If I have need to discuss it further with these men, I will do so on another day.’
‘You will not,’ Genghis snapped, understanding the implied threat as well as the Woyela sons did themselves. ‘I forbid it.’
Khasar bowed his head.
‘As you say, lord,’ he replied.
Genghis looked at Temuge, seeing the shame at his public beating, coupled with the bright rage that had surprised Khasar and Kachiun before.
‘You too are marked, Temuge. I cannot believe you were part of this.’
‘He tried to stop it,’ Kachiun replied. ‘They knocked him to his knees and …’
‘Enough!’ Temuge snapped. ‘In time, I will return every blow.’ Blushing red, he seemed close to tears, like a child. Genghis stared at him and his own anger suddenly broke free. With a grunt, he shook his head and strode through the brothers of the Woyela. One of them was too slow and Genghis barged him down with his shoulder, barely seeming to feel the impact. The khan raised his hands in a plea, but Genghis grabbed his deel and yanked him forward. As he unsheathed his sword, the Woyela warriors drew their own in a rasp of metal.
‘Hold!’ Genghis roared at them, a voice that had carried across a hundred battles. They ignored the order and, as they closed, Genghis jerked the khan upwards like a marmot in his grip. In two quick slashes, he brought his sword across the man’s thighs, gashing the muscles.
‘If my brother was made to kneel, Woyela, you will not stand again,’ he said. The khan was bellowing and blood poured over his feet as he fell. Before the warriors could reach him, Genghis raised his gaze to stare them down.
‘If I see one sword in a hand in ten heartbeats more, not a single Woyela man, woman or child will live past this evening.’
The officers amongst the warriors hesitated, raising their arms to hold back the others. Genghis stood before them without a trace of fear while the khan at his feet fell to one side, moaning. The sons still stood frozen, horrified at what they had seen. With an effort of will, the khan made a gesture that his officers chose to interpret as assent. They sheathed their swords and the warriors followed, their eyes wide. Genghis nodded.
‘When we ride, you Woyela will be the guards for my brother,’ he said. ‘If you will have them?’ Khasar murmured assent, his swollen face blank.
‘Then this is finished. There is no blood feud and I have seen justice served.’
Genghis caught the eyes of his brothers and they fell in with him as he strode back to the great ger and the business of the day. Khasar clapped a hand on the young man who had helped him, taking him along rather than leaving him to be beaten again.
‘This one came to help me,’ Khasar said as they walked. ‘He knows no fear, brother.’
For an instant, Genghis glanced at the young man, seeing his pride.
‘What is your name?’ he asked gruffly, still seething at what he had seen.
‘Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.’
‘Come and see me when you want a good horse and armour,’ Genghis said. Tsubodai beamed and Khasar punched him lightly in the shoulder, approving. Behind them, the Woyela khan was left to be tended by his women. With such wounds, he would never stand straight, or perhaps even walk again.
As Genghis and his brothers strode through the tribes gathered in the shadow of the black mountain, there were many who looked on them with awe and approval. He had shown he would not be challenged and one more small victory had been won.
The Uighurs were sighted as the summer waned and the floodwaters from the hills swelled the Onon River to bursting point. The plains were still a vivid green and skylarks leaped and fluttered as the Uighur carts passed them.
It was an impressive display of strength and Genghis answered it with five thousand of his horsemen in ranks before the great camp. He did not come to meet them himself, knowing that his absence would be taken as subtle disapproval for their lateness. Instead, the Woyela took a position around Khasar as he rode to meet the new arrivals and none of the khan’s sons dared do more than stare at the back of his head.
As the Uighurs drew close, Khasar approached the cart that led the dark snake of people and animals. His eyes flickered over the warriors, judging their quality. They were well armed and seemed fierce and alert, though he knew appearances could be deceiving. They would learn the tactics that had brought victory to Genghis, or be reduced to carrying messages amongst the host.
The Uighurs were horse traders as well as scholars and Khasar was pleased to see the vast herd that accompanied them. There had to be three ponies for every warrior and he knew the camp would be busy over the next month as the other tribes came to bargain and replenish their blood lines.
At his raised hand, the warriors around the lead cart drew up in a defensive position, their hands on the hilts of swords. The Uighurs must have had a good supply of ore for so many to carry blades, Khasar thought. Perhaps there would be trade in steel as well. There were still too many in the camp with nothing but a knife to complement their bows. Khasar directed his gaze to a small grey-haired man on the front of the cart. It was he who had held up an arm to halt the column and Khasar saw how the warriors looked to him for orders. Though the man’s deel was of simple cut, it had to be the Uighur khan, Barchuk. Khasar decided to give him honour by speaking first.
‘You are welcome in the camp, lord,’ he said formally. ‘You are the last of the great tribes to arrive, but my lord Genghis has received your message in goodwill and allocated grazing land for your families.’
The small man nodded thoughtfully as he looked past Khasar to the riders who waited in formation.
‘I can see we must be the last. I can hardly believe there are any more warriors in the world, given the size of the host on this plain. You are the first men we have seen in many days of travel.’ He shook his head in wonder at the thought. ‘The Uighurs will pledge to Genghis, as I have promised. Show us where to pitch our gers and we will do the rest.’
In comparison to some of the pricklier khans, Khasar appreciated the man’s bluntness. He smiled.
‘I am his brother, Khasar,’ he said. ‘I will show you myself.’
‘Step up beside me then, Khasar. I am hungry for news.’ The khan patted the wooden bench of the cart and Khasar dismounted, sending his horse back to the first rank of Woyela warriors with a slap on its rump.
‘If we are the last, perhaps it will not be long before Genghis points this great arrow at his enemies,’ the khan said as Khasar clambered up beside him. Barchuk clicked in his cheek at the oxen and the cart moved off with a lurch. Khasar watched how the Uighur warriors kept formation around them and was pleased. They could ride, at least.
‘Only he can say, lord.’ The bruises he had taken from the Woyela had almost faded, though he felt Barchuk’s eyes drift over them without comment. The camp had been quiet for a time after seeing the Woyela humbled, but with the end of summer, they were restless again and, now that the Uighurs had arrived, he thought his brother would move in just a few days. He felt his own excitement mounting at the idea. They had the tribes and Genghis would take their oaths of loyalty. After that, war would come and he and his brothers would take the Chin foot off the necks of their people.
‘You seem cheerful, Khasar,’ Barchuk observed as he guided the cart around a hump in the grass. The older man was wiry with strength and his eyes seemed constantly amused.
‘I was thinking that we have never before come together, lord. Always there has been some blood feud, or Chin bribery to keep us at each other’s throats.’ He waved an arm to encompass the camp on the plain. ‘This? This is a new thing.’
‘It may end in destruction for our people,’ Barchuk murmured, watching him closely. Khasar grinned. He remembered Kachiun and Genghis debating the same point and he echoed their words.
‘Yes, but not one of us, not one man, woman or child will be alive in a hundred years. Everyone you see here will be bones.’
He saw Barchuk frown in puzzlement and wished he had Kachiun’s ability to speak as he went on.
‘What is the purpose of life if not to conquer? To steal women and land? I would rather be here and see this than live out my life in peace.’
Barchuk nodded.
‘You are a philosopher, Khasar.’
Khasar chuckled.
‘You are the only one who thinks it. No, I am the great khan’s brother and this is our time.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Barchuk of the Uighurs spoke for hours as the sun set outside the great ger. Genghis was fascinated by the man’s knowledge and if he came across a concept he did not understand, he made the khan go over and over it until the meaning was clear.
Of all subjects, anything to do with the Chin had Genghis leaning forward in his seat like a hawk, his eyes bright with interest. The Uighurs had come from land to the far south-west, bordering the Gobi Desert and the Chin kingdom of Xi Xia. Genghis revelled in every detail Barchuk could provide of Chin trade caravans, their dress and customs, and, most of all, their weapons and armour. It was true that merchants may not have had the best of guards, but each scrap of information fell upon the desert of Genghis’ imagination like spring water, vanishing deep.
‘Peace has brought you wealth and security,’ Genghis said as Barchuk paused to clear his throat with a gulp of tea. ‘Perhaps you could have approached the king of the Xi Xia to ally against me. Did you consider it?’
‘Of course,’ Barchuk replied, disarming him with honesty. ‘But if I have given you the impression of their friendship, it is false. They trade with us because they have markets for the skins of snow leopards from the mountains, for hard woods, even seeds of rare plants to aid them in their study of healing. In return, they sell us raw iron, carpets, tea and sometimes a scroll they have already copied many times.’ He paused and smiled wryly at the gathering of men. ‘They bring their litters and their guards into Uighur towns, but their distaste can be read on every face, even those they call slaves.’ The memories had brought a flush of irritation to his face and he wiped his brow before continuing. ‘Since I have learned their language, I know them too well to ask for support. You have to see them to understand, lord. They care nothing for those who are not Xi Xia subjects. Even the Chin regard them as a separate people, though they share many of the same customs. They pay tribute to the Chin emperor and, though under his protection, still consider themselves apart from their powerful neighbour. Their arrogance is colossal, lord.’
Barchuk leaned forward, reaching out to tap Genghis on his knee. He did not seem to notice the way the surrounding men bristled.
‘We have had their scraps for many generations, lord, while they kept the best meat behind their forts and walls.’
‘And you would see them broken,’ Genghis murmured.
‘I would. All I ask is that their libraries are turned over to the Uighurs for study. In addition, we have seen rare gems and a stone that is like milk and fire. They do not trade such items no matter what we offer.’
Genghis watched the khan closely as he spoke. Barchuk knew he had no right to demand spoils from war. The tribes were not paid to fight and anything they won or looted was theirs by tradition. Barchuk asked a great deal, but Genghis could not think of another group who might want the libraries of the Xi Xia. The very idea made him want to smile.
‘You may have the scrolls, Barchuk. My word on it. Anything else goes to the victors and is in the hands of the sky father. I can give you no special claim.’
Barchuk sat back and gave a reluctant nod.
‘It is enough, with everything else we will win from them. I have seen my people ridden down in the road by their horses, lord. I have seen them starve while the Xi Xia grew fat on crops they would not share. I have brought my warriors to extract a price for their arrogance and our towns and fields are empty behind us. The Uighurs are with you, gers, horses, salt and blood.’
Genghis reached out and the two men bound the oath with a quick clasp that hid the seriousness of such a declaration. The tribes waited outside the ger and Genghis would demand a similar oath from them all as soon as he was ready. To offer it in private was a demonstration of support that Genghis did not treat lightly.
‘I ask one thing of you, Barchuk, before we go out to them,’ he said. Barchuk paused in the middle of rising and his face became a mask as he realised the talk was not over.
‘My youngest brother has expressed an interest in learning,’ Genghis said. ‘Stand, Temuge, where he can see you.’ Barchuk looked round at the slender young man who rose and bowed to him. He acknowledged the gesture with a stiff dip of his head before turning back to Genghis.
‘My shaman, Kokchu, will lead him in this, when the time comes, but I would like them to read and learn whatever they think is worthwhile. I include the scrolls you already own as well as any we might win from our enemies.’
‘The Uighurs are yours to command, lord,’ Barchuk said. It was not too much to ask and he did not understand why Genghis seemed ill at ease bringing up the subject. Temuge beamed at his back and Kokchu bowed his head as if he had received a great honour.
‘It is settled then,’ Genghis said. His eyes were shadowed, flickering in the lamps that had been lit against the evening gloom. ‘If the Xi Xia are as rich as you say, they will be the first to see us on the move. Will the Chin support them?’
Barchuk shrugged.
‘I cannot say for certain. Their lands border one another, but the Xi Xia have always been separate in their kingdom. The Chin may raise an army against you to counter any later threat. Or they may let them die to the last man without lifting a hand. No one can say how their minds work.’
Genghis shrugged.
‘If you had told me ten years ago that the Kerait were facing a great host, I would have laughed and counted myself lucky not to be in the path of the battle. Now I call them brothers. It does not matter if the Chin come against us. If they do, I will break them all the faster. In truth, I would rather face them on a plain than have to climb the walls of their cities.’
‘Even cities can fall, lord,’ Barchuk said softly, his own excitement mounting.
‘And they will,’ Genghis replied. ‘In time, they will. You have shown me the underbelly of the Chin in these Xi Xia. I will gut them there and then pull their heart out.’
‘I am honoured to serve, lord,’ Barchuk replied. He stood and bowed low, holding the pose until Genghis made a gesture for him to rise.
‘The tribes have assembled,’ Genghis said, standing and stretching his back. ‘If we are to cross the desert, we will need to collect water and feed for the horses. Once I have the oath, there is nothing more holding us to this place.’ He paused for a moment.
‘We came here as tribes, Barchuk. We leave as a nation. If you are recording events in those scrolls as you describe, be sure to write that.’
Barchuk’s eyes shone, fascinated by the man who commanded the great host.
‘I will see it done, lord. I will teach the script to your shaman and your brother that they might read them to you.’
Genghis blinked in surprise, intrigued at the image of his brother repeating words trapped on stiff calfskin.
‘It would be interesting to see such a thing,’ he said. He took Barchuk by the shoulder, giving him honour by letting him leave the great ger in his company. The generals fell in behind. Outside, they could hear the hushed murmur of the gathered tribes as they waited for the one who would lead them.
Even in the summer darkness, the camp glowed yellow under the stars, lit by ten thousand fluttering flames. The centre had been cleared in a vast ring around the ger of Genghis, and the warriors of a hundred factions had left their families to stand together in the flickering light. From one man to the next, their armour could be a piece of stiff leather or the helmets and neat sets of iron scales copied from the Chin. Some carried the stamp of their tribes, while most were blank, showing that they were new and that there was only one tribe under the sky. Many of them held swords, fresh from the forges that had been working night and day since coming to the plain. Huge holes had been dug by sweating men under the sun as they carted ore back to the flames and watched in excitement as the swordsmiths turned out weapons they could hold. More than one man had burned his fingers reaching for them before they had cooled properly, but they had never dreamed of owning a long blade and they did not mind.
The wind always blew across the plain, but that evening the breeze was gentle as they waited for Genghis.
When he came, Barchuk of the Uighurs was guided down the steps of the cart and stood in the first rank around the wheels of wood and iron. Genghis stood for a moment, looking over the heads of the crowd and marvelling at the size of it. His brothers, Arslan and Jelme and last the shaman, Kokchu, stepped down from the height, each one pausing to take in the ranks stretching away in pools of light.
Then he was alone and he closed his eyes for a moment. He gave thanks to the sky father for bringing him to that place, with such an army to follow him. He said a few brief words to the spirit of his father in case that man could see him. Yesugei would be proud of his son, he knew. He had broken new ground for his people and only the spirits could tell where the path would end. As he opened his eyes, he saw Borte had brought his four sons to stand in the front rank, three of them too young to be left on their own. Genghis nodded sharply to them, his gaze lingering on the eldest, Jochi, and Chagatai whom he had named after the shaman of the Wolves. At almost nine, Jochi was in awe of his father and he lowered his eyes while Chagatai merely stared, his nervousness obvious.
‘We came here from a hundred different tribes,’ Genghis roared. He wanted his voice to carry, but even a throat trained on the field of battle could only reach so far. Those who could not hear would have to follow the lead of those who could.
‘I have brought Wolves to this plain, Olkhun’ut and Kerait. I have brought Merkit and Jajirat, Uirat and Naimans. Woyela have come here, Tuvan, Uighurs and Uriankhai.’ As he named each group, there was a stir from where they sat. He noticed how they remained together even for that night. There would be no easy assimilation for those who counted tribal honour above all else. It did not matter, he told himself. He would raise their gaze higher. His memory was faultless as he named each tribe that had ridden to join him in the shadow of the black mountain. He left no one out, knowing that the omission would be noted and remembered.
‘More, I have called those who had no tribe,’ he went on, ‘but still had honour and heeded the call of blood to blood. They rode to us in trust. And I say to you all, there are no tribes under the sky father. There is only one Mongol nation and it begins this night, in this place.’
Some of those who listened cheered, while others remained stony-faced. Genghis kept the warrior’s mask on his own features. He needed them to understand there was no loss of honour in what he asked.
‘We are brothers in blood, separated too long ago for anyone here to know. I claim a greater family of all tribes, a blood tie to you all. I call you as brothers to my standard and we will ride as one family, one nation.’ He paused, judging the response. They had heard the idea before, whispered in the gathering from tribe to tribe. Still, it shook them to hear it from him. The bulk of the men did not cheer and he had to crush a sudden spike of irritation. The spirits knew he loved them, but his own people were maddening at times.
‘We will pile spoils enough to equal the mountain at your backs. You will have ponies and wives and gold, oils and sweetmeats. You will take lands for your own and you will be feared wherever they hear your names. Every man here will be a khan to those who bow to him.’
They cheered that, at least, and Genghis risked a small smile, pleased he had found the right tone. Let the lesser khans worry about the ambition of those around them. He meant every word of it.
‘To the south is the great desert,’ he called to them. Silence fell on the instant and he could feel their attention like a force. ‘We will cross it at a speed the Chin kingdoms cannot imagine. We will fall on the first of them like wolves on lambs and they will scatter before our swords and bows. I will give you their riches and their women for your own. That is where I will plant my standard and the ground will shake as I do. The earth mother will know her sons and brothers have found their inheritance and she will rejoice to hear thunder on the plains.’
The cheering came again and Genghis raised his arms for quiet, though it pleased him.
‘We will ride into the dry country, taking all the water we need for one sudden strike. After that, we will not stop until the sea bounds us in every direction. I am Genghis who say this and my word is iron.’
They roared in appreciation and Genghis snapped his fingers at Khasar, who stood waiting on the ground below. Khasar handed up a heavy pole of silver birch onto which eight horsetails had been tied. The crowd murmured as they saw it. Some recognised the black of the Merkit, or the red tail of the Naimans, bound with the others. Every one of them had been the khan’s standard for one of the great tribes and Genghis had them all on the plain. As he took the staff, Khasar handed up a horsetail dyed with Uighur blue.
Barchuk’s eyes narrowed at this most potent of symbols, but with the host at his back, he was still filled with excitement and the vision of the future. As he felt Genghis’ eyes flicker over him, he bowed his head.
With nimble fingers, Genghis bound the tip of the last horsetail to the others and planted the butt on the wood at his feet. The breeze caught the coloured standard, so that the tails whipped and twisted as if alive.
‘I have bound the colours,’ he called to them. ‘When they are bleached white, there will be no differences between them. They will be the standard of a nation.’
At his feet, his officers raised their swords and the host responded, caught up in the moment. Thousands of weapons jabbed the sky and Genghis nodded to them, overwhelmed. It took a long time for the noise to end, though he held up his free hand and patted the air with it.
‘The oath you will take is binding, my brothers. Yet it is no stronger than the blood that binds us already. Kneel to me.’
The front ranks dipped immediately and the rest followed in ripples outward as they saw what was happening. Genghis watched closely for hesitation, but there was none. He had them all.
Kokchu climbed the steps back up to the cart, his expression carefully blank. In his wildest ambition, he had not dreamed of such a moment. Temuge had put in the word for him and Kokchu congratulated himself on bringing the young man to the point where he would make the suggestion.
As the tribes knelt, Kokchu revelled in his status. He wondered if Genghis had considered he would be the only one amongst them who did not take the oath. Khasar, Kachiun and Temuge knelt on the grass with all the others, khans and warriors alike.
‘Under one khan, we are a nation,’ Kokchu called over their heads, his heart pounding in excitement. The words echoed back to him, filling the valley in waves as those behind repeated them. ‘The khan offers gers, horses, salt and blood, in all honour.’
Kokchu gripped the railing of the cart as they chanted. After that night, they would all know the shaman to the great khan. He glanced upwards as the words came in surges from further and further back. Under those clear skies, the spirits would be writhing in wild and simple joy, unseen and unfelt by anyone but the most potent of his calling. In the chant of thousands, Kokchu sensed them swirling in the air and he exulted. At last, the tribes fell silent and he let out a long breath.
‘Now you, shaman,’ Genghis murmured at his back. Kokchu started in surprise, before falling to his knees and repeating the same oath.
When Kokchu had rejoined the others around the cart, Genghis drew his father’s sword. For those who could see, his eyes glittered with satisfaction.
‘It is done. We are a nation and we will ride. Tonight, let no man think of his tribe and mourn. We are a greater family and all lands are ours to take.’
He dropped his arm as they bellowed, this time as one. The smell of roasting mutton was strong on the breeze and his step was light as the warriors prepared for a night of drink and enough food to make their bellies swell. There would be a thousand children begun by drunken warriors before dawn. Genghis considered returning to Borte in his tent and masked the discomfort at the thought of her accusing eyes. She had done her duty to him, no man could deny it, but the paternity of Jochi remained a doubt, like a thorn in his skin.
He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts and accepted a skin of black airag from Kachiun. Tonight, he would drink himself to insensibility, as khan to all the tribes. In the morning, they would prepare to cross the dry lands of the Gobi Desert and walk the path he had chosen for them.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The wind screamed around the carts, carrying a fine mist of sand that made the men and women spit constantly and wince at the grit in their food. Flies tormented them all, tasting the salt from their sweat and leaving red marks where they had bitten. During the day, the Uighurs had shown them how to protect their faces with cloth, leaving only their eyes to peer out at the bleak landscape, shimmering with heat. Those who wore armour found their helmets and neckpieces too hot to touch, but they did not complain.
After a week, the army of Genghis climbed a range of rust-coloured hills to enter a vast plain of rippled dunes. Though they had hunted in the foothills, game had become rare as the heat increased. On the blistering sand, the only sign of life was tiny black scorpions scuttling away from their ponies and vanishing into holes. Time and again the carts became bogged down and had to be dug out in the full heat of the day. It was backbreaking work, but every hour lost was one that brought them closer to running out of water.
They had filled thousands of bloated goatskins, tied with sinew and baked hard in the sun. With no other source, the supply dwindled visibly and, in the heat, many of the skins were found to have burst under the weight of the rest. They had carried only enough for twenty days and already twelve had passed. The warriors drank the blood of their mounts every second day, as well as a few cupfuls of warm, brackish water, but they were close to the edge of endurance and became dazed and listless, their lips dry enough to bleed.
Genghis rode with his brothers at the head of the army, squinting into the glare for some sign of the mountains he had been told to expect. The Uighurs had traded deep into the desert and he depended on Barchuk to guide them. He frowned to himself as he considered the endless flat basin of rippled black and yellow, stretching all the way to the horizon. The heat of the day was the worst he had known, but his skin had darkened and his face was seamed in new lines of dirt and sand. He had almost been glad of the cold on the first night, until it grew so biting that the furs in the gers gave little protection. The Uighurs had shown the other tribesmen how to heat rocks in the fire and then sleep on a layer of them as they cooled. More than a few warriors had brown patches on their backs where the rocks had burned their deels, but the cold had been beaten and, if they survived the constant thirst, the desert held nothing else that could stop them coming. Genghis wiped his mouth at intervals as he rode, shifting a pebble in his cheek to keep the spittle flowing.
He glanced behind him as Barchuk rode up to his side. The Uighurs had covered the eyes of their ponies with cloth and the animals rode blind. Genghis had tried that with his own mounts, but those who had not experienced it before bucked and snorted at the cloth until it was removed, then suffered through the hot days. Many of the animals had developed crusts of whitish-yellow muck on their eyelids and would need healing salves if they ever found their way out of the desert. Hardy as they were, they had to be given their share of precious water. On foot, the new nation would die in the desert.
Barchuk pointed to the ground, jabbing his hand and raising his voice over the unremitting wind.
‘Do you see the blue flecks in the sand, lord?’
Genghis nodded, working his dry mouth so that he could reply.
‘They mark the beginning of the last stage before the Yinshan Mountains. There is copper here. We have traded it with the Xi Xia.’
‘How much further then before we see these mountains?’ Genghis asked hoarsely, refusing to let his hopes rise.
Barchuk shrugged with Mongol impassivity.
‘We have no certain knowledge, but merchants from Xi Xia are still fresh when they cross our trails in this place, their horses barely marked with dust. It cannot be far now.’
Genghis looked back over his shoulder at the silent mass of riders and carts. He had brought sixty thousand warriors into the desert, as many again of their wives and children. He could not see the end of the tail that stretched back for miles, the forms blurring into one another until they were no more than a dark smear wavering in the heat. The water was almost gone and soon they would have to slaughter the herds, taking only what meat they could carry and leaving the rest on the sands. Barchuk followed his gaze and chuckled.
‘They have suffered, lord, but it will not be long now before we are knocking at the doors of the Xi Xia kingdom.’
Genghis snorted wearily to himself. The Uighur khan’s knowledge had brought them into this bleak place, but they still had only his word that the kingdom was as rich and fertile as he said. No warriors of the Uighurs had been allowed to travel beyond the mountains that bordered the desert to the south and Genghis had no way to plan his attack. He considered this irritably as his horse sent another scorpion skittering over the sand. He had staked them all on the chance of a weak point in the Chin defences, but he still wondered what it would be like to see a great city of stone, as tall as a mountain. Against such a thing, his horsemen might only stare in frustration.
The sand under his pony’s hooves grew blue-green as they rode, great stripes of the strange colours stretching away in all directions. When they stopped to eat, the children threw it into the air and drew pictures with sticks. Genghis could not share their pleasure as the supply of water dwindled and each night was spent shivering despite the hot rocks.
There was little to amuse the army before they fell into weary sleep. Twice in twelve days, Genghis had been called to settle some dispute between tribes as heat and thirst made tempers flare. Both times, he had executed the men involved and made it clear that he would not allow anything to threaten the peace of the camp. He considered them to have entered enemy lands and if the officers could not handle a disturbance, his involvement meant a ruthless outcome. The threat was enough to keep most of the hotheaded warriors from outright disobedience, but his people had never been easy to rule and too many hours in silence made them fractious and difficult.
As the fourteenth dawn brought the great heat once more, Genghis could only wince as he threw off his blankets and scattered the stones under him to be collected for the next night by his servants. He felt stiff and tired, with a film of grit on his skin that made him itch. When little Jochi stumbled into him in some game with his brothers, Genghis cuffed him hard, sending him weeping to his mother for solace. They were all short-tempered in the desert heat and only Barchuk’s promises of a green plain and a river at the end kept their eyes on the horizon, reaching out to it in imagination.
On the sixteenth day, a low rise of black hills appeared. The Uighur warriors riding as scouts came back at a canter, their mounts sending up puffs of sand and labouring through its grip. Around them, the land was almost green with copper and black rocks poked through like sharp blades. Once more, the families could see lichen and scrub bushes clinging to life in the shadow of the rocks and, at dawn, the hunters brought hares and voles caught in their night traps. The mood of the families lifted subtly, but they were all suffering from thirst and sore eyes so that tempers remained foul in the camp. Despite their tiredness, Genghis increased the patrols around the main force and had the men drill and practise with their bows and swords. The warriors were dark and whip-thin from the desert, but they took to the work with grim endurance, each man determined not to fail under the eyes of the great khan. Slowly, imperceptibly the pace increased once more, while the heavier carts drifted to the rear of the procession.
As they drew closer to the hills, Genghis saw that they were far higher than he had realised. They were made of the same black rock that broke through the sand around him, sharp and steep. Climbing them was impossible and he knew there would have to be a pass through the peaks or he would be forced to travel right around their length. With their water supply almost gone, the carts were lighter, but he knew they had to find Barchuk’s valley quickly or they would begin to die. The tribes had accepted him as khan, but if he had brought them to a place of heat and death, if he had killed them, they would take revenge while they still had the strength. Genghis rode straight-backed in the saddle, his mouth a mass of sores. Behind him, the tribes muttered sullenly.
Kachiun and Khasar squinted through the heat-hazed air at the foot of the cliffs. With two of the scouts, they had ridden ahead of the main army to look for a pass. The scouts were experienced men and the sharp eyes of one had pointed out a promising cut between peaks. It started well enough as the steep slopes gave way into a narrow canyon that echoed to the hooves of the four riders. On either side, the rocks extended up towards the sky, too high for a man to climb alone, never mind with carts and horses. It took no special skill in tracking to see the ground had been worn away in a wide path and the small group kicked their mounts into a canter, expecting to be able to report a way through to the Xi Xia kingdom beyond the hills
As they rode around a kink in the trail, the scouts drew rein in astonishment, awed to silence. The end of the canyon was blocked by a huge wall of the same black stone as the mountains themselves. Each block on its own would have been heavier than anything the tribes could move and the wall seemed strange, somehow wrong to their eyes. They had no craftsmen who worked in stone. With its neat lines and smooth surfaces, it was clearly the work of man, but the sheer size and scale was something they had only seen in wild rocks and valleys. At the base was the final proof that it was not a natural thing. A gate of black iron and wood was set into the base of the wall, ancient and strong.
‘Look at the size of it!’ Kachiun said, shaking his head. ‘How are we going to get through that?’
The scouts merely shrugged and Khasar whistled softly to himself.
‘It would be easy to trap us in this spiritless place. Genghis must be told quickly, before he follows us in.’
‘He’ll want to know if there are warriors up there, brother. You know it.’
Khasar eyed the steep slopes at either side, suddenly feeling vulnerable. It was easy to imagine men dropping stones from the top and there would be no way to avoid them. He considered the pair of scouts who had accompanied them into the canyon. They had been warriors of the Kerait before Genghis had claimed them. Now, they waited impassively for orders, hiding their awe at the size of the wall ahead.
‘Perhaps they just built it to block an army from the desert,’ Khasar said to his brother. ‘It might be unmanned.’
As he spoke, one of the scouts pointed, directing their gaze to a tiny figure moving along the top of the wall. It could only be a soldier and Khasar felt his heart sink. If there was another pass, Barchuk did not know of it and finding a way past the mountains would see the army of Genghis begin to wither. Khasar made his decision, knowing it could mean the lives of the two scouts.
‘Ride to the foot of the wall, then come straight back,’ he said to them. The two men bowed their heads, exchanging a glance in expressionless faces. As one, they dug in their heels and called ‘Chuh!’ to make their mounts run. Sand spattered into the air as they began their race to the foot of the black wall and Khasar and Kachiun watched through eyes slitted against the glare.
‘Do you think they will reach it?’ Kachiun asked. Khasar shrugged without speaking, too intent on watching the wall.
Kachiun thought he saw a sharp gesture from the distant guard. The scouts had the sense not to ride together, taking a split path at full gallop and veering right and left to spoil the aim of any archers. For a long time, there was no sound but the echoes of their hooves and the brothers watched with held breath.
Kachiun swore as a line of archers appeared on the wall.
‘Come on,’ he urged under his breath. Dark specks flashed down at the two scouts riding wildly in and Kachiun saw one of them swerve recklessly as he reached the great gate. They could see him slam his fist into the wood as he turned his mount, but the archers were loosing in waves and, an instant later, he and his horse were pinned with a dozen shafts. The dying man cried out and his mount began the trip back, missing a step and stumbling as it was hit again and again. They fell at last almost together, lying still on the sand.
The second scout was luckier, though he had not touched the wall. For a time, it looked as if he might escape the shafts and Khasar and Kachiun shouted to him. Then he jerked in the saddle and his horse reared and collapsed, its legs kicking as it rolled over him.
The horse made it to its feet and limped back to the brothers, leaving the scout’s body broken behind it.
Khasar dismounted and took the loose reins. The leg was broken and the pony would not be ridden again. In silence, Khasar tied the reins to his saddle. He wasn’t going to leave the animal behind with so many mouths to feed in the camp.
‘We have our answer, brother,’ Khasar muttered, ‘though it’s not the one I wanted. How are we going to get through them?’
Kachiun shook his head.
‘We will find a way,’ he said, glancing back to the dark line of archers watching them. Some of them raised their arms, though whether in mockery or salute, he could not tell. ‘Even if we have to take it down, stone by stone.’
As soon as Khasar and Kachiun were sighted riding alone, the forces of Genghis were halted in their tracks. Before they could reach the outer lines of mounted warriors, the brothers passed skirmishing groups who remained staring outwards at the mountains they left behind. Genghis and his officers had learned hard lessons in the years of building the tribes into a single army and galloping boys raced ahead to tell him they were coming in.
Neither man replied to those who called to them. Grim and silent, they rode to their brother’s ger, sitting like a white limpet on its cart. When they reached it, Khasar dismounted in a jump and glanced at the man who stepped forward to take the reins.
‘Tsubodai,’ he said in greeting, forcing a smile. The young warrior seemed nervous and Khasar recalled he had been promised armour and a good horse. He grimaced at the timing.
‘We have many things to discuss with the khan. Claim your horse another time.’
Tsubodai’s face fell with disappointment and Khasar snorted, catching him by the shoulder as he turned away. He recalled the boy’s courage in leaping among the sons of the Woyela. It was a favour he could repay.
‘Perhaps there will be a moment when we are done. Come with me then, if you can be silent.’ Tsubodai regained his grin on the instant, tinged with nervousness at meeting the great khan himself. With a dry mouth, he climbed the steps of the cart and followed the brothers into the shadowed interior.
Genghis was ready for them, his young messenger still panting at his side.
‘Where are the scouts?’ he demanded, taking in their serious expressions.
‘Dead, brother. And the pass is guarded by a wall of black stone as high as a hundred gers, maybe more.’
‘We saw perhaps fifty archers drawn out,’ Kachiun added. ‘They were not skilled, as we know it, but they could hardly miss. The wall lies at the end of a narrow pass, a gorge between steep sides of rock. I could not see a way to flank them.’
Genghis frowned, rising from his seat. He made a clicking sound in his throat as he stepped across the ger and passed out into the bright sun. Khasar and Kachiun followed him out, hardly noticing the wide-eyed Tsubodai on their heels.
Genghis stood on the blue-green sand below them, looking up. He held a stick in his hands and gestured with it, drawing a line on the ground.
‘Show me,’ he ordered. It was Kachiun who took the stick and drew in neat strokes. Khasar watched in fascination as his brother recreated the canyon he had seen a few hours before. To one side, Kachiun drew a copy of the arched gate and Genghis rubbed his chin in irritation.
‘We could tear the carts up to make wooden shields to get men close,’ he said doubtfully.
Kachiun shook his head.
‘That would bring us to the gate against their shafts, but once we were there, they could drop stones on us. From that height, a few planks would be smashed to pieces.’
Genghis raised his head, gazing over the ranks of the families to the treeless expanse of the desert in all directions. They had nothing with which to build.
‘Then we will have to draw them out,’ he said. ‘A staged retreat, with valuable items left in our wake. I will send in men in the best armour and they will survive the arrows, but be driven back by them in panic, with much shouting.’ He smiled at the prospect. ‘It will teach our warriors a little humility, perhaps.’
Kachiun rubbed his boot along the edge of the drawing.
‘It might work if we could know when they open the gate, but the canyon twists. As soon as we are out of sight, we’ll have no way of knowing when they come out. If I could get a couple of boys onto the crags at the sides, they could signal to us, but it is a vicious climb and there’s no cover on those rocks. They would be seen.’
‘May I speak, lord?’ Tsubodai said suddenly.
Khasar started in indignation.
‘I told you to be silent. Can you not see this is important?’ The gaze of all three men turned on the young warrior and he blushed darkly.
‘I am sorry. I thought of a way we might know when they come out.’
‘Who are you?’ Genghis asked.
Tsubodai’s voice wavered as he bowed his head.
‘Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.’ He caught himself in embarrassment. ‘Of the nation, lord. I …’
Genghis held up a hand.
‘I remember. Tell me what you are thinking.’
With a visible effort, Tsubodai swallowed his nervousness and told them. It surprised him that they had not thought of it. The gaze of Genghis in particular seemed to bore into him and he ended staring away into the middle distance.
Tsubodai suffered in silence while the three men considered. After an age, Genghis nodded.
‘That could work,’ he said, grudgingly. Tsubodai seemed to grow a little taller.
Khasar flashed a smile at the younger man, as if he was responsible for his cleverness.
‘See to it, Kachiun,’ Genghis said. He grinned at Tsubodai’s pride. ‘Then I will ride to see this place you describe.’ His mood changed as he considered destroying some of the carts that had carried the families across the desert. With wood so scarce, each one was much mended and handed down through the generations. There was no help for it.
‘Take the first ten carts you see and join the wood into a barricade that can be held and moved.’
He saw Kachiun’s gaze drift over the khan’s ger at his back and snorted.
‘Begin with the next cart you see, brother. Do not think to have mine.’
Kachiun moved quickly away to gather the men and materials he would need. Genghis remained, facing the young warrior.
‘I have promised you a horse and armour. What else would you have from me?’
Tsubodai’s face paled in confusion. He had not thought to add to the khan’s debt, only to solve a problem that had intrigued him.
‘Nothing, lord. It is enough to ride with my people.’
Genghis stared at him and scratched the side of his face.
‘He has courage and intelligence, Khasar. Give him ten men in the attack on the wall.’ His yellow eyes flickered back to Tsubodai who stood rooted in shock.
‘I will watch to see how you lead more experienced warriors.’ He paused for the news to sink in and added a barb to prick the young man’s swelling confidence.
‘If you fail them, you will not live beyond the sunset of that day,’ he said.
Tsubodai bowed deeply in response, the warning barely denting his excitement. Genghis grunted to himself.
‘Have my horse brought, Khasar. I will see this wall and these archers who think to stand in my way.’
CHAPTER FIVE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The Xi Xia defenders could have no idea how many Mongols had crossed the desert against them. Though Genghis rode up to the edge of bow range with a dozen officers, he kept the main army well back in the twisting canyon. He had decided against sending climbers up the slopes. The plan depended on the defenders thinking of them as unsophisticated herdsmen. Watchers on the peaks would reveal at least some talent for planning and make the fort soldiers suspicious. Genghis chewed his lower lip as he stared up at the Xi Xia fort. Archers clustered like ants on the wall and at intervals one would send a shaft high into the air to get the range for any assault that might follow. Genghis watched the last of them sink into the ground a dozen paces ahead of him. His own men could fire further and he spat contemptuously in the enemy archers’ direction.
The air was thick and still in the canyon where no winds could blow. The heat of the desert was still strong while the sun crossed overhead and cut their shadows almost to nothing. He touched the sword of his father for luck, then turned his pony and rode back to where a hundred warriors waited.
They were silent, as he had ordered, but excitement was visible in their young faces. Like all Mongols, they relished the idea of tricking an enemy even more than overwhelming him by force.
‘The wooden shield is lashed together,’ Khasar said at his shoulder. ‘It’s rough, but it will get them to the foot of the wall. I have given them forge hammers to try the gate. Who knows, they might break in.’
‘If that happens, have another hundred ready to charge in support,’ Genghis said. He turned to Kachiun, standing nearby to oversee the last details. ‘Hold the rest back, Kachiun. It would be an easy killing ground for them to be packed in tight while only a few can climb through. I do not want them running wild.’
‘I’ll put Arslan at the head of the second group,’ Kachiun replied. It was a good choice and Genghis nodded assent. The swordsmith could follow orders in a storm of arrows.
At their backs, the wall seemed to loom still, though it was lost to direct sight. Genghis had no idea what lay behind the dark stones, or how many men defended the pass. It did not matter. In less than two days, the last water skins would be empty. The tribes would start to drop after that, dying from thirst and his ambitions. The fort had to fall.
Many of the men carried beautiful swords and spears to leave on the sand, anything that might catch the eye of the defenders and make them come out. To a man, they wore the best armour, copies of a Chin design. In the heat, the finger-width iron scales stung bare skin and their silk undertunics were soon sour with sweat. They gulped from skins of the dwindling water supply. Genghis had imposed no ration on men about to risk their lives.
‘We have done all we can, brother,’ Khasar said, interrupting his thoughts. Both men watched as Kokchu appeared among the warriors, scattering precious water over them and chanting. Many of the men bowed their heads to receive his blessing and Genghis frowned to himself. He imagined Temuge doing the same thing in the future and could find no glory in it.
‘I should be among the attackers,’ Genghis murmured.
Kachiun heard and shook his head.
‘You cannot be seen to run from anything, brother. Perhaps the plan will go wrong and the tribes will be routed. You cannot be seen as a coward and not half the army knows the plan here, not yet. It is enough for them to see you watching. I have chosen most for nerve and courage. They will follow orders.’
‘They must,’ Genghis replied.
His brothers moved apart to clear the trail for the assault group and the wide wooden shelter. The men bore it above their heads with pride and the tension built in silence.
‘I would see this wall brought down,’ Genghis said to them. ‘If not with blades and hammers, then with guile. Some of you will die, but the sky father loves the warrior spirit and you will be welcomed. You will open a way to the sweet kingdom beyond. Sound the drums and horns. Let them hear and worry in their precious fort. Let the sound carry right to the heart of the Xi Xia and even the Chin in their cities.’
The warriors took deep breaths, readying themselves for the sprint to come. In the distance a bird called shrilly, high on the thermals above the hills. Kokchu exclaimed that it was a good omen and most of the men looked up to the blue bowl above their heads. A dozen drummers began to pound the rhythms of battle and the familiar sound lifted them all, making hearts beat faster. Genghis swept his arm down and the army roared and horns wailed. The first group jogged to the point where they could turn into the main canyon and then accelerated, calling a raucous challenge. Echoing back came the warning cries from the fort.
‘Now we will see,’ Genghis said, clenching and unclenching his sword hand.
The voices of the warriors crashed against the sides of the pass as they ran. They were suffering under the weight of the barricade above their heads, already half blind with sweat. It proved its worth in moments as it bristled with black shafts, the coloured feathers quivering. The archers were well disciplined, Genghis saw, loosing together after a barked order. One or two shots were lucky and by the time the barricade reached the wall, there were three still figures lying face down on the sand in their wake.
A dull booming filled the pass as the hammer men attacked the door in the wall. Archers swarmed above, leaning over to send their arrows straight down at the smallest gaps. Men cried out and fell away from the edges of the wooden shield, their bodies jerking as they were hit again and again.
Genghis swore under his breath as he saw heavy stones being raised to the parapet. He had discussed the possibility with his generals, but still winced in anticipation as an officer wearing a plumed helmet raised his arm and screamed an order. The first stone seemed to fall for a long time and Genghis heard the crack as it drove those below to their knees. As they struggled up, the hammer men struck even harder, their blows coming as fast as the drummers they had left behind.
Two more stones fell before the wooden barricade broke apart. The hammers were thrown to the sand and a great roar of panic went up as the archers above found fresh targets. Genghis clenched his fists as he watched his men scatter. The door in the wall had held and they could do nothing but shake their weapons in rage at the enemy over their heads. Man after man fell and, without warning, they broke back down the pass, racing each other in desperation.
As they ran, more of them were knocked from their feet by waves of buzzing arrows. Barely more than a dozen made it out of range, resting their hands on their knees and panting. Behind them, the pass was littered with everything they had dropped in the retreat, the bodies marked by shafts sticking out of them.
Genghis walked slowly to the centre of the path, staring up at the jubilant defenders. He could hear their cheering and it was hard to make himself turn his back to them. When he did, the sound intensified and he walked stiffly away until he knew he was lost to sight.
On the highest point of the wall, Liu Ken watched him go, his satisfaction straining the impassive mask he showed the soldiers around him. They were smiling openly and clapping each other on the back as if they had won a great victory. He felt his temper rising at their foolishness.
‘Change the shift and get five sui of fresh archers up here,’ he snapped. The smiles vanished. ‘We’ve lost a thousand shafts in the gorge, so make sure the quivers are full once again. Give every man a drink of water.’
Liu rested his hands on the ancient stone, looking into the pass. They had killed almost all of those who had come into range and he was pleased with the archers. He made a note to congratulate the officer of the wall. The sound of hammers had worried him, but the door had held. Liu Ken smiled tightly to himself. If it hadn’t, the Mongols would have run straight into a high-walled compound with archers on every side above them. The fort was beautifully designed and he was pleased his tour of duty had not ended before he had seen this test of its construction.
He frowned at the broken pieces of wood on the sand. Everything he had been told of the tribes suggested that if they came at all, they would attack like wild animals. The barricade showed shrewd planning and it nagged at him. He would be sure to put it in his report to the governor of the province. Let him decide how best to respond. Liu mused to himself as he looked down at the scattered dead. The stones had never been used before. Most were moss-covered from years of lying ready on the wall. Those too would have to be replenished from the stores, though there were clerks for that sort of mundane activity. It was about time they did more than allocate food and water for the men, he considered.
Liu turned at the clatter of sandals and swallowed his dismay at the sight of the fort commander coming up the steps to the wall. Shen Ti was an administrator rather than a soldier and Liu braced himself to answer his inane questions. The climb up to the wall had left the fat man gasping, so Liu had to look away rather than acknowledge his superior’s weakness. He waited without speaking as Shen Ti joined him at the wall and looked down with bright eyes, his breathing still laboured.
‘We have sent the dogs running,’ Shen Ti said, recovering.
Liu inclined his head in silent agreement. He had not seen the commander during the attack. No doubt he had been cowering with his concubines in his private rooms on the other side of the fort. With wry humour, Liu thought of the words of Sun Tzu on defensive war. Shen Ti was certainly adept at hiding in ‘the recesses of the earth’, but only because Liu had been there to scatter the attackers. Still, he owed courtesy to the man’s rank.
‘I will leave the bodies for the rest of the day, lord, to be certain none of them are faking death. I will send men out to gather weapons and collect shafts at dawn.’
Shen Ti peered down at the bodies in the canyon. He could see boxes lying on the ground as well as a beautiful spear as long as a man. He knew that if he left it to the soldiers, anything valuable would vanish into private collections. Something sparkled in the green and gold sand and he squinted at it.
‘You will supervise them, Liu. Send men down now to check the gate is not damaged. Have them bring anything valuable to me to examine.’
Liu hid a wince at the fat commander’s naked greed. The Uighurs never had anything of value, he thought. There was no reason to expect more than a few bits of shiny metal from those ragged tribesmen. Yet he was not a noble and he bowed as low as he could in full armour.
‘As you command, lord.’ He left Shen Ti still staring down, a faint smile touching his fleshy lips. Liu snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a group of archers who were taking turns drinking from a water bucket.
‘I am going out to strip the dead.’ He took a deep breath, aware that he had allowed his bitterness at the shameful order to show. ‘Get back to your positions and be ready for another attack.’
The men scurried to obey, the water bucket landing with a clang and spinning untended as they rushed back to the wall. Liu sighed to himself, before concentrating on the task at hand. No doubt the Uighurs would be made to pay for the attack when the king heard about it. In the peaceful lands of the Xi Xia, it would be the talk of the court, perhaps for months. Trade would be strangled for a generation and punishment raids would be sent out against every Uighur settlement. Liu had no taste for that sort of war and he considered asking for a transfer back to Yinchuan city. They always needed good guards with experience.
He gave crisp orders to a dozen spearmen to follow him and walked down the cool steps to the outer gate. From the inside, it looked untouched by the assault and, in the shadow of the walls, he considered the fate of anyone foolish enough to break it down. He would not like to be among them, he thought. It was second nature to him to check the inner gate was secure before he raised his hand to the outer locking bar. Sun Tzu was perhaps the greatest military thinker the Chin had ever produced, but he did not consider the difficulties of greedy men like Shen Ti giving the orders.
Liu took a deep breath and pushed open the door, letting in a beam of hard sunlight. The men behind him shuffled in readiness and he nodded to their captain.
‘I want two men to stay and guard the door. The rest of you are to collect useable shafts and anything else that might be valuable. If there is trouble, drop it all and run for the gate. There will be no talking and not one of you will go more than fifty paces, even if there are emeralds the size of duck eggs lying in the sand. Acknowledge my orders.’
The soldiers saluted as one and their captain tapped two on the shoulder to remain on guard. Liu nodded, squinting out into the sun as his eyes adjusted. He could not expect high standards from the sort of soldier who ended up in the fort. Almost to a man, they had made some error in the standing army, or offended someone with influence. Even Shen Ti had made some secret error in his political past, he was sure, though the fat man would never unburden himself to a common soldier, no matter what rank he held.
Liu let out a long, low breath, checking a mental list of the defences. He had done all he could, but still there was a feeling in his bones that he did not like. He stepped over a body, noting that the man wore armour very similar to his own. He frowned at that. There was no record of the Uighurs copying Chin armour. It was rough, but of serviceable quality and Liu found his sense of unease growing.
Ready to leap back, he trod heavily on an outstretched hand. He heard a bone break and, at the lack of movement, he nodded and went further out. The dead lay thickest near the gate and he could see two sprawling men with arrows through their throats. Heavy hammers had fallen near them and Liu picked one up, propping it against the wall to be taken in on his return. It too was well made.
As he narrowed his eyes on the end of the pass, his men fanned out, stooping to pick up weapons from the sand. Liu began to relax a little, seeing two of them yanking arrows from a body that resembled a porcupine from the density of the strikes. He strode out of the wall’s shadow, wincing at the sudden brightness. Thirty paces ahead of him lay two boxes and he knew Shen Ti would be watching to see if he found something of worth in them. Why the tribesmen would have brought gold or silver to an attack Liu could not fathom, but he walked across the baking sand towards them, his hand ready on his sword. Could they contain snakes or scorpions? He had heard of such things being used to attack cities, though usually they were thrown over the walls. The tribesmen had brought no catapults or ladders on their assault.
Liu drew his blade and dug the point into the sand, levering the box onto its side. Birds erupted from the confined space, soaring upwards as he threw himself back in shock.
For a moment, Liu stood and stared at the birds, unable to understand why they had been left to bake on the sand. He raised his head to watch them fly and then comprehension dawned and his eyes widened in sudden panic. The birds were the signal. A dull rumbling came to his ears and the ground seemed to vibrate under his feet.
‘Get back to the gate!’ Liu shouted, waving his sword. Around him, he saw his soldiers staring in shock, some of them with armfuls of arrows and swords. ‘Run! Get back!’ Liu bellowed again. Glancing down the pass, he saw the first dark lines of galloping horses and he turned to the gate himself. If the fools were too slow, they had only themselves to blame, he thought, his mind racing.
He skidded to a halt in horror before he had run more than a few paces. Around the gate, some of the bodies were leaping up, still with shafts lodged in them. One of them had lain perfectly still while Liu broke his hand under his sandal. Liu swallowed his panic at the thunder growing at his back and he began to run again. He saw the gate begin to close, but one of the enemy was there to shove his arm into the gap. The tribesman cried out in agony as his hand was hacked to pieces inside, but there were others with him to wrench it open and fall on the defenders.
Liu raised his voice in a howl of rage and never saw the arrow that took him in the back of the neck. He tumbled onto the sand, feeling its sting even as the darkness came for him. The inner gate was shut, he was certain. He had seen it closed behind him and there was still a chance. His own blood choked off his thoughts and the sound of hooves faded to nothing.
Tsubodai rose from where he had lain in the sand. The arrow that had felled him had been followed by two more lodged in his armour. His ribs were agony and every step brought fresh pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling down his thigh. The canyon was filled with a sound like thunder as the galloping line came in at full speed. Tsubodai looked upwards as he heard bows thrumming and saw black shafts darting down. A horse screamed behind him as Tsubodai saw the gate was jammed open by bodies and staggered towards it.
He looked around him for the ten men Genghis had placed under his command. He recognised four of the figures rushing at the gate, while the others lay still on the sand, truly dead. Tsubodai swallowed painfully as he stepped over a man he had known from the Uriankhai.
The sound of riders grew into a force at his back until he expected to be hammered from his feet. He thought his wounds had dazed him, for everything seemed to be happening slowly and yet he could hear each laboured breath from his open mouth. He shut it, irritated at this show of weakness. Ahead of him, those who had survived the assault were rushing through the gate with swords drawn. Tsubodai heard the snap of bows, muffled by the thick stone of the wall. He had a glimpse of men falling as they went through, spitted on arrows as they looked up and cried out. At that instant, his mind cleared and his senses sharpened. Arrows still sank into the sand around him, but he ignored them. He roared an order to stand back as his warriors reached the gate. His voice was rough, but to his relief, the men responded.
‘Make shields of the wood. Take the hammers,’ Tsubodai told them, pointing. He heard the jingle of armour as men leaped to the sand all around him. Khasar landed running and Tsubodai grabbed his arm.
‘There are archers inside. We can still use the broken wood.’
Arrows vanished into the sand around them, leaving only the black feathers. Calmly, Khasar glanced down at Tsubodai’s hand just long enough to remind the young warrior of his status. As Tsubodai released his grip, Khasar snapped out orders. All around them, men picked up pieces of the original shield and held them over their heads as they rushed through the gate.
As the hammers were taken up again, archers above their heads shot into the pit between the two gates. Even with the rough shield, some of the shafts found their marks. On the hot sand outside, Khasar ordered waves of arrows up against the archers on the outer wall, keeping the Chin soldiers down and spoiling their aim until the army could move. He bit his lip at the exposed position, but until the inner gate was broken, they were all stuck. The dull thump of hammers sounded over the cries of dying men.
‘Get in there and make sure they aren’t enjoying a quick rest while we wait,’ Khasar shouted to Tsubodai. The young warrior bowed his head and ran to join his men.
He passed under a band of shadow into bright sunlight and had a glimpse of a line of cold-eyed archers shooting shaft after shaft into the killing hole.
Tsubodai barely had time to duck under a piece of broken planking. An arrow scratched his arm as he did and he swore aloud. He recognised only one of his original ten men still alive.
The space between the gates was deliberately small and no more than a dozen warriors could stand inside at a time. Except for those who wielded hammers with desperate force, the others stood with pieces of wood above their heads, wedged together as best they could. The ground was still sandy and bristled with spent shafts, thicker than the hairs on a dog. Still more were shot down and Tsubodai heard orders shouted in an alien language above his head. If they had stones to drop, the entire assault would be crushed before the inner gate gave way, he thought, fighting terror. He felt enclosed, trapped. The man closest to him had lost his helmet in the attack. He gave a shriek of pain and fell with an arrow’s feathers standing upright in his neck, loosed from almost directly above. Tsubodai caught the planking he had held and raised it, wincing with every shuddering impact. The hammer blows went on with maddening slowness and, suddenly, Tsubodai heard a grunt of satisfaction from one of the warriors and the sound changed as those closest began kicking at the cracking timbers.
The gate gave way, sending men sprawling on the dusty ground beyond it. The first ones through died instantly as they were met with a volley of crossbow shafts from a line of soldiers. Behind them, Khasar’s men roared in savage anticipation, sensing there was a way in. They pushed forward, compressing the group at the gate as they stumbled over dead men.
Tsubodai could not believe he was still alive. He drew the sword Genghis himself had given him and ran forward in a mass of raging men, freed at last from the confines of the killing ground. The crossbowmen never had a chance to reload and Tsubodai killed his first enemy with a straight thrust to the throat as the soldier froze in horror. Half of those who came into the fort were wounded and bloody, but they had survived and they exulted as they met the first lines of defenders. Some of the first ones inside climbed wooden steps to a higher level and grinned as they saw the archers still firing down into the killing hole. Mongol bows snapped shafts across the fighting below, striking the Xi Xia bowmen from their feet as if they had been hit by hammers.
The army of Genghis began to funnel through the gate, exploding into the fort. There was little order to the assault in the first charge. Until senior men like Khasar or Arslan took charge, Tsubodai knew he was free to kill as many as he could and he shouted wildly, filled with excitement.
Without Liu Ken to organise the defence, the Xi Xia warriors broke and ran before the invaders, scattering in panic. Leaving his horse in the pass, Genghis walked through the gate and ducked through the broken inner gate. His face was alight with triumph and pride as his warriors tore through the fort soldiers. In all their history, the tribes had never had a chance to strike back at those who held them down. Genghis did not care that the Xi Xia soldiers thought themselves different from the Chin. To his people, they were all part of that ancient, hated race. He saw that some of the defenders had laid down their weapons and he shook his head, calling Arslan to him as the swordsman strode past.
‘No prisoners, Arslan,’ Genghis said. His general bowed his head.
The slaughter became methodical after that. Men were discovered hiding in the fort’s cellars and dragged out for execution. As the day wore on, the dead soldiers were piled on the red stones of a central courtyard. A well there became the eye of the storm as every dry-throated man found time to quench his thirst in water, bucket by bucket, until they were gasping and soaked. They had beaten the desert.
As the sun began to set, Genghis himself walked to the well, stepping over the piles of twisted dead. The warriors fell silent at his step and one of them filled the leather bucket and handed it to the khan. As Genghis drank at last and grinned, they roared and bayed in voices loud enough to echo back from the walls all around. They had found their way through the maze of rooms and halls, cloisters and walkways, all strange to their eyes. Like a pack of wild dogs, they had reached right to the far side of the fort, leaving the black stones bloody behind them.
The commander of the fort was discovered in a suite of rooms hung with silk and priceless tapestries. It took three men to batter down the door of iron and oak to reveal Shen Ti, hiding with a dozen terrified women. As Khasar strode into the room, Shen Ti tried to take his own life with a dagger. In his terror, the blade slipped in his sweating hands and merely scored a line in his throat. Khasar sheathed his sword and took hold of the man’s fleshy hand over the hilt, guiding it back to the neck a second time. Shen Ti lost his nerve and tried to struggle, but Khasar’s grip was strong and he drew the dagger sharply across, stepping back as blood spurted out and the man flailed in death.
‘That is the last of them,’ Khasar said. He looked the women over and nodded to himself. They were strange creatures, their skin powdered as white as mare’s milk, but he found them attractive. The scent of jasmine mingled with the stench of blood in the room and Khasar smiled wolfishly at them. His brother Kachiun had won an Olkhun’ut girl for his wife and had two children already in his ger. Khasar’s first wife had died and he had no one. He wondered if Genghis would let him marry two or three of these foreign women. The idea pleased him enormously and he stepped to the far window, looking out on the lands of the Xi Xia.
The fort was high in the mountains and Khasar had a view of a vast valley, with cliffs stretching away into the haze on either side. Far below, he saw a green land, studded with farms and villages. Khasar breathed deeply in appreciation.
‘It will be like picking ripe fruit,’ he said, turning to Arslan as the older man entered. ‘Send someone to fetch my brothers. They should see this.’
CHAPTER SIX (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The king sat in the highest room of his palace, looking over the flat valley of the Xi Xia. With the dawn mist rising off the fields, it was a landscape of great beauty. If he did not know there was an army out there beyond sight, the land might have seemed as peaceful as any other morning. The canals shone in the sun like lines of gold, carrying precious water to the crops. There were even distant figures of farmers out there, working without thought for the army that had entered their country from the northern desert.
Rai Chiang adjusted his robe of green silk, patterned in gold. Alone, his expression was calm, but as he stared out into the dawn, his fingers picked nervously at a thread, worrying at it until it caught in his nails and snapped. He frowned, looking down at the damage. The robe was a Chin weave, worn to bring him luck in the matter of reinforcements. He had sent a letter with two of his fastest scouts as soon as he heard of the invasion, but the reply was long in coming.
He sighed to himself, his fingers resuming their picking without him being aware of it. If the old Chin emperor had lived, there would be fifty thousand soldiers marching to defend his little kingdom, he was sure of it. The gods were fickle to have taken his ally at the very moment when he needed aid. Prince Wei was a stranger and Rai Chiang did not know whether the arrogant son would have the generosity of his father.
Rai Chiang considered the differences between their lands, wondering if he could have done more to ensure Chin support. His most distant ancestor had been a Chin prince and ruled the province as a personal fiefdom. He would have seen no shame in asking for aid. The Xi Xia kingdom had been forgotten in the great conflict centuries before, unnoticed as greater princes struggled against each other until the Chin empire had been cut in two. Rai Chiang was the sixty-fourth ruler since that bloody period. Since the death of his father, he had spent almost three decades keeping his people free of the Chin shadow, cultivating other allies and never giving offence that could lead to his kingdom being forcibly returned to the fold. One of his sons would one day inherit that uneasy peace. Rai Chiang paid his tribute, sent his merchants to trade and his warriors to swell the ranks of the Imperial army. In return, he was treated as an honoured ally.
It was true Rai Chiang had ordered a new script for his people, one that bore little resemblance to Chin writing. The old Chin emperor had sent him rare texts by Lao Tzu and the Buddha Sakyamuni to be translated. Surely that was a sign of acceptance, if not approval. The Xi Xia valley was separate from the Chin lands, bordered by mountains and the Yellow River. With a new language, the Xi Xia would move further from the influence of the Chin. It was a dangerous and delicate game, but he knew he had the vision and energy to find the right future for his people. He thought of the new trade routes he had opened into the west and the wealth that was flowing back along them. All that was endangered by these tribes roaring out of the desert.
Rai Chiang wondered if Prince Wei would realise the Mongols had come round his precious wall in the northeast by entering the Xi Xia kingdom. It would do the Chin no good now the wolf had found the gate to the field.
‘You must support me,’ he whispered to himself. It galled him to depend on the Chin for military aid, after so many generations easing his people away from their dependence. He did not know yet if he could bear the price Prince Wei would ask for that support. The kingdom could be saved only to become a province again.
Rai Chiang tapped his fingers in irritation at the thought of a Chin army on his land. He needed them desperately, but what if they did not leave when the battle was over? What if they did not come at all?
Two hundred thousand people already sheltered within the walls of Yinchuan, with thousands more gathered outside the closed gates. In the night, the most desperate tried to climb into the city and the king’s guards were forced to drive them off with swords, or shoot a volley of arrows into their midst. The sun rose each day on fresh corpses and more soldiers had to leave Yinchuan to bury them before they could spread disease, labouring under the sullen stares of the rest. It was a grim and unpleasant business, but the city could feed only so many and the gates remained closed. Rai Chiang worried at the golden threads until beads of blood appeared under his fingernails.
Those who had found sanctuary slept in the streets, the beds of every inn and lodging house long taken. The price of food was rising every day and the black market thrived, though the guards hanged anyone caught hoarding. Yinchuan was a city of fear as they waited for the barbarians to attack, but three months had gone by with nothing but reports of destruction as the army of Genghis laid waste to everything in their path. They had not yet come to Yinchuan, though their scouts had been seen riding in the far distance.
A gong sounded, making Rai Chiang start. He could hardly believe it was the hour of the dragon already. He had been lost in contemplation, but it had not brought him the usual sense of peace before the day truly began. He shook his head against the malicious spirits that sapped the will of strong men. Perhaps the dawn would bring better news. Preparing himself to be seen, he straightened in his throne of lacquered gold and tucked the sleeve with the broken thread under the other. When he had spoken to his ministers, he would have a new robe brought and a cooling bath to make his blood flow with less turbulence.
The gong sounded again and the doors to the chamber opened in perfect silence. A line of his most trusted advisers walked in, their footsteps muffled by shoes of felt so the polished floor would not be scratched. Rai Chiang regarded them impassively, knowing that they took their confidence from his manner. Let him but show one trace of nervousness and they would feel the storms of panic that blew through the slums and streets of the city below.
Two slaves took up positions on either side of their king, creating a gentle breeze from large fans. Rai Chiang hardly noticed their presence as he saw his first minister could barely maintain his calm. He forced himself to wait until the men had touched their foreheads to the floor and proclaimed their oath of loyalty. The words were ancient and comforting. His father and grandfather had heard them many thousand times in this very room.
At last, they were ready to begin the business of the day and the great doors shut behind them. It was foolish to think they were completely private, Rai Chiang reflected. Anything of note in the throne room became market gossip before the sun set. He watched the ministers closely, looking for some sign that they felt the fear curdling in his breast. Nothing showed and his mood lightened a fraction.
‘Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven, king and father to us all,’ his first minister began, ‘I bear a letter from Emperor Wei of the Chin.’ He did not approach himself, but handed the scroll to a bearer slave. The young man knelt and held out the roll of precious paper and Rai Chiang recognised the personal chop of Prince Wei. Rai Chiang hid the stirring of hope in his breast as he took it and broke the wax seal.
It did not take long to read the message and, despite his control, Rai Chiang frowned. He could sense the hunger for news in the room and his calm had been affected badly enough for him to read it aloud.
‘It is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us? Bleed these invaders and the Chin will avenge your memory.’
There was utter silence in the room as the ministers digested the words. One or two of them had paled, visibly disturbed. There would be no reinforcements. Worse, the new emperor had described them as enemies and could no longer be considered the ally his father had been. It was possible that they had heard the end of the Xi Xia kingdom in those few words.
‘Our army is ready?’ Rai Chiang said softly into the silence.
His first minister bowed deeply before replying, hiding his fear. He could not bring himself to tell his king how poorly prepared the soldiers were for war. Generations of peace had made them more adept at bullying favours from city prostitutes than martial skills.
‘The barracks are full, Majesty. With your royal guards to lead them, they will send these animals back into the desert.’
Rai Chiang sat perfectly still, knowing no one there would dare to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Who will keep the city safe if my personal guard goes out onto the plains?’ he said at last. ‘The peasants? No, I have sheltered and fed the militia for years. It is time they earned what they have had from my hand.’ He ignored the taut expression of his first minister. The man was merely a cousin and, though he ran the city’s scribes with rigid discipline, he was out of his depth with anything requiring original thought.
‘Send for my general, that I may plan an attack,’ Rai Chiang said. ‘The time for talk and letters is over, it seems. I will consider the words of … Emperor Wei, and my response, when we have dealt with the closer threat.’
The ministers filed out, their nervousness showing in their stiff bearing. The kingdom had been at peace for more than three centuries and no one there could remember the terrors of war.
‘This place is perfect for us,’ Kachiun said, looking out over the plain of the Xi Xia. At his back, the mountains loomed, but his gaze lingered over green and gold fields, lush with growing crops. The tribes had covered ground at incredible speed over the previous three months, riding hard from village to village with almost no opposition. Three large towns had fallen before the news had gone ahead and the people of the tiny kingdom began to flee the invaders. At first, the tribes had taken prisoners, but when they had close to forty thousand, Genghis had grown tired of their wailing voices. His army could not feed so many and he would not leave them behind him, though the miserable farmers did not look like any kind of threat. He had given the order and the slaughter had taken an entire day. The dead had been left to rot in the sun and Genghis had visited the hills of the dead only once to see that his orders had been carried out. After that, he thought no more of them.
Only the women had been left alive to be taken as prizes and Kachiun had found a couple of rare beauties that very morning. They waited for him in his ger and he found his thoughts straying in that direction instead of to the next move in the assault. He shook his head to clear it.
‘The peasants don’t seem warlike at all and these canals are perfect for watering our horses,’ he went on, glancing at his older brother.
Genghis sat on a pile of saddles next to his ger, resting his chin on his hands. The mood of the tribes was cheerful around the two men and he saw a group of boys setting wands of birch into the ground. He raised his head in interest as he saw his two eldest sons were part of the chattering gang, pushing and shoving each other as they argued over how best to set the sticks. Jochi and Chagatai were dangerous company for the boys of the tribes, often leading them into trouble and scuffles that resulted in them being slapped apart by the women of the gers.
Genghis sighed, running his tongue over his lower lip as he thought.
‘We’re like a bear with his paw in honey, Kachiun, but they will rouse themselves. Barchuk tells me the Xi Xia merchants boasted of a huge standing army. We have not met them yet.’
Kachiun shrugged, unworried at the prospect.
‘Perhaps. There is still their great city. They may be hiding behind the walls there. We could starve them out, or break the walls down around their ears.’
Genghis frowned at his brother.
‘It will not be so easy, Kachiun. I expect rashness from Khasar. I keep you close to be the voice of caution and sense when the warriors get too full of themselves. We have not fought a single battle in this realm and I do not want the men to be fat and slow when it comes. Get them back on the training field and burn the laziness out of them. You too.’
Kachiun flushed at the rebuke.
‘Your will, my brother,’ he said, bowing his head. He saw Genghis was watching his sons as they mounted their shaggy ponies. It was a game of skill learned from the Olkhun’ut and Genghis was distracted as Jochi and Chagatai readied themselves to gallop past the row of wands in the soil.
Jochi turned his pony faster and raced along the line with his child’s bow fully bent. Genghis and Kachiun watched as he loosed his arrow at full speed, sending the head slicing through the slender stick. It was a good strike and, in the same instant, Jochi reached down with his left hand and snatched the falling piece of wood, raising it triumphantly as he turned back to his companions. They cheered him, though Chagatai merely snorted before beginning his own run.
‘Your son will be a fine warrior,’ Kachiun murmured. Genghis winced at the words and Kachiun did not look at him, knowing the expression he would see.
‘While they can retreat behind walls five times higher than a man,’ Genghis said stubbornly, ‘they can laugh at us riding around on the plains. What does their king care for a few hundred villages? We have barely stung him while this Yinchuan city sits safe and he resides in it.’
Kachiun did not respond as Chagatai rode the line. His arrow cut the wand, but his flailing hand failed to snatch it before it fell. Jochi laughed at his brother and Kachiun saw Chagatai’s face darken in anger. They knew their father was watching of course.
At his back, Genghis made his decision, rising to his feet.
‘Get the men sober and ready to march. I will see this city of stone that so impressed the scouts. Somehow or other there must be a way in.’ He did not show his brother the worries that plagued him. He had never seen a city girdled in high walls as his scouts described. He hoped that the sight of it would bring some insight into how he could enter without seeing his army dash itself uselessly against the stone.
As Kachiun left to relay the orders, he saw Chagatai had said something to his older brother. Jochi leaped from his pony as he passed, sending them both thumping into the ground in a flurry of elbows and bare feet. Kachiun grinned as he passed them, remembering his own childhood.
The land they had found beyond the mountains was fertile and rich. Perhaps they would have to fight to keep it, but he could not imagine a force capable of defeating the army they had brought a thousand miles from their home. As a boy, he had once levered a huge rock free on a hillside and seen the way it gathered speed. At first, it was slow, but after only a little time, it was unstoppable.
Scarlet was the Xi Xia colour for war. The king’s soldiers wore armour lacquered in vivid red and the room where Rai Chiang met his general was unadorned except for polished walls of the same shade. Only a single table spoiled the echoing emptiness and both men stood to gaze down at maps of the region, held with lead weights. The original secession from the Chin had been planned within those red walls; it was a place to save and win a kingdom, rich with its own history. General Giam’s lacquered armour was such a perfect match for the room that he almost vanished against the walls. Rai Chiang himself wore a tunic of gold over black silk trousers.
The general was white-haired, a man of dignity. He could feel the history of the Xi Xia hanging heavy in the air of that ancient room, as heavy as the responsibility he would bear himself.
He placed another marker of ivory on the lines of dark blue ink.
‘Their camp is here, Majesty, not far from where they entered the kingdom. They send their warriors out to raid a hundred li in every direction.’
‘A man cannot ride further in a day, so they must make other camps for the night,’ Rai Chiang murmured. ‘Perhaps we can attack them there.’
His general shook his head slightly, unwilling openly to contradict his king.
‘They do not rest, Majesty, or stop for food. We have scouts who say they ride that far and then back from dawn to sunset. When they take prisoners, they are slower, driving them before them. They have no infantry and carry supplies with them from the main camp.’
Rai Chiang frowned delicately, knowing that would be enough criticism to make the general sweat in his presence.
‘Their camp is not important, general. The army must engage and break these riders who have caused so much destruction. I have a report of a pile of dead peasants as high as a mountain. Who will gather the crops? The city could starve even if these invaders left us today!’
General Giam made his face a mask rather than risk further anger.
‘Our army will need time to form and prepare the ground. With the royal guard to lead them, I can have the fields sown with spikes that will destroy any charge. If the discipline is good, we will crush them.’
‘I would have preferred to have Chin soldiers with my own militia,’ Rai Chiang said as if to himself.
The general cleared his throat, knowing it was a sensitive subject.
‘All the more need for your own guards, Majesty. The militia are little better than peasants with weapons. They cannot stand on their own.’
Rai Chiang turned his pale eyes on his general.
‘My father had forty thousand trained soldiers to man the walls of Yinchuan. As a child, I watched the red ranks parade through the city on his birthday and there seemed no end to them.’ He grimaced irritably. ‘I have listened to fools and counted the cost of so many over the dangers we could face. There are barely twenty thousand in my own guard and you would have me send them out? Who then would defend the city? Who would form the teams for the great bows and hold the walls? Do you think the peasants and merchants will be of any use to us once my guard have gone out? There will be food riots and fires. Plan to win without them, general. There is no other way.’
General Giam had been born to one of the king’s uncles and promotion had come easily. Yet he had courage enough to face Rai Chiang’s disapproval.
‘If you give me ten thousand of your guard, they will steady the others. They will be a core the enemy cannot break.’
‘Even ten thousand is too many,’ Rai Chiang snapped.
General Giam swallowed.
‘Without cavalry, I cannot win, my lord. With even five thousand guards and three thousand of those on heavy horse, I would have a chance. If you cannot give me that, you should execute me now.’
Rai Chiang raised his eyes from the map and found General Giam’s gaze steady. He smiled, amused at the bead of sweat that was making its way down the man’s cheek.
‘Very well. It is a balance between giving you the best we have and still keeping enough to defend the city. Take a thousand crossbowmen, two of cavalry and two more of heavy pikes. They will be the core that leads the others against the enemy.’
General Giam closed his eyes in silent thanks for an instant. Rai Chiang did not notice as he turned back to the map.
‘You may empty the stores of armour. The militia may not be my red guards, but perhaps looking like them will give them courage. It will relieve the boredom of hanging profiteers and whitewashing the barracks, I have no doubt. Do not fail me in this, general.’
‘I will not, Your Majesty.’
Genghis rode at the head of his army, a vast line of horsemen that stretched across the plain of the Xi Xia. As they came to canals, the line would bulge as men raced each other over the drop, laughing and calling to anyone who fell into the dark water and had to ride hard to catch up.
The city of Yinchuan had been a smear on the horizon for hours before Genghis gave the order to halt. Horns sounded up and down the line and the host came to a stop, with echoing orders passing down to alert men on the wings. This was hostile country and they would not be taken by surprise.
The city loomed in the distance. Even miles away, it seemed a massive construction, intimidating in its sheer size. Genghis squinted into the haze of the afternoon sun. The stone the builders had used was a dark grey and he could see columns that could have been towers inside the walls. He could not guess their purpose and strove not to show his awe in front of the men.
He looked around him, seeing that his people could not be ambushed on such a flat piece of ground. The crops could have hidden crawling soldiers, but his scouts would sight them long before they were close. It was as safe as anywhere could be to set up camp and he made the decision, dismounting as he gave his orders.
Behind him, the tribes scurried in the routines they knew. Gers were lashed together and raised by individual families long used to the work. A village, a town, a city of their own sprang out of the carts and herds of bleating animals. It was not long before Genghis’ own cart came up and the smell of frying mutton filled the air.
Arslan walked along the line with his son Jelme. Under their eyes, the warriors of all the tribes stood tall and kept their chatter to a minimum. Genghis approved and he was ready with a smile as they reached him.
‘I have never seen such a flat land,’ Arslan said. ‘There is nowhere to hold, nowhere to retreat to if we are overwhelmed. We are too exposed here.’
His son Jelme raised his eyes at the words, but did not speak. Arslan was twice the age of the other generals and he led cautiously and with intelligence. He would never be a firebrand amongst the tribes, though his skill was respected, and his temper feared.
‘We will not be turned, Arslan. Not from here,’ Genghis replied, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We will make them come out from that city, or if they will not, perhaps I will just build a ramp of earth to the top of their walls and ride in. That would be a thing to see, would it not?’
Arslan’s smile was tight. He had been one of those who had ridden closer to Yinchuan, close enough for them to waste arrows on him.
‘It is like a mountain, lord. You will see when you ride close to the walls. Each corner has a tower and the walls are set with slits where archers poke their faces through to watch you pass. It would be hard to hit them, while they have an easy shot against us.’
Genghis lost some of his good humour.
‘I will see it first before I decide. If it will not fall to us, I will starve them out.’
Jelme nodded at the idea. He had ridden with his father close enough to feel the shadow of the city on his back. For a man used to the open steppes, he found himself irritated at the thought of such an ant hill of men. The very idea offended him.
‘The canals pass into the city, lord,’ Jelme said, ‘through tunnels barred with iron. I am told they wash away the dung of so many people and animals. There may be a weakness there.’
Genghis brightened. He had ridden all day and he was weary. There would be time to plan the assault tomorrow when he had eaten and rested.
‘We will find a way,’ he promised.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
With no sign of opposition, the younger warriors under Genghis spent their days riding as close as they dared to the city, testing their courage. The bravest of them galloped under the shadow of the walls as arrows whipped overhead. Their whooping cries echoed over the fields in challenge, yet only one Xi Xia archer managed a clean strike in three days. Even then, the tribesman recovered his seat and rode clear, pulling the arrow out of his armour and throwing it contemptuously to the ground.
Genghis too rode close, with his generals and officers. What he saw brought him no inspiration. Even the canals into the city were protected by iron bars as thick as a man’s forearm, set deep into stone. He thought they might still batter their way in, though the thought of crawling down dank tunnels was unpleasant to a man of the plains.
As night fell, his brothers and generals gathered in the great ger to eat and discuss the problem. Genghis’ mood had grown dark once more, but Arslan had known him from the beginning of his rise and did not fear to speak bluntly.
‘With the sort of wooden shield we used against the fort, we could protect men long enough to hammer through the canal openings,’ Arslan said, chewing. ‘Though I do not like the look of those constructions on the walls. I would not have believed a bow could be so large. If they’re real, they must fire arrows as long as a man. Who knows how much damage they can do?’
‘We cannot stay out here for ever, while they send messages to their allies,’ Kachiun murmured, ‘and we cannot pass by and leave their army free to strike at our back. We must enter the city, or return to the desert and give up everything we have won.’
Genghis glanced at his younger brother, his expression sour.
‘That will not happen,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. ‘We have their crops. How long can a city last before the people are eating each other? Time is on our side.’
‘We are not hurting them yet, I think,’ Kachiun replied. ‘They have the canals to bring water and, for all we know, the city is stuffed with grain and salted meat.’ He saw Genghis frown at the image, but continued. ‘We could be here for years, waiting, and who knows how many armies are marching to support them? By the time they are starving, we could be facing the Chin themselves and be caught between them.’
‘Then give me an answer!’ Genghis snapped. ‘The Uighur scholars tell me that every city in Chin lands is like this one, or even larger, if you can imagine it. If they have been built by men, they can be destroyed by men, I am certain of it. Tell me how.’
‘We could poison the water in the canals,’ Khasar said, reaching for another piece of meat with his knife. He speared it in sudden silence and looked round at the others.
‘What? This is not our land.’
‘That is an evil thing to say,’ Kachiun chided his brother, speaking for all of them. ‘What would we drink ourselves, then?’
Khasar shrugged. ‘We would drink clean water from further up.’
Genghis listened, considering.
‘We need to sting them into coming out,’ he said. ‘I will not see clean water poisoned, but we can break the canals and let the city go thirsty. Let them see the work of generations being destroyed and perhaps they will meet us on the plain.’
‘I will see it done,’ Jelme said.
Genghis nodded to him. ‘And you, Khasar. You will send a hundred men to break through the bars where the canals enter the city.’
‘Protecting them will mean more carts taken apart. The families will not like that at all,’ Khasar said.
Genghis snorted.
‘I will build more when we are in that cursed city. They will thank us then.’
All the men in the ger heard galloping hoofbeats coming closer. Genghis paused with a piece of greasy mutton in his fingers. He looked up as a clatter sounded on the steps outside and the door to the ger opened.
‘They are coming out, lord.’
‘In the darkness?’ Genghis said incredulously.
‘There is no moon, but I was close enough to hear them, lord. They chattered like birds and made more noise than children.’
Genghis tossed the meat down into the platter in the centre of the ger.
‘Return to your men, my brothers. Make them ready.’ His gaze flickered around the ger to Arslan and Jelme, the father and son sitting together.
‘Arslan, you will keep five thousand to protect the families. The rest will ride with me.’ He grinned at the prospect and they responded.
‘Not years, Kachiun. Not one more day. Get the fastest scouts riding. I want to know what they are doing as soon as dawn comes. I will have orders for you then.’
So far south, the autumn was still hot, the uncut crops drooping under their own weight as they began to rot in the fields. The Mongol scouts shouted challenges to the red army that had marched from the safety of Yinchuan, while others rode back to Genghis with details. They entered the great ger in groups of three, passing on what they had learned.
Genghis strode back and forth, listening to each man as he described the scene.
‘I do not like this business with the baskets,’ he said to Kachiun. ‘What could they be sowing on this ground?’ He had heard of hundreds of men walking together in patterns before the host from Yinchuan. Each had carried a basket on his shoulders while a man behind him reached into it, over and over, casting his arms wide.
The khan of the Uighurs had been summoned to explain the mystery. Barchuk had questioned the scouts closely, demanding every scrap of information they could recall.
‘It could be something to slow our horses, lord,’ he said at last. ‘Sharp stones, perhaps, or iron. They have sown a wide band of these seeds outside the army and they show no sign of crossing it. If they are intent on drawing us in, perhaps they expect the charge to founder.’
Genghis clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Whatever it is, I will not let them choose the ground,’ he said. ‘You will have your scrolls yet, Barchuk.’ He looked around him at the bright faces of his most trusted men. None of them could truly know the enemy they faced. The slaughter at the fort to enter Xi Xia lands bore little relation to the fighting formations of the king’s own city. He could feel his heart beating quickly at the thought of finally standing against his people’s enemies. Surely they would not fail, after so long in preparation? Kokchu said the stars themselves proclaimed a new destiny for his people. With the shaman attending him, Genghis had sacrificed a white goat to the sky father, using the name in the most ancient shaman’s tongue. Tängri would not refuse them. They had been weak for too long, made so by the Chin in their cities of gold. Now they were strong and he would see the cities fall.
The generals stood perfectly still as Kokchu reached into tiny pots and drew lines on their faces. When they looked at each other, they could not see the men they knew. They saw only the masks of war and eyes that were fierce and terrible.
The shaman left Genghis until last, dragging a red line from high on the khan’s forehead, over the eyes and down on each side of his mouth.
‘Iron will not touch you, lord. Stone will not break you. You are the Wolf and the sky father watches.’
Genghis stared without blinking, the blood somehow hot on his skin. At last, he nodded and left the ger, mounting his pony with the lines of warriors drawn up on either side. He could see the city in the distance and, before it, a blurry mass of red men waiting to see his ambitions humbled. He looked left and right along the line and raised his arm.
The drums started, carried by a hundred unarmed boys. Each one of them had fought his fellows for the right to ride with the warriors and many of them bore the marks of their struggle. Genghis felt his strength as he touched the hilt of his father’s sword for luck. He dropped his arm and, as one, they thundered forward over the plain of the Xi Xia, towards the city of Yinchuan.
‘They are coming, lord,’ Rai Chiang’s first minister said excitedly. The vantage point from the king’s tower offered the best view of the plain from anywhere in the city and Rai Chiang had not objected to the presence of his councillors in his private chambers.
In their lacquered armour, the soldiers resembled a bright splash of blood on the ground before the city. Rai Chiang thought he could see the distant white-bearded figure of General Giam riding up and down the lines. Pikes gleamed in the morning sun as the regiments formed up and he could see his own royal guard held the wings. They were the best horsemen of the Xi Xia and he did not regret giving them to this task.
It had hurt him deeply to hide in the city while his lands were ravaged. Just the sight of an army facing the invader lifted his spirits. Giam was a solid thinker, a dependable man. It was true that he had not seen battle in his rise to power in the army, but Rai Chiang had reviewed his plans and found no fault with them. The king drank a pale white wine as he waited, relishing the thought of seeing his enemies destroyed before his eyes. News of the victory would reach Emperor Wei and he would know bitterness. If the Chin had reinforced them, Rai Chiang would have been in his debt for ever. Emperor Wei was subtle enough to know when he had given up an advantage in trade and power and the thought was intoxicating to Rai Chiang. He would see to it that the Chin were informed of every detail of the battle.
General Giam watched the dust cloud as the enemy advanced. The ground was drying out, he realised, with no farmers daring to water their crops. Those who had tried had been cut down by the scouts of the invader, apparently for sport or to blood the younger men. That would stop today, Giam thought.
His orders were relayed to the ranks on high poles, fluttering in the breeze for all to see. As he glanced up and down the lines, black crosses mingled with the red pennants, a symbol that meant they would hold the ground. Beyond the army, the fields were sown with a hundred thousand spikes of iron, hidden in the grass. Giam waited impatiently for the tribesmen to hit them. It would be carnage and then he would raise flags to attack in close formation, while the Mongols were still dazed.
The royal cavalry held the wings and he nodded to himself at the sight of their fine horses, snorting and pawing at the ground in excitement. The king’s pike guards stood resolute in the centre of his army, splendid in their scarlet, like the scales of exotic fish. Their grim faces helped to steady the others as the dust cloud grew larger and they all felt the earth tremble under their feet. Giam saw one of the flag pikes dip and sent a man over to chastise the bearer. The army of Xi Xia was nervous, he could see it in their faces. When they saw the enemy line crumple, it would encourage them. Giam felt his bladder complain and swore softly under his breath, knowing he could not dismount with the enemy rushing towards them. In the ranks, he saw many of the men urinating onto the dusty ground, readying themselves.
He had to shout his orders over the swelling thunder of galloping horses. The guard officers were spread along the line and they repeated the command to stand and wait.
‘Just a little longer,’ he murmured. He could see individuals amongst the enemy and his stomach tightened at the sight of so many. He felt the gaze of the citizens on his back and he knew the king would be watching with every other man and woman who could find a place on the walls. Yinchuan depended on them for survival, but they would not be found lacking.
His second in command stood ready to relay Giam’s orders.
‘It will be a great victory, general,’ he said. Giam could hear the strain in the man’s voice and forced himself to turn away from the enemy.
‘With the king’s eye on us, the men must not lose heart. They know he watches?’
‘I have made certain of it, general. They …’ The man’s eyes widened and Giam snapped his gaze back to the charging line hammering across the plain.
From the centre of it, a hundred galloping ponies moved forward, their riders forming a column like an arrow shaft. Giam watched without understanding as they approached the hidden line of spikes in the grass. He hesitated, unsure how the new formation affected his plans. He felt a line of sweat trickle from his hair and drew his sword to steady his hands.
‘Nearly there …’ he whispered. The horsemen were low on the backs of their ponies, their faces straining against the wind. Giam watched as they passed the line he had created and, for a terrifying instant, he thought they would somehow ride straight through the spikes. Then the first horse screamed, tumbling over itself in a great crash. Dozens more went down as the spikes pierced the soft part of their hooves and men were thrown to their death. The thin column faltered and Giam knew a moment of fierce joy. He saw the galloping line waver as the mass of following warriors yanked savagely on their reins. Almost all of those who had run full tilt into the spikes lay crippled or dead on the grass and a cheer went up from the red ranks.
Giam saw the pike flags were standing proud and he clenched his left fist in excitement. Let them come on foot and see what he had for them!
Beyond the screaming men and horses, the bulk of the enemy milled without formation, having lost all impetus in the death of their brothers. As Giam watched, the untrained tribesmen panicked. They had no tactics except for the wild charge and they had lost that. Without warning, hundreds turned away to race back through their own lines. The rout spread with extraordinary speed and Giam saw Mongol officers bawling conflicting orders at their fleeing men, striking at them with the flats of their swords as they passed. Behind him, the people of Yinchuan roared at the sight.
Giam jerked round in the saddle. His entire first rank took a half-step forward, straining like dogs on a leash. He could see the blood lust rising in them and knew it had to be controlled.
‘Stand!’ he bellowed. ‘Officers, hold your men. The order is to stand!’ They could not be held. Another step broke the last restraint and the yelling red ranks surged forward, their new armour shining. The air filled with dust. Only the king’s guard held their positions and, even then, the cavalry on the wings were forced to come forward with the others or leave them vulnerable. Giam shouted again and again in desperation and his own officers raced up and down the lines, trying to hold the army back. It was impossible. They had seen the enemy riding in the shadow of the city for almost two months. Here at last was a chance to make them bleed. The militia screamed defiance as they reached the barrier of iron spikes. These were no danger to men and they passed through quickly, killing those warriors who still lived and stabbing the dead over and over until they were bloody rags on the grass.
Giam used his horse to block lines of men as best he could. In fury, he had the signal horns blow retreat, but the men were deaf and blind to everything except the enemy and the king who watched them. They could not be called back.
On horseback, Giam saw the sudden change in the tribes before any of his running men. Before his eyes, the wild rout vanished and perfect new Mongol lines formed, the discipline terrifying. The scarlet army of the Xi Xia had come half a mile past the traps and pits they had dug the night before and still raced onwards to bloody their swords and send these enemies away from their city. Without warning, they faced a confident army of horsemen on exposed ground. Genghis gave a single order and the entire force moved into a trot. The Mongol warriors pulled bows from shaped leather holders on the saddles, taking the first long arrows from the quivers on their hips or backs. They guided the ponies with their knees alone, riding with the arrows pointing down. At another barked order from Genghis, they brought their lines to a canter and then instantly to full gallop, the arrows coming up to their faces for the first volley.
Caught out in the open, fear swept through the massed red ranks. The Xi Xia lines compressed and some at the rear were still cheering ignorantly as the Mongol army swept back in. Giam roared desperate orders to increase the space between the ranks, but only the king’s guard responded. As they faced a massed charge for the second time, the militia bunched even tighter, terrified and confused.
Twenty thousand buzzing arrows smashed the red lines to their knees. They could not return the volleys in the face of such destruction. Their own crossbowmen could only shoot blindly towards the enemy, hampered by the scramble of their own companions. The Mongols drew and shot ten times in every sixty heartbeats and their accuracy was crushing. The red armour saved some, but as they rose screaming, they were hit again and again until they stayed down. As the Mongols darted in for the close killing, Giam dug in his heels and raced across the face of the bloody lines to the king’s pikemen, desperate to have them hold. Somehow, he came through unscathed.
The king’s guards looked no different from the militia in their red armour. As Giam took command, he saw some of the militia rushing back through their ranks, chased down by screaming Mongol riders. The guards did not run and Giam gave a sharp order to raise pikes, passed on down the line. The tribesmen saw too late that these were not panicking like the others. Pike blades held up at an angle could cut a man in half as he charged and dozens of Mongol riders went down as they tried to gallop through. Giam felt hope rise in him that he could yet salvage the day.
The guard cavalry had moved out to defend the wings against the mobile enemy. As the militia was crushed, Giam was left with only the few thousand of the king’s trained men and a few hundred stragglers. The Mongols seemed to delight in hitting the Xi Xia riders. Whenever the guard cavalry tried to charge, the tribesmen would spear in at high speed and pick men off with bows. The wildest of them engaged the guards with swords, looping in and out again like stinging insects. Though the cavalry kept their discipline, they had been trained to ride down infantry on the open field and could not respond to attacks from all directions. Caught away from the city, it was slaughter.
The pikemen survived the first charges against them, gutting the Mongol horses. When the king’s cavalry were crushed and scattered, those who fought on foot were exposed. The pikemen could not turn to face the enemy easily and every time they tried, they were too slow. Giam bawled orders hopelessly, but the Mongols encircled them and cut them to pieces in a storm of arrows that still failed to claim him with them. Each man who died fell with a dozen shafts in him, or was cut from his saddle by a sword at full gallop. Pikes were broken and trampled in the press. Those who still survived tried to run to the shadow of the walls where archers could protect them. Almost all were ridden down.
The gates were shut. As Giam glanced back at the city, he found himself hot with shame. The king would be watching in horror. The army was shattered, ruined. Only a few battered, weary men had made it to the walls. Somehow, Giam had remained in the saddle, more aware than ever of his king’s gaze. In misery, he raised his sword and cantered gently towards the Mongol lines until they spotted him.
Shaft after shaft broke against his red armour as he closed on them. Before he reached the line, a young warrior galloped out to meet him, his sword raised. Giam shouted once, but the warrior ducked under his blow, carving a great gash under the general’s right arm. Giam swayed in the saddle, his horse slowing to a walk. He could hear the warrior circling back, but his arm hung on sinews and he could not raise his sword. Blood rushed across his thighs and he looked up for a moment, never feeling the blow that took his head and ended his shame.
Genghis rode triumphantly through the mounds of scarlet dead, their armour resembling the gleaming carcases of beetles. In his right hand, he held a long pike with the head of the Xi Xia general on top, the white beard twitching in the breeze. Blood ran down the shaft onto his hand and dried there, gumming his fingers together. Some of the army had escaped by running back through the spikes where his riders could not follow. Even then, he had sent warriors to lead their horses on foot. It had been a slow business and perhaps a thousand of the enemy in all had made it close enough to the city to be covered by archers. Genghis laughed at the sight of the bedraggled men standing in the shadow of Yinchuan. The gates remained closed and they could do nothing but stare in blank despair at his warriors as they rode among the dead, laughing and calling to each other.
Genghis dismounted as he reached the grass and rested the bloody pike against his horse’s heaving flank. He bent down and picked up one of the spikes, examining it with curiosity. It was a simple thing of four nails joined together so one remained upright no matter how it fell. If he had been forced to take the defensive position, he thought he would have laid bands of them in widening circles around the army, but even then, the defenders had not been warriors as he knew them. His own men had better discipline, taught by a harder land than the peaceful valley of the Xi Xia.
As Genghis walked, he could see fragments of torn and broken armour on the ground. He examined a piece of it with interest, seeing how the red lacquer had chipped and flaked away at the edges. Some of the Xi Xia soldiers had fought well, but the Mongol bows took them even so. It was a good omen for the future and the final confirmation that he had brought them to the right place. The men knew it, as they looked on their khan in awe. He had brought them through the desert and given them enemies who fought poorly. It was a good day.
His gaze fell on ten men wearing deels marked in Uighur blue stitching as they walked amongst the dead. One of them carried a sack and he saw the others reach down to bodies and make a quick jerking motion with a knife.
‘What are you doing?’ he called to them. They stood proudly when they saw who addressed them.
‘Barchuk of the Uighurs said you would want to know the numbers of the dead,’ one of them replied. ‘We are cutting ears to be tallied later on.’
Genghis blinked. Looking around, he saw that many of the bodies nearby had a red gash where an ear had been that morning. The sack bulged already.
‘You may thank Barchuk on my behalf,’ he began, then his voice trailed away. As the men shared nervous glances, Genghis took three strides through the corpses, sending flies buzzing into the air around him.
‘There is a man here without any ears at all,’ Genghis said. The Uighur warriors hurried over and, as they saw the earless soldier, the man with the sack began to curse his companions.
‘You miserable offal! How can we keep a straight count if you cut off both ears?’
Genghis took one look at their faces and burst into laughter as he returned to his pony.
He was still chuckling as he took up the pike and tossed the cluster of black nails into the grass. He strolled towards the walls with his grisly trophy, judging where the archers of the Xi Xia could reach.
In full view of the city walls, he jammed the pike into the ground with all his weight, standing back from it as he stared upwards. As he had expected, thin arrows soared out towards him, but the range was too far and he did not flinch. Instead, he drew his father’s sword and raised it towards them, while his army chanted and roared at his back.
Genghis’ expression became grim once more. He had blooded the new nation. He had shown they could stand even against Chin soldiers. Yet, he still had no way to enter a city that mocked him with its strength. He rode slowly to where his brothers had gathered. Genghis nodded to them.
‘Break the canals,’ he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
With every able-bodied man working with stones and iron hammers, it still took six days to reduce the canals around Yinchuan to rubble. At first, Genghis looked on the destruction with savage pleasure, hoping the mountain rivers might flood the city.
It disturbed him to see how the waters rose so quickly on the plain, until his warriors were ankle deep before they had finished destroying the last of the canals. The sultry days brought huge quantities of snow melt down from the mountain peaks and he had not truly considered where all the water might go once it wasn’t channelled down towards the city and the crops.
Even gently sloping ground became sodden mud by noon of the third day and, though the crops were flooded, the waters continued to rise. Genghis could see the amusement on the faces of his generals as they realised the error. At first, the hunting was excellent as small animals escaping the flood could be seen splashing from far away. Hundreds of hares were shot and brought back to the camp in slick bundles of wet fur, but by then, the gers were in danger of being ruined. Genghis was forced to move the camp miles to the north before water flooded the entire plain.
By evening, they had reached a point above the broken canal system where the ground was still firm. The city of Yinchuan was a dark spot in the distance and, in between, a new lake had sprung from nothing. It was no more than a foot deep, but it caught the setting sun and shone gold for miles.
Genghis was sitting on the steps leading up to his ger when his brother Khasar came by, his face carefully neutral. No one else had dared to say anything to the man who led them, but there were many strained faces in the camp that evening. The tribes loved a joke and flooding themselves off the plain appealed to their humour.
Khasar followed his brother’s irritated gaze out onto the expanse of water.
‘Well, that taught us a valuable lesson,’ Khasar murmured. ‘Shall I have the guards watch for enemy swimmers, creeping up on us?’
Genghis looked sourly at his brother. They could both see children of the tribes frolicking at the water’s edge, black with stinking mud as they threw each other in. Jochi and Chagatai were in the centre of them as usual, delighted with the new feature of the Xi Xia plain.
‘The water will sink into the ground,’ Genghis replied, frowning.
Khasar shrugged.
‘If we divert the waters, yes. I think it will be too soft for riders for some time after that. It occurs to me that breaking the canals may not have been the best plan we have come up with.’
Genghis turned to see his brother watching him with a wry expression and barked a laugh as he rose to his feet.
‘We learn, brother. So much of this is new to us. Next time, we don’t break the canals. Are you satisfied?’
‘I am,’ Khasar replied cheerfully. ‘I was beginning to think my brother could not make an error. It has been an enjoyable day for me.’
‘I am pleased for you,’ Genghis said. Both of them watched as the boys on the water’s edge began to fight again. Chagatai threw himself at his brother and they thrashed together in the muddy shallows, first one on top, then the other.
‘We cannot be attacked from the desert and no army can reach us here with that new lake in the way. Let us feast tonight and celebrate our victory,’ Genghis said.
Khasar nodded, grinning.
‘Now that, my brother, is a fine idea.’
Rai Chiang gripped the arms of his gilded chair, staring out over the drowned plain. The city had warehouses of salted meat and grain, but with the crops rotting, there would be no more. He turned the problem over and over in his mind, despairingly. Though they did not yet know it, many in the city would starve to death. His remaining guards would be overwhelmed by the hungry mob when winter came and Yinchuan would be ruined from within.
As far as his eye could see, the waters stretched back to the mountains. Behind the city to the south, there were still fields and towns where neither the invaders nor the flood had yet reached, but they were not enough to feed the people of the Xi Xia. He thought of the militia in those places. If he stripped every last man from those towns, he could assemble another army, but he would lose the provinces to banditry as soon as the famine began to bite. It was infuriating, but he could not see a solution to his troubles.
He sighed to himself, causing his first minister to look up.
‘My father told me always to keep the peasants fed,’ Rai Chiang said aloud. ‘I did not understand its importance at the time. What does it matter if a few starve each winter? Does it not show the displeasure of the gods?’
The first minister nodded solemnly.
‘Without the example of suffering, Majesty, our people will not work. While they can see the results of laziness, they toil in the sun to feed themselves and their families. It is the way the gods have ordered the world and we cannot stand against their will.’
‘But now, they will all go hungry,’ Rai Chiang snapped, tired of the man’s droning voice. ‘Instead of a just example, a moral lesson, half our people will be clamouring for food and fighting in the streets.’
‘Perhaps, Majesty,’ the minister replied, unconcerned. ‘Many will die, but the kingdom will remain. The crops will grow again and, next year, there will be an abundance for the mouths of the peasants. Those who survive the winter will grow fat and bless your name.’
Rai Chiang could not find the words to argue. He stared down from the tower of his palace at the throng in the streets. The lowest beggars had heard the news of the crops being left to spoil in the water from the mountains. They were not hungry yet, but they would be thinking of the cold months and already there were riots. His guard had been ruthless on his order, culling hundreds at the slightest sign of unrest. The people had learned to fear the king and yet, in his private thoughts, he feared them more.
‘Can anything be saved?’ he asked at last. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could smell the rich odour of dying vegetation on the breeze.
The first minister considered, looking through a list of events in the city as if he might find inspiration there.
‘If the invaders left today, Majesty, we could no doubt salvage some of the hardier grains. We could sow rice in the waterlogged fields and take one crop. The canals could be rebuilt, or we could direct the course of the water around the plain. Perhaps a tenth of the yield could be saved or replaced.’
‘But the invaders will not leave,’ Rai Chiang went on. He thumped his fist into the arm of the chair.
‘They have beaten us. Lice-ridden, stinking tribesmen have cut right to the heart of the Xi Xia and I am meant to sit here and preside over the stench of rotting wheat.’
The first minister bowed his head at the tirade, frightened to speak. Two of his colleagues had been executed that very morning as the king’s temper mounted. He did not want to join them.
The king rose and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘I have no choices left. If I strip the south of the militia in every town, it will not equal the numbers who failed against them. How long would it be before those towns become strongholds for bandits without the king’s soldiers to keep them quiet? I would lose the south as well as the north and then the city would fall.’ He swore under his breath and the minister paled.
‘I will not sit and wait for the peasants to riot, or this sickly smell of rot to fill every room in the city. Send out messengers to the leader of these people. Tell him I will grant him an audience that we may discuss his demands on my people.’
‘Majesty, they are little better than savage dogs,’ the minister spluttered. ‘There can be no negotiation with them.’
Rai Chiang turned furious eyes on his servant.
‘Send them out. I have not been able to destroy this army of savage dogs. All I have is the fact that he cannot take my city from me. Perhaps I can bribe him into leaving.’
The minister flushed with the shame of the task, but he bowed to the floor, pressing his head against the cool wood.
As evening came, the tribes were drunk and singing. The storytellers had been busy with tales of the battle and how Genghis had drawn the enemy past their ring of iron. Comic poems had the children in fits of giggles and, before the light faded, there were many contests of wrestling and archery, the champions wearing a grass wreath on their heads until they drank themselves to insensibility.
Genghis and his generals presided over the celebration. Genghis blessed a dozen new marriages, giving weapons and ponies from his own herd to warriors who had distinguished themselves. The gers were packed with women captured from the towns, though not all the wives welcomed the newcomers. More than one fight between women had ended in bloodshed, each time with the sinewy Mongol women victorious over their husbands’ captives. Before nightfall, Kachiun had been called to the site of three different killings as anger flared with the airag liquor in their veins. He had ordered two men and a woman to be tied to a post and beaten bloody. He did not care about those who had been killed, but he had no desire to see the tribes descend into an orgy of lust and violence. Perhaps because of his iron hand, the mood of the tribes remained light as the stars came out and, though some of them missed the plains of home, they looked upon their leaders with pride.
Beside the ger where Genghis met his generals was his family home, no larger or more ornate than any other raised by the families of the new nation. While he cheered the wrestling bouts, and torches were lit around the vast camp, his wife Borte sat with her four sons, crooning to them as they ate. With the coming of dusk, Jochi and Chagatai had made themselves difficult to find, preferring the noise and fun of the feast to sleep. Borte had been forced to send out three warriors to scour the gers for them and they had been brought back still struggling under their arms. Both boys sat glaring at one another in the little ger while Borte sang Ogedai and little Tolui to sleep. The day had been exhausting for them and it did not take long before both younger boys were dreaming in their blankets.
Borte turned to Jochi, frowning at the anger in his face.
‘You have not eaten, little man,’ she said to him. He sniffed without replying and Borte leaned closer to him.
‘That cannot be airag I smell on your breath?’ she demanded. Jochi’s manner changed in an instant and he drew up his knees like a barrier.
‘It would be,’ Chagatai said, delighted at the chance to see his brother squirm. ‘Some of the men gave him a drink and he was sick on the grass.’
‘Keep your mouth still!’ Jochi shouted, springing up. Borte grabbed him by the arm, her strength easily a match for the little boy’s. Chagatai grinned, thoroughly satisfied.
‘He is bitter because he broke his favourite bow this morning,’ Jochi snapped, struggling in his mother’s grasp. ‘Let me go!’
In response, Borte slapped Jochi across the face and dropped him back onto the blankets. It was not a hard blow, but he raised his hand to his cheek in shock.
‘I have heard your squabbling all day,’ she said angrily. ‘When will you realise you cannot fight like puppies with the tribes watching? Not you. Do you think it pleases your father? If I tell him, you will …’
‘Don’t tell him,’ Jochi said quickly, fear showing on his face.
Borte relented immediately. ‘I will not, if you behave and work. You will inherit nothing from him simply because you are his sons. Is Arslan his blood? Jelme? If you are fit to lead, he will choose you, but do not expect him to favour you over better men.’
Both boys were listening intently and she realised she had not spoken to them in this way before. It surprised her to see how they hung on every word and she considered what else she might say before they were distracted.
‘Eat your food while you listen,’ she said. To her pleasure, both boys took the plates of meat and wolfed into them, though they had long gone cold. Their eyes never left hers as they waited for their mother to continue.
‘I had thought your father might have explained this to you by now,’ she murmured. ‘If he were khan of a small tribe, perhaps his eldest would expect to inherit his sword, his horse and his bondsmen. He once expected the same from your grandfather, Yesugei, though his brother Bekter was oldest.’
‘What happened to Bekter?’ Jochi asked.
‘Father and Kachiun killed him,’ Chagatai said with relish. Borte winced as Jochi’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘Truly?’
His mother sighed.
‘That is a story for another day. I don’t know where Chagatai heard it, but he should know better than to listen to the gossip of the campfires.’
Chagatai nodded briskly at Jochi behind her back, grinning at his brother’s discomfort. Borte shot him an irritable glance, catching him before he could freeze.
‘Your father is not some small khan from the hills,’ she said. ‘He has more tribes than can be counted on the hands. Will you expect him to hand them over to a weakling?’ She turned to Chagatai. ‘Or a fool?’ She shook her head. ‘He will not. He has younger brothers and they will all have sons. The next khan may come from them, if he is dissatisfied with the men you become.’
Jochi lowered his head as he thought this through.
‘I am better with a bow than anyone else,’ he muttered. ‘And my pony is only slow because he is so small. When I have a man’s mount, I will be faster.’
Chagatai snorted.
‘I am not talking about the skills of war,’ Borte said, nettled. ‘You will both be fine warriors, I have seen it in you.’ Before they could begin to preen at the rare compliment, she went on.
‘Your father will look to see if you can lead men and think quickly. Did you see the way he raised Tsubodai to command a hundred? The boy is unknown, of no blood line that matters, but your father respects his mind and his skill. He will be tested, but he could be a general when he has his full growth. He could command a thousand, even ten thousand warriors in war. Will you do the same?’
‘Why not?’ Chagatai said instantly.
Borte turned to him.
‘When you are playing with your friends, are you the one the others look to? Do they follow your ideas or do you follow theirs? Think hard now, for there will be many who flatter you because of your father. Think of those you respect. Do they listen?’
Chagatai bit his lip as he thought. He shrugged.
‘Some of them. They are children.’
‘Why would they follow you when you spend your days fighting with your brother?’ she said, pressing him.
The little boy looked resentful as he struggled with ideas too big for him. He raised his chin in defiance.
‘They won’t follow Jochi. He thinks they should, but they never will.’
Borte felt a coldness touch her chest at the words.
‘Really, my son?’ she said softly. ‘Why would they not follow your older brother?’
Chagatai turned his head away and Borte reached out and gripped him painfully by his arm. He did not cry out, though tears showed at the corners of his eyes.
‘Are there secrets between us, Chagatai?’ Borte asked, her voice grating. ‘Why would they never follow Jochi?’
‘Because he is a Tartar bastard!’ Chagatai shouted. This time, the slap that Borte landed on her son was not gentle. It knocked his head to one side and he sprawled on the bed, dazed. Blood trickled from his nose and he began to wail in shock.
Jochi spoke quietly behind her.
‘He tells them that all the time,’ he said. His voice was dark with fury and despair and Borte found tears in her own eyes at the pain he was suffering. Chagatai’s crying had wakened her two youngest sons and they too began to sob, affected by the scene in the ger without understanding it.
Borte reached out to Jochi and enfolded him in her arms.
‘You cannot wish it back into your brother’s foolish mouth,’ she murmured into his hair. She pulled back then to look into Jochi’s eyes, wanting him to understand. ‘Some words can be a cruel weight on a man, unless he learns to ignore them. You will have to be better than all the others to win your father’s approval. You know it now.’
‘Is it true then?’ he whispered, looking away. He felt the stiffness in her back as she considered her answer and he began to sob gently himself.
‘Your father and I begat you on a winter plain, hundreds of miles from the Tartars. It is true that I was lost to him for a time and he … killed the men who had taken me, but you are his son and mine. His first-born.’
‘My eyes are different, though,’ he said.
Borte snorted.
‘So were Bekter’s when they were young. He was a son of Yesugei, but his eyes were as dark as yours. No one ever dared to question his blood. Do not think of it, Jochi. You are a grandson of Yesugei and a son of Genghis. You will be a khan one day.’
As Chagatai snuffled and wiped blood onto his hand, Jochi grimaced, leaning back to look at his mother. Visibly, he summoned his courage, taking a deep breath before speaking. His voice quavered, humiliating him in front of his brothers.
‘He killed his brother,’ he said, ‘and I have seen the way he looks at me. Does he love me at all?’
Borte pressed the little boy into her breast, her heart breaking for him.
‘Of course he does. You will make him see you as his heir, my son. You will make him proud.’
CHAPTER NINE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
It took five thousand warriors even longer to divert the canals with earth and rubble than it had to break them. Genghis had given the order when he saw the flood levels were threatening even the rising ground of the new camp. When the work was done, the water formed new lakes to the east and west, but at last the way to Yinchuan was drying in the sun. The ground was thick with greasy black plants and swarms of biting flies that irritated the tribes. Their ponies sank to the knees in sticky mud, making it hard to scout and adding to a feeling of confinement in the gers. There were many arguments and fights among the tribes each evening and Kachiun was hard pressed to keep the peace.
The news that eight riders were toiling across the sodden plain was welcomed by all those who had grown tired of their inactivity. They had not come through the desert to remain in one place. Even the children had lost interest in the floodwaters and many of them had become ill from drinking stagnant water.
Genghis watched the Xi Xia horsemen struggle through the mud. He had assembled five thousand of his warriors to face them on the dry ground, placing them right on the edge of the mud so that his enemy would have no place to rest. The Xi Xia horses were already blowing with the effort of pulling each leg from the clotted soil and the riders were hard pressed to keep their dignity as they risked a fall.
To Genghis’ enormous pleasure, one of them did slip from the saddle when his mount lurched into a hole. The tribes hooted in derision as the man yanked savagely on his reins and remounted, soaked in filth. Genghis glanced at Barchuk at his side, noting the man’s expression of satisfaction. He was there as an interpreter, but Kokchu and Temuge stood with them as well to hear what the king’s messenger had to say. Both men had taken to their studies of the Chin language with what Genghis considered to be indecent enjoyment. The shaman and Genghis’ younger brother were clearly excited at the chance to test their newfound knowledge.
The riders halted as Genghis raised a flat palm. They had come just close enough for him to hear their words and, though they seemed unarmed, he was not a trusting man. If he were in the position of the Xi Xia king, an attempt at assassination would certainly be something he considered at that time. At his back, the tribes watched in silence, their double-curved bows ready in their hands.
‘Are you lost?’ Genghis called to them. He watched as they glanced to one of their number, a soldier in fine armour that extended to a headpiece of iron scales. Genghis nodded to himself, knowing the man would speak for them all. He was not disappointed.
‘I bear a message from the king of the Xi Xia,’ the soldier replied. To the disappointment of Temuge and Kokchu, the words were perfectly clear in the language of the tribes.
Genghis looked questioningly at Barchuk and the Uighur khan spoke in a murmur, barely moving his lips.
‘I have seen him before, at the trading days. He is an officer of some middle rank, very proud.’
‘He looks it, in that fine armour,’ Genghis replied, before raising his voice to address the soldiers.
‘Dismount if you would talk to me,’ Genghis called. The riders exchanged resigned glances and Genghis masked his amusement as they stepped down into thick mud. They were held almost immobile by its grip and their expressions raised his spirits.
‘What does your king have to say?’ Genghis continued, staring at the officer. The man had flushed in anger as the mud ruined his fine boots and took a moment to master his emotions before replying.
‘He bids you meet him in the shadow of the walls of Yinchuan, under truce. His honour will guarantee no attack while you are there.’
‘What does he have to say to me?’ Genghis said again, as if there had been no reply.
The man’s flush deepened.
‘If I knew his mind, there would be little point in such a meeting,’ he snapped. Those with him glanced nervously at the host of Mongol warriors waiting with bows. They had seen the extraordinary accuracy of those weapons and their eyes pleaded with their spokesman not to give any offence that might lead to an attack.
Genghis smiled.
‘What is your name, angry man?’
‘Ho Sa. I am Hsiao-Wei of Yinchuan. You might call me a khan, perhaps, a senior officer.’
‘I would not call you a khan,’ Genghis replied. ‘But you are welcome in my camp, Ho Sa. Send these goats home and I will welcome you in my ger and share tea and salt with you.’
Ho Sa turned to his companions and jerked his head back at the city in the distance. One of them spoke a string of meaningless syllables that made Kokchu and Temuge crane forward to hear. Ho Sa shrugged at his companion and Genghis watched as the other seven mounted and turned back to the city.
‘Those are beautiful horses,’ Barchuk said at his shoulder. Genghis looked at the Uighur khan. He nodded, catching the eye of Arslan where he stood along the line of warriors. Genghis jerked two fingers at the retreating group, like a snake striking.
An instant later, a hundred shafts flashed through the air to take the seven riders neatly from their saddles. One of the horses was killed and Genghis heard Arslan barking at an unfortunate warrior for his incompetence. As Genghis watched, Arslan took the man’s bow and cut the string with a jerk of his knife before handing it back to him. The warrior took it with his head bowed in humiliation.
Bodies lay still on the plain, face down in the mud. On such ground, the horses could not bolt easily. Without their riders to urge them on, they stood listlessly, looking back at the tribes. Two of them nuzzled the bodies of the men they had known, whickering nervously at the smell of blood.
Ho Sa stared in thin-lipped fury as Genghis turned to face him.
‘They were good horses,’ Genghis said. The soldier’s expression did not change and the khan shrugged. ‘Words are not heavy. It does not take more than one of you to carry my reply.’
He left Ho Sa to be taken to the great ger and given salt tea. Genghis remained behind to see the horses as they were captured and brought back.
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Conn Iggulden
The second in the bestselling new Conqueror series on Genghis Khan, it is a wonderful, epic story which Conn Iggulden brings brilliantly to life.The gathering of the tribes of the Mongols has been a long time in coming but finally, triumphantly, Temujin of the Wolves, Genghis Khan, is given the full accolade of the overall leader and their oaths. Now he can begin to meld all the previously warring people into one army, one nation. But the task Genghis has set himself and them is formidable. He is determined to travel to the land of the long-time enemy, the Chin and attack them there. The distances and terrain-the wide deserts, the impenetrable mountains-make it a difficult venture even for the legendary Mongolian speed of movement, but the greatest problem is that of the complex fortifications, a way of fighting wars of a settled urban population which the nomadic Mongolians had never come across. Finding ways to tackle that and keeping his tribes together in a strange environment presents another new and exciting challenge for Genghis Khan.Not only must Genghis succeed in this incredible campaign, but he must also reconcile the restless factions among his own generals, mediate between his ambitious brothers and cope with his own reactions to his growing sons. The young warrior has become a notable and victorious military commander of thousands: he must now learn to become a great leader of peoples of many different races and religions.Lords of the Bow is a deeply satisfying novel. It is epic in scope, convincing, and fascinating in the narration of an extraordinary story. Above all Genghis Khan continues to dominate the scene as he matures from the young boy of Wolf of the Plains to the great Conqueror.
THE CONQUEROR SERIES
LORDS OF THE BOW
CONN IGGULDEN
Copyright (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2008
Con Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007201778
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007285358
Version: 2016-10-10
Dedication (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
To my daughter, Sophie
Map (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Contents
Title Page (#u0615c2ee-e489-5798-b473-04d79f423714)Copyright (#u1a88b7c6-a956-540d-927b-c7e0dc1925fd)Dedication (#u5effe79e-3469-584d-923e-9aa610ffad6a)Map (#u911c79d0-bd27-55bf-a745-8a9ee42005d1)Part One (#uabe836d4-7ffa-5e15-8985-ec706e659e43)Prologue (#u35531752-fd77-5cb0-b019-86be85636fe8)Chapter One (#u4242f180-0346-55c8-b956-cd42c5aa8e0f)Chapter Two (#ud212d231-6dcb-57c2-9b94-f71695c8ea12)Chapter Three (#u9d08e8f3-6626-5636-93b3-ebf2eb0e0912)Chapter Four (#ub6856f18-7cb6-534c-8020-4a97a9faf4de)Chapter Five (#u22e443ed-abf7-5e0f-8c6a-894c00de76e4)Chapter Six (#u183e5d32-17b5-5601-b94d-36cbb3ea4ced)Chapter Seven (#ue4abc73b-6a60-5cc2-bccb-745649a41f76)Chapter Eight (#ud590a1f3-68fe-5073-82e4-efca2138ae31)Chapter Nine (#u44a2fdc3-5cab-5336-8570-c2225c5f0224)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapterr Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)Sample (#litres_trial_promo)Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also By Conn Iggulden (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
‘Behold, a people shall come from the north, and a great nation. They shall hold the bow and the lance; they are cruel and will not show mercy; their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle.’
– Jeremiah 50:41, 42
PROLOGUE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The khan of the Naimans was old. He shivered in the wind as it blew over the hill. Far below, the army he had gathered made its stand against the man who called himself Genghis. More than a dozen tribes stood with the Naimans in the foothills as the enemy struck in waves. The khan could hear yelling and screams on the clear mountain air, but he was almost blind and could not see the battle.
‘Tell me what is happening,’ he murmured again to his shaman.
Kokchu had yet to see his thirtieth year and his eyes were sharp, though shadows of regret played over them.
‘The Jajirat have laid down their bows and swords, my lord. They have lost their courage, as you said they might.’
‘They give him too much honour with their fear,’ the khan said, drawing his deel close around his scrawny frame. ‘Tell me of my own Naimans: do they still fight?’
Kokchu did not respond for a long time as he watched the roiling mass of men and horses below. Genghis had caught them all by surprise, appearing out of the grasslands at dawn when the best scouts said he was still hundreds of miles away. They had struck the Naiman alliance with all the ferocity of men used to victory, but there had been a chance to break their charge. Kokchu silently cursed the Jajirat tribe, who had brought so many men from the mountains that he had thought they might even win against their enemies. For a little time, their alliance had been a grand thing, impossible even a few years before. It had lasted as long as the first charge and then fear had shattered it and the Jajirat had stepped aside.
As Kokchu watched, he swore under his breath, seeing how some of the men his khan had welcomed even fought against their brothers. They had the mind of a pack of dogs, turning with the wind as it blew strongest.
‘They fight yet, my lord,’ he said at last. ‘They have stood against the charge and their arrows sting the men of Genghis, hurting them.’
The khan of the Naimans brought his bony hands together, the knuckles white.
‘That is good, Kokchu, but I should go back down to them, to give them heart.’
The shaman turned a feverish gaze on the man he had served all his adult life.
‘You will die if you do, my lord. I have seen it. Your bondsmen will hold this hill against even the souls of the dead.’ He hid his shame. The khan had trusted his counsel, but when Kokchu watched the first Naiman lines crumple, he had seen his own death coming on the singing shafts. All he had wanted then was to get away.
The khan sighed. ‘You have served me well, Kokchu. I have been grateful. Now tell me again what you see.’
Kokchu took a quick, sharp breath before replying.
‘The brothers of Genghis have joined the battle now. One of them has led a charge into the flanks of our warriors. It is cutting deeply into their ranks.’ He paused, biting his lip. Like a buzzing fly, he saw an arrow darting up towards them and watched it sink to its feathers in the ground just a few feet below where they crouched.
‘We must move higher, my lord,’ he said, rising to his feet without looking away from the seething mass of killing far below.
The old khan rose with him, aided by two warriors. They were cold-faced as they witnessed the destruction of their friends and brothers, but they turned up the hill at Kokchu’s gesture, helping the old man to climb.
‘Have we struck back, Kokchu?’ he asked, his voice quavering. Kokchu turned and winced at what he saw. Arrows hung in the air below, seeming to move with oily slowness. The Naiman force had been split in two by the charge. The armour Genghis had copied from the Chin was better than the boiled leather the Naimans used. Each man wore hundreds of finger-width lengths of iron sewn onto thick canvas over a silk tunic. Even then, it could not stop a solid hit, though the silk often trapped the arrowhead. Kokchu saw the warriors of Genghis weather the storm of shafts. The horsetail standard of the Merkit tribe was trampled underfoot and they too threw down their weapons to kneel, chests heaving. Only the Oirat and Naimans fought on, raging, knowing they could not hold for long. The great alliance had come together to resist a single enemy and with its end went all hope of freedom. Kokchu frowned to himself, considering his future.
‘The men fight with pride, my lord. They will not run from these, not while you are watching.’ He saw a hundred warriors of Genghis had reached the foot of the hill and were staring balefully up at the lines of bondsmen. The wind was cruelly cold at such a height and Kokchu felt despair and anger. He had come too far to fail on a dry hill with the cold sun on his face. All the secrets he had won from his father, surpassed even, would be wasted in a blow from a sword, or an arrow, to end his life. For a moment, he hated the old khan who had tried to resist the new force on the plains. He had failed and that made him a fool, no matter how strong he had once seemed. In silence, Kokchu cursed the bad luck that still stalked him.
The khan of the Naimans was panting as they climbed and he waved a weary hand at the men who held his arms.
‘I must rest here,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘My lord, they are too close,’ Kokchu replied. The bondsmen ignored the shaman, easing their khan down to where he could sit on a ledge of grass.
‘Then we have lost?’ the khan said. ‘How else could the dogs of Genghis have reached this hill, if not over Naiman dead?’
Kokchu did not meet the eyes of the bondsmen. They knew the truth as well as he, but no one wanted to say the words and break the last hope of an old man. Below, the ground was marked in curves and strokes of dead men, like a bloody script on the grass. The Oirat had fought bravely and well, but they too had broken at the last. The army of Genghis moved fluidly, taking advantage of every weakness in the lines. Kokchu could see groups of tens and hundreds race across the battlefield, their officers communicating with bewildering speed. Only the great courage of the Naiman warriors remained to hold back the storm and it would not be enough. Kokchu knew a moment’s hope when the warriors retook the foot of the hill, but it was a small number of exhausted men and they were swept away in the next great charge against them.
‘Your bondsmen still stand ready to die for you, my lord,’ Kokchu murmured. It was all he could say. The rest of the army that had stood so bright and strong the night before lay shattered. He could hear the cries of dying men.
The khan nodded, closing his eyes.
‘I thought we might win this day,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘If it is over, tell my sons to lay down their swords. I will not have them die for nothing.’
The khan’s sons had been killed as the army of Genghis roared over them. The two bondsmen stared at Kokchu as they heard the order, their grief and anger hidden from view. The older man drew his sword and checked the edge, the veins in his face and neck showing clearly, like delicate threads under the skin.
‘I will take word to your sons, lord, if you will let me go.’
The khan raised his head.
‘Tell them to live, Murakh, that they might see where this Genghis takes us all.’
There were tears in Murakh’s eyes and he wiped them away angrily as he faced the other bondsman, ignoring Kokchu as if he were not there.
‘Protect the khan, my son,’ he said softly. The younger man bowed his head and Murakh placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to touch foreheads for a moment. Without a glance at the shaman who had brought them to the hill, Murakh strode down the slope.
The khan sighed, his mind full of clouds.
‘Tell them to let the conqueror through,’ he whispered. Kokchu watched as a bead of sweat hung on his nose and quivered there. ‘Perhaps he will be merciful with my sons once he has killed me.’
Far below, Kokchu saw the bondsman Murakh reach the last knot of defenders. They stood taller in his presence; exhausted, broken men who nonetheless raised their heads and tried not to show they had been afraid. Kokchu heard them calling farewell to one another as they walked with a light step towards the enemy.
At the foot of the hill, Kokchu saw Genghis himself come through the mass of warriors, his armour marbled in blood. Kokchu felt the man’s gaze pass over him. He shivered and touched the hilt of his knife. Would Genghis spare a shaman who had drawn it across his own khan’s throat? The old man sat with his head bowed, his neck painfully thin. Perhaps such a murder would win Kokchu’s life for him and, at that moment, he was desperately afraid of death.
Genghis stared up without moving for a long time and Kokchu let his hand fall. He did not know this cold warrior who came from nowhere with the dawn sun. Kokchu sat at the side of his khan and watched the last of the Naimans go down to die. He chanted an old protective charm his father had taught him, to turn enemies to his side. It seemed to ease the tension in the old khan to hear the tumbling words.
Murakh had been first warrior to the Naimans and had not fought that day. With an ululating yell, he tore into the lines of Genghis’ men without a thought for his defence. The last of the Naimans shouted in his wake, their weariness vanishing. Their arrows sent the men of Genghis spinning, though they rose quickly and snapped the shafts, showing their teeth as they came on. As Murakh killed the first who stood against him, a dozen more pressed him on all sides, making his ribs run red with their blows.
Kokchu continued the chant, his eyes widening as Genghis blew a horn and his men pulled back from the panting Naiman survivors.
Murakh still lived, standing dazed. Kokchu could see Genghis call to him, but he could not hear the words. Murakh shook his head and spat blood on the ground as he raised his sword once more. There were only a few Naimans who still stood and they were all wounded, their blood running down their legs. They too raised their blades, staggering as they did so.
‘You have fought well,’ Genghis shouted. ‘Surrender to me and I will welcome you at my fires. I will give you honour.’
Murakh grinned at him through red teeth.
‘I spit on Wolf honour,’ he said.
Genghis sat very still on his pony before finally shrugging and dropping his arm once more. The line surged forward and Murakh and the others were engulfed in the press of stamping, stabbing men.
High on the hill, Kokchu rose to his feet, his chant dying in his throat as Genghis dismounted and began to climb. The battle was over. The dead lay in their hundreds, but thousands more had surrendered. Kokchu did not care what happened to them.
‘He is coming,’ Kokchu said softly, peering down the hill. His stomach cramped and the muscles in his legs shuddered like a horse beset with flies. The man who had brought the tribes of the plains under his banners was walking purposefully upwards, his face without expression. Kokchu could see his armour was battered and more than a few of its metal scales hung by threads. The fight had been hard, but Genghis climbed with his mouth shut, as if the exertion was nothing to him.
‘Have my sons survived?’ the khan whispered, breaking his stillness. He reached out and took hold of the sleeve of Kokchu’s deel.
‘They have not,’ Kokchu said with a sudden surge of bitterness. The hand fell away and the old man slumped. As Kokchu watched, the milky eyes came up once more and there was strength in the way he held himself.
‘Then let this Genghis come,’ the khan said. ‘What does he matter to me now?’
Kokchu did not respond, unable to tear his gaze from the warrior who climbed the hill. The wind was cold on his neck and he knew he was feeling it more sweetly than ever before. He had seen men faced with death; he had given it to them with the darkest rites, sending their souls spinning away. He saw his own death coming in the steady tread of that man and for a moment he almost broke and ran. It was not courage that held him there. He was a man of words and spells, more feared amongst the Naimans than his father had ever been. To run was to die with the certainty of winter coming. He heard the whisper as Murakh’s son drew his sword, but took no comfort from it. There was something awe-inspiring about the steady gait of the destroyer. Armies had not stopped him. The old khan lifted his head to watch him come, sensing the approach in the same way his sightless eyes could still seek out the sun.
Genghis paused as he reached the three men, gazing at them. He was tall and his skin shone with oil and health. His eyes were wolf-yellow and Kokchu saw no mercy in them. As Kokchu stood frozen, Genghis drew a sword still marked with drying blood. Murakh’s son took a pace forward to stand between the two khans. Genghis looked at him with a spark of irritation and the young man tensed.
‘Get down the hill, boy, if you want to live,’ Genghis said. ‘I have seen enough of my people die today.’
The young warrior shook his head without a word and Genghis sighed. With a sharp blow, he knocked the sword aside and swept his other hand across, plunging a dagger into the young man’s throat. As the life went out of Murakh’s son, he fell onto Genghis with open arms. Genghis gave a grunt as he caught the weight and heaved him away. Kokchu watched the body tumble limply down the slope.
Calmly, Genghis wiped his knife and replaced it in a sheath at his waist, his weariness suddenly evident.
‘I would have honoured the Naimans, if you had joined me,’ he said.
The old khan stared up at him, his eyes empty.
‘You have heard my answer,’ he replied, his voice strong. ‘Now send me to my sons.’
Genghis nodded. His sword came down with apparent slowness. It swept the khan’s head from his shoulders and sent it rolling down the hill. The body hardly jerked at the tug of the blade and only leaned slightly to one side. Kokchu could hear the blood spattering on the rocks as every one of his senses screamed to live. He paled as Genghis turned to him and he spoke in a desperate torrent of words.
‘You may not shed the blood of a shaman, lord. You may not. I am a man of power, one who understands power. Strike me and you will find my skin is iron. Instead, let me serve you. Let me proclaim your victory.’
‘How well did you serve the khan of the Naimans to have brought him here to die?’ Genghis replied.
‘Did I not bring him far from the battle? I saw you coming in my dreams, lord. I prepared the way for you as best I could. Are you not the future of the tribes? My voice is the voice of the spirits. I stand in water, while you stand on earth and sky. Let me serve you.’
Genghis hesitated, his sword perfectly still. The man he faced wore a dark brown deel over a grubby tunic and leggings. It was decorated with patterns of stitching, swirls of purple worn almost black with grease and dirt. The boots Kokchu wore were bound in rope, the sort a man might wear if the last owner had no more use for them.
Yet there was something in the way the eyes burned in the dark face. Genghis remembered how Eeluk of the Wolves had killed his father’s shaman. Perhaps Eeluk’s fate had been sealed on that bloody day so many years before. Kokchu watched him, waiting for the stroke that would end his life.
‘I do not need another storyteller,’ Genghis said. ‘I have three men already who claim to speak for the spirits.’
Kokchu saw the curiosity in the man’s gaze and he did not hesitate.
‘They are children, lord. Let me show you,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply, he reached inside his deel and removed a slender length of steel bound clumsily into a hilt of horn. He sensed Genghis raise his sword and Kokchu held up his free palm to stay the blow, closing his eyes.
With a wrenching effort of will, the shaman shut out the wind on his skin and the cold fear that ate at his belly. He murmured the words his father had beaten into him and felt the calm of a trance come sharper and faster than even he had expected. The spirits were with him, their caress slowing his heart. In an instant, he was somewhere else and watching.
Genghis opened his eyes wide as Kokchu touched the dagger to his own forearm, the slim blade entering the flesh. The shaman showed no sign of pain as the metal slid through him and Genghis watched, fascinated, as the tip raised the skin on the other side. The metal showed black as it poked through and Kokchu blinked slowly, almost lazily, as he pulled it out.
He watched the eyes of the young khan as the knife came free. They were fastened on the wound. Kokchu took a deep breath, feeling the trance deepen until a great coldness was in every limb.
‘Is there blood, lord?’ he whispered, knowing the answer.
Genghis frowned. He did not sheathe his sword, but stepped forward and ran a rough thumb over the oval wound in Kokchu’s arm.
‘None. It is a useful skill,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Can it be taught?’
Kokchu smiled, no longer afraid.
‘The spirits will not come to those they have not chosen, lord.’
Genghis nodded, stepping away. Even in the cold wind, the shaman stank like an old goat and he did not know what to make of the strange wound that did not bleed.
With a grunt, he ran his fingers along his blade and sheathed it.
‘I will give you a year of life, shaman. It is enough time to prove your worth.’
Kokchu fell to his knees, pressing his face into the ground.
‘You are the great khan, as I have foretold,’ he said, tears staining the dust on his cheeks. He felt the coldness of whispering spirits leave him then. He shrugged his sleeve forward to hide the fast-growing spot of blood.
‘I am,’ Genghis replied. He looked down the hill at the army waiting for him to return. ‘The world will hear my name.’ When he spoke again, it was so quiet that Kokchu had to strain to hear him.
‘This is not a time of death, shaman. We are one people and there will be no more battles between us. I will summon us all. Cities will fall to us, new lands will be ours to ride. Women will weep and I will be pleased to hear it.’
He looked down at the prostrate shaman, frowning.
‘You will live, shaman. I have said it. Get off your knees and walk down with me.’
At the foot of the hill, Genghis nodded to his brothers, Kachiun and Khasar. Each of them had grown in authority in the years since they had begun the gathering of tribes, but they were still young and Kachiun smiled as his brother walked amongst them.
‘Who is this?’ Khasar asked, staring at Kokchu in his ragged deel.
‘The shaman of the Naimans,’ Genghis replied.
Another man guided his pony close and dismounted, his eyes fastened on Kokchu. Arslan had once been swordsmith to the Naiman tribe and Kokchu recognised him as he approached. The man was a murderer, he remembered, forced into banishment. It was no surprise to find such as he amongst Genghis’ trusted officers.
‘I remember you,’ Arslan said. ‘Has your father died then?’
‘Years ago, oathbreaker,’ Kokchu replied, nettled by the tone. For the first time, he realised he had lost the authority he had won so painfully with the Naimans. There were few men in that tribe who would have looked on him without lowering their eyes, for fear that they would be accused of disloyalty and face his knives and fire. Kokchu met the gaze of the Naiman traitor without flinching. They would come to know him.
Genghis watched the tension between the two men with something like amusement.
‘Do not give offence, shaman. Not to the first warrior to come to my banners. There are no Naimans any longer, nor ties to tribe. I have claimed them all.’
‘I have seen it in the visions,’ Kokchu replied immediately. ‘You have been blessed by the spirits.’
Genghis’ face grew tight at the words.
‘It has been a rough blessing. The army you see around you has been won by strength and skill. If the souls of our fathers were aiding us, they were too subtle for me to see them.’
Kokchu blinked. The khan of the Naimans had been credulous and easy to lead. He realised this new man was not as open to his influence. Still, the air was sweet in his lungs. He lived and he had not expected even that an hour before.
Genghis turned to his brothers, dismissing Kokchu from his thoughts.
‘Have the new men give their oath to me this evening, as the sun sets,’ he said to Khasar. ‘Spread them amongst the others so that they begin to feel part of us, rather than beaten enemies. Do it carefully. I cannot be watching for knives at my back.’
Khasar dipped his head before turning away and striding through the warriors to where the defeated tribes still knelt.
Kokchu saw a smile of affection pass between Genghis and his younger brother Kachiun. The two men were friends and Kokchu was beginning to learn everything he could. Even the smallest detail would be useful in the years to come.
‘We have broken the alliance, Kachiun. Did I not say we would?’ Genghis said, clapping him on the back. ‘Your armoured horses came in at the perfect time.’
‘As you taught me,’ Kachiun replied, easy with the praise.
‘With the new men, this is an army to ride the plains,’ Genghis said, smiling. ‘It is time to set the path, at last.’ He thought for a moment.
‘Send out riders in every direction, Kachiun. I want the land scoured of every wanderer family and small tribe. Tell them to come to the black mountain next spring, near the Onon River. It is a flat plain that will hold all the thousands of our people. We will gather there, ready to ride.’
‘What message shall they take?’ Kachiun asked.
‘Tell them to come to me,’ he said softly. ‘Tell them Genghis calls them to a gathering. There is no one to stand against us now. They can follow me or they can spend their last days waiting for my warriors on the horizon. Tell them that.’ He looked around him with satisfaction. In seven years, he had gathered more than ten thousand men. With the survivors of the defeated allied tribes, he had almost twice that number. There was no one left on the plains who could challenge his leadership. He looked away from the sun to the east, imagining the bloated, wealthy cities of the Chin.
‘They have kept us apart for a thousand generations, Kachiun. They have ridden us until we were nothing more than savage dogs. That is the past. I have brought us together and they will be trembling. I’ll give them cause.’
CHAPTER ONE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
In the summer dusk, the encampment of the Mongols stretched for miles in every direction, the great gathering still dwarfed by the plain in the shadow of the black mountain. Ger tents speckled the landscape as far as the eye could see and around them thousands of cooking fires lit the ground. Beyond those, herds of ponies, goats, sheep and yaks stripped the ground of grass in their constant hunger. Each dawn saw them driven away to the river and good grazing before returning to the gers. Though Genghis guaranteed the peace, tension and suspicion grew each day. None there had seen such a host before and it was easy to feel hemmed in by the numbers. Insults imaginary and real were exchanged as all felt the pressure of living too close to warriors they did not know. In the evenings, there were many fights between the young men, despite the prohibition. Each dawn found one or two bodies of those who had tried to settle an old score or grudge. The tribes muttered among themselves while they waited to hear why they had been brought so far from their own lands.
In the centre of the army of tents and carts stood the ger of Genghis himself, unlike anything seen before on the plains. Half as high again as the others, it was twice the width and built of stronger materials than the wicker lattice of the gers around it. The construction had proved too heavy to dismantle easily and was mounted on a wheeled cart drawn by eight oxen. As the night came, many hundreds of warriors directed their feet towards it, just to confirm what they had heard and to marvel.
Inside, the great ger was lit with mutton-oil lamps, casting a warm glow over the inhabitants and making the air thick. The walls were hung with silk war banners, but Genghis disdained any show of wealth and sat on a rough wooden bench. His brothers lay sprawled on piled horse blankets and saddles, drinking and chatting idly.
Before Genghis sat a nervous young warrior, still sweating from the long ride that had brought him amongst such a host. The men around the khan did not seem to be paying attention, but the messenger was aware that their hands were never far from their weapons. They did not seem tense or worried at his presence and he considered that their hands might always be near a blade. His people had made their decision and he hoped the elder khans knew what they were doing.
‘If you have finished your tea, I will hear the message,’ Genghis said.
The messenger nodded, placing the shallow cup back on the floor at his feet. He swallowed his last gulp as he closed his eyes and recited, ‘These are the words of Barchuk, who is khan to the Uighurs.’
The conversations and laughter around him died away as he spoke and he knew they were all listening. His nervousness grew.
‘It is with joy that I learned of your glory, my lord Genghis Khan. We had grown weary waiting for our people to know one another and rise. The sun has risen. The river is freed of ice. You are the gurkhan, the one who will lead us all. I will dedicate my strength and knowledge to you.’
The messenger stopped and wiped sweat from his brow. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Genghis was looking at him quizzically and his stomach tightened in fear.
‘The words are very fine,’ Genghis said, ‘but where are the Uighurs? They have had a year to reach this place. If I have to fetch them …’ He left the threat dangling.
The messenger spoke quickly. ‘My lord, it took months just to build the carts to travel. We have not moved from our lands in many generations. Five great temples had to be taken apart, stone by stone, each one numbered so that it could be built again. Our store of scrolls took a dozen carts by itself and cannot move quickly.’
‘You have writing?’ Genghis asked, sitting forward with interest.
The messenger nodded without pride.
‘For many years now, lord. We have collected the writings of nations in the west, whenever they have allowed us to trade for them. Our khan is a man of great learning and has even copied works of the Chin and the Xi Xia.’
‘So I am to welcome scholars and teachers to this place?’ Genghis said. ‘Will you fight with scrolls?’
The messenger coloured as the men in the ger chuckled.
‘There are four thousand warriors also, my lord. They will follow Barchuk wherever he leads them.’
‘They will follow me, or they will be left as flesh on the grass,’ Genghis replied. For a moment, the messenger could only stare, but then he dropped his eyes to the polished wooden floor and remained silent.
Genghis stifled his irritation.
‘You have not said when they will come, these Uighur scholars,’ he said.
‘They could be only days behind me, lord. I left three moons ago and they were almost ready to leave. It cannot be long now, if you will have patience.’
‘For four thousand, I will wait,’ Genghis said softly, thinking. ‘You know the Chin writing?’
‘I do not have my letters, lord. My khan can read their words.’
‘Do these scrolls say how to take a city made of stone?’
The messenger hesitated as he felt the sharp interest of the men around him.
‘I have not heard of anything like that, lord. The Chin write about philosophy, the words of the Buddha, Confucius and Lao Tzu. They do not write of war, or if they do, they have not allowed us to see those scrolls.’
‘Then they are of no use to me,’ Genghis snapped. ‘Get yourself a meal and be careful not to start a fight with your boasting. I will judge the Uighurs when they finally arrive.’
The messenger bowed low before leaving the ger, taking a relieved breath as soon as he was out of the smoky atmosphere. Once more, he wondered if his khan understood what he had promised with his words. The Uighur ruled themselves no longer.
Looking around at the vast encampment, the messenger saw twinkling lights for miles. At a word from the man he had met, they could be sent in any direction. Perhaps the khan of the Uighurs had not had a choice.
Hoelun dipped her cloth into a bucket and laid it on her son’s brow. Temuge had always been weaker than his brothers and it seemed an added burden that he fell sick more than Khasar or Kachiun, or Temujin himself. She smiled wryly at the thought that she must now call her son ‘Genghis’. It meant the ocean and was a beautiful word twisted beyond its usual meaning by his ambition. He who had never seen the sea in his twenty-six years of life. Not that she had herself, of course.
Temuge stirred in his sleep, wincing as she probed his stomach with her fingers.
‘He is quiet now. Perhaps I will leave for a time,’ Borte said.
Hoelun glanced coldly at the woman Temujin had taken as a wife. Borte had given him four perfect sons and for a time Hoelun had thought they would be as sisters, or at least friends. The younger woman had once been full of life and excitement, but events had twisted her somewhere deep, where it could not be seen. Hoelun knew the way Temujin looked at the eldest boy. He did not play with little Jochi and all but ignored him. Borte had fought against the mistrust, but it had grown between them like an iron wedge into strong wood. It did not help that his three other boys had all inherited the yellow eyes of his line. Jochi’s were a dark brown, as black as his hair in dim light. While Temujin doted on the others, it was Jochi who ran to his mother, unable to understand the coldness in his father’s face when he looked at him. Hoelun saw the young woman glance at the door to the ger, no doubt thinking of her sons.
‘You have servants to put them to bed,’ Hoelun chided. ‘If Temuge wakes, I will need you here.’
As she spoke, her fingers drifted over a dark knot under the skin of her son’s belly, just a few fingerbreadths above the dark hair of his groin. She had seen such an injury before, when men lifted weights too heavy for them. The pain was crippling, but most of them recovered. Temuge did not have that kind of luck, and never had. He looked less like a warrior than ever as he had grown to manhood. When he slept, he had the face of a poet and she loved him for that. Perhaps because his father would have rejoiced to see the men the others had become, she had always found a special tenderness for Temuge. He had not grown ruthless, though he had endured as much as they. She sighed to herself and felt Borte’s eyes on her in the gloom.
‘Perhaps he will recover,’ Borte said. Hoelun winced. Her son blistered under the sun and rarely carried a blade bigger than an eating knife. She had not minded as he began to learn the histories of the tribes, taking them in with such speed that the older men were amazed at his recall. Not everyone could be skilled with weapons and horses, she told herself. She knew he hated the sneers and jibes that followed him in his work, though there were few who dared risk Genghis hearing of them. Temuge refused to mention the insults and that was a form of courage all its own. None of her sons lacked spirit.
Both women looked up as the small door of the ger opened. Hoelun frowned as she saw Kokchu enter and bow his head to them. His fierce eyes darted over the supine figure of her son and she fought not to show her dislike, not even understanding her own reaction. There was something about the shaman that set her teeth on edge and she had ignored the messengers he had sent. For a moment, she drew herself up, struggling between indignation and weariness.
‘I did not ask for you,’ she said coldly.
Kokchu seemed oblivious to the tone.
‘I sent a slave to beg a moment with you, mother to khans. Perhaps he has not yet arrived. The whole camp is talking of your son’s illness.’
Hoelun felt the shaman’s gaze fasten on her, waiting to be formally welcomed, as she looked at Temuge once more. Always he was watching, as if, inside, someone else looked out. She had seen how he pushed himself into the inner circles around Genghis and she could not like him. The warriors might reek of sheep turds, mutton fat and sweat, but those were the smells of healthy men. Kokchu carried an odour of rotting meat, though whether it was from his clothes or his flesh, she could not tell.
Faced with her silence, he should have left the ger, or risked her calling for guards. Instead, he spoke brazenly, somehow certain that she would not send him away.
‘I have some healing skill, if you will let me examine him.’
Hoelun tried to swallow her distaste. The shaman of the Olkhun’ut had only chanted over Temuge, without result.
‘You are welcome in my home, Kokchu,’ she said at last. She saw him relax subtly and could not shake the feeling of being too close to something unpleasant.
‘My son is asleep. The pain is very great when he is awake and I want him to rest.’
Kokchu crossed the small ger and crouched down beside the two women. Both edged unconsciously away from him.
‘He needs healing more than rest, I think.’ Kokchu peered down at Temuge, leaning close to smell his breath. Hoelun winced in sympathy as he reached out to Temuge’s bare stomach and probed the area of the lump, but she did not stop him. Temuge groaned in his sleep and Hoelun held her breath.
After a time, Kokchu nodded to himself.
‘You should prepare yourself, old mother. This one will die.’
Hoelun jerked out a hand and caught the shaman by his thin wrist. Her strength surprised him.
‘He has wrenched his gut, shaman. I have seen it many times before. Even on ponies and goats have I seen it and they always live.’
Kokchu undid her shaking clasp with his other hand. It pleased him to see fear in her eyes. With fear, he could own her, body and soul. If she had been a young Naiman mother, he might have sought sexual favours in return for healing her son, but in this new camp, he needed to impress the great khan. He kept his face still as he replied.
‘You see the darkness of the lump? It is a growth that cannot be cut out. Perhaps if it were on the skin, I would burn it off, but it will have run claws into his stomach and lungs. It eats him mindlessly and it will not be satisfied until he is dead.’
‘You are wrong,’ Hoelun snapped, but there were tears in her eyes.
Kokchu lowered his gaze so that she would not see his triumph glitter there.
‘I wish I was, old mother. I have seen these things before and they have nothing but appetite. It will continue to savage him until they perish together.’ To make his point, he reached down and squeezed the swelling. Temuge jerked and came awake with a sharp breath.
‘Who are you?’ Temuge said to Kokchu, gasping. He struggled to sit up, but the pain made him cry out and he fell back onto the narrow bed. His hands tugged at a blanket to cover his nakedness and his cheeks flushed hotly under Kokchu’s scrutiny.
‘He is a shaman, Temuge. He is going to make you well,’ Hoelun said. Temuge broke into fresh sweat and she dabbed the cloth to his skin as he settled back. After a time, his breathing slowed and he drifted into exhausted sleep once more. Hoelun lost a little of her tension, if not the terror Kokchu had brought into her home.
‘If it is hopeless, shaman, why are you still here?’ she said. ‘There are other men and women who need your healing skill.’ She could not keep the bitterness from her voice and did not guess that Kokchu rejoiced in it.
‘I have fought what eats him twice before in my life. It is a dark rite and dangerous for the man who practises it as well as for your son. I tell you this so you do not despair, but it would be foolish to hope. Consider him to have died and if I win him back, you will know joy.’
Hoelun felt a chill as she looked into the shaman’s eyes. He smelled of blood, she realised, though no trace of it showed on his skin. The thought of him touching her perfect son made her clench her hands, but he had frightened her with his talk of death and she was helpless against him.
‘What will you have me do?’ she whispered.
He sat very still while he considered.
‘It will take all my strength to bring the spirits to your son. I will need a goat to take in the growth and another to cleanse him with blood. I have the herbs I need, if I am strong enough.’
‘What if you fail?’ Borte asked suddenly.
Kokchu took a deep breath, letting it shudder from his lips.
‘If my strength fails as I begin the chant, I will survive. If I reach the final stage and the spirits take me, then you will see me torn out of my body. It will live for a time, but without the soul it will be empty flesh. This is no small thing, old mother.’
Hoelun watched him, once more suspicious. He seemed so plausible, but his quick eyes were always watching, seeing how his words were received.
‘Fetch two goats, Borte. Let us see what he can do.’
It was dark outside and while Borte brought the animals, Kokchu used the cloth to wipe Temuge’s chest and belly. When he pressed his fingers into Temuge’s mouth, the young man woke again, his eyes bright with terror.
‘Lie still, boy. I will help you if I have the strength,’ Kokchu told him. He did not look round as the bleating goats were brought in and dragged to his side, his attention fully on the young man in his care.
With the slowness of ritual, Kokchu took four brass bowls from his robe and placed them on the ground. He poured grey powder into each one and lit a taper from the stove. Soon, snakes of white-grey smoke made the air chokingly thick in the ger. Kokchu breathed deeply, filling his lungs. Hoelun coughed into her hand and flushed. The fumes were making her dizzy, but she would not leave her son alone with a man she did not trust.
In a whispering voice, Kokchu began to chant in the most ancient tongue of their people, almost forgotten. Hoelun sat back as she heard it, remembering the sounds from the healers and shamans of her youth. It brought back darker memories for Borte, who had heard her husband recite the old words on a night long before, butchering men and forcing slivers of burned heart between her lips. It was a language of blood and cruelty, well suited to the winter plains. There was no word in it for kindness, or for love. As Borte listened, the ribbons of smoke seeped into her, making her skin numb. The tumbling words brought a rush of vicious images and she gagged.
‘Be still, woman,’ Kokchu growled at her, his eyes wild. ‘Be silent while the spirits come.’ His chant resumed with greater force, hypnotic as he repeated phrases over and over, growing in volume and urgency. The first goat bleated in desperation as he held it over Temuge, looking into the young man’s terrified eyes. With his knife, Kokchu slit the goat’s throat and held it while its blood poured and steamed over Hoelun’s son. Temuge cried out at the sudden warmth, but Hoelun touched her hand to his lips and he quietened.
Kokchu let the goat fall, still kicking. His chant grew faster and he closed his eyes, reaching deep into Temuge’s gut. To his surprise, the young man remained silent and Kokchu had to squeeze the lump hard to make him cry out. The blood hid the sharp twist as he undid the strangled piece of gut and shoved it back behind the wall of muscle. His father had shown him the ritual with a real tumour and Kokchu had seen the old man chanting while men and women screamed, sometimes yelling back over their open mouths so that his spittle entered their throats. Kokchu’s father had taken them so far past exhaustion that they were lost and they were mad and they believed. He had seen obscene growths shrink and die after that point of agony and faith. If a man gave himself utterly to the shaman, sometimes the spirits rewarded that trust.
There was no honour in using the craft to fool a young man with a torn stomach, but the rewards would be great. Temuge was brother to the khan and such a man would always be a valuable ally. He thought of his father’s warnings about those who abused the spirits with lies and tricks. The man had never understood power, or how intoxicating it could be. The spirits swarmed around belief like flies on dead meat. It was not wrong to make belief swell in the camp of the khan. His authority could only increase.
Kokchu breathed heavily as he chanted, rolling his eyes up in his head as he pushed his hand deeper into Temuge’s belly. With a cry of triumph, he made a wrenching movement, pulling out a small piece of calf’s liver he had hidden from sight. In his grip, it jerked like something alive and Borte and Hoelun recoiled from it.
Kokchu continued to chant as he yanked the second goat close. It too struggled, but he forced his hand past its yellow teeth, though they gnawed at his knuckles. He pushed the foul meat down the gullet until the animal could do nothing but swallow in jerking spasms. When he saw the throat move, he stroked it hard, forcing the liver into the goat’s stomach before letting it go.
‘Do not let her touch the other animals,’ he said, panting, ‘or it will spread and live again, perhaps even get back into your son.’ Sweat dripped from his nose as he watched them.
‘It would be better to burn the goat to ashes. She must not be eaten as the flesh contains the growth. Be sure with this. I do not have the strength to do it again.’
He let himself slump as if his senses had left him, though he still breathed like a dog in the sun.
‘The pain has gone,’ he heard Temuge say wonderingly. ‘It is sore, but nothing like it was before.’ Kokchu sensed Hoelun lean over her son and heard him gasp as she touched the place where his gut had come through his stomach muscle.
‘The skin is whole,’ Temuge said. Kokchu could hear the awe in his voice and chose that moment to open his eyes and sit up. He was dull-eyed and squinted through the haze of smoke.
His long fingers hunted in the pockets of his deel, pulling out a piece of twisted horsehair stained with old blood.
‘This has been blessed,’ he told them. ‘I will bind it over the wound so that nothing may enter.’
No one spoke as he took a grubby ribbon of cloth from his deel and made Temuge sit up. Kokchu chanted under his breath as he wound it around the young man’s gut, covering the stiff piece of hair with line after line of cloth and heaving each one tight until it was hidden from view. When he had knotted it, Kokchu sat back, satisfied that the gut would not pop out and spoil all his work.
‘Keep the charm in place for a turn of the moon,’ he said wearily. ‘Let it fall and perhaps the growth will find its home once more.’ He closed his eyes, as if exhausted. ‘I must sleep now, for tonight and most of tomorrow. Burn that goat before you leave her to spread the growth. She will be dead in a few hours at the most.’ Given that he had laced the liver with enough poison to kill a full-grown man, he knew he spoke the truth. There would be no suspiciously healthy animal to spoil his achievement.
‘Thank you for what you have done,’ Hoelun said. ‘I do not understand it …’
Kokchu smiled tiredly.
‘It took me twenty years of study to begin my mastery, old mother. Do not think to understand it in a single evening. Your son will heal now, as he would have done if the growth had not begun to writhe in him.’ He thought for a moment. He did not know the woman, but surely she would tell Genghis what had happened. To make certain, he spoke again.
‘I must ask that you do not tell anyone of what you have seen. There are still tribes where they kill those who practise the old magic. It is seen as too dangerous.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is.’ With that, he knew the tale would spread right through the camp before he woke the next day. There were always some who wanted a charm against illness, or a curse on an enemy. They would leave milk and meat at his ger, and with power came respect and fear. He longed for them to be afraid, for when they were, they would give him anything. What did it matter if he had not saved a life this time? The belief would be there when another life hung in his hands. He had dropped a stone in the river and the ripples would go far.
Genghis and his generals were alone in the great ger as the moon rose above the host of his people. The day had been busy for all of them, but they could not sleep while he remained awake and there would be yawns and bleary eyes the following day. Genghis seemed as fresh as he had that morning, when he had welcomed two hundred men and women from a Turkic tribe so far to the north-west that they could not understand more than a few words of what he said. Still, they had come.
‘Every day brings more of them, with two moons left of summer,’ Genghis said, looking round proudly at men who had been with him since the first days. At fifty years of age, Arslan was growing old after the years of war. He and his son Jelme had come to Genghis when he had nothing but his wits and his three brothers. Both had remained utterly loyal through hard years and Genghis had let them prosper and take wives and wealth. Genghis nodded to the swordsmith who had become his general, pleased to see the man’s back as straight as ever.
Temuge did not attend their discussions, even when he was well. Of all the brothers, he had shown no aptitude for tactics. Genghis loved him, but he could not trust him to lead others. He shook his head, realising that his thoughts were wandering. He too was weary, though he would not allow it to show.
‘Some of the new tribes have never even heard of the Chin,’ Kachiun said. ‘The ones who came this morning dress like nothing I’ve ever seen. They are not Mongols, as we are.’
‘Perhaps,’ Genghis said. ‘But I will make them welcome. Let them prove themselves in war before we judge them. They are not Tartars, or blood enemies to any man here. At least I will not be called to untangle some grudge going back a dozen generations. They will be useful.’
He took a draught from a rough clay cup, smacking his lips at the bitterness of the black airag.
‘Be wary in the camp, my brothers. They have come because not to come invites us to destroy them. They do not trust us yet. Many of them know only my name and nothing else.’
‘I have men listening at every fire,’ Kachiun said. ‘There will always be some who seek an advantage in such a gathering. Even as we speak here, there will be a thousand other conversations discussing us. Even whispers will be heard. I will know if I have to act.’
Genghis nodded to his brother, proud of him. Kachiun had grown into a stocky man with an immense breadth of shoulder from his bow practice. They shared a bond that Genghis could claim with no one else, not even Khasar.
‘Still, my back itches when I walk through the camp. While we wait, they grow restless, but there are more to come and I cannot move yet. The Uighurs alone will be valuable. Those who are already here may test us, so be ready and let no insult go unpunished. I will trust you in your judgement, even if you throw a dozen heads at my feet.’
The generals in the ger met each other’s eyes without smiling. For every man they had brought to the great plain, two more had come. The advantage they held was that not one of the strongest khans knew the extent of their support. Anyone riding into the shadow of the black mountain saw a single host and gave no thought to the fact that it was composed of a hundred different factions, watching each other in mutual mistrust.
Genghis yawned at last.
‘Get some sleep, my brothers,’ he said wearily. ‘Dawn is close and the herds have to be moved to new grass.’
‘I will look in on Temuge before I sleep,’ Kachiun said.
Genghis sighed.
‘Let us hope the sky father makes him well. I cannot lose my only sensible brother.’
Kachiun snorted, throwing open the small door to the outside air. When they had all left, Genghis rose, cracking the stiffness out of his neck with a swift jerk of his hands. His family ger was nearby, though his sons would be asleep. It was one more night when he would thump into the blankets without his family knowing he had come home.
CHAPTER TWO (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Genghis eyed his younger brother with disquiet. Temuge had spent the morning telling anyone who would listen about the cure Kokchu had wrought. The camp was a stifling place despite its size and any news spread quickly. By noon, it would be in the mouths of the newest wanderers off the plains.
‘So how do you know it was not a strangled bit of gut?’ Genghis said, watching him. Temuge seemed to stand a little taller than usual in the family ger and his face was lit with excitement and something more. Whenever he mentioned Kokchu’s name, his voice would dip almost to a murmur. Genghis found his awe irritating.
‘I saw him pull it out of me, brother! It squirmed and writhed in his hand and I nearly vomited to see it. When it was gone, the pain went with it.’ Temuge touched his hand to the place and winced.
‘Not completely gone, then,’ Genghis noted.
Temuge shrugged. The area above and below the bandage was a mass of purple and yellow, though it was already beginning to fade.
‘It was eating me alive before. This is no worse than a bruise.’
‘Yet you say there is no cut,’ Genghis said, wonderingly.
Temuge shook his head, his excitement returning. He had explored the area with his fingers in the darkness before dawn. Under the tight cloth, he could feel a split in the muscle that was still incredibly tender. He felt sure it was from there the growth had been torn.
‘He has power, brother. More than any one of the charlatans we have seen before. I trust what I saw. You know the eyes do not lie.’
Genghis nodded.
‘I will reward him with mares, sheep and new cloth. Perhaps a new knife and boots. I cannot have the man who saved my brother looking like a beggar.’
Temuge winced in sudden doubt.
‘He did not want the story to get out, Genghis. If you reward him, everyone will know what he did.’
‘Everyone does know,’ Genghis replied. ‘Kachiun told me at dawn and three more have come to talk about it before I saw you. There are no secrets in this camp, you should know that.’
Temuge nodded thoughtfully.
‘Then he cannot mind, or he will forgive if he does.’ He hesitated before going on, nervous under his brother’s gaze.
‘With your permission, I will learn from him. I think he would take me as a pupil and I have never felt such a desire to know …’ He broke off as Genghis frowned.
‘I had hoped you would resume your duties with the warriors, Temuge. Do you not want to ride with me?’
Temuge flushed and looked at the floor.
‘You know as well as I do that I will never be a great officer. Perhaps I could learn to be competent, but the men will always know I was raised for my blood and not my skill. Let me learn from this Kokchu. I do not think he would be unwilling.’
Genghis sat perfectly still as he considered. Temuge had more than once been the subject of mirth in the tribes. His archery was abysmal and he won no respect with his red-faced efforts with a sword. He could see his youngest brother was trembling, his face tight with fear that Genghis would refuse. Temuge was out of place in the tribes and there had been many evenings when Genghis had wished for him to find something he could do. Yet he was reluctant to let him go so easily. Men like Kokchu stood apart from the tribes. They were feared certainly, and that was good, but they were not part of the family. They were not made welcome and greeted as old friends. Genghis shook his head slightly. Temuge too had always been outside the tribes, a watcher. Perhaps this was the way his life would go.
‘On the condition that you practise with a blade and bow for two hours each day. Give your word on that and I will confirm your choice, your path.’
Temuge nodded, smiling shyly.
‘I will. Perhaps I will be more useful to you as a shaman than I ever was as a warrior.’
Genghis’ eyes became cold.
‘You are still a warrior, Temuge, though it has never been easy for you. Learn what you want from this man, but in your private heart, remember that you are my brother and our father’s son.’
Temuge felt tears come to his eyes and dipped his head before his brother could see and be ashamed for him.
‘I do not forget it,’ he said.
‘Then tell your new master to come to me and be rewarded. I will embrace him in front of my generals and let them know he is valuable to me. My shadow will ensure you are treated with courtesy in the camp.’
Temuge bowed low before turning away and Genghis was left alone, his thoughts twisting darkly. He had hoped Temuge would harden himself and ride with his brothers. He had yet to meet a shaman he liked and Kokchu had all the arrogance of his kind. Genghis sighed to himself. Perhaps it was justified. The healing had been extraordinary and he remembered how Kokchu had passed a blade through his own flesh without a drop of blood. The Chin were said to have workers of magic, he recalled. It might be useful to have men to match them. He sighed again. Having his own brother as one of that breed had never been in his plans.
Khasar strolled through the camp, enjoying the bustle and noise. New gers were springing up on every spare bit of ground and Genghis had ordered deep latrine pits dug at every intersection. With so many men, women and children in one place, new problems had to be tackled each day and Khasar found no interest in the details. Kachiun seemed to enjoy the challenges and had organised a group of fifty strong men to dig the pits and help erect the gers. Khasar could see two of them building a shelter for bundles of new birch arrows to protect them from rain. Many warriors made their own, but Kachiun had ordered vast numbers for the army and every ger Khasar passed had women and children busy with feathers, thread and glue, bundling them up in fifties to be taken away. The forges of the tribes roared and spat all night to make the arrowheads and every dawn brought new bows to the ranges for testing.
The vast camp was a place of life and work and it pleased Khasar to see his people so industrious. In the distance, a new-born child started squalling and he smiled to hear it. His feet followed tracks in the grass that had been worn down to the clay beneath. When they left, the camp would look like a vast drawing of shapes and he struggled to picture it.
Relaxed as he was, he did not at first take notice of the disturbance at a meeting of paths ahead of him. Seven men stood in an angry knot, wrestling to pull a reluctant stallion to the ground. Khasar paused to watch them geld the animal, wincing as one flailing hoof caught a man in the stomach and left him writhing on the earth. The pony was young and powerfully muscled. It fought the men, using its huge strength against the ropes they had on it. Once it was down, they would truss the legs and render it helpless for the gelding knife. They seemed hardly to know what they were doing and Khasar shook his head in amusement, beginning to walk past the struggling group.
As he edged around the kicking beast, it reared, pulling one of the men off his feet. The pony snorted in fury and backed up into Khasar, stepping on his foot so that he shouted in pain. The closest man to him reacted to the noise, back-handing him across the face to get him out of their way.
Khasar erupted with a fury to match the bound horse. He hammered a blow in return. The man staggered, dazed, and Khasar saw the others drop their ropes, their eyes dangerous. The pony took advantage of the unexpected freedom to bolt, racing away through the camp with its head down. All around them, the other stallions of the herd whinnied in response to its calls and Khasar was left facing furious men. He stood before them without fear, knowing they would recognise his armour.
‘You are Woyela,’ he said, looking to break the tension. ‘I will have your horse recaptured and brought to you.’
They said nothing as they exchanged glances. Each of them shared a resemblance and Khasar realised they were the sons of the Woyela khan. Their father had arrived only a few days before, bringing five hundred warriors as well as the families. He had a reputation for quick temper and a prickly sense of honour. As the men crowded around Khasar, he thought the same traits had been passed to his sons.
Khasar hoped for a moment that they would let him go without a fight, but the one he had struck was wild with anger and it was he who pressed closest, bolstered by the presence of his brothers. A livid mark showed on the side of his face where Khasar had hit him.
‘What right do you have to interfere?’ one of the others snapped. They were deliberately crowding him and Khasar could see the bustle of the camp had stopped around them. There were many families watching the exchange and, with a sinking feeling, he knew he could not back away without shaming Genghis, perhaps even risking his hold on the camp.
‘I was trying to get past,’ he ventured through gritted teeth, readying himself. ‘If your bullock of a brother had not struck me, you would have had that pony on the ground by now. Next time, truss his legs first.’
One of the largest spat on the ground near his feet and Khasar clenched his fists as a voice cut through the air.
‘What is this?’ The effect on the men was instant and they stood still. Khasar glanced at an older man who bore the same stamp of features. It could only be the khan of the Woyela and Khasar could do nothing but bow his head. It had not yet come to blades and he knew better than to insult the one man who might control his sons.
‘You are brother to the man who calls himself Genghis,’ the khan said. ‘Yet this is a Woyela camp. Why are you here to anger my sons and spoil their work?’
Khasar flushed in irritation. No doubt Kachiun would have been informed of the confrontation and would have men on the way, but he did not trust himself to answer at first. The khan of the Woyela was clearly enjoying the situation and Khasar did not doubt he had seen it from the beginning. When he had mastered his temper, he spoke slowly and clearly to the khan.
‘I struck the man who struck me. There is no cause to see blood spilled today.’
In reply, the khan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He had a hundred warriors within easy call and his sons were ready to beat humility into the man who stood so proudly before him.
‘I might have expected such a response. Honour cannot be set aside when it is not convenient. This part of the camp is Woyela land. You trespass upon it.’
Khasar assumed the cold face of the warrior to hide his irritation.
‘My brother’s orders were clear,’ he said. ‘All tribes may use the land while we gather. There is no Woyela ground here.’
The khan’s sons muttered amongst themselves as they heard his words and the khan himself seemed to stiffen.
‘I say there is and I see no one of rank to challenge my word. Yet you will hide in your brother’s shadow.’
Khasar took a slow breath. If he claimed the protection of Genghis, the incident would end. The khan of the Woyela was not such a fool as to challenge his brother in the camp, with a vast army at his call. Yet the man watched him like a snake ready to strike and Khasar wondered if it had been chance that put the brothers and the wild stallion in his path that morning. There would always be those willing to test men who presumed to lead them in war. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Kachiun enjoyed politics and manoeuvring, but he had no taste for it, nor for the posturing of the khan and his sons.
‘I will not spill blood here,’ he began, seeing the triumph in the khan’s eyes, ‘but I will not need my brother’s shadow.’ As he spoke, he slammed his fist into the chin of the nearest brother, knocking him cold. The others roared and leaped at him almost as one. Blows rained on his head and shoulders as he moved backwards, then braced his legs and struck hard into a face, feeling the nose break. Khasar enjoyed fighting as much as any man who had grown up amongst brothers, but the odds were impossible and he almost went down as his head was snapped back and hard thumping blows crashed against his armour. At least he was protected there and as long as he remained on his feet, he could duck and slip their punches while hammering back at them with everything he had.
Even as he formed the thought, one of them took him around the waist and dumped him on the ground. Khasar kicked out hard, hearing a yelp as he covered his head against their stamping boots. Where was Kachiun, by the spirits? Khasar could feel blood pouring from his nose and his lips had begun to swell. His head was ringing from a kick to his right ear. Much more of this and he would be permanently injured.
He felt the weight of one of them straddling him, trying to pull Khasar’s arms away from his face. Khasar peered through a gap at the man. He chose his moment and shoved a thumb hard into his attacker’s eye. It seemed to give under his strike, and he hoped he had blinded him. The Woyela son rolled off with a cry and, if anything, the kicks intensified.
A shout of pain came from somewhere close and, for a moment, Khasar was left alone to try to get to his feet. He saw a stranger had leaped among the Woyela brothers, knocking one to the ground and kicking another hard in the knee. The newcomer was little more than a boy, but he could punch with all his weight behind a blow. Khasar smiled at him through broken lips, but he was too dazed to rise.
‘Stop this!’ ordered a voice behind him and Khasar knew a moment of hope before he realised Temuge had not arrived with a dozen men to help him. His younger brother ran straight up to the struggling mass and heaved one of the Woyela men away.
‘Get Kachiun,’ Khasar shouted, his heart sinking. Temuge would accomplish nothing but getting himself beaten and then there would be blood. Genghis might accept one brother fighting, but a second would be a personal attack on his family too great to ignore. The khan of the Woyela seemed oblivious to the danger and Khasar heard him laugh as one of his sons smashed a fist into Temuge’s face, knocking him to his knees. The young stranger too had lost the advantage of surprise and he was suffering under a rain of kicks and punches. The Woyela sons were laughing as they transferred their efforts to the two newcomers and Khasar raged to hear Temuge cry out in pain and humiliation, fending off their kicks as he struggled to rise.
Another sound came then, a series of hard cracks that had the sons of the Woyela yelping and falling back. Khasar continued to protect his head on the ground until he heard Kachiun’s voice, tight with fury. He had brought men with him and it had been their sticks Khasar had heard.
‘Stand, if you can, brother. Tell me who you want dead,’ Kachiun snapped to Khasar. As Khasar lowered his hands, he spat red phlegm onto the grass and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mass of bruising and blood and the khan of the Woyela stiffened at the sight, his amusement fading.
‘This was a private matter,’ the khan said quickly as Kachiun glared at him. ‘Your brother claimed no formal rank.’
Kachiun looked at Khasar, who shrugged, wincing as his bruised body protested.
Temuge too had regained his feet, looking as pale as milk. His eyes were cold and his shame made him angrier than Khasar or Kachiun had ever seen him. The third man straightened painfully and Khasar nodded to him in thanks. He too had been battered, but he grinned infectiously as he rested his hands on his knees and panted.
‘Be careful,’ Kachiun murmured to his brothers, barely loud enough to hear. He had brought a bare dozen of his workers, all he could grab when he heard of the fight. They would last only moments before the armed men of the Woyela. Hard eyes in the crowd watched the scene and the khan regained some of his confidence.
‘Honour has been satisfied,’ he declared. ‘There is no grudge between us.’ He turned to Khasar to see how his words had been received. Khasar stood smiling crookedly. He had heard the sound of marching feet coming closer. All of those who stood there stiffened in alarm at the jingling approach of armoured warriors. It could only be Genghis.
‘There is no grudge?’ Kachiun hissed at the khan. ‘That is not for you to decide, Woyela.’
All eyes turned to see Genghis coming. He walked with Arslan and five other men in full armour. All carried drawn blades and the Woyela sons glanced at each other in dawning worry at what they had done. They had talked of testing one of the brothers of Genghis and that part had gone beautifully. Only the arrival of Temuge had dragged them into deeper water and none of them knew how it would be resolved.
Genghis took in the scene, his face a mask. His gaze lingered on Temuge and, for a moment, the yellow eyes tightened at the sight of his little brother’s trembling hands. The khan of the Woyela spoke before anyone else.
‘This is already settled, lord,’ he said. ‘It was merely a diversion, a fight over a horse.’ He swallowed dryly. ‘There is no need for you to rule on this.’
Genghis ignored him.
‘Kachiun?’
Kachiun controlled his anger to reply in a calm voice.
‘I do not know what started it. Khasar can tell you that.’
Khasar winced at hearing his name. Under Genghis’ stare, he considered his words carefully. The entire camp would hear eventually and he could not be seen to complain like a child to his father. Not if he expected to lead them in war afterwards.
‘I am satisfied with my part in this, brother,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If I have need to discuss it further with these men, I will do so on another day.’
‘You will not,’ Genghis snapped, understanding the implied threat as well as the Woyela sons did themselves. ‘I forbid it.’
Khasar bowed his head.
‘As you say, lord,’ he replied.
Genghis looked at Temuge, seeing the shame at his public beating, coupled with the bright rage that had surprised Khasar and Kachiun before.
‘You too are marked, Temuge. I cannot believe you were part of this.’
‘He tried to stop it,’ Kachiun replied. ‘They knocked him to his knees and …’
‘Enough!’ Temuge snapped. ‘In time, I will return every blow.’ Blushing red, he seemed close to tears, like a child. Genghis stared at him and his own anger suddenly broke free. With a grunt, he shook his head and strode through the brothers of the Woyela. One of them was too slow and Genghis barged him down with his shoulder, barely seeming to feel the impact. The khan raised his hands in a plea, but Genghis grabbed his deel and yanked him forward. As he unsheathed his sword, the Woyela warriors drew their own in a rasp of metal.
‘Hold!’ Genghis roared at them, a voice that had carried across a hundred battles. They ignored the order and, as they closed, Genghis jerked the khan upwards like a marmot in his grip. In two quick slashes, he brought his sword across the man’s thighs, gashing the muscles.
‘If my brother was made to kneel, Woyela, you will not stand again,’ he said. The khan was bellowing and blood poured over his feet as he fell. Before the warriors could reach him, Genghis raised his gaze to stare them down.
‘If I see one sword in a hand in ten heartbeats more, not a single Woyela man, woman or child will live past this evening.’
The officers amongst the warriors hesitated, raising their arms to hold back the others. Genghis stood before them without a trace of fear while the khan at his feet fell to one side, moaning. The sons still stood frozen, horrified at what they had seen. With an effort of will, the khan made a gesture that his officers chose to interpret as assent. They sheathed their swords and the warriors followed, their eyes wide. Genghis nodded.
‘When we ride, you Woyela will be the guards for my brother,’ he said. ‘If you will have them?’ Khasar murmured assent, his swollen face blank.
‘Then this is finished. There is no blood feud and I have seen justice served.’
Genghis caught the eyes of his brothers and they fell in with him as he strode back to the great ger and the business of the day. Khasar clapped a hand on the young man who had helped him, taking him along rather than leaving him to be beaten again.
‘This one came to help me,’ Khasar said as they walked. ‘He knows no fear, brother.’
For an instant, Genghis glanced at the young man, seeing his pride.
‘What is your name?’ he asked gruffly, still seething at what he had seen.
‘Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.’
‘Come and see me when you want a good horse and armour,’ Genghis said. Tsubodai beamed and Khasar punched him lightly in the shoulder, approving. Behind them, the Woyela khan was left to be tended by his women. With such wounds, he would never stand straight, or perhaps even walk again.
As Genghis and his brothers strode through the tribes gathered in the shadow of the black mountain, there were many who looked on them with awe and approval. He had shown he would not be challenged and one more small victory had been won.
The Uighurs were sighted as the summer waned and the floodwaters from the hills swelled the Onon River to bursting point. The plains were still a vivid green and skylarks leaped and fluttered as the Uighur carts passed them.
It was an impressive display of strength and Genghis answered it with five thousand of his horsemen in ranks before the great camp. He did not come to meet them himself, knowing that his absence would be taken as subtle disapproval for their lateness. Instead, the Woyela took a position around Khasar as he rode to meet the new arrivals and none of the khan’s sons dared do more than stare at the back of his head.
As the Uighurs drew close, Khasar approached the cart that led the dark snake of people and animals. His eyes flickered over the warriors, judging their quality. They were well armed and seemed fierce and alert, though he knew appearances could be deceiving. They would learn the tactics that had brought victory to Genghis, or be reduced to carrying messages amongst the host.
The Uighurs were horse traders as well as scholars and Khasar was pleased to see the vast herd that accompanied them. There had to be three ponies for every warrior and he knew the camp would be busy over the next month as the other tribes came to bargain and replenish their blood lines.
At his raised hand, the warriors around the lead cart drew up in a defensive position, their hands on the hilts of swords. The Uighurs must have had a good supply of ore for so many to carry blades, Khasar thought. Perhaps there would be trade in steel as well. There were still too many in the camp with nothing but a knife to complement their bows. Khasar directed his gaze to a small grey-haired man on the front of the cart. It was he who had held up an arm to halt the column and Khasar saw how the warriors looked to him for orders. Though the man’s deel was of simple cut, it had to be the Uighur khan, Barchuk. Khasar decided to give him honour by speaking first.
‘You are welcome in the camp, lord,’ he said formally. ‘You are the last of the great tribes to arrive, but my lord Genghis has received your message in goodwill and allocated grazing land for your families.’
The small man nodded thoughtfully as he looked past Khasar to the riders who waited in formation.
‘I can see we must be the last. I can hardly believe there are any more warriors in the world, given the size of the host on this plain. You are the first men we have seen in many days of travel.’ He shook his head in wonder at the thought. ‘The Uighurs will pledge to Genghis, as I have promised. Show us where to pitch our gers and we will do the rest.’
In comparison to some of the pricklier khans, Khasar appreciated the man’s bluntness. He smiled.
‘I am his brother, Khasar,’ he said. ‘I will show you myself.’
‘Step up beside me then, Khasar. I am hungry for news.’ The khan patted the wooden bench of the cart and Khasar dismounted, sending his horse back to the first rank of Woyela warriors with a slap on its rump.
‘If we are the last, perhaps it will not be long before Genghis points this great arrow at his enemies,’ the khan said as Khasar clambered up beside him. Barchuk clicked in his cheek at the oxen and the cart moved off with a lurch. Khasar watched how the Uighur warriors kept formation around them and was pleased. They could ride, at least.
‘Only he can say, lord.’ The bruises he had taken from the Woyela had almost faded, though he felt Barchuk’s eyes drift over them without comment. The camp had been quiet for a time after seeing the Woyela humbled, but with the end of summer, they were restless again and, now that the Uighurs had arrived, he thought his brother would move in just a few days. He felt his own excitement mounting at the idea. They had the tribes and Genghis would take their oaths of loyalty. After that, war would come and he and his brothers would take the Chin foot off the necks of their people.
‘You seem cheerful, Khasar,’ Barchuk observed as he guided the cart around a hump in the grass. The older man was wiry with strength and his eyes seemed constantly amused.
‘I was thinking that we have never before come together, lord. Always there has been some blood feud, or Chin bribery to keep us at each other’s throats.’ He waved an arm to encompass the camp on the plain. ‘This? This is a new thing.’
‘It may end in destruction for our people,’ Barchuk murmured, watching him closely. Khasar grinned. He remembered Kachiun and Genghis debating the same point and he echoed their words.
‘Yes, but not one of us, not one man, woman or child will be alive in a hundred years. Everyone you see here will be bones.’
He saw Barchuk frown in puzzlement and wished he had Kachiun’s ability to speak as he went on.
‘What is the purpose of life if not to conquer? To steal women and land? I would rather be here and see this than live out my life in peace.’
Barchuk nodded.
‘You are a philosopher, Khasar.’
Khasar chuckled.
‘You are the only one who thinks it. No, I am the great khan’s brother and this is our time.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
Barchuk of the Uighurs spoke for hours as the sun set outside the great ger. Genghis was fascinated by the man’s knowledge and if he came across a concept he did not understand, he made the khan go over and over it until the meaning was clear.
Of all subjects, anything to do with the Chin had Genghis leaning forward in his seat like a hawk, his eyes bright with interest. The Uighurs had come from land to the far south-west, bordering the Gobi Desert and the Chin kingdom of Xi Xia. Genghis revelled in every detail Barchuk could provide of Chin trade caravans, their dress and customs, and, most of all, their weapons and armour. It was true that merchants may not have had the best of guards, but each scrap of information fell upon the desert of Genghis’ imagination like spring water, vanishing deep.
‘Peace has brought you wealth and security,’ Genghis said as Barchuk paused to clear his throat with a gulp of tea. ‘Perhaps you could have approached the king of the Xi Xia to ally against me. Did you consider it?’
‘Of course,’ Barchuk replied, disarming him with honesty. ‘But if I have given you the impression of their friendship, it is false. They trade with us because they have markets for the skins of snow leopards from the mountains, for hard woods, even seeds of rare plants to aid them in their study of healing. In return, they sell us raw iron, carpets, tea and sometimes a scroll they have already copied many times.’ He paused and smiled wryly at the gathering of men. ‘They bring their litters and their guards into Uighur towns, but their distaste can be read on every face, even those they call slaves.’ The memories had brought a flush of irritation to his face and he wiped his brow before continuing. ‘Since I have learned their language, I know them too well to ask for support. You have to see them to understand, lord. They care nothing for those who are not Xi Xia subjects. Even the Chin regard them as a separate people, though they share many of the same customs. They pay tribute to the Chin emperor and, though under his protection, still consider themselves apart from their powerful neighbour. Their arrogance is colossal, lord.’
Barchuk leaned forward, reaching out to tap Genghis on his knee. He did not seem to notice the way the surrounding men bristled.
‘We have had their scraps for many generations, lord, while they kept the best meat behind their forts and walls.’
‘And you would see them broken,’ Genghis murmured.
‘I would. All I ask is that their libraries are turned over to the Uighurs for study. In addition, we have seen rare gems and a stone that is like milk and fire. They do not trade such items no matter what we offer.’
Genghis watched the khan closely as he spoke. Barchuk knew he had no right to demand spoils from war. The tribes were not paid to fight and anything they won or looted was theirs by tradition. Barchuk asked a great deal, but Genghis could not think of another group who might want the libraries of the Xi Xia. The very idea made him want to smile.
‘You may have the scrolls, Barchuk. My word on it. Anything else goes to the victors and is in the hands of the sky father. I can give you no special claim.’
Barchuk sat back and gave a reluctant nod.
‘It is enough, with everything else we will win from them. I have seen my people ridden down in the road by their horses, lord. I have seen them starve while the Xi Xia grew fat on crops they would not share. I have brought my warriors to extract a price for their arrogance and our towns and fields are empty behind us. The Uighurs are with you, gers, horses, salt and blood.’
Genghis reached out and the two men bound the oath with a quick clasp that hid the seriousness of such a declaration. The tribes waited outside the ger and Genghis would demand a similar oath from them all as soon as he was ready. To offer it in private was a demonstration of support that Genghis did not treat lightly.
‘I ask one thing of you, Barchuk, before we go out to them,’ he said. Barchuk paused in the middle of rising and his face became a mask as he realised the talk was not over.
‘My youngest brother has expressed an interest in learning,’ Genghis said. ‘Stand, Temuge, where he can see you.’ Barchuk looked round at the slender young man who rose and bowed to him. He acknowledged the gesture with a stiff dip of his head before turning back to Genghis.
‘My shaman, Kokchu, will lead him in this, when the time comes, but I would like them to read and learn whatever they think is worthwhile. I include the scrolls you already own as well as any we might win from our enemies.’
‘The Uighurs are yours to command, lord,’ Barchuk said. It was not too much to ask and he did not understand why Genghis seemed ill at ease bringing up the subject. Temuge beamed at his back and Kokchu bowed his head as if he had received a great honour.
‘It is settled then,’ Genghis said. His eyes were shadowed, flickering in the lamps that had been lit against the evening gloom. ‘If the Xi Xia are as rich as you say, they will be the first to see us on the move. Will the Chin support them?’
Barchuk shrugged.
‘I cannot say for certain. Their lands border one another, but the Xi Xia have always been separate in their kingdom. The Chin may raise an army against you to counter any later threat. Or they may let them die to the last man without lifting a hand. No one can say how their minds work.’
Genghis shrugged.
‘If you had told me ten years ago that the Kerait were facing a great host, I would have laughed and counted myself lucky not to be in the path of the battle. Now I call them brothers. It does not matter if the Chin come against us. If they do, I will break them all the faster. In truth, I would rather face them on a plain than have to climb the walls of their cities.’
‘Even cities can fall, lord,’ Barchuk said softly, his own excitement mounting.
‘And they will,’ Genghis replied. ‘In time, they will. You have shown me the underbelly of the Chin in these Xi Xia. I will gut them there and then pull their heart out.’
‘I am honoured to serve, lord,’ Barchuk replied. He stood and bowed low, holding the pose until Genghis made a gesture for him to rise.
‘The tribes have assembled,’ Genghis said, standing and stretching his back. ‘If we are to cross the desert, we will need to collect water and feed for the horses. Once I have the oath, there is nothing more holding us to this place.’ He paused for a moment.
‘We came here as tribes, Barchuk. We leave as a nation. If you are recording events in those scrolls as you describe, be sure to write that.’
Barchuk’s eyes shone, fascinated by the man who commanded the great host.
‘I will see it done, lord. I will teach the script to your shaman and your brother that they might read them to you.’
Genghis blinked in surprise, intrigued at the image of his brother repeating words trapped on stiff calfskin.
‘It would be interesting to see such a thing,’ he said. He took Barchuk by the shoulder, giving him honour by letting him leave the great ger in his company. The generals fell in behind. Outside, they could hear the hushed murmur of the gathered tribes as they waited for the one who would lead them.
Even in the summer darkness, the camp glowed yellow under the stars, lit by ten thousand fluttering flames. The centre had been cleared in a vast ring around the ger of Genghis, and the warriors of a hundred factions had left their families to stand together in the flickering light. From one man to the next, their armour could be a piece of stiff leather or the helmets and neat sets of iron scales copied from the Chin. Some carried the stamp of their tribes, while most were blank, showing that they were new and that there was only one tribe under the sky. Many of them held swords, fresh from the forges that had been working night and day since coming to the plain. Huge holes had been dug by sweating men under the sun as they carted ore back to the flames and watched in excitement as the swordsmiths turned out weapons they could hold. More than one man had burned his fingers reaching for them before they had cooled properly, but they had never dreamed of owning a long blade and they did not mind.
The wind always blew across the plain, but that evening the breeze was gentle as they waited for Genghis.
When he came, Barchuk of the Uighurs was guided down the steps of the cart and stood in the first rank around the wheels of wood and iron. Genghis stood for a moment, looking over the heads of the crowd and marvelling at the size of it. His brothers, Arslan and Jelme and last the shaman, Kokchu, stepped down from the height, each one pausing to take in the ranks stretching away in pools of light.
Then he was alone and he closed his eyes for a moment. He gave thanks to the sky father for bringing him to that place, with such an army to follow him. He said a few brief words to the spirit of his father in case that man could see him. Yesugei would be proud of his son, he knew. He had broken new ground for his people and only the spirits could tell where the path would end. As he opened his eyes, he saw Borte had brought his four sons to stand in the front rank, three of them too young to be left on their own. Genghis nodded sharply to them, his gaze lingering on the eldest, Jochi, and Chagatai whom he had named after the shaman of the Wolves. At almost nine, Jochi was in awe of his father and he lowered his eyes while Chagatai merely stared, his nervousness obvious.
‘We came here from a hundred different tribes,’ Genghis roared. He wanted his voice to carry, but even a throat trained on the field of battle could only reach so far. Those who could not hear would have to follow the lead of those who could.
‘I have brought Wolves to this plain, Olkhun’ut and Kerait. I have brought Merkit and Jajirat, Uirat and Naimans. Woyela have come here, Tuvan, Uighurs and Uriankhai.’ As he named each group, there was a stir from where they sat. He noticed how they remained together even for that night. There would be no easy assimilation for those who counted tribal honour above all else. It did not matter, he told himself. He would raise their gaze higher. His memory was faultless as he named each tribe that had ridden to join him in the shadow of the black mountain. He left no one out, knowing that the omission would be noted and remembered.
‘More, I have called those who had no tribe,’ he went on, ‘but still had honour and heeded the call of blood to blood. They rode to us in trust. And I say to you all, there are no tribes under the sky father. There is only one Mongol nation and it begins this night, in this place.’
Some of those who listened cheered, while others remained stony-faced. Genghis kept the warrior’s mask on his own features. He needed them to understand there was no loss of honour in what he asked.
‘We are brothers in blood, separated too long ago for anyone here to know. I claim a greater family of all tribes, a blood tie to you all. I call you as brothers to my standard and we will ride as one family, one nation.’ He paused, judging the response. They had heard the idea before, whispered in the gathering from tribe to tribe. Still, it shook them to hear it from him. The bulk of the men did not cheer and he had to crush a sudden spike of irritation. The spirits knew he loved them, but his own people were maddening at times.
‘We will pile spoils enough to equal the mountain at your backs. You will have ponies and wives and gold, oils and sweetmeats. You will take lands for your own and you will be feared wherever they hear your names. Every man here will be a khan to those who bow to him.’
They cheered that, at least, and Genghis risked a small smile, pleased he had found the right tone. Let the lesser khans worry about the ambition of those around them. He meant every word of it.
‘To the south is the great desert,’ he called to them. Silence fell on the instant and he could feel their attention like a force. ‘We will cross it at a speed the Chin kingdoms cannot imagine. We will fall on the first of them like wolves on lambs and they will scatter before our swords and bows. I will give you their riches and their women for your own. That is where I will plant my standard and the ground will shake as I do. The earth mother will know her sons and brothers have found their inheritance and she will rejoice to hear thunder on the plains.’
The cheering came again and Genghis raised his arms for quiet, though it pleased him.
‘We will ride into the dry country, taking all the water we need for one sudden strike. After that, we will not stop until the sea bounds us in every direction. I am Genghis who say this and my word is iron.’
They roared in appreciation and Genghis snapped his fingers at Khasar, who stood waiting on the ground below. Khasar handed up a heavy pole of silver birch onto which eight horsetails had been tied. The crowd murmured as they saw it. Some recognised the black of the Merkit, or the red tail of the Naimans, bound with the others. Every one of them had been the khan’s standard for one of the great tribes and Genghis had them all on the plain. As he took the staff, Khasar handed up a horsetail dyed with Uighur blue.
Barchuk’s eyes narrowed at this most potent of symbols, but with the host at his back, he was still filled with excitement and the vision of the future. As he felt Genghis’ eyes flicker over him, he bowed his head.
With nimble fingers, Genghis bound the tip of the last horsetail to the others and planted the butt on the wood at his feet. The breeze caught the coloured standard, so that the tails whipped and twisted as if alive.
‘I have bound the colours,’ he called to them. ‘When they are bleached white, there will be no differences between them. They will be the standard of a nation.’
At his feet, his officers raised their swords and the host responded, caught up in the moment. Thousands of weapons jabbed the sky and Genghis nodded to them, overwhelmed. It took a long time for the noise to end, though he held up his free hand and patted the air with it.
‘The oath you will take is binding, my brothers. Yet it is no stronger than the blood that binds us already. Kneel to me.’
The front ranks dipped immediately and the rest followed in ripples outward as they saw what was happening. Genghis watched closely for hesitation, but there was none. He had them all.
Kokchu climbed the steps back up to the cart, his expression carefully blank. In his wildest ambition, he had not dreamed of such a moment. Temuge had put in the word for him and Kokchu congratulated himself on bringing the young man to the point where he would make the suggestion.
As the tribes knelt, Kokchu revelled in his status. He wondered if Genghis had considered he would be the only one amongst them who did not take the oath. Khasar, Kachiun and Temuge knelt on the grass with all the others, khans and warriors alike.
‘Under one khan, we are a nation,’ Kokchu called over their heads, his heart pounding in excitement. The words echoed back to him, filling the valley in waves as those behind repeated them. ‘The khan offers gers, horses, salt and blood, in all honour.’
Kokchu gripped the railing of the cart as they chanted. After that night, they would all know the shaman to the great khan. He glanced upwards as the words came in surges from further and further back. Under those clear skies, the spirits would be writhing in wild and simple joy, unseen and unfelt by anyone but the most potent of his calling. In the chant of thousands, Kokchu sensed them swirling in the air and he exulted. At last, the tribes fell silent and he let out a long breath.
‘Now you, shaman,’ Genghis murmured at his back. Kokchu started in surprise, before falling to his knees and repeating the same oath.
When Kokchu had rejoined the others around the cart, Genghis drew his father’s sword. For those who could see, his eyes glittered with satisfaction.
‘It is done. We are a nation and we will ride. Tonight, let no man think of his tribe and mourn. We are a greater family and all lands are ours to take.’
He dropped his arm as they bellowed, this time as one. The smell of roasting mutton was strong on the breeze and his step was light as the warriors prepared for a night of drink and enough food to make their bellies swell. There would be a thousand children begun by drunken warriors before dawn. Genghis considered returning to Borte in his tent and masked the discomfort at the thought of her accusing eyes. She had done her duty to him, no man could deny it, but the paternity of Jochi remained a doubt, like a thorn in his skin.
He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts and accepted a skin of black airag from Kachiun. Tonight, he would drink himself to insensibility, as khan to all the tribes. In the morning, they would prepare to cross the dry lands of the Gobi Desert and walk the path he had chosen for them.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The wind screamed around the carts, carrying a fine mist of sand that made the men and women spit constantly and wince at the grit in their food. Flies tormented them all, tasting the salt from their sweat and leaving red marks where they had bitten. During the day, the Uighurs had shown them how to protect their faces with cloth, leaving only their eyes to peer out at the bleak landscape, shimmering with heat. Those who wore armour found their helmets and neckpieces too hot to touch, but they did not complain.
After a week, the army of Genghis climbed a range of rust-coloured hills to enter a vast plain of rippled dunes. Though they had hunted in the foothills, game had become rare as the heat increased. On the blistering sand, the only sign of life was tiny black scorpions scuttling away from their ponies and vanishing into holes. Time and again the carts became bogged down and had to be dug out in the full heat of the day. It was backbreaking work, but every hour lost was one that brought them closer to running out of water.
They had filled thousands of bloated goatskins, tied with sinew and baked hard in the sun. With no other source, the supply dwindled visibly and, in the heat, many of the skins were found to have burst under the weight of the rest. They had carried only enough for twenty days and already twelve had passed. The warriors drank the blood of their mounts every second day, as well as a few cupfuls of warm, brackish water, but they were close to the edge of endurance and became dazed and listless, their lips dry enough to bleed.
Genghis rode with his brothers at the head of the army, squinting into the glare for some sign of the mountains he had been told to expect. The Uighurs had traded deep into the desert and he depended on Barchuk to guide them. He frowned to himself as he considered the endless flat basin of rippled black and yellow, stretching all the way to the horizon. The heat of the day was the worst he had known, but his skin had darkened and his face was seamed in new lines of dirt and sand. He had almost been glad of the cold on the first night, until it grew so biting that the furs in the gers gave little protection. The Uighurs had shown the other tribesmen how to heat rocks in the fire and then sleep on a layer of them as they cooled. More than a few warriors had brown patches on their backs where the rocks had burned their deels, but the cold had been beaten and, if they survived the constant thirst, the desert held nothing else that could stop them coming. Genghis wiped his mouth at intervals as he rode, shifting a pebble in his cheek to keep the spittle flowing.
He glanced behind him as Barchuk rode up to his side. The Uighurs had covered the eyes of their ponies with cloth and the animals rode blind. Genghis had tried that with his own mounts, but those who had not experienced it before bucked and snorted at the cloth until it was removed, then suffered through the hot days. Many of the animals had developed crusts of whitish-yellow muck on their eyelids and would need healing salves if they ever found their way out of the desert. Hardy as they were, they had to be given their share of precious water. On foot, the new nation would die in the desert.
Barchuk pointed to the ground, jabbing his hand and raising his voice over the unremitting wind.
‘Do you see the blue flecks in the sand, lord?’
Genghis nodded, working his dry mouth so that he could reply.
‘They mark the beginning of the last stage before the Yinshan Mountains. There is copper here. We have traded it with the Xi Xia.’
‘How much further then before we see these mountains?’ Genghis asked hoarsely, refusing to let his hopes rise.
Barchuk shrugged with Mongol impassivity.
‘We have no certain knowledge, but merchants from Xi Xia are still fresh when they cross our trails in this place, their horses barely marked with dust. It cannot be far now.’
Genghis looked back over his shoulder at the silent mass of riders and carts. He had brought sixty thousand warriors into the desert, as many again of their wives and children. He could not see the end of the tail that stretched back for miles, the forms blurring into one another until they were no more than a dark smear wavering in the heat. The water was almost gone and soon they would have to slaughter the herds, taking only what meat they could carry and leaving the rest on the sands. Barchuk followed his gaze and chuckled.
‘They have suffered, lord, but it will not be long now before we are knocking at the doors of the Xi Xia kingdom.’
Genghis snorted wearily to himself. The Uighur khan’s knowledge had brought them into this bleak place, but they still had only his word that the kingdom was as rich and fertile as he said. No warriors of the Uighurs had been allowed to travel beyond the mountains that bordered the desert to the south and Genghis had no way to plan his attack. He considered this irritably as his horse sent another scorpion skittering over the sand. He had staked them all on the chance of a weak point in the Chin defences, but he still wondered what it would be like to see a great city of stone, as tall as a mountain. Against such a thing, his horsemen might only stare in frustration.
The sand under his pony’s hooves grew blue-green as they rode, great stripes of the strange colours stretching away in all directions. When they stopped to eat, the children threw it into the air and drew pictures with sticks. Genghis could not share their pleasure as the supply of water dwindled and each night was spent shivering despite the hot rocks.
There was little to amuse the army before they fell into weary sleep. Twice in twelve days, Genghis had been called to settle some dispute between tribes as heat and thirst made tempers flare. Both times, he had executed the men involved and made it clear that he would not allow anything to threaten the peace of the camp. He considered them to have entered enemy lands and if the officers could not handle a disturbance, his involvement meant a ruthless outcome. The threat was enough to keep most of the hotheaded warriors from outright disobedience, but his people had never been easy to rule and too many hours in silence made them fractious and difficult.
As the fourteenth dawn brought the great heat once more, Genghis could only wince as he threw off his blankets and scattered the stones under him to be collected for the next night by his servants. He felt stiff and tired, with a film of grit on his skin that made him itch. When little Jochi stumbled into him in some game with his brothers, Genghis cuffed him hard, sending him weeping to his mother for solace. They were all short-tempered in the desert heat and only Barchuk’s promises of a green plain and a river at the end kept their eyes on the horizon, reaching out to it in imagination.
On the sixteenth day, a low rise of black hills appeared. The Uighur warriors riding as scouts came back at a canter, their mounts sending up puffs of sand and labouring through its grip. Around them, the land was almost green with copper and black rocks poked through like sharp blades. Once more, the families could see lichen and scrub bushes clinging to life in the shadow of the rocks and, at dawn, the hunters brought hares and voles caught in their night traps. The mood of the families lifted subtly, but they were all suffering from thirst and sore eyes so that tempers remained foul in the camp. Despite their tiredness, Genghis increased the patrols around the main force and had the men drill and practise with their bows and swords. The warriors were dark and whip-thin from the desert, but they took to the work with grim endurance, each man determined not to fail under the eyes of the great khan. Slowly, imperceptibly the pace increased once more, while the heavier carts drifted to the rear of the procession.
As they drew closer to the hills, Genghis saw that they were far higher than he had realised. They were made of the same black rock that broke through the sand around him, sharp and steep. Climbing them was impossible and he knew there would have to be a pass through the peaks or he would be forced to travel right around their length. With their water supply almost gone, the carts were lighter, but he knew they had to find Barchuk’s valley quickly or they would begin to die. The tribes had accepted him as khan, but if he had brought them to a place of heat and death, if he had killed them, they would take revenge while they still had the strength. Genghis rode straight-backed in the saddle, his mouth a mass of sores. Behind him, the tribes muttered sullenly.
Kachiun and Khasar squinted through the heat-hazed air at the foot of the cliffs. With two of the scouts, they had ridden ahead of the main army to look for a pass. The scouts were experienced men and the sharp eyes of one had pointed out a promising cut between peaks. It started well enough as the steep slopes gave way into a narrow canyon that echoed to the hooves of the four riders. On either side, the rocks extended up towards the sky, too high for a man to climb alone, never mind with carts and horses. It took no special skill in tracking to see the ground had been worn away in a wide path and the small group kicked their mounts into a canter, expecting to be able to report a way through to the Xi Xia kingdom beyond the hills
As they rode around a kink in the trail, the scouts drew rein in astonishment, awed to silence. The end of the canyon was blocked by a huge wall of the same black stone as the mountains themselves. Each block on its own would have been heavier than anything the tribes could move and the wall seemed strange, somehow wrong to their eyes. They had no craftsmen who worked in stone. With its neat lines and smooth surfaces, it was clearly the work of man, but the sheer size and scale was something they had only seen in wild rocks and valleys. At the base was the final proof that it was not a natural thing. A gate of black iron and wood was set into the base of the wall, ancient and strong.
‘Look at the size of it!’ Kachiun said, shaking his head. ‘How are we going to get through that?’
The scouts merely shrugged and Khasar whistled softly to himself.
‘It would be easy to trap us in this spiritless place. Genghis must be told quickly, before he follows us in.’
‘He’ll want to know if there are warriors up there, brother. You know it.’
Khasar eyed the steep slopes at either side, suddenly feeling vulnerable. It was easy to imagine men dropping stones from the top and there would be no way to avoid them. He considered the pair of scouts who had accompanied them into the canyon. They had been warriors of the Kerait before Genghis had claimed them. Now, they waited impassively for orders, hiding their awe at the size of the wall ahead.
‘Perhaps they just built it to block an army from the desert,’ Khasar said to his brother. ‘It might be unmanned.’
As he spoke, one of the scouts pointed, directing their gaze to a tiny figure moving along the top of the wall. It could only be a soldier and Khasar felt his heart sink. If there was another pass, Barchuk did not know of it and finding a way past the mountains would see the army of Genghis begin to wither. Khasar made his decision, knowing it could mean the lives of the two scouts.
‘Ride to the foot of the wall, then come straight back,’ he said to them. The two men bowed their heads, exchanging a glance in expressionless faces. As one, they dug in their heels and called ‘Chuh!’ to make their mounts run. Sand spattered into the air as they began their race to the foot of the black wall and Khasar and Kachiun watched through eyes slitted against the glare.
‘Do you think they will reach it?’ Kachiun asked. Khasar shrugged without speaking, too intent on watching the wall.
Kachiun thought he saw a sharp gesture from the distant guard. The scouts had the sense not to ride together, taking a split path at full gallop and veering right and left to spoil the aim of any archers. For a long time, there was no sound but the echoes of their hooves and the brothers watched with held breath.
Kachiun swore as a line of archers appeared on the wall.
‘Come on,’ he urged under his breath. Dark specks flashed down at the two scouts riding wildly in and Kachiun saw one of them swerve recklessly as he reached the great gate. They could see him slam his fist into the wood as he turned his mount, but the archers were loosing in waves and, an instant later, he and his horse were pinned with a dozen shafts. The dying man cried out and his mount began the trip back, missing a step and stumbling as it was hit again and again. They fell at last almost together, lying still on the sand.
The second scout was luckier, though he had not touched the wall. For a time, it looked as if he might escape the shafts and Khasar and Kachiun shouted to him. Then he jerked in the saddle and his horse reared and collapsed, its legs kicking as it rolled over him.
The horse made it to its feet and limped back to the brothers, leaving the scout’s body broken behind it.
Khasar dismounted and took the loose reins. The leg was broken and the pony would not be ridden again. In silence, Khasar tied the reins to his saddle. He wasn’t going to leave the animal behind with so many mouths to feed in the camp.
‘We have our answer, brother,’ Khasar muttered, ‘though it’s not the one I wanted. How are we going to get through them?’
Kachiun shook his head.
‘We will find a way,’ he said, glancing back to the dark line of archers watching them. Some of them raised their arms, though whether in mockery or salute, he could not tell. ‘Even if we have to take it down, stone by stone.’
As soon as Khasar and Kachiun were sighted riding alone, the forces of Genghis were halted in their tracks. Before they could reach the outer lines of mounted warriors, the brothers passed skirmishing groups who remained staring outwards at the mountains they left behind. Genghis and his officers had learned hard lessons in the years of building the tribes into a single army and galloping boys raced ahead to tell him they were coming in.
Neither man replied to those who called to them. Grim and silent, they rode to their brother’s ger, sitting like a white limpet on its cart. When they reached it, Khasar dismounted in a jump and glanced at the man who stepped forward to take the reins.
‘Tsubodai,’ he said in greeting, forcing a smile. The young warrior seemed nervous and Khasar recalled he had been promised armour and a good horse. He grimaced at the timing.
‘We have many things to discuss with the khan. Claim your horse another time.’
Tsubodai’s face fell with disappointment and Khasar snorted, catching him by the shoulder as he turned away. He recalled the boy’s courage in leaping among the sons of the Woyela. It was a favour he could repay.
‘Perhaps there will be a moment when we are done. Come with me then, if you can be silent.’ Tsubodai regained his grin on the instant, tinged with nervousness at meeting the great khan himself. With a dry mouth, he climbed the steps of the cart and followed the brothers into the shadowed interior.
Genghis was ready for them, his young messenger still panting at his side.
‘Where are the scouts?’ he demanded, taking in their serious expressions.
‘Dead, brother. And the pass is guarded by a wall of black stone as high as a hundred gers, maybe more.’
‘We saw perhaps fifty archers drawn out,’ Kachiun added. ‘They were not skilled, as we know it, but they could hardly miss. The wall lies at the end of a narrow pass, a gorge between steep sides of rock. I could not see a way to flank them.’
Genghis frowned, rising from his seat. He made a clicking sound in his throat as he stepped across the ger and passed out into the bright sun. Khasar and Kachiun followed him out, hardly noticing the wide-eyed Tsubodai on their heels.
Genghis stood on the blue-green sand below them, looking up. He held a stick in his hands and gestured with it, drawing a line on the ground.
‘Show me,’ he ordered. It was Kachiun who took the stick and drew in neat strokes. Khasar watched in fascination as his brother recreated the canyon he had seen a few hours before. To one side, Kachiun drew a copy of the arched gate and Genghis rubbed his chin in irritation.
‘We could tear the carts up to make wooden shields to get men close,’ he said doubtfully.
Kachiun shook his head.
‘That would bring us to the gate against their shafts, but once we were there, they could drop stones on us. From that height, a few planks would be smashed to pieces.’
Genghis raised his head, gazing over the ranks of the families to the treeless expanse of the desert in all directions. They had nothing with which to build.
‘Then we will have to draw them out,’ he said. ‘A staged retreat, with valuable items left in our wake. I will send in men in the best armour and they will survive the arrows, but be driven back by them in panic, with much shouting.’ He smiled at the prospect. ‘It will teach our warriors a little humility, perhaps.’
Kachiun rubbed his boot along the edge of the drawing.
‘It might work if we could know when they open the gate, but the canyon twists. As soon as we are out of sight, we’ll have no way of knowing when they come out. If I could get a couple of boys onto the crags at the sides, they could signal to us, but it is a vicious climb and there’s no cover on those rocks. They would be seen.’
‘May I speak, lord?’ Tsubodai said suddenly.
Khasar started in indignation.
‘I told you to be silent. Can you not see this is important?’ The gaze of all three men turned on the young warrior and he blushed darkly.
‘I am sorry. I thought of a way we might know when they come out.’
‘Who are you?’ Genghis asked.
Tsubodai’s voice wavered as he bowed his head.
‘Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.’ He caught himself in embarrassment. ‘Of the nation, lord. I …’
Genghis held up a hand.
‘I remember. Tell me what you are thinking.’
With a visible effort, Tsubodai swallowed his nervousness and told them. It surprised him that they had not thought of it. The gaze of Genghis in particular seemed to bore into him and he ended staring away into the middle distance.
Tsubodai suffered in silence while the three men considered. After an age, Genghis nodded.
‘That could work,’ he said, grudgingly. Tsubodai seemed to grow a little taller.
Khasar flashed a smile at the younger man, as if he was responsible for his cleverness.
‘See to it, Kachiun,’ Genghis said. He grinned at Tsubodai’s pride. ‘Then I will ride to see this place you describe.’ His mood changed as he considered destroying some of the carts that had carried the families across the desert. With wood so scarce, each one was much mended and handed down through the generations. There was no help for it.
‘Take the first ten carts you see and join the wood into a barricade that can be held and moved.’
He saw Kachiun’s gaze drift over the khan’s ger at his back and snorted.
‘Begin with the next cart you see, brother. Do not think to have mine.’
Kachiun moved quickly away to gather the men and materials he would need. Genghis remained, facing the young warrior.
‘I have promised you a horse and armour. What else would you have from me?’
Tsubodai’s face paled in confusion. He had not thought to add to the khan’s debt, only to solve a problem that had intrigued him.
‘Nothing, lord. It is enough to ride with my people.’
Genghis stared at him and scratched the side of his face.
‘He has courage and intelligence, Khasar. Give him ten men in the attack on the wall.’ His yellow eyes flickered back to Tsubodai who stood rooted in shock.
‘I will watch to see how you lead more experienced warriors.’ He paused for the news to sink in and added a barb to prick the young man’s swelling confidence.
‘If you fail them, you will not live beyond the sunset of that day,’ he said.
Tsubodai bowed deeply in response, the warning barely denting his excitement. Genghis grunted to himself.
‘Have my horse brought, Khasar. I will see this wall and these archers who think to stand in my way.’
CHAPTER FIVE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The Xi Xia defenders could have no idea how many Mongols had crossed the desert against them. Though Genghis rode up to the edge of bow range with a dozen officers, he kept the main army well back in the twisting canyon. He had decided against sending climbers up the slopes. The plan depended on the defenders thinking of them as unsophisticated herdsmen. Watchers on the peaks would reveal at least some talent for planning and make the fort soldiers suspicious. Genghis chewed his lower lip as he stared up at the Xi Xia fort. Archers clustered like ants on the wall and at intervals one would send a shaft high into the air to get the range for any assault that might follow. Genghis watched the last of them sink into the ground a dozen paces ahead of him. His own men could fire further and he spat contemptuously in the enemy archers’ direction.
The air was thick and still in the canyon where no winds could blow. The heat of the desert was still strong while the sun crossed overhead and cut their shadows almost to nothing. He touched the sword of his father for luck, then turned his pony and rode back to where a hundred warriors waited.
They were silent, as he had ordered, but excitement was visible in their young faces. Like all Mongols, they relished the idea of tricking an enemy even more than overwhelming him by force.
‘The wooden shield is lashed together,’ Khasar said at his shoulder. ‘It’s rough, but it will get them to the foot of the wall. I have given them forge hammers to try the gate. Who knows, they might break in.’
‘If that happens, have another hundred ready to charge in support,’ Genghis said. He turned to Kachiun, standing nearby to oversee the last details. ‘Hold the rest back, Kachiun. It would be an easy killing ground for them to be packed in tight while only a few can climb through. I do not want them running wild.’
‘I’ll put Arslan at the head of the second group,’ Kachiun replied. It was a good choice and Genghis nodded assent. The swordsmith could follow orders in a storm of arrows.
At their backs, the wall seemed to loom still, though it was lost to direct sight. Genghis had no idea what lay behind the dark stones, or how many men defended the pass. It did not matter. In less than two days, the last water skins would be empty. The tribes would start to drop after that, dying from thirst and his ambitions. The fort had to fall.
Many of the men carried beautiful swords and spears to leave on the sand, anything that might catch the eye of the defenders and make them come out. To a man, they wore the best armour, copies of a Chin design. In the heat, the finger-width iron scales stung bare skin and their silk undertunics were soon sour with sweat. They gulped from skins of the dwindling water supply. Genghis had imposed no ration on men about to risk their lives.
‘We have done all we can, brother,’ Khasar said, interrupting his thoughts. Both men watched as Kokchu appeared among the warriors, scattering precious water over them and chanting. Many of the men bowed their heads to receive his blessing and Genghis frowned to himself. He imagined Temuge doing the same thing in the future and could find no glory in it.
‘I should be among the attackers,’ Genghis murmured.
Kachiun heard and shook his head.
‘You cannot be seen to run from anything, brother. Perhaps the plan will go wrong and the tribes will be routed. You cannot be seen as a coward and not half the army knows the plan here, not yet. It is enough for them to see you watching. I have chosen most for nerve and courage. They will follow orders.’
‘They must,’ Genghis replied.
His brothers moved apart to clear the trail for the assault group and the wide wooden shelter. The men bore it above their heads with pride and the tension built in silence.
‘I would see this wall brought down,’ Genghis said to them. ‘If not with blades and hammers, then with guile. Some of you will die, but the sky father loves the warrior spirit and you will be welcomed. You will open a way to the sweet kingdom beyond. Sound the drums and horns. Let them hear and worry in their precious fort. Let the sound carry right to the heart of the Xi Xia and even the Chin in their cities.’
The warriors took deep breaths, readying themselves for the sprint to come. In the distance a bird called shrilly, high on the thermals above the hills. Kokchu exclaimed that it was a good omen and most of the men looked up to the blue bowl above their heads. A dozen drummers began to pound the rhythms of battle and the familiar sound lifted them all, making hearts beat faster. Genghis swept his arm down and the army roared and horns wailed. The first group jogged to the point where they could turn into the main canyon and then accelerated, calling a raucous challenge. Echoing back came the warning cries from the fort.
‘Now we will see,’ Genghis said, clenching and unclenching his sword hand.
The voices of the warriors crashed against the sides of the pass as they ran. They were suffering under the weight of the barricade above their heads, already half blind with sweat. It proved its worth in moments as it bristled with black shafts, the coloured feathers quivering. The archers were well disciplined, Genghis saw, loosing together after a barked order. One or two shots were lucky and by the time the barricade reached the wall, there were three still figures lying face down on the sand in their wake.
A dull booming filled the pass as the hammer men attacked the door in the wall. Archers swarmed above, leaning over to send their arrows straight down at the smallest gaps. Men cried out and fell away from the edges of the wooden shield, their bodies jerking as they were hit again and again.
Genghis swore under his breath as he saw heavy stones being raised to the parapet. He had discussed the possibility with his generals, but still winced in anticipation as an officer wearing a plumed helmet raised his arm and screamed an order. The first stone seemed to fall for a long time and Genghis heard the crack as it drove those below to their knees. As they struggled up, the hammer men struck even harder, their blows coming as fast as the drummers they had left behind.
Two more stones fell before the wooden barricade broke apart. The hammers were thrown to the sand and a great roar of panic went up as the archers above found fresh targets. Genghis clenched his fists as he watched his men scatter. The door in the wall had held and they could do nothing but shake their weapons in rage at the enemy over their heads. Man after man fell and, without warning, they broke back down the pass, racing each other in desperation.
As they ran, more of them were knocked from their feet by waves of buzzing arrows. Barely more than a dozen made it out of range, resting their hands on their knees and panting. Behind them, the pass was littered with everything they had dropped in the retreat, the bodies marked by shafts sticking out of them.
Genghis walked slowly to the centre of the path, staring up at the jubilant defenders. He could hear their cheering and it was hard to make himself turn his back to them. When he did, the sound intensified and he walked stiffly away until he knew he was lost to sight.
On the highest point of the wall, Liu Ken watched him go, his satisfaction straining the impassive mask he showed the soldiers around him. They were smiling openly and clapping each other on the back as if they had won a great victory. He felt his temper rising at their foolishness.
‘Change the shift and get five sui of fresh archers up here,’ he snapped. The smiles vanished. ‘We’ve lost a thousand shafts in the gorge, so make sure the quivers are full once again. Give every man a drink of water.’
Liu rested his hands on the ancient stone, looking into the pass. They had killed almost all of those who had come into range and he was pleased with the archers. He made a note to congratulate the officer of the wall. The sound of hammers had worried him, but the door had held. Liu Ken smiled tightly to himself. If it hadn’t, the Mongols would have run straight into a high-walled compound with archers on every side above them. The fort was beautifully designed and he was pleased his tour of duty had not ended before he had seen this test of its construction.
He frowned at the broken pieces of wood on the sand. Everything he had been told of the tribes suggested that if they came at all, they would attack like wild animals. The barricade showed shrewd planning and it nagged at him. He would be sure to put it in his report to the governor of the province. Let him decide how best to respond. Liu mused to himself as he looked down at the scattered dead. The stones had never been used before. Most were moss-covered from years of lying ready on the wall. Those too would have to be replenished from the stores, though there were clerks for that sort of mundane activity. It was about time they did more than allocate food and water for the men, he considered.
Liu turned at the clatter of sandals and swallowed his dismay at the sight of the fort commander coming up the steps to the wall. Shen Ti was an administrator rather than a soldier and Liu braced himself to answer his inane questions. The climb up to the wall had left the fat man gasping, so Liu had to look away rather than acknowledge his superior’s weakness. He waited without speaking as Shen Ti joined him at the wall and looked down with bright eyes, his breathing still laboured.
‘We have sent the dogs running,’ Shen Ti said, recovering.
Liu inclined his head in silent agreement. He had not seen the commander during the attack. No doubt he had been cowering with his concubines in his private rooms on the other side of the fort. With wry humour, Liu thought of the words of Sun Tzu on defensive war. Shen Ti was certainly adept at hiding in ‘the recesses of the earth’, but only because Liu had been there to scatter the attackers. Still, he owed courtesy to the man’s rank.
‘I will leave the bodies for the rest of the day, lord, to be certain none of them are faking death. I will send men out to gather weapons and collect shafts at dawn.’
Shen Ti peered down at the bodies in the canyon. He could see boxes lying on the ground as well as a beautiful spear as long as a man. He knew that if he left it to the soldiers, anything valuable would vanish into private collections. Something sparkled in the green and gold sand and he squinted at it.
‘You will supervise them, Liu. Send men down now to check the gate is not damaged. Have them bring anything valuable to me to examine.’
Liu hid a wince at the fat commander’s naked greed. The Uighurs never had anything of value, he thought. There was no reason to expect more than a few bits of shiny metal from those ragged tribesmen. Yet he was not a noble and he bowed as low as he could in full armour.
‘As you command, lord.’ He left Shen Ti still staring down, a faint smile touching his fleshy lips. Liu snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a group of archers who were taking turns drinking from a water bucket.
‘I am going out to strip the dead.’ He took a deep breath, aware that he had allowed his bitterness at the shameful order to show. ‘Get back to your positions and be ready for another attack.’
The men scurried to obey, the water bucket landing with a clang and spinning untended as they rushed back to the wall. Liu sighed to himself, before concentrating on the task at hand. No doubt the Uighurs would be made to pay for the attack when the king heard about it. In the peaceful lands of the Xi Xia, it would be the talk of the court, perhaps for months. Trade would be strangled for a generation and punishment raids would be sent out against every Uighur settlement. Liu had no taste for that sort of war and he considered asking for a transfer back to Yinchuan city. They always needed good guards with experience.
He gave crisp orders to a dozen spearmen to follow him and walked down the cool steps to the outer gate. From the inside, it looked untouched by the assault and, in the shadow of the walls, he considered the fate of anyone foolish enough to break it down. He would not like to be among them, he thought. It was second nature to him to check the inner gate was secure before he raised his hand to the outer locking bar. Sun Tzu was perhaps the greatest military thinker the Chin had ever produced, but he did not consider the difficulties of greedy men like Shen Ti giving the orders.
Liu took a deep breath and pushed open the door, letting in a beam of hard sunlight. The men behind him shuffled in readiness and he nodded to their captain.
‘I want two men to stay and guard the door. The rest of you are to collect useable shafts and anything else that might be valuable. If there is trouble, drop it all and run for the gate. There will be no talking and not one of you will go more than fifty paces, even if there are emeralds the size of duck eggs lying in the sand. Acknowledge my orders.’
The soldiers saluted as one and their captain tapped two on the shoulder to remain on guard. Liu nodded, squinting out into the sun as his eyes adjusted. He could not expect high standards from the sort of soldier who ended up in the fort. Almost to a man, they had made some error in the standing army, or offended someone with influence. Even Shen Ti had made some secret error in his political past, he was sure, though the fat man would never unburden himself to a common soldier, no matter what rank he held.
Liu let out a long, low breath, checking a mental list of the defences. He had done all he could, but still there was a feeling in his bones that he did not like. He stepped over a body, noting that the man wore armour very similar to his own. He frowned at that. There was no record of the Uighurs copying Chin armour. It was rough, but of serviceable quality and Liu found his sense of unease growing.
Ready to leap back, he trod heavily on an outstretched hand. He heard a bone break and, at the lack of movement, he nodded and went further out. The dead lay thickest near the gate and he could see two sprawling men with arrows through their throats. Heavy hammers had fallen near them and Liu picked one up, propping it against the wall to be taken in on his return. It too was well made.
As he narrowed his eyes on the end of the pass, his men fanned out, stooping to pick up weapons from the sand. Liu began to relax a little, seeing two of them yanking arrows from a body that resembled a porcupine from the density of the strikes. He strode out of the wall’s shadow, wincing at the sudden brightness. Thirty paces ahead of him lay two boxes and he knew Shen Ti would be watching to see if he found something of worth in them. Why the tribesmen would have brought gold or silver to an attack Liu could not fathom, but he walked across the baking sand towards them, his hand ready on his sword. Could they contain snakes or scorpions? He had heard of such things being used to attack cities, though usually they were thrown over the walls. The tribesmen had brought no catapults or ladders on their assault.
Liu drew his blade and dug the point into the sand, levering the box onto its side. Birds erupted from the confined space, soaring upwards as he threw himself back in shock.
For a moment, Liu stood and stared at the birds, unable to understand why they had been left to bake on the sand. He raised his head to watch them fly and then comprehension dawned and his eyes widened in sudden panic. The birds were the signal. A dull rumbling came to his ears and the ground seemed to vibrate under his feet.
‘Get back to the gate!’ Liu shouted, waving his sword. Around him, he saw his soldiers staring in shock, some of them with armfuls of arrows and swords. ‘Run! Get back!’ Liu bellowed again. Glancing down the pass, he saw the first dark lines of galloping horses and he turned to the gate himself. If the fools were too slow, they had only themselves to blame, he thought, his mind racing.
He skidded to a halt in horror before he had run more than a few paces. Around the gate, some of the bodies were leaping up, still with shafts lodged in them. One of them had lain perfectly still while Liu broke his hand under his sandal. Liu swallowed his panic at the thunder growing at his back and he began to run again. He saw the gate begin to close, but one of the enemy was there to shove his arm into the gap. The tribesman cried out in agony as his hand was hacked to pieces inside, but there were others with him to wrench it open and fall on the defenders.
Liu raised his voice in a howl of rage and never saw the arrow that took him in the back of the neck. He tumbled onto the sand, feeling its sting even as the darkness came for him. The inner gate was shut, he was certain. He had seen it closed behind him and there was still a chance. His own blood choked off his thoughts and the sound of hooves faded to nothing.
Tsubodai rose from where he had lain in the sand. The arrow that had felled him had been followed by two more lodged in his armour. His ribs were agony and every step brought fresh pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling down his thigh. The canyon was filled with a sound like thunder as the galloping line came in at full speed. Tsubodai looked upwards as he heard bows thrumming and saw black shafts darting down. A horse screamed behind him as Tsubodai saw the gate was jammed open by bodies and staggered towards it.
He looked around him for the ten men Genghis had placed under his command. He recognised four of the figures rushing at the gate, while the others lay still on the sand, truly dead. Tsubodai swallowed painfully as he stepped over a man he had known from the Uriankhai.
The sound of riders grew into a force at his back until he expected to be hammered from his feet. He thought his wounds had dazed him, for everything seemed to be happening slowly and yet he could hear each laboured breath from his open mouth. He shut it, irritated at this show of weakness. Ahead of him, those who had survived the assault were rushing through the gate with swords drawn. Tsubodai heard the snap of bows, muffled by the thick stone of the wall. He had a glimpse of men falling as they went through, spitted on arrows as they looked up and cried out. At that instant, his mind cleared and his senses sharpened. Arrows still sank into the sand around him, but he ignored them. He roared an order to stand back as his warriors reached the gate. His voice was rough, but to his relief, the men responded.
‘Make shields of the wood. Take the hammers,’ Tsubodai told them, pointing. He heard the jingle of armour as men leaped to the sand all around him. Khasar landed running and Tsubodai grabbed his arm.
‘There are archers inside. We can still use the broken wood.’
Arrows vanished into the sand around them, leaving only the black feathers. Calmly, Khasar glanced down at Tsubodai’s hand just long enough to remind the young warrior of his status. As Tsubodai released his grip, Khasar snapped out orders. All around them, men picked up pieces of the original shield and held them over their heads as they rushed through the gate.
As the hammers were taken up again, archers above their heads shot into the pit between the two gates. Even with the rough shield, some of the shafts found their marks. On the hot sand outside, Khasar ordered waves of arrows up against the archers on the outer wall, keeping the Chin soldiers down and spoiling their aim until the army could move. He bit his lip at the exposed position, but until the inner gate was broken, they were all stuck. The dull thump of hammers sounded over the cries of dying men.
‘Get in there and make sure they aren’t enjoying a quick rest while we wait,’ Khasar shouted to Tsubodai. The young warrior bowed his head and ran to join his men.
He passed under a band of shadow into bright sunlight and had a glimpse of a line of cold-eyed archers shooting shaft after shaft into the killing hole.
Tsubodai barely had time to duck under a piece of broken planking. An arrow scratched his arm as he did and he swore aloud. He recognised only one of his original ten men still alive.
The space between the gates was deliberately small and no more than a dozen warriors could stand inside at a time. Except for those who wielded hammers with desperate force, the others stood with pieces of wood above their heads, wedged together as best they could. The ground was still sandy and bristled with spent shafts, thicker than the hairs on a dog. Still more were shot down and Tsubodai heard orders shouted in an alien language above his head. If they had stones to drop, the entire assault would be crushed before the inner gate gave way, he thought, fighting terror. He felt enclosed, trapped. The man closest to him had lost his helmet in the attack. He gave a shriek of pain and fell with an arrow’s feathers standing upright in his neck, loosed from almost directly above. Tsubodai caught the planking he had held and raised it, wincing with every shuddering impact. The hammer blows went on with maddening slowness and, suddenly, Tsubodai heard a grunt of satisfaction from one of the warriors and the sound changed as those closest began kicking at the cracking timbers.
The gate gave way, sending men sprawling on the dusty ground beyond it. The first ones through died instantly as they were met with a volley of crossbow shafts from a line of soldiers. Behind them, Khasar’s men roared in savage anticipation, sensing there was a way in. They pushed forward, compressing the group at the gate as they stumbled over dead men.
Tsubodai could not believe he was still alive. He drew the sword Genghis himself had given him and ran forward in a mass of raging men, freed at last from the confines of the killing ground. The crossbowmen never had a chance to reload and Tsubodai killed his first enemy with a straight thrust to the throat as the soldier froze in horror. Half of those who came into the fort were wounded and bloody, but they had survived and they exulted as they met the first lines of defenders. Some of the first ones inside climbed wooden steps to a higher level and grinned as they saw the archers still firing down into the killing hole. Mongol bows snapped shafts across the fighting below, striking the Xi Xia bowmen from their feet as if they had been hit by hammers.
The army of Genghis began to funnel through the gate, exploding into the fort. There was little order to the assault in the first charge. Until senior men like Khasar or Arslan took charge, Tsubodai knew he was free to kill as many as he could and he shouted wildly, filled with excitement.
Without Liu Ken to organise the defence, the Xi Xia warriors broke and ran before the invaders, scattering in panic. Leaving his horse in the pass, Genghis walked through the gate and ducked through the broken inner gate. His face was alight with triumph and pride as his warriors tore through the fort soldiers. In all their history, the tribes had never had a chance to strike back at those who held them down. Genghis did not care that the Xi Xia soldiers thought themselves different from the Chin. To his people, they were all part of that ancient, hated race. He saw that some of the defenders had laid down their weapons and he shook his head, calling Arslan to him as the swordsman strode past.
‘No prisoners, Arslan,’ Genghis said. His general bowed his head.
The slaughter became methodical after that. Men were discovered hiding in the fort’s cellars and dragged out for execution. As the day wore on, the dead soldiers were piled on the red stones of a central courtyard. A well there became the eye of the storm as every dry-throated man found time to quench his thirst in water, bucket by bucket, until they were gasping and soaked. They had beaten the desert.
As the sun began to set, Genghis himself walked to the well, stepping over the piles of twisted dead. The warriors fell silent at his step and one of them filled the leather bucket and handed it to the khan. As Genghis drank at last and grinned, they roared and bayed in voices loud enough to echo back from the walls all around. They had found their way through the maze of rooms and halls, cloisters and walkways, all strange to their eyes. Like a pack of wild dogs, they had reached right to the far side of the fort, leaving the black stones bloody behind them.
The commander of the fort was discovered in a suite of rooms hung with silk and priceless tapestries. It took three men to batter down the door of iron and oak to reveal Shen Ti, hiding with a dozen terrified women. As Khasar strode into the room, Shen Ti tried to take his own life with a dagger. In his terror, the blade slipped in his sweating hands and merely scored a line in his throat. Khasar sheathed his sword and took hold of the man’s fleshy hand over the hilt, guiding it back to the neck a second time. Shen Ti lost his nerve and tried to struggle, but Khasar’s grip was strong and he drew the dagger sharply across, stepping back as blood spurted out and the man flailed in death.
‘That is the last of them,’ Khasar said. He looked the women over and nodded to himself. They were strange creatures, their skin powdered as white as mare’s milk, but he found them attractive. The scent of jasmine mingled with the stench of blood in the room and Khasar smiled wolfishly at them. His brother Kachiun had won an Olkhun’ut girl for his wife and had two children already in his ger. Khasar’s first wife had died and he had no one. He wondered if Genghis would let him marry two or three of these foreign women. The idea pleased him enormously and he stepped to the far window, looking out on the lands of the Xi Xia.
The fort was high in the mountains and Khasar had a view of a vast valley, with cliffs stretching away into the haze on either side. Far below, he saw a green land, studded with farms and villages. Khasar breathed deeply in appreciation.
‘It will be like picking ripe fruit,’ he said, turning to Arslan as the older man entered. ‘Send someone to fetch my brothers. They should see this.’
CHAPTER SIX (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
The king sat in the highest room of his palace, looking over the flat valley of the Xi Xia. With the dawn mist rising off the fields, it was a landscape of great beauty. If he did not know there was an army out there beyond sight, the land might have seemed as peaceful as any other morning. The canals shone in the sun like lines of gold, carrying precious water to the crops. There were even distant figures of farmers out there, working without thought for the army that had entered their country from the northern desert.
Rai Chiang adjusted his robe of green silk, patterned in gold. Alone, his expression was calm, but as he stared out into the dawn, his fingers picked nervously at a thread, worrying at it until it caught in his nails and snapped. He frowned, looking down at the damage. The robe was a Chin weave, worn to bring him luck in the matter of reinforcements. He had sent a letter with two of his fastest scouts as soon as he heard of the invasion, but the reply was long in coming.
He sighed to himself, his fingers resuming their picking without him being aware of it. If the old Chin emperor had lived, there would be fifty thousand soldiers marching to defend his little kingdom, he was sure of it. The gods were fickle to have taken his ally at the very moment when he needed aid. Prince Wei was a stranger and Rai Chiang did not know whether the arrogant son would have the generosity of his father.
Rai Chiang considered the differences between their lands, wondering if he could have done more to ensure Chin support. His most distant ancestor had been a Chin prince and ruled the province as a personal fiefdom. He would have seen no shame in asking for aid. The Xi Xia kingdom had been forgotten in the great conflict centuries before, unnoticed as greater princes struggled against each other until the Chin empire had been cut in two. Rai Chiang was the sixty-fourth ruler since that bloody period. Since the death of his father, he had spent almost three decades keeping his people free of the Chin shadow, cultivating other allies and never giving offence that could lead to his kingdom being forcibly returned to the fold. One of his sons would one day inherit that uneasy peace. Rai Chiang paid his tribute, sent his merchants to trade and his warriors to swell the ranks of the Imperial army. In return, he was treated as an honoured ally.
It was true Rai Chiang had ordered a new script for his people, one that bore little resemblance to Chin writing. The old Chin emperor had sent him rare texts by Lao Tzu and the Buddha Sakyamuni to be translated. Surely that was a sign of acceptance, if not approval. The Xi Xia valley was separate from the Chin lands, bordered by mountains and the Yellow River. With a new language, the Xi Xia would move further from the influence of the Chin. It was a dangerous and delicate game, but he knew he had the vision and energy to find the right future for his people. He thought of the new trade routes he had opened into the west and the wealth that was flowing back along them. All that was endangered by these tribes roaring out of the desert.
Rai Chiang wondered if Prince Wei would realise the Mongols had come round his precious wall in the northeast by entering the Xi Xia kingdom. It would do the Chin no good now the wolf had found the gate to the field.
‘You must support me,’ he whispered to himself. It galled him to depend on the Chin for military aid, after so many generations easing his people away from their dependence. He did not know yet if he could bear the price Prince Wei would ask for that support. The kingdom could be saved only to become a province again.
Rai Chiang tapped his fingers in irritation at the thought of a Chin army on his land. He needed them desperately, but what if they did not leave when the battle was over? What if they did not come at all?
Two hundred thousand people already sheltered within the walls of Yinchuan, with thousands more gathered outside the closed gates. In the night, the most desperate tried to climb into the city and the king’s guards were forced to drive them off with swords, or shoot a volley of arrows into their midst. The sun rose each day on fresh corpses and more soldiers had to leave Yinchuan to bury them before they could spread disease, labouring under the sullen stares of the rest. It was a grim and unpleasant business, but the city could feed only so many and the gates remained closed. Rai Chiang worried at the golden threads until beads of blood appeared under his fingernails.
Those who had found sanctuary slept in the streets, the beds of every inn and lodging house long taken. The price of food was rising every day and the black market thrived, though the guards hanged anyone caught hoarding. Yinchuan was a city of fear as they waited for the barbarians to attack, but three months had gone by with nothing but reports of destruction as the army of Genghis laid waste to everything in their path. They had not yet come to Yinchuan, though their scouts had been seen riding in the far distance.
A gong sounded, making Rai Chiang start. He could hardly believe it was the hour of the dragon already. He had been lost in contemplation, but it had not brought him the usual sense of peace before the day truly began. He shook his head against the malicious spirits that sapped the will of strong men. Perhaps the dawn would bring better news. Preparing himself to be seen, he straightened in his throne of lacquered gold and tucked the sleeve with the broken thread under the other. When he had spoken to his ministers, he would have a new robe brought and a cooling bath to make his blood flow with less turbulence.
The gong sounded again and the doors to the chamber opened in perfect silence. A line of his most trusted advisers walked in, their footsteps muffled by shoes of felt so the polished floor would not be scratched. Rai Chiang regarded them impassively, knowing that they took their confidence from his manner. Let him but show one trace of nervousness and they would feel the storms of panic that blew through the slums and streets of the city below.
Two slaves took up positions on either side of their king, creating a gentle breeze from large fans. Rai Chiang hardly noticed their presence as he saw his first minister could barely maintain his calm. He forced himself to wait until the men had touched their foreheads to the floor and proclaimed their oath of loyalty. The words were ancient and comforting. His father and grandfather had heard them many thousand times in this very room.
At last, they were ready to begin the business of the day and the great doors shut behind them. It was foolish to think they were completely private, Rai Chiang reflected. Anything of note in the throne room became market gossip before the sun set. He watched the ministers closely, looking for some sign that they felt the fear curdling in his breast. Nothing showed and his mood lightened a fraction.
‘Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven, king and father to us all,’ his first minister began, ‘I bear a letter from Emperor Wei of the Chin.’ He did not approach himself, but handed the scroll to a bearer slave. The young man knelt and held out the roll of precious paper and Rai Chiang recognised the personal chop of Prince Wei. Rai Chiang hid the stirring of hope in his breast as he took it and broke the wax seal.
It did not take long to read the message and, despite his control, Rai Chiang frowned. He could sense the hunger for news in the room and his calm had been affected badly enough for him to read it aloud.
‘It is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us? Bleed these invaders and the Chin will avenge your memory.’
There was utter silence in the room as the ministers digested the words. One or two of them had paled, visibly disturbed. There would be no reinforcements. Worse, the new emperor had described them as enemies and could no longer be considered the ally his father had been. It was possible that they had heard the end of the Xi Xia kingdom in those few words.
‘Our army is ready?’ Rai Chiang said softly into the silence.
His first minister bowed deeply before replying, hiding his fear. He could not bring himself to tell his king how poorly prepared the soldiers were for war. Generations of peace had made them more adept at bullying favours from city prostitutes than martial skills.
‘The barracks are full, Majesty. With your royal guards to lead them, they will send these animals back into the desert.’
Rai Chiang sat perfectly still, knowing no one there would dare to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Who will keep the city safe if my personal guard goes out onto the plains?’ he said at last. ‘The peasants? No, I have sheltered and fed the militia for years. It is time they earned what they have had from my hand.’ He ignored the taut expression of his first minister. The man was merely a cousin and, though he ran the city’s scribes with rigid discipline, he was out of his depth with anything requiring original thought.
‘Send for my general, that I may plan an attack,’ Rai Chiang said. ‘The time for talk and letters is over, it seems. I will consider the words of … Emperor Wei, and my response, when we have dealt with the closer threat.’
The ministers filed out, their nervousness showing in their stiff bearing. The kingdom had been at peace for more than three centuries and no one there could remember the terrors of war.
‘This place is perfect for us,’ Kachiun said, looking out over the plain of the Xi Xia. At his back, the mountains loomed, but his gaze lingered over green and gold fields, lush with growing crops. The tribes had covered ground at incredible speed over the previous three months, riding hard from village to village with almost no opposition. Three large towns had fallen before the news had gone ahead and the people of the tiny kingdom began to flee the invaders. At first, the tribes had taken prisoners, but when they had close to forty thousand, Genghis had grown tired of their wailing voices. His army could not feed so many and he would not leave them behind him, though the miserable farmers did not look like any kind of threat. He had given the order and the slaughter had taken an entire day. The dead had been left to rot in the sun and Genghis had visited the hills of the dead only once to see that his orders had been carried out. After that, he thought no more of them.
Only the women had been left alive to be taken as prizes and Kachiun had found a couple of rare beauties that very morning. They waited for him in his ger and he found his thoughts straying in that direction instead of to the next move in the assault. He shook his head to clear it.
‘The peasants don’t seem warlike at all and these canals are perfect for watering our horses,’ he went on, glancing at his older brother.
Genghis sat on a pile of saddles next to his ger, resting his chin on his hands. The mood of the tribes was cheerful around the two men and he saw a group of boys setting wands of birch into the ground. He raised his head in interest as he saw his two eldest sons were part of the chattering gang, pushing and shoving each other as they argued over how best to set the sticks. Jochi and Chagatai were dangerous company for the boys of the tribes, often leading them into trouble and scuffles that resulted in them being slapped apart by the women of the gers.
Genghis sighed, running his tongue over his lower lip as he thought.
‘We’re like a bear with his paw in honey, Kachiun, but they will rouse themselves. Barchuk tells me the Xi Xia merchants boasted of a huge standing army. We have not met them yet.’
Kachiun shrugged, unworried at the prospect.
‘Perhaps. There is still their great city. They may be hiding behind the walls there. We could starve them out, or break the walls down around their ears.’
Genghis frowned at his brother.
‘It will not be so easy, Kachiun. I expect rashness from Khasar. I keep you close to be the voice of caution and sense when the warriors get too full of themselves. We have not fought a single battle in this realm and I do not want the men to be fat and slow when it comes. Get them back on the training field and burn the laziness out of them. You too.’
Kachiun flushed at the rebuke.
‘Your will, my brother,’ he said, bowing his head. He saw Genghis was watching his sons as they mounted their shaggy ponies. It was a game of skill learned from the Olkhun’ut and Genghis was distracted as Jochi and Chagatai readied themselves to gallop past the row of wands in the soil.
Jochi turned his pony faster and raced along the line with his child’s bow fully bent. Genghis and Kachiun watched as he loosed his arrow at full speed, sending the head slicing through the slender stick. It was a good strike and, in the same instant, Jochi reached down with his left hand and snatched the falling piece of wood, raising it triumphantly as he turned back to his companions. They cheered him, though Chagatai merely snorted before beginning his own run.
‘Your son will be a fine warrior,’ Kachiun murmured. Genghis winced at the words and Kachiun did not look at him, knowing the expression he would see.
‘While they can retreat behind walls five times higher than a man,’ Genghis said stubbornly, ‘they can laugh at us riding around on the plains. What does their king care for a few hundred villages? We have barely stung him while this Yinchuan city sits safe and he resides in it.’
Kachiun did not respond as Chagatai rode the line. His arrow cut the wand, but his flailing hand failed to snatch it before it fell. Jochi laughed at his brother and Kachiun saw Chagatai’s face darken in anger. They knew their father was watching of course.
At his back, Genghis made his decision, rising to his feet.
‘Get the men sober and ready to march. I will see this city of stone that so impressed the scouts. Somehow or other there must be a way in.’ He did not show his brother the worries that plagued him. He had never seen a city girdled in high walls as his scouts described. He hoped that the sight of it would bring some insight into how he could enter without seeing his army dash itself uselessly against the stone.
As Kachiun left to relay the orders, he saw Chagatai had said something to his older brother. Jochi leaped from his pony as he passed, sending them both thumping into the ground in a flurry of elbows and bare feet. Kachiun grinned as he passed them, remembering his own childhood.
The land they had found beyond the mountains was fertile and rich. Perhaps they would have to fight to keep it, but he could not imagine a force capable of defeating the army they had brought a thousand miles from their home. As a boy, he had once levered a huge rock free on a hillside and seen the way it gathered speed. At first, it was slow, but after only a little time, it was unstoppable.
Scarlet was the Xi Xia colour for war. The king’s soldiers wore armour lacquered in vivid red and the room where Rai Chiang met his general was unadorned except for polished walls of the same shade. Only a single table spoiled the echoing emptiness and both men stood to gaze down at maps of the region, held with lead weights. The original secession from the Chin had been planned within those red walls; it was a place to save and win a kingdom, rich with its own history. General Giam’s lacquered armour was such a perfect match for the room that he almost vanished against the walls. Rai Chiang himself wore a tunic of gold over black silk trousers.
The general was white-haired, a man of dignity. He could feel the history of the Xi Xia hanging heavy in the air of that ancient room, as heavy as the responsibility he would bear himself.
He placed another marker of ivory on the lines of dark blue ink.
‘Their camp is here, Majesty, not far from where they entered the kingdom. They send their warriors out to raid a hundred li in every direction.’
‘A man cannot ride further in a day, so they must make other camps for the night,’ Rai Chiang murmured. ‘Perhaps we can attack them there.’
His general shook his head slightly, unwilling openly to contradict his king.
‘They do not rest, Majesty, or stop for food. We have scouts who say they ride that far and then back from dawn to sunset. When they take prisoners, they are slower, driving them before them. They have no infantry and carry supplies with them from the main camp.’
Rai Chiang frowned delicately, knowing that would be enough criticism to make the general sweat in his presence.
‘Their camp is not important, general. The army must engage and break these riders who have caused so much destruction. I have a report of a pile of dead peasants as high as a mountain. Who will gather the crops? The city could starve even if these invaders left us today!’
General Giam made his face a mask rather than risk further anger.
‘Our army will need time to form and prepare the ground. With the royal guard to lead them, I can have the fields sown with spikes that will destroy any charge. If the discipline is good, we will crush them.’
‘I would have preferred to have Chin soldiers with my own militia,’ Rai Chiang said as if to himself.
The general cleared his throat, knowing it was a sensitive subject.
‘All the more need for your own guards, Majesty. The militia are little better than peasants with weapons. They cannot stand on their own.’
Rai Chiang turned his pale eyes on his general.
‘My father had forty thousand trained soldiers to man the walls of Yinchuan. As a child, I watched the red ranks parade through the city on his birthday and there seemed no end to them.’ He grimaced irritably. ‘I have listened to fools and counted the cost of so many over the dangers we could face. There are barely twenty thousand in my own guard and you would have me send them out? Who then would defend the city? Who would form the teams for the great bows and hold the walls? Do you think the peasants and merchants will be of any use to us once my guard have gone out? There will be food riots and fires. Plan to win without them, general. There is no other way.’
General Giam had been born to one of the king’s uncles and promotion had come easily. Yet he had courage enough to face Rai Chiang’s disapproval.
‘If you give me ten thousand of your guard, they will steady the others. They will be a core the enemy cannot break.’
‘Even ten thousand is too many,’ Rai Chiang snapped.
General Giam swallowed.
‘Without cavalry, I cannot win, my lord. With even five thousand guards and three thousand of those on heavy horse, I would have a chance. If you cannot give me that, you should execute me now.’
Rai Chiang raised his eyes from the map and found General Giam’s gaze steady. He smiled, amused at the bead of sweat that was making its way down the man’s cheek.
‘Very well. It is a balance between giving you the best we have and still keeping enough to defend the city. Take a thousand crossbowmen, two of cavalry and two more of heavy pikes. They will be the core that leads the others against the enemy.’
General Giam closed his eyes in silent thanks for an instant. Rai Chiang did not notice as he turned back to the map.
‘You may empty the stores of armour. The militia may not be my red guards, but perhaps looking like them will give them courage. It will relieve the boredom of hanging profiteers and whitewashing the barracks, I have no doubt. Do not fail me in this, general.’
‘I will not, Your Majesty.’
Genghis rode at the head of his army, a vast line of horsemen that stretched across the plain of the Xi Xia. As they came to canals, the line would bulge as men raced each other over the drop, laughing and calling to anyone who fell into the dark water and had to ride hard to catch up.
The city of Yinchuan had been a smear on the horizon for hours before Genghis gave the order to halt. Horns sounded up and down the line and the host came to a stop, with echoing orders passing down to alert men on the wings. This was hostile country and they would not be taken by surprise.
The city loomed in the distance. Even miles away, it seemed a massive construction, intimidating in its sheer size. Genghis squinted into the haze of the afternoon sun. The stone the builders had used was a dark grey and he could see columns that could have been towers inside the walls. He could not guess their purpose and strove not to show his awe in front of the men.
He looked around him, seeing that his people could not be ambushed on such a flat piece of ground. The crops could have hidden crawling soldiers, but his scouts would sight them long before they were close. It was as safe as anywhere could be to set up camp and he made the decision, dismounting as he gave his orders.
Behind him, the tribes scurried in the routines they knew. Gers were lashed together and raised by individual families long used to the work. A village, a town, a city of their own sprang out of the carts and herds of bleating animals. It was not long before Genghis’ own cart came up and the smell of frying mutton filled the air.
Arslan walked along the line with his son Jelme. Under their eyes, the warriors of all the tribes stood tall and kept their chatter to a minimum. Genghis approved and he was ready with a smile as they reached him.
‘I have never seen such a flat land,’ Arslan said. ‘There is nowhere to hold, nowhere to retreat to if we are overwhelmed. We are too exposed here.’
His son Jelme raised his eyes at the words, but did not speak. Arslan was twice the age of the other generals and he led cautiously and with intelligence. He would never be a firebrand amongst the tribes, though his skill was respected, and his temper feared.
‘We will not be turned, Arslan. Not from here,’ Genghis replied, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We will make them come out from that city, or if they will not, perhaps I will just build a ramp of earth to the top of their walls and ride in. That would be a thing to see, would it not?’
Arslan’s smile was tight. He had been one of those who had ridden closer to Yinchuan, close enough for them to waste arrows on him.
‘It is like a mountain, lord. You will see when you ride close to the walls. Each corner has a tower and the walls are set with slits where archers poke their faces through to watch you pass. It would be hard to hit them, while they have an easy shot against us.’
Genghis lost some of his good humour.
‘I will see it first before I decide. If it will not fall to us, I will starve them out.’
Jelme nodded at the idea. He had ridden with his father close enough to feel the shadow of the city on his back. For a man used to the open steppes, he found himself irritated at the thought of such an ant hill of men. The very idea offended him.
‘The canals pass into the city, lord,’ Jelme said, ‘through tunnels barred with iron. I am told they wash away the dung of so many people and animals. There may be a weakness there.’
Genghis brightened. He had ridden all day and he was weary. There would be time to plan the assault tomorrow when he had eaten and rested.
‘We will find a way,’ he promised.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
With no sign of opposition, the younger warriors under Genghis spent their days riding as close as they dared to the city, testing their courage. The bravest of them galloped under the shadow of the walls as arrows whipped overhead. Their whooping cries echoed over the fields in challenge, yet only one Xi Xia archer managed a clean strike in three days. Even then, the tribesman recovered his seat and rode clear, pulling the arrow out of his armour and throwing it contemptuously to the ground.
Genghis too rode close, with his generals and officers. What he saw brought him no inspiration. Even the canals into the city were protected by iron bars as thick as a man’s forearm, set deep into stone. He thought they might still batter their way in, though the thought of crawling down dank tunnels was unpleasant to a man of the plains.
As night fell, his brothers and generals gathered in the great ger to eat and discuss the problem. Genghis’ mood had grown dark once more, but Arslan had known him from the beginning of his rise and did not fear to speak bluntly.
‘With the sort of wooden shield we used against the fort, we could protect men long enough to hammer through the canal openings,’ Arslan said, chewing. ‘Though I do not like the look of those constructions on the walls. I would not have believed a bow could be so large. If they’re real, they must fire arrows as long as a man. Who knows how much damage they can do?’
‘We cannot stay out here for ever, while they send messages to their allies,’ Kachiun murmured, ‘and we cannot pass by and leave their army free to strike at our back. We must enter the city, or return to the desert and give up everything we have won.’
Genghis glanced at his younger brother, his expression sour.
‘That will not happen,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. ‘We have their crops. How long can a city last before the people are eating each other? Time is on our side.’
‘We are not hurting them yet, I think,’ Kachiun replied. ‘They have the canals to bring water and, for all we know, the city is stuffed with grain and salted meat.’ He saw Genghis frown at the image, but continued. ‘We could be here for years, waiting, and who knows how many armies are marching to support them? By the time they are starving, we could be facing the Chin themselves and be caught between them.’
‘Then give me an answer!’ Genghis snapped. ‘The Uighur scholars tell me that every city in Chin lands is like this one, or even larger, if you can imagine it. If they have been built by men, they can be destroyed by men, I am certain of it. Tell me how.’
‘We could poison the water in the canals,’ Khasar said, reaching for another piece of meat with his knife. He speared it in sudden silence and looked round at the others.
‘What? This is not our land.’
‘That is an evil thing to say,’ Kachiun chided his brother, speaking for all of them. ‘What would we drink ourselves, then?’
Khasar shrugged. ‘We would drink clean water from further up.’
Genghis listened, considering.
‘We need to sting them into coming out,’ he said. ‘I will not see clean water poisoned, but we can break the canals and let the city go thirsty. Let them see the work of generations being destroyed and perhaps they will meet us on the plain.’
‘I will see it done,’ Jelme said.
Genghis nodded to him. ‘And you, Khasar. You will send a hundred men to break through the bars where the canals enter the city.’
‘Protecting them will mean more carts taken apart. The families will not like that at all,’ Khasar said.
Genghis snorted.
‘I will build more when we are in that cursed city. They will thank us then.’
All the men in the ger heard galloping hoofbeats coming closer. Genghis paused with a piece of greasy mutton in his fingers. He looked up as a clatter sounded on the steps outside and the door to the ger opened.
‘They are coming out, lord.’
‘In the darkness?’ Genghis said incredulously.
‘There is no moon, but I was close enough to hear them, lord. They chattered like birds and made more noise than children.’
Genghis tossed the meat down into the platter in the centre of the ger.
‘Return to your men, my brothers. Make them ready.’ His gaze flickered around the ger to Arslan and Jelme, the father and son sitting together.
‘Arslan, you will keep five thousand to protect the families. The rest will ride with me.’ He grinned at the prospect and they responded.
‘Not years, Kachiun. Not one more day. Get the fastest scouts riding. I want to know what they are doing as soon as dawn comes. I will have orders for you then.’
So far south, the autumn was still hot, the uncut crops drooping under their own weight as they began to rot in the fields. The Mongol scouts shouted challenges to the red army that had marched from the safety of Yinchuan, while others rode back to Genghis with details. They entered the great ger in groups of three, passing on what they had learned.
Genghis strode back and forth, listening to each man as he described the scene.
‘I do not like this business with the baskets,’ he said to Kachiun. ‘What could they be sowing on this ground?’ He had heard of hundreds of men walking together in patterns before the host from Yinchuan. Each had carried a basket on his shoulders while a man behind him reached into it, over and over, casting his arms wide.
The khan of the Uighurs had been summoned to explain the mystery. Barchuk had questioned the scouts closely, demanding every scrap of information they could recall.
‘It could be something to slow our horses, lord,’ he said at last. ‘Sharp stones, perhaps, or iron. They have sown a wide band of these seeds outside the army and they show no sign of crossing it. If they are intent on drawing us in, perhaps they expect the charge to founder.’
Genghis clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Whatever it is, I will not let them choose the ground,’ he said. ‘You will have your scrolls yet, Barchuk.’ He looked around him at the bright faces of his most trusted men. None of them could truly know the enemy they faced. The slaughter at the fort to enter Xi Xia lands bore little relation to the fighting formations of the king’s own city. He could feel his heart beating quickly at the thought of finally standing against his people’s enemies. Surely they would not fail, after so long in preparation? Kokchu said the stars themselves proclaimed a new destiny for his people. With the shaman attending him, Genghis had sacrificed a white goat to the sky father, using the name in the most ancient shaman’s tongue. Tängri would not refuse them. They had been weak for too long, made so by the Chin in their cities of gold. Now they were strong and he would see the cities fall.
The generals stood perfectly still as Kokchu reached into tiny pots and drew lines on their faces. When they looked at each other, they could not see the men they knew. They saw only the masks of war and eyes that were fierce and terrible.
The shaman left Genghis until last, dragging a red line from high on the khan’s forehead, over the eyes and down on each side of his mouth.
‘Iron will not touch you, lord. Stone will not break you. You are the Wolf and the sky father watches.’
Genghis stared without blinking, the blood somehow hot on his skin. At last, he nodded and left the ger, mounting his pony with the lines of warriors drawn up on either side. He could see the city in the distance and, before it, a blurry mass of red men waiting to see his ambitions humbled. He looked left and right along the line and raised his arm.
The drums started, carried by a hundred unarmed boys. Each one of them had fought his fellows for the right to ride with the warriors and many of them bore the marks of their struggle. Genghis felt his strength as he touched the hilt of his father’s sword for luck. He dropped his arm and, as one, they thundered forward over the plain of the Xi Xia, towards the city of Yinchuan.
‘They are coming, lord,’ Rai Chiang’s first minister said excitedly. The vantage point from the king’s tower offered the best view of the plain from anywhere in the city and Rai Chiang had not objected to the presence of his councillors in his private chambers.
In their lacquered armour, the soldiers resembled a bright splash of blood on the ground before the city. Rai Chiang thought he could see the distant white-bearded figure of General Giam riding up and down the lines. Pikes gleamed in the morning sun as the regiments formed up and he could see his own royal guard held the wings. They were the best horsemen of the Xi Xia and he did not regret giving them to this task.
It had hurt him deeply to hide in the city while his lands were ravaged. Just the sight of an army facing the invader lifted his spirits. Giam was a solid thinker, a dependable man. It was true that he had not seen battle in his rise to power in the army, but Rai Chiang had reviewed his plans and found no fault with them. The king drank a pale white wine as he waited, relishing the thought of seeing his enemies destroyed before his eyes. News of the victory would reach Emperor Wei and he would know bitterness. If the Chin had reinforced them, Rai Chiang would have been in his debt for ever. Emperor Wei was subtle enough to know when he had given up an advantage in trade and power and the thought was intoxicating to Rai Chiang. He would see to it that the Chin were informed of every detail of the battle.
General Giam watched the dust cloud as the enemy advanced. The ground was drying out, he realised, with no farmers daring to water their crops. Those who had tried had been cut down by the scouts of the invader, apparently for sport or to blood the younger men. That would stop today, Giam thought.
His orders were relayed to the ranks on high poles, fluttering in the breeze for all to see. As he glanced up and down the lines, black crosses mingled with the red pennants, a symbol that meant they would hold the ground. Beyond the army, the fields were sown with a hundred thousand spikes of iron, hidden in the grass. Giam waited impatiently for the tribesmen to hit them. It would be carnage and then he would raise flags to attack in close formation, while the Mongols were still dazed.
The royal cavalry held the wings and he nodded to himself at the sight of their fine horses, snorting and pawing at the ground in excitement. The king’s pike guards stood resolute in the centre of his army, splendid in their scarlet, like the scales of exotic fish. Their grim faces helped to steady the others as the dust cloud grew larger and they all felt the earth tremble under their feet. Giam saw one of the flag pikes dip and sent a man over to chastise the bearer. The army of Xi Xia was nervous, he could see it in their faces. When they saw the enemy line crumple, it would encourage them. Giam felt his bladder complain and swore softly under his breath, knowing he could not dismount with the enemy rushing towards them. In the ranks, he saw many of the men urinating onto the dusty ground, readying themselves.
He had to shout his orders over the swelling thunder of galloping horses. The guard officers were spread along the line and they repeated the command to stand and wait.
‘Just a little longer,’ he murmured. He could see individuals amongst the enemy and his stomach tightened at the sight of so many. He felt the gaze of the citizens on his back and he knew the king would be watching with every other man and woman who could find a place on the walls. Yinchuan depended on them for survival, but they would not be found lacking.
His second in command stood ready to relay Giam’s orders.
‘It will be a great victory, general,’ he said. Giam could hear the strain in the man’s voice and forced himself to turn away from the enemy.
‘With the king’s eye on us, the men must not lose heart. They know he watches?’
‘I have made certain of it, general. They …’ The man’s eyes widened and Giam snapped his gaze back to the charging line hammering across the plain.
From the centre of it, a hundred galloping ponies moved forward, their riders forming a column like an arrow shaft. Giam watched without understanding as they approached the hidden line of spikes in the grass. He hesitated, unsure how the new formation affected his plans. He felt a line of sweat trickle from his hair and drew his sword to steady his hands.
‘Nearly there …’ he whispered. The horsemen were low on the backs of their ponies, their faces straining against the wind. Giam watched as they passed the line he had created and, for a terrifying instant, he thought they would somehow ride straight through the spikes. Then the first horse screamed, tumbling over itself in a great crash. Dozens more went down as the spikes pierced the soft part of their hooves and men were thrown to their death. The thin column faltered and Giam knew a moment of fierce joy. He saw the galloping line waver as the mass of following warriors yanked savagely on their reins. Almost all of those who had run full tilt into the spikes lay crippled or dead on the grass and a cheer went up from the red ranks.
Giam saw the pike flags were standing proud and he clenched his left fist in excitement. Let them come on foot and see what he had for them!
Beyond the screaming men and horses, the bulk of the enemy milled without formation, having lost all impetus in the death of their brothers. As Giam watched, the untrained tribesmen panicked. They had no tactics except for the wild charge and they had lost that. Without warning, hundreds turned away to race back through their own lines. The rout spread with extraordinary speed and Giam saw Mongol officers bawling conflicting orders at their fleeing men, striking at them with the flats of their swords as they passed. Behind him, the people of Yinchuan roared at the sight.
Giam jerked round in the saddle. His entire first rank took a half-step forward, straining like dogs on a leash. He could see the blood lust rising in them and knew it had to be controlled.
‘Stand!’ he bellowed. ‘Officers, hold your men. The order is to stand!’ They could not be held. Another step broke the last restraint and the yelling red ranks surged forward, their new armour shining. The air filled with dust. Only the king’s guard held their positions and, even then, the cavalry on the wings were forced to come forward with the others or leave them vulnerable. Giam shouted again and again in desperation and his own officers raced up and down the lines, trying to hold the army back. It was impossible. They had seen the enemy riding in the shadow of the city for almost two months. Here at last was a chance to make them bleed. The militia screamed defiance as they reached the barrier of iron spikes. These were no danger to men and they passed through quickly, killing those warriors who still lived and stabbing the dead over and over until they were bloody rags on the grass.
Giam used his horse to block lines of men as best he could. In fury, he had the signal horns blow retreat, but the men were deaf and blind to everything except the enemy and the king who watched them. They could not be called back.
On horseback, Giam saw the sudden change in the tribes before any of his running men. Before his eyes, the wild rout vanished and perfect new Mongol lines formed, the discipline terrifying. The scarlet army of the Xi Xia had come half a mile past the traps and pits they had dug the night before and still raced onwards to bloody their swords and send these enemies away from their city. Without warning, they faced a confident army of horsemen on exposed ground. Genghis gave a single order and the entire force moved into a trot. The Mongol warriors pulled bows from shaped leather holders on the saddles, taking the first long arrows from the quivers on their hips or backs. They guided the ponies with their knees alone, riding with the arrows pointing down. At another barked order from Genghis, they brought their lines to a canter and then instantly to full gallop, the arrows coming up to their faces for the first volley.
Caught out in the open, fear swept through the massed red ranks. The Xi Xia lines compressed and some at the rear were still cheering ignorantly as the Mongol army swept back in. Giam roared desperate orders to increase the space between the ranks, but only the king’s guard responded. As they faced a massed charge for the second time, the militia bunched even tighter, terrified and confused.
Twenty thousand buzzing arrows smashed the red lines to their knees. They could not return the volleys in the face of such destruction. Their own crossbowmen could only shoot blindly towards the enemy, hampered by the scramble of their own companions. The Mongols drew and shot ten times in every sixty heartbeats and their accuracy was crushing. The red armour saved some, but as they rose screaming, they were hit again and again until they stayed down. As the Mongols darted in for the close killing, Giam dug in his heels and raced across the face of the bloody lines to the king’s pikemen, desperate to have them hold. Somehow, he came through unscathed.
The king’s guards looked no different from the militia in their red armour. As Giam took command, he saw some of the militia rushing back through their ranks, chased down by screaming Mongol riders. The guards did not run and Giam gave a sharp order to raise pikes, passed on down the line. The tribesmen saw too late that these were not panicking like the others. Pike blades held up at an angle could cut a man in half as he charged and dozens of Mongol riders went down as they tried to gallop through. Giam felt hope rise in him that he could yet salvage the day.
The guard cavalry had moved out to defend the wings against the mobile enemy. As the militia was crushed, Giam was left with only the few thousand of the king’s trained men and a few hundred stragglers. The Mongols seemed to delight in hitting the Xi Xia riders. Whenever the guard cavalry tried to charge, the tribesmen would spear in at high speed and pick men off with bows. The wildest of them engaged the guards with swords, looping in and out again like stinging insects. Though the cavalry kept their discipline, they had been trained to ride down infantry on the open field and could not respond to attacks from all directions. Caught away from the city, it was slaughter.
The pikemen survived the first charges against them, gutting the Mongol horses. When the king’s cavalry were crushed and scattered, those who fought on foot were exposed. The pikemen could not turn to face the enemy easily and every time they tried, they were too slow. Giam bawled orders hopelessly, but the Mongols encircled them and cut them to pieces in a storm of arrows that still failed to claim him with them. Each man who died fell with a dozen shafts in him, or was cut from his saddle by a sword at full gallop. Pikes were broken and trampled in the press. Those who still survived tried to run to the shadow of the walls where archers could protect them. Almost all were ridden down.
The gates were shut. As Giam glanced back at the city, he found himself hot with shame. The king would be watching in horror. The army was shattered, ruined. Only a few battered, weary men had made it to the walls. Somehow, Giam had remained in the saddle, more aware than ever of his king’s gaze. In misery, he raised his sword and cantered gently towards the Mongol lines until they spotted him.
Shaft after shaft broke against his red armour as he closed on them. Before he reached the line, a young warrior galloped out to meet him, his sword raised. Giam shouted once, but the warrior ducked under his blow, carving a great gash under the general’s right arm. Giam swayed in the saddle, his horse slowing to a walk. He could hear the warrior circling back, but his arm hung on sinews and he could not raise his sword. Blood rushed across his thighs and he looked up for a moment, never feeling the blow that took his head and ended his shame.
Genghis rode triumphantly through the mounds of scarlet dead, their armour resembling the gleaming carcases of beetles. In his right hand, he held a long pike with the head of the Xi Xia general on top, the white beard twitching in the breeze. Blood ran down the shaft onto his hand and dried there, gumming his fingers together. Some of the army had escaped by running back through the spikes where his riders could not follow. Even then, he had sent warriors to lead their horses on foot. It had been a slow business and perhaps a thousand of the enemy in all had made it close enough to the city to be covered by archers. Genghis laughed at the sight of the bedraggled men standing in the shadow of Yinchuan. The gates remained closed and they could do nothing but stare in blank despair at his warriors as they rode among the dead, laughing and calling to each other.
Genghis dismounted as he reached the grass and rested the bloody pike against his horse’s heaving flank. He bent down and picked up one of the spikes, examining it with curiosity. It was a simple thing of four nails joined together so one remained upright no matter how it fell. If he had been forced to take the defensive position, he thought he would have laid bands of them in widening circles around the army, but even then, the defenders had not been warriors as he knew them. His own men had better discipline, taught by a harder land than the peaceful valley of the Xi Xia.
As Genghis walked, he could see fragments of torn and broken armour on the ground. He examined a piece of it with interest, seeing how the red lacquer had chipped and flaked away at the edges. Some of the Xi Xia soldiers had fought well, but the Mongol bows took them even so. It was a good omen for the future and the final confirmation that he had brought them to the right place. The men knew it, as they looked on their khan in awe. He had brought them through the desert and given them enemies who fought poorly. It was a good day.
His gaze fell on ten men wearing deels marked in Uighur blue stitching as they walked amongst the dead. One of them carried a sack and he saw the others reach down to bodies and make a quick jerking motion with a knife.
‘What are you doing?’ he called to them. They stood proudly when they saw who addressed them.
‘Barchuk of the Uighurs said you would want to know the numbers of the dead,’ one of them replied. ‘We are cutting ears to be tallied later on.’
Genghis blinked. Looking around, he saw that many of the bodies nearby had a red gash where an ear had been that morning. The sack bulged already.
‘You may thank Barchuk on my behalf,’ he began, then his voice trailed away. As the men shared nervous glances, Genghis took three strides through the corpses, sending flies buzzing into the air around him.
‘There is a man here without any ears at all,’ Genghis said. The Uighur warriors hurried over and, as they saw the earless soldier, the man with the sack began to curse his companions.
‘You miserable offal! How can we keep a straight count if you cut off both ears?’
Genghis took one look at their faces and burst into laughter as he returned to his pony.
He was still chuckling as he took up the pike and tossed the cluster of black nails into the grass. He strolled towards the walls with his grisly trophy, judging where the archers of the Xi Xia could reach.
In full view of the city walls, he jammed the pike into the ground with all his weight, standing back from it as he stared upwards. As he had expected, thin arrows soared out towards him, but the range was too far and he did not flinch. Instead, he drew his father’s sword and raised it towards them, while his army chanted and roared at his back.
Genghis’ expression became grim once more. He had blooded the new nation. He had shown they could stand even against Chin soldiers. Yet, he still had no way to enter a city that mocked him with its strength. He rode slowly to where his brothers had gathered. Genghis nodded to them.
‘Break the canals,’ he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
With every able-bodied man working with stones and iron hammers, it still took six days to reduce the canals around Yinchuan to rubble. At first, Genghis looked on the destruction with savage pleasure, hoping the mountain rivers might flood the city.
It disturbed him to see how the waters rose so quickly on the plain, until his warriors were ankle deep before they had finished destroying the last of the canals. The sultry days brought huge quantities of snow melt down from the mountain peaks and he had not truly considered where all the water might go once it wasn’t channelled down towards the city and the crops.
Even gently sloping ground became sodden mud by noon of the third day and, though the crops were flooded, the waters continued to rise. Genghis could see the amusement on the faces of his generals as they realised the error. At first, the hunting was excellent as small animals escaping the flood could be seen splashing from far away. Hundreds of hares were shot and brought back to the camp in slick bundles of wet fur, but by then, the gers were in danger of being ruined. Genghis was forced to move the camp miles to the north before water flooded the entire plain.
By evening, they had reached a point above the broken canal system where the ground was still firm. The city of Yinchuan was a dark spot in the distance and, in between, a new lake had sprung from nothing. It was no more than a foot deep, but it caught the setting sun and shone gold for miles.
Genghis was sitting on the steps leading up to his ger when his brother Khasar came by, his face carefully neutral. No one else had dared to say anything to the man who led them, but there were many strained faces in the camp that evening. The tribes loved a joke and flooding themselves off the plain appealed to their humour.
Khasar followed his brother’s irritated gaze out onto the expanse of water.
‘Well, that taught us a valuable lesson,’ Khasar murmured. ‘Shall I have the guards watch for enemy swimmers, creeping up on us?’
Genghis looked sourly at his brother. They could both see children of the tribes frolicking at the water’s edge, black with stinking mud as they threw each other in. Jochi and Chagatai were in the centre of them as usual, delighted with the new feature of the Xi Xia plain.
‘The water will sink into the ground,’ Genghis replied, frowning.
Khasar shrugged.
‘If we divert the waters, yes. I think it will be too soft for riders for some time after that. It occurs to me that breaking the canals may not have been the best plan we have come up with.’
Genghis turned to see his brother watching him with a wry expression and barked a laugh as he rose to his feet.
‘We learn, brother. So much of this is new to us. Next time, we don’t break the canals. Are you satisfied?’
‘I am,’ Khasar replied cheerfully. ‘I was beginning to think my brother could not make an error. It has been an enjoyable day for me.’
‘I am pleased for you,’ Genghis said. Both of them watched as the boys on the water’s edge began to fight again. Chagatai threw himself at his brother and they thrashed together in the muddy shallows, first one on top, then the other.
‘We cannot be attacked from the desert and no army can reach us here with that new lake in the way. Let us feast tonight and celebrate our victory,’ Genghis said.
Khasar nodded, grinning.
‘Now that, my brother, is a fine idea.’
Rai Chiang gripped the arms of his gilded chair, staring out over the drowned plain. The city had warehouses of salted meat and grain, but with the crops rotting, there would be no more. He turned the problem over and over in his mind, despairingly. Though they did not yet know it, many in the city would starve to death. His remaining guards would be overwhelmed by the hungry mob when winter came and Yinchuan would be ruined from within.
As far as his eye could see, the waters stretched back to the mountains. Behind the city to the south, there were still fields and towns where neither the invaders nor the flood had yet reached, but they were not enough to feed the people of the Xi Xia. He thought of the militia in those places. If he stripped every last man from those towns, he could assemble another army, but he would lose the provinces to banditry as soon as the famine began to bite. It was infuriating, but he could not see a solution to his troubles.
He sighed to himself, causing his first minister to look up.
‘My father told me always to keep the peasants fed,’ Rai Chiang said aloud. ‘I did not understand its importance at the time. What does it matter if a few starve each winter? Does it not show the displeasure of the gods?’
The first minister nodded solemnly.
‘Without the example of suffering, Majesty, our people will not work. While they can see the results of laziness, they toil in the sun to feed themselves and their families. It is the way the gods have ordered the world and we cannot stand against their will.’
‘But now, they will all go hungry,’ Rai Chiang snapped, tired of the man’s droning voice. ‘Instead of a just example, a moral lesson, half our people will be clamouring for food and fighting in the streets.’
‘Perhaps, Majesty,’ the minister replied, unconcerned. ‘Many will die, but the kingdom will remain. The crops will grow again and, next year, there will be an abundance for the mouths of the peasants. Those who survive the winter will grow fat and bless your name.’
Rai Chiang could not find the words to argue. He stared down from the tower of his palace at the throng in the streets. The lowest beggars had heard the news of the crops being left to spoil in the water from the mountains. They were not hungry yet, but they would be thinking of the cold months and already there were riots. His guard had been ruthless on his order, culling hundreds at the slightest sign of unrest. The people had learned to fear the king and yet, in his private thoughts, he feared them more.
‘Can anything be saved?’ he asked at last. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could smell the rich odour of dying vegetation on the breeze.
The first minister considered, looking through a list of events in the city as if he might find inspiration there.
‘If the invaders left today, Majesty, we could no doubt salvage some of the hardier grains. We could sow rice in the waterlogged fields and take one crop. The canals could be rebuilt, or we could direct the course of the water around the plain. Perhaps a tenth of the yield could be saved or replaced.’
‘But the invaders will not leave,’ Rai Chiang went on. He thumped his fist into the arm of the chair.
‘They have beaten us. Lice-ridden, stinking tribesmen have cut right to the heart of the Xi Xia and I am meant to sit here and preside over the stench of rotting wheat.’
The first minister bowed his head at the tirade, frightened to speak. Two of his colleagues had been executed that very morning as the king’s temper mounted. He did not want to join them.
The king rose and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘I have no choices left. If I strip the south of the militia in every town, it will not equal the numbers who failed against them. How long would it be before those towns become strongholds for bandits without the king’s soldiers to keep them quiet? I would lose the south as well as the north and then the city would fall.’ He swore under his breath and the minister paled.
‘I will not sit and wait for the peasants to riot, or this sickly smell of rot to fill every room in the city. Send out messengers to the leader of these people. Tell him I will grant him an audience that we may discuss his demands on my people.’
‘Majesty, they are little better than savage dogs,’ the minister spluttered. ‘There can be no negotiation with them.’
Rai Chiang turned furious eyes on his servant.
‘Send them out. I have not been able to destroy this army of savage dogs. All I have is the fact that he cannot take my city from me. Perhaps I can bribe him into leaving.’
The minister flushed with the shame of the task, but he bowed to the floor, pressing his head against the cool wood.
As evening came, the tribes were drunk and singing. The storytellers had been busy with tales of the battle and how Genghis had drawn the enemy past their ring of iron. Comic poems had the children in fits of giggles and, before the light faded, there were many contests of wrestling and archery, the champions wearing a grass wreath on their heads until they drank themselves to insensibility.
Genghis and his generals presided over the celebration. Genghis blessed a dozen new marriages, giving weapons and ponies from his own herd to warriors who had distinguished themselves. The gers were packed with women captured from the towns, though not all the wives welcomed the newcomers. More than one fight between women had ended in bloodshed, each time with the sinewy Mongol women victorious over their husbands’ captives. Before nightfall, Kachiun had been called to the site of three different killings as anger flared with the airag liquor in their veins. He had ordered two men and a woman to be tied to a post and beaten bloody. He did not care about those who had been killed, but he had no desire to see the tribes descend into an orgy of lust and violence. Perhaps because of his iron hand, the mood of the tribes remained light as the stars came out and, though some of them missed the plains of home, they looked upon their leaders with pride.
Beside the ger where Genghis met his generals was his family home, no larger or more ornate than any other raised by the families of the new nation. While he cheered the wrestling bouts, and torches were lit around the vast camp, his wife Borte sat with her four sons, crooning to them as they ate. With the coming of dusk, Jochi and Chagatai had made themselves difficult to find, preferring the noise and fun of the feast to sleep. Borte had been forced to send out three warriors to scour the gers for them and they had been brought back still struggling under their arms. Both boys sat glaring at one another in the little ger while Borte sang Ogedai and little Tolui to sleep. The day had been exhausting for them and it did not take long before both younger boys were dreaming in their blankets.
Borte turned to Jochi, frowning at the anger in his face.
‘You have not eaten, little man,’ she said to him. He sniffed without replying and Borte leaned closer to him.
‘That cannot be airag I smell on your breath?’ she demanded. Jochi’s manner changed in an instant and he drew up his knees like a barrier.
‘It would be,’ Chagatai said, delighted at the chance to see his brother squirm. ‘Some of the men gave him a drink and he was sick on the grass.’
‘Keep your mouth still!’ Jochi shouted, springing up. Borte grabbed him by the arm, her strength easily a match for the little boy’s. Chagatai grinned, thoroughly satisfied.
‘He is bitter because he broke his favourite bow this morning,’ Jochi snapped, struggling in his mother’s grasp. ‘Let me go!’
In response, Borte slapped Jochi across the face and dropped him back onto the blankets. It was not a hard blow, but he raised his hand to his cheek in shock.
‘I have heard your squabbling all day,’ she said angrily. ‘When will you realise you cannot fight like puppies with the tribes watching? Not you. Do you think it pleases your father? If I tell him, you will …’
‘Don’t tell him,’ Jochi said quickly, fear showing on his face.
Borte relented immediately. ‘I will not, if you behave and work. You will inherit nothing from him simply because you are his sons. Is Arslan his blood? Jelme? If you are fit to lead, he will choose you, but do not expect him to favour you over better men.’
Both boys were listening intently and she realised she had not spoken to them in this way before. It surprised her to see how they hung on every word and she considered what else she might say before they were distracted.
‘Eat your food while you listen,’ she said. To her pleasure, both boys took the plates of meat and wolfed into them, though they had long gone cold. Their eyes never left hers as they waited for their mother to continue.
‘I had thought your father might have explained this to you by now,’ she murmured. ‘If he were khan of a small tribe, perhaps his eldest would expect to inherit his sword, his horse and his bondsmen. He once expected the same from your grandfather, Yesugei, though his brother Bekter was oldest.’
‘What happened to Bekter?’ Jochi asked.
‘Father and Kachiun killed him,’ Chagatai said with relish. Borte winced as Jochi’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘Truly?’
His mother sighed.
‘That is a story for another day. I don’t know where Chagatai heard it, but he should know better than to listen to the gossip of the campfires.’
Chagatai nodded briskly at Jochi behind her back, grinning at his brother’s discomfort. Borte shot him an irritable glance, catching him before he could freeze.
‘Your father is not some small khan from the hills,’ she said. ‘He has more tribes than can be counted on the hands. Will you expect him to hand them over to a weakling?’ She turned to Chagatai. ‘Or a fool?’ She shook her head. ‘He will not. He has younger brothers and they will all have sons. The next khan may come from them, if he is dissatisfied with the men you become.’
Jochi lowered his head as he thought this through.
‘I am better with a bow than anyone else,’ he muttered. ‘And my pony is only slow because he is so small. When I have a man’s mount, I will be faster.’
Chagatai snorted.
‘I am not talking about the skills of war,’ Borte said, nettled. ‘You will both be fine warriors, I have seen it in you.’ Before they could begin to preen at the rare compliment, she went on.
‘Your father will look to see if you can lead men and think quickly. Did you see the way he raised Tsubodai to command a hundred? The boy is unknown, of no blood line that matters, but your father respects his mind and his skill. He will be tested, but he could be a general when he has his full growth. He could command a thousand, even ten thousand warriors in war. Will you do the same?’
‘Why not?’ Chagatai said instantly.
Borte turned to him.
‘When you are playing with your friends, are you the one the others look to? Do they follow your ideas or do you follow theirs? Think hard now, for there will be many who flatter you because of your father. Think of those you respect. Do they listen?’
Chagatai bit his lip as he thought. He shrugged.
‘Some of them. They are children.’
‘Why would they follow you when you spend your days fighting with your brother?’ she said, pressing him.
The little boy looked resentful as he struggled with ideas too big for him. He raised his chin in defiance.
‘They won’t follow Jochi. He thinks they should, but they never will.’
Borte felt a coldness touch her chest at the words.
‘Really, my son?’ she said softly. ‘Why would they not follow your older brother?’
Chagatai turned his head away and Borte reached out and gripped him painfully by his arm. He did not cry out, though tears showed at the corners of his eyes.
‘Are there secrets between us, Chagatai?’ Borte asked, her voice grating. ‘Why would they never follow Jochi?’
‘Because he is a Tartar bastard!’ Chagatai shouted. This time, the slap that Borte landed on her son was not gentle. It knocked his head to one side and he sprawled on the bed, dazed. Blood trickled from his nose and he began to wail in shock.
Jochi spoke quietly behind her.
‘He tells them that all the time,’ he said. His voice was dark with fury and despair and Borte found tears in her own eyes at the pain he was suffering. Chagatai’s crying had wakened her two youngest sons and they too began to sob, affected by the scene in the ger without understanding it.
Borte reached out to Jochi and enfolded him in her arms.
‘You cannot wish it back into your brother’s foolish mouth,’ she murmured into his hair. She pulled back then to look into Jochi’s eyes, wanting him to understand. ‘Some words can be a cruel weight on a man, unless he learns to ignore them. You will have to be better than all the others to win your father’s approval. You know it now.’
‘Is it true then?’ he whispered, looking away. He felt the stiffness in her back as she considered her answer and he began to sob gently himself.
‘Your father and I begat you on a winter plain, hundreds of miles from the Tartars. It is true that I was lost to him for a time and he … killed the men who had taken me, but you are his son and mine. His first-born.’
‘My eyes are different, though,’ he said.
Borte snorted.
‘So were Bekter’s when they were young. He was a son of Yesugei, but his eyes were as dark as yours. No one ever dared to question his blood. Do not think of it, Jochi. You are a grandson of Yesugei and a son of Genghis. You will be a khan one day.’
As Chagatai snuffled and wiped blood onto his hand, Jochi grimaced, leaning back to look at his mother. Visibly, he summoned his courage, taking a deep breath before speaking. His voice quavered, humiliating him in front of his brothers.
‘He killed his brother,’ he said, ‘and I have seen the way he looks at me. Does he love me at all?’
Borte pressed the little boy into her breast, her heart breaking for him.
‘Of course he does. You will make him see you as his heir, my son. You will make him proud.’
CHAPTER NINE (#u9dcd50fd-a8ab-56bf-9348-d34592ddcee4)
It took five thousand warriors even longer to divert the canals with earth and rubble than it had to break them. Genghis had given the order when he saw the flood levels were threatening even the rising ground of the new camp. When the work was done, the water formed new lakes to the east and west, but at last the way to Yinchuan was drying in the sun. The ground was thick with greasy black plants and swarms of biting flies that irritated the tribes. Their ponies sank to the knees in sticky mud, making it hard to scout and adding to a feeling of confinement in the gers. There were many arguments and fights among the tribes each evening and Kachiun was hard pressed to keep the peace.
The news that eight riders were toiling across the sodden plain was welcomed by all those who had grown tired of their inactivity. They had not come through the desert to remain in one place. Even the children had lost interest in the floodwaters and many of them had become ill from drinking stagnant water.
Genghis watched the Xi Xia horsemen struggle through the mud. He had assembled five thousand of his warriors to face them on the dry ground, placing them right on the edge of the mud so that his enemy would have no place to rest. The Xi Xia horses were already blowing with the effort of pulling each leg from the clotted soil and the riders were hard pressed to keep their dignity as they risked a fall.
To Genghis’ enormous pleasure, one of them did slip from the saddle when his mount lurched into a hole. The tribes hooted in derision as the man yanked savagely on his reins and remounted, soaked in filth. Genghis glanced at Barchuk at his side, noting the man’s expression of satisfaction. He was there as an interpreter, but Kokchu and Temuge stood with them as well to hear what the king’s messenger had to say. Both men had taken to their studies of the Chin language with what Genghis considered to be indecent enjoyment. The shaman and Genghis’ younger brother were clearly excited at the chance to test their newfound knowledge.
The riders halted as Genghis raised a flat palm. They had come just close enough for him to hear their words and, though they seemed unarmed, he was not a trusting man. If he were in the position of the Xi Xia king, an attempt at assassination would certainly be something he considered at that time. At his back, the tribes watched in silence, their double-curved bows ready in their hands.
‘Are you lost?’ Genghis called to them. He watched as they glanced to one of their number, a soldier in fine armour that extended to a headpiece of iron scales. Genghis nodded to himself, knowing the man would speak for them all. He was not disappointed.
‘I bear a message from the king of the Xi Xia,’ the soldier replied. To the disappointment of Temuge and Kokchu, the words were perfectly clear in the language of the tribes.
Genghis looked questioningly at Barchuk and the Uighur khan spoke in a murmur, barely moving his lips.
‘I have seen him before, at the trading days. He is an officer of some middle rank, very proud.’
‘He looks it, in that fine armour,’ Genghis replied, before raising his voice to address the soldiers.
‘Dismount if you would talk to me,’ Genghis called. The riders exchanged resigned glances and Genghis masked his amusement as they stepped down into thick mud. They were held almost immobile by its grip and their expressions raised his spirits.
‘What does your king have to say?’ Genghis continued, staring at the officer. The man had flushed in anger as the mud ruined his fine boots and took a moment to master his emotions before replying.
‘He bids you meet him in the shadow of the walls of Yinchuan, under truce. His honour will guarantee no attack while you are there.’
‘What does he have to say to me?’ Genghis said again, as if there had been no reply.
The man’s flush deepened.
‘If I knew his mind, there would be little point in such a meeting,’ he snapped. Those with him glanced nervously at the host of Mongol warriors waiting with bows. They had seen the extraordinary accuracy of those weapons and their eyes pleaded with their spokesman not to give any offence that might lead to an attack.
Genghis smiled.
‘What is your name, angry man?’
‘Ho Sa. I am Hsiao-Wei of Yinchuan. You might call me a khan, perhaps, a senior officer.’
‘I would not call you a khan,’ Genghis replied. ‘But you are welcome in my camp, Ho Sa. Send these goats home and I will welcome you in my ger and share tea and salt with you.’
Ho Sa turned to his companions and jerked his head back at the city in the distance. One of them spoke a string of meaningless syllables that made Kokchu and Temuge crane forward to hear. Ho Sa shrugged at his companion and Genghis watched as the other seven mounted and turned back to the city.
‘Those are beautiful horses,’ Barchuk said at his shoulder. Genghis looked at the Uighur khan. He nodded, catching the eye of Arslan where he stood along the line of warriors. Genghis jerked two fingers at the retreating group, like a snake striking.
An instant later, a hundred shafts flashed through the air to take the seven riders neatly from their saddles. One of the horses was killed and Genghis heard Arslan barking at an unfortunate warrior for his incompetence. As Genghis watched, Arslan took the man’s bow and cut the string with a jerk of his knife before handing it back to him. The warrior took it with his head bowed in humiliation.
Bodies lay still on the plain, face down in the mud. On such ground, the horses could not bolt easily. Without their riders to urge them on, they stood listlessly, looking back at the tribes. Two of them nuzzled the bodies of the men they had known, whickering nervously at the smell of blood.
Ho Sa stared in thin-lipped fury as Genghis turned to face him.
‘They were good horses,’ Genghis said. The soldier’s expression did not change and the khan shrugged. ‘Words are not heavy. It does not take more than one of you to carry my reply.’
He left Ho Sa to be taken to the great ger and given salt tea. Genghis remained behind to see the horses as they were captured and brought back.
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Conn Iggulden
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The second in the bestselling new Conqueror series on Genghis Khan, it is a wonderful, epic story which Conn Iggulden brings brilliantly to life.The gathering of the tribes of the Mongols has been a long time in coming but finally, triumphantly, Temujin of the Wolves, Genghis Khan, is given the full accolade of the overall leader and their oaths. Now he can begin to meld all the previously warring people into one army, one nation. But the task Genghis has set himself and them is formidable. He is determined to travel to the land of the long-time enemy, the Chin and attack them there. The distances and terrain-the wide deserts, the impenetrable mountains-make it a difficult venture even for the legendary Mongolian speed of movement, but the greatest problem is that of the complex fortifications, a way of fighting wars of a settled urban population which the nomadic Mongolians had never come across. Finding ways to tackle that and keeping his tribes together in a strange environment presents another new and exciting challenge for Genghis Khan.Not only must Genghis succeed in this incredible campaign, but he must also reconcile the restless factions among his own generals, mediate between his ambitious brothers and cope with his own reactions to his growing sons. The young warrior has become a notable and victorious military commander of thousands: he must now learn to become a great leader of peoples of many different races and religions.Lords of the Bow is a deeply satisfying novel. It is epic in scope, convincing, and fascinating in the narration of an extraordinary story. Above all Genghis Khan continues to dominate the scene as he matures from the young boy of Wolf of the Plains to the great Conqueror.