Kitabı oku: «Bones of the Hills»

The Conqueror series

BONES OF THE HILLS

Conn Iggulden

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2008

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

Internal artwork by Andrew Ashton from an original idea

by Neil Marriot-Smith © HaperCollinsPublishers 2008

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

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.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007201785

Ebook Edition © 2008 ISBN: 9780007285419

Version: 2018-05-23

Dedication

To my son, Arthur

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

HISTORICAL NOTE

SAMPLE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

About the Author

Also by Conn Iggulden

About the Publisher

MAP

Prologue

The fire roared at the centre of the circle. Shadows flickered around it as dark figures leapt and danced with swords. Their robes swirled as they howled over other voices raised in ululating song. Men sat with stringed instruments across their knees, plucking out tunes and rhythms while they stamped their feet.

At the edges of the fire, a line of Mongol warriors knelt bare-chested with their hands bound behind them. As one, they showed the cold face to their triumphant captors. Their officer, Kurkhask, had been beaten savagely in the battle. Blood caked his mouth and his right eye was swollen shut. He had known worse. Kurkhask was proud of the way the others refused to show fear. He watched the dark-skinned desert warriors shouting and chanting to the stars, waving curved blades marked with the blood of men he had known. They were a strange breed, Kurkhask thought, these men who wore their heads bound in many thicknesses of cloth and loose tunics over wide-legged trousers. Most were bearded, so that their mouths were just a red slash in black bristles. As a group, they were taller and more heavily muscled than the largest of the Mongol warriors. They reeked of strange spices and many of the men chewed at dark roots, spitting brown clots on the ground at their feet. Kurkhask hid his distaste for them as they jerked and yelped and danced, building themselves into a frenzy.

The Mongol officer shook his head wearily. He had been too confident, he knew that now. The twenty men Temuge had sent with him were all seasoned warriors, but they were not a raiding party. By trying to protect the carts of gifts and bribes, they had reacted too slowly and been caught. Kurkhask thought back to the months before and knew the peaceful mission had lulled him, made him drop his guard. He and his men had found themselves in a hard land of dizzying mountain passes. They had passed valleys set to straggling crops and traded simple gifts with farmers as poor as any they had ever seen. Yet game was plentiful and his men had roasted fat deer on their fires. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The farmers had pointed to the mountains in warning, but he had not understood. He had no quarrel with the hill tribes, but in the night a host of warriors had overtaken them, coming out of the darkness with wild cries and slashing at the sleeping men. Kurkhask closed his eyes briefly. Only eight of his companions had survived the struggle, though he had not seen his oldest son since the first clash of arms. The boy had been scouting the path ahead and Kurkhask hoped he had survived to carry word back to the khan. That thought alone gave him pleasure to set against his vicious resentment.

The carts had been looted of their trinkets, the silver and jade stolen by the tribesmen. As Kurkhask watched from under lowered brows, he saw many of them now dressed in Mongol deels with dark splashes of blood on the cloth.

The chanting intensified until Kurkhask could see white spittle gather at the edges of the men’s mouths. He held his back very straight as the leader of the tribe drew a blade and advanced on the line, screaming. Kurkhask exchanged glances with the others.

‘After tonight, we will be with the spirits and see the hills of home,’ he called to them. ‘The khan will hear. He will sweep this land clean.’

His calm tone seemed to drive the Arab swordsman to an even higher pitch of fury. Shadows flickered across his face as he whirled the blade over a Mongol warrior. Kurkhask watched without expression. When death was inevitable, when he felt its breath on his neck, he had found all fear could be put aside and he could meet it calmly. That at least gave him some satisfaction. He hoped his wives would shed many tears when they heard.

‘Be strong, brother,’ Kurkhask called.

Before he could reply, the sword took the warrior’s head. Blood gouted and the Arabs hooted and beat their feet on the ground in appreciation. The swordsman grinned, his teeth very white against dark skin. Again, the sword fell and another Mongol toppled sideways on the dusty ground. Kurkhask felt his throat constrict in anger until he could almost choke on it. This was a land of lakes and clear mountain rivers, two thousand miles west of Yenking. The villagers they had met were in awe of their strange faces, yet friendly. That very morning, Kurkhask had been sent on his way with blessings and sticky sweets that gummed his teeth together. He had ridden under a blue sky and never guessed the hill tribes were passing word of his presence. He still did not know why they had been attacked, unless it was simply to steal the gifts and trade goods they carried. He searched the hills for some glimpse of his son, hoping again that his death would be witnessed. He could not die badly if the boy watched. It was the last gift he could give him.

The swordsman needed three blows to take the third head. When it finally came free, he held it up by the hair to his companions, laughing and chanting in their strange language. Kurkhask had begun to learn a few words of the Pashto tongue, but the stream of sound was beyond him. He watched in grim silence as the killing continued until, at last, he was the only man still alive.

Kurkhask raised his head to stare up without fear. Relief filled him as he caught a movement far beyond the firelight. Something white shifted in the gloom and Kurkhask smiled. His son was out there, signalling. Before the boy gave himself away, Kurkhask dipped his head. The distant flicker vanished, but Kurkhask relaxed, all the tension flowing out of him. The khan would be told.

He looked up at the Arab warrior as he drew back the bloody length of steel.

‘My people will see you again,’ Kurkhask said.

The Afghan swordsman hesitated, unable to understand.

‘Dust be in thy mouth, infidel!’ he shouted, the words a babble of sound to the Mongol officer.

Kurkhask shrugged wearily.

‘You have no idea what you have done,’ he said. The sword swept down.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The wind had fallen on the high ridge. Dark clouds drifted above, making bands of shadow march across the earth. The morning was quiet and the land seemed empty as the two men rode at the head of a narrow column, a jagun of a hundred young warriors. The Mongols could have been alone for a thousand miles, with just creaking leather and snorting ponies to break the stillness. When they halted to listen, it was as if silence rolled back in over the dusty ground.

Tsubodai was a general to the great khan and it showed in the way he held himself. His armour of iron scales over leather was well-worn, with holes and rust in many places. His helmet was marked where it had saved his life more than once. All his equipment was battered, but the man himself remained as hard and unforgiving as the winter earth. In three years of raiding the north, he had lost only one minor skirmish and returned the following day to destroy the tribe before word could spread. He had mastered his trade in a land that seemed to grow colder with each mile into the wastes. He had no maps for his journey, just rumours of distant cities built on rivers frozen so solid that oxen could be roasted on the ice.

At his right shoulder rode Jochi, the eldest son of the khan himself. Barely seventeen, he was yet a warrior who might inherit the nation and perhaps command even Tsubodai in war. Jochi wore a similar set of greased leather and iron, as well as the saddle packs and weapons all the warriors carried. Tsubodai knew without asking that Jochi would have his ration of dried blood and milk, needing only water to make a nourishing broth. The land did not forgive those who took survival lightly and both men had learned the lessons of winter.

Jochi sensed the scrutiny and his dark eyes flickered up, always guarded. He had spent more time with the young general than he ever had with his father, but old habits were hard to break. It was difficult for him to trust, though his respect for Tsubodai knew no limit. The general of the Young Wolves had a feel for war, though he denied it. Tsubodai believed in scouts, training, tactics and archery above all else, but the men who followed him saw only that he won, no matter what the odds. As others could fashion a sword or a saddle, Tsubodai fashioned armies, and Jochi knew he was privileged to learn at his side. He wondered if his brother Chagatai had fared as well in the east. It was easy to daydream as he rode the hills, imagining his brothers and father struck dumb at the sight of how Jochi had grown and become strong.

‘What is the most important item in your packs?’ Tsubodai said suddenly. Jochi raised his eyes to the brooding sky for an instant. Tsubodai delighted in testing him.

‘Meat, general. Without meat, I cannot fight.’

‘Not your bow?’ Tsubodai said. ‘Without a bow, what are you?’

‘Nothing, general, but without meat, I am too weak to use the bow.’

Tsubodai grunted at hearing his own words repeated.

‘When the meat is all gone, how long can you live off blood and milk?’

‘Sixteen days at most, with three mounts to share the wounds.’ Jochi did not have to think. He had been drilled in the answers ever since he and Tsubodai had ridden with ten thousand men from the shadow of the Chin emperor’s city.

‘How far could you travel in such a time?’ Tsubodai said.

Jochi shrugged.

‘Sixteen hundred miles with fresh remounts. Half as far again if I slept and ate in the saddle.’

Tsubodai saw that the young man was hardly concentrating and his eyes glinted as he changed tack.

‘What is wrong with the ridge ahead?’ he snapped.

Jochi raised his head, startled. ‘I …’

‘Quickly! Men are looking to you for a decision. Lives wait on your word.’

Jochi swallowed, but in Tsubodai he had learned from a master.

‘The sun is behind us, so we will be visible for miles as we reach the crest.’ Tsubodai began to nod, but Jochi went on. ‘The ground is dusty. If we cross the high point of the ridge at any speed, we will raise a cloud into the air.’

‘That is good, Jochi,’ Tsubodai said. As he spoke, he dug in his heels and rode hard at the crest ahead. As Jochi had predicted, the hundred riders released a mist of reddish grit that billowed above their heads. Someone would surely see and report their position.

Tsubodai did not pause as he reached the ridge. He sent his mare over the edge, the rear legs skittering on loose stones. Jochi matched him and then took a sharp breath of dust that made him cough into his hand. Tsubodai had come to a halt fifty paces beyond the ridge, where the broken ground began to dip to the valley. Without orders, his men formed a wide double rank around him, like a bow drawn on the ground. They were long familiar with the firebrand of a general who had been placed over them.

Tsubodai stared into the distance, frowning. The hills surrounded a flat plain through which a river ran, swollen with spring rain. Along its banks, a slow-moving column trotted, bright with flags and banners. In other circumstances, it would have been a sight to take the breath, and even as his stomach clenched, Jochi felt a touch of admiration. Ten, perhaps eleven thousand Russian knights rode together, house colours in gold and red streaming back over their heads. Almost as many followed them in a baggage train of carts and remounts, women, boys and servants. The sun chose that moment to break through the dark clouds in a great beam that lit the valley. The knights shone.

Their horses were massive, shaggy animals, almost twice the weight of the Mongol ponies. Even the men who rode them were a strange breed to Jochi’s eyes. They sat as if they were made of stone, solid and heavy in metal cloth from their cheeks to their knees. Only their blue eyes and hands were unprotected. The armoured knights had come prepared for battle, carrying long spears like lances, but tipped in steel. They rode with the weapons upright, the butts held in leather cups close behind the stirrups. Jochi could see axes and swords hanging down from waist belts and every man rode with a leaf-shaped shield hooked to his saddle. The pennants streamed back over their heads and they looked very fine in the bands of gold and shadow.

‘They must see us,’ Jochi murmured, glancing at the plume of dust above his head.

The general heard him speak and turned in the saddle.

‘They are not men of the plains, Jochi. They are half-blind over such a distance. Are you afraid? They are so large, these knights. I would be afraid.’

For an instant, Jochi glowered. From his father, it would have been mockery. Yet Tsubodai spoke with a light in his eyes. The general was still in his twenties, young to command so many. Tsubodai was not afraid, though. Jochi knew the general cared nothing for the massive warhorses or the men who rode them. Instead, he placed his faith in the speed and arrows of his Young Wolves.

The jagun was made up of ten arbans, each commanded by an officer. By Tsubodai’s order, only those ten men wore heavy armour. The rest had leather tunics under padded deels. Jochi knew Genghis preferred the heavy charge to the light, but Tsubodai’s men seemed to survive. They could hit and gallop faster than the ponderous Russian warriors and there was no fear in their ranks. Like Tsubodai, they looked hungrily down the slope at the column and waited to be seen.

‘You know your father sent a rider to bring me home?’ Tsubodai said.

Jochi nodded. ‘All the men know.’

‘I had hoped to go further north than this, but I am your father’s man. He speaks and I obey; do you understand?’

Jochi stared at the young general, forgetting for a moment the knights who rode in the valley below.

‘Of course,’ he said, his face showing nothing.

Tsubodai glanced back at him, amused.

‘I hope you do, Jochi. He is a man to follow, your father. I wonder how he will respond when he sees how well you have grown.’

For a moment, anger twisted Jochi’s face before he smoothed his features and took a deep breath. Tsubodai had been more like a father than his own in many ways, but he did not forget the man’s true loyalty. At an order from Genghis, Tsubodai would kill him. As he looked at the young general, he thought there would be some regret, but not enough to hold the blow.

‘He will need loyal men, Tsubodai,’ Jochi said. ‘My father would not call us back to build or rest. He will have found some new land to tear to pieces. Like the wolf, he is always hungry, even to the point of bursting his own stomach.’

Tsubodai frowned to hear the khan described in such a way. In three years, he had seen no affection when Jochi spoke of his father, though sometimes there was a wistfulness, which showed less and less as the seasons passed. Genghis had sent away a boy, but a man would return to him, Tsubodai had made certain of that. For all his bitterness, Jochi was a cool head in battle and the men looked on him with pride. He would do.

‘I have another question for you, Jochi,’ Tsubodai said.

Jochi smiled for an instant.

‘You always have, general,’ he replied.

‘We have drawn these iron knights after us for hundreds of miles, exhausting their horses. We have captured their scouts and put them to the question, though I do not know of this “Jerusalem” they seek, or who this “white Christ” is.’ Tsubodai shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will meet him one day over the length of my sword, but the world is large and I am but one man.’

As he spoke, he watched the armoured knights and the trailing baggage lines behind it, waiting to be seen.

‘My question, Jochi, is this. These knights are nothing to me. Your father has called me back and I could ride now, while the ponies are fat with summer grass. Why then are we here, waiting for the challenge?’

Jochi’s eyes were cold as he replied.

‘My father would say it is what we do, that there is no better way for a man to spend his years than at war with enemies. He might also say you enjoy it, general, and that is all the reason you need.’

Tsubodai’s gaze did not waver.

‘Perhaps he would say that, but you hide behind his words. Why are we here, Jochi? We do not want their big horses, even for meat. Why will I risk the lives of warriors to smash the column you see?’

Jochi shrugged irritably.

‘If it is not that, I do not know.’

‘For you, Jochi,’ Tsubodai said seriously. ‘When you return to your father, you will have seen all forms of battle, in all seasons. You and I have captured towns and raided cities; ridden desert and forests so thick we could hardly cut our way through. Genghis will find no weakness in you.’ Tsubodai smiled briefly at Jochi’s stony expression. ‘I will be proud when men say you learned your skill under Tsubodai the Valiant.’

Jochi had to grin at hearing the nickname from Tsubodai himself. There were no secrets in the camps.

‘There it is,’ Tsubodai muttered, pointing to a distant messenger racing to the head of the Russian column. ‘We have an enemy who leads from the front, a very brave man.’

Jochi could imagine the sudden dismay among the knights as they looked into the bowl of hills and saw the Mongol warriors. Tsubodai grunted softly as an entire rank peeled off the column and began trotting up the slopes, the long spears ready. He showed his teeth as the gap began to narrow. They were charging uphill, in their arrogance. He longed to teach them their error.

‘Do you have your paitze, Jochi? Show it to me.’

Jochi reached behind him to where his bow holder was strapped to the saddle. He lifted a flap in the stiff leather and pulled out a plaque of solid gold, stamped with a wolf’s head. At twenty ounces, it was heavy, but small enough for him to grip in his hand.

Tsubodai ignored the men rising doggedly up the hill to face the eldest son of Genghis.

‘You have that and the right to command a thousand by my hand, Jochi. Those who command a jagun have one of mere silver, like this.’ Tsubodai held up a larger block of the whitish metal. ‘The difference is that the silver paitze is given to a man elected by the officers of each arban below him.’

‘I know this,’ Jochi said.

Tsubodai glanced back at the knights labouring closer.

‘The officers of this jagun have asked to have you lead them, Jochi. I had no part in it.’ He held out the silver paitze and Jochi took it joyfully, passing back the plaque of gold. Tsubodai was solemn and deliberately formal, but his eyes were bright.

‘When you return to your father, Jochi, you will have known all ranks and positions.’ The general gestured, cutting the air with his hand. ‘On the right, the left and the centre.’ He looked over the heads of the straining knights cantering up the hill, seeing a flicker of movement on a crag in the distance. Tsubodai nodded sharply.

‘It is time. You know what you have to do, Jochi. Command is yours.’ Without another word, Tsubodai clapped the younger man on the shoulder and rode back over the ridge, leaving the jagun of riders in the care of one suddenly nervous leader.

Jochi could feel the combined stares of the hundred men on his back as he struggled to hide his pleasure. Each arban of ten elected one man to lead them, then those men elected one of their number to lead the hundred in war. To be so chosen was an honour. A voice in his mind whispered that they only honoured his father, but he crushed it, refusing to doubt. He had earned the right and confidence swelled in him.

‘Bow lines!’ Jochi called. He gripped his reins tightly to hide his tension as the men formed a wider line so that every bow could bear. Jochi glanced over his shoulder, but Tsubodai had truly gone, leaving him alone. The men still watched and he forced the cold face, knowing they would remember his calm. As they raised their bows, he held up a clenched fist, waiting while his heart thumped painfully in his chest.

At four hundred paces, Jochi dropped his arm and the first flight of arrows whipped into the air. It was too far and those that reached the knights splintered on their shields, now held high and forward, so that almost the entire man was protected. The long shields showed their purpose as a second flight struck the ranks without a single rider going down.

The powerful horses were not fast, but still the gap closed and Jochi only watched. At two hundred paces, he raised his fist once more and another hundred arrows waited on creaking strings. At such a distance, he did not know if the knights’ armour would save them. Nothing ever had.

‘Shoot as if you have never owned a bow,’ he shouted.

The men around him grinned and the arrows snapped out. Jochi winced instinctively at shafts that went clear over the enemy heads, as if loosed by panicking fools. Only a few struck and, of those, still fewer brought a horse or man down. They could hear the thunder of the charge now and saw the front ranks begin to lower their spears in anticipation.

Facing them, Jochi smothered his fear in a sudden bloom of rage. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and kick his mount down the slope at the enemy. Shaking with frustration, he gave a different order.

‘Retreat over the ridge,’ Jochi shouted. He wrenched at his reins and his horse jerked into a run. His jagun shouted incoherently, turning in chaos after their general. Behind him, he heard guttural voices yelling in triumph and acid rose in his throat, though whether it was from fear or anger, he did not know.

Ilya Majaev blinked sweat out of his eyes when he saw the Mongols turn like the filthy cowards they were. As he had a thousand times before, he took a loose grip on his reins and tapped himself on his chest, praying to St Sophia to bring enemies of the faith under his hooves. Beneath the chain mail and padded tunic lay a fragment of her fingerbone in a locket of gold, the most precious thing he possessed. The monks at Novgorod had assured him he would not be killed while he wore it and he felt strong as his knights hammered over the ridge. His men had left the cathedral city two years before, carrying messages east for the prince before they finally turned south and began the long trek that would take them to Jerusalem. Ilya had pledged his life with the others to defend that holy place from the unbelievers who sought to destroy her monuments.

It should have been a journey of prayer and fasting before they brought their skill in arms against godless men. Instead, they had been stung over and over by the Mongol army raiding the area. Ilya ached to have them close enough to kill and he leaned forward in the saddle as his mount lunged after the fleeing riders.

‘Give them unto me, O lord, and I will break their bones and trample on their false gods,’ he whispered to himself.

The Mongols were racing wildly down the far slope, but the Russian horses were powerful and the gap closed steadily. Ilya sensed the mood of the men around him as they snarled and called to each other. They had lost companions to flights of arrows in the darkness. Scouts had vanished without a trace, or worse, been found with wounds to make a man vomit. In a year, Ilya had seen more towns burned than he could remember, the plumes of black smoke drawing him in desperate pursuit. The marauding Mongols were always gone by the time he arrived. He urged his mount to gallop, though the weary animal’s sides were already heaving and clots of white saliva flicked up to strike his arms and chest.

‘On, brothers!’ Ilya shouted to the rest. He knew they would not tire with the tribesmen at last within reach. The Mongols were an affront to everything Ilya valued, from the peaceful streets of Novgorod, to the quiet calm and dignity of the cathedral to his blessed saint.

Ahead, the Mongol warriors raced in disarray through a cloud of their own dust. Ilya snapped orders and his men closed into a solid column, fifty ranks of twenty abreast. They tied their reins to the saddle horns and leaned forward over the horses’ necks with shield and spear, urging the animals on with just their knees. Surely there had never been such a force of men and iron in the history of the world! Ilya showed his teeth in anticipation of first blood.

The route of the fleeing Mongols took them past a hill shrouded in ancient beech and elm trees. As Ilya thundered by, he saw something move in the green gloom. He barely had time to shout a warning before the air was filled with whining shafts. Even then, he did not hesitate. He had seen the arrows break on his men’s shields. He bawled an order to hold formation, knowing they could smash their way through.

A horse screamed and thumped into him from his left, crushing his leg and almost unseating him. Ilya cursed in pain, taking a sharp breath as he saw the rider hanging limp. Flight after flight of arrows came from the dark trees and, in horror, he saw his men falling from their saddles. Arrows passed through chain mail as if it were linen, punching out in a spray of blood. Ilya shouted wildly, kicking his exhausted mount on. Ahead, he saw the Mongols wheel in perfect unison, their commander staring straight at him. The Mongols did not stop to bend their bows. Their ponies lunged forward as one, the warriors loosing shafts as they rode.

Ilya felt an arrow pluck at his arm, then the two forces clashed together and he braced himself. His long spear took a warrior in the chest, only to be wrenched from his grasp so quickly he thought he had broken his fingers. He drew his sword with a hand almost too numb to grip. Red dust was everywhere and, in the midst, the Mongols rode like devils, calmly sending arrows into the packed ranks of his men.

Ilya raised his shield and was knocked backwards as an arrow struck it, the head showing clearly through the wood. His right foot came out of the stirrup and he swayed, all balance lost. Another shaft hit him in the thigh before he could recover and he cried out in pain, raising his sword as he rode at the archer.

The Mongol watched him come, his face blank of any emotion. He was little more than a beardless boy, Ilya saw. The Russian swung his blade, but the Mongol ducked under the blow and shoved him as he passed. The world spun in silence for a moment and then Ilya crashed to the ground, stunned.

The nosepiece of his helmet was jammed in with the impact, breaking his front teeth. Ilya rose, blind with tears and spitting blood and fragments. His left leg buckled and he fell clumsily, desperate to find the sword that had fallen from his hand.

He heard hoofbeats behind just as he saw the weapon lying on the dusty ground. He reached for the relic at his chest and murmured a prayer as the Mongol blade came down on his neck, almost severing his head. He did not live to see the rest of his men slaughtered, too heavy and slow to defend against the warriors of Tsubodai, general to Genghis Khan.

Jochi dismounted to examine the dead, once he had ordered a dozen of his men to sweep the area and report the movement of the main column. The Russian chain mail had not saved them. Many of the sprawling bodies were struck through more than once. Only the helmets had held. Jochi could not find a single man brought down with a shaft to the head. He picked up a helm and rubbed a finger over a bright slash of metal where an arrow had glanced away. It was a good design.

The ambush had gone just as Tsubodai had planned, Jochi thought wryly. The general seemed to read the minds of their enemies. Jochi breathed deeply, making an effort to control the trembling that beset him after each battle. It would not do for the men to see him shake. He did not know they watched him stride with clenched fists and saw only that he was still hungry, a man never satisfied no matter what he had achieved.

Three other jaguns had taken part in the ambush. Jochi saw the officers ride out of the trees where they had lain in wait all night. After years with Tsubodai, he knew each man like a brother, as Genghis had once told him to do. Mekhali and Altan were solid men, loyal but unimaginative. Jochi nodded to them both as they trotted their ponies to the field of the dead. The last of them, Qara, was a short, sinewy warrior with a face scarred from an old wound. Though he was faultlessly formal, Jochi sensed a dislike he could not understand. Perhaps the glowering man resented him for his father. Jochi had met many suspicious of his rise in the ranks. Tsubodai was not subtle in the way he included Jochi in every plan and stratagem, just as Genghis had once done with the young boy from the Uriankhai who had become his general. Tsubodai looked to the future while men like Qara imagined they saw only a spoiled young prince, promoted beyond his skill.

As Qara rode up and grunted at the sight of the dead knights, Jochi realised he was no longer the man’s superior. He had accepted the silver with a battle looming and still felt the honour of being trusted with a hundred lives. Yet it meant that, for a time at least, Qara no longer had to watch himself around the khan’s son. One glance told Jochi the wiry little warrior had already thought it through.

‘Why are we waiting here?’ Qara said suddenly. ‘Tsubodai will be attacking as we smell the grass and stand idle.’

Jochi resented the words, but he spoke lightly, as if Qara had merely greeted him. If the man had been a true leader, he would already have begun the ride back to Tsubodai. In a flash of insight, Jochi understood that Qara still looked to him for orders, despite his drop in rank. Glancing at Mekhali and Altan, he found they too were watching. Perhaps it was just their habit, but he felt an idea begin to form and knew he would not waste the moment.

‘Do you see their armour, Qara?’ he said. ‘The first piece hangs from the helmet, covering their faces except for the eyes. The second cloth of iron rings reaches right to their knees.’

‘It did not stop our shafts,’ Qara replied with a shrug. ‘When they are unhorsed, they move so slowly it is easy to bring them down. We do not need such poor protection, I think.’

Jochi grinned up at the man, enjoying the confusion it brought.

‘We do need it, Qara.’

High in the hills above the valley, Tsubodai waited on foot, his pony snuffling among dead pine needles. Almost five thousand men rested around him, waiting for his decision. He waited on the scouts he had sent out. Two hundred had ridden in all directions, their reports allowing the general to form a picture of the area for many miles around.

He knew Jochi’s ambush had been a success almost before it was over. One thousand fewer of the enemy left only ten, but it was still too many. The column of knights moved slowly through the river valley, waiting for the attack group to return victorious. They had not brought bowmen into the wilderness, a mistake that would cost them dearly. Yet they were large men and so strong that Tsubodai could not risk a simple frontal assault. He had seen knights stuck with arrows who had still fought through to kill two or even three of his. They were warriors of great courage, but he thought it would not be enough. Brave men come forward when they are attacked and Tsubodai planned accordingly. Any army could be routed in the right conditions, he was certain of it. Not his own, of course, but that of any enemy.

Two of the scouts galloped in to mark the latest position of the Russian force. Tsubodai made them dismount and draw on the ground with sticks so he could be sure there was no misunderstanding.

‘How many scouts do they have out?’ he asked.

The warrior drawing with a stick replied without hesitation.

‘Ten in the rear, general, on a wide sweep. Twenty to the front and flanks.’

Tsubodai nodded. He knew enough to move at last.

‘They must be killed, especially the ones behind the knights’ column. Take them when the sun is highest and do not let even one escape. I will attack as soon as you signal by flag that the scouts are down. Repeat your orders.’

The warrior spoke quickly, word-perfect as he had been trained to be. Tsubodai allowed no confusion in the field. For all the use of flags to communicate over vast distances, he was still forced to rely on dawn, noon and sunset as the only markers for time. He looked up through the trees at the thought, seeing that the sun was not far off midday. It would not be long and he felt the familiar flutter in his stomach that came before a battle. He had told Jochi it was to train him and that was true, but not the whole truth. Tsubodai had held back that the knights travelled with portable forges in their baggage train. Blacksmiths were more valuable than any other artisan they could capture and Tsubodai had been intrigued by reports of iron carts belching smoke as they rolled.

Tsubodai smiled to himself, enjoying the rising excitement. Like Genghis, he could find no love for the sacking of towns and cities. It was something that had to be done, of course, as a man would pour boiling water on a nest of ants. It was the battles Tsubodai wanted, each one proving or increasing his mastery. He had found no greater joy than out-thinking his enemies, confounding and destroying them. He had heard of the strange quest the knights were on, to a land so distant that no one knew its name. It did not matter. Genghis would not allow armed men to ride his lands — and all lands were his.

Tsubodai scuffed the drawings in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He turned to the second scout who waited patiently, in awe of the general.

‘Ride to Jochi and find what has delayed him,’ Tsubodai ordered. ‘He will sit at my right hand for this attack.’

‘Your will, lord,’ the scout said, bowing before he scrambled to his horse and went careering through the trees at breakneck speed. Tsubodai squinted through the branches at the sun. He would move very soon.

In the thump and thunder of ten thousand horses, Anatoly Majaev glanced over his shoulder at the ridge little Ilya had disappeared behind. Where had his brother gone? He still thought of him as little Ilya, despite the fact that his brother outweighed him in both muscle and faith. Anatoly shook his head wearily. He had promised their mother he would look after him. Ilya would catch up, he was certain. He had not dared halt the column now the Mongols had shown they were in the area. Anatoly had sent scouts all around, but they too seemed to have vanished. He looked behind again, straining his eyes for the banners of a thousand men.

Ahead, the valley narrowed in a pass through hills that could have been part of the Garden of Eden. The slopes were green with grass so thick a man could not hack through the roots in half a day. Anatoly loved this land, but his eyes were always on the horizon, and one day he would see Jerusalem. He muttered a prayer to the Virgin under his breath and at that moment the pass darkened and he saw the Mongol army riding out against him.

The scouts were dead then, as he had feared. Anatoly cursed and could not help but look back for Ilya once more.

Shouts came from behind and Anatoly turned completely in the saddle, swearing at the sight of another dark mass of riders coming up fast. How had they gone around him without being spotted? It defied belief to have the enemy move like ghosts through the hills.

He knew his men could scatter the Mongols in a charge. Already, they had unhooked their shields and raised them, looking to him for orders. As the eldest son of a baron, Anatoly was the most senior officer. Indeed, it had been his family who had financed the entire trip, using some of their vast fortune to earn the goodwill of the monasteries that had become so powerful in Russia.

Anatoly knew he could not charge with the entire baggage train and rear ranks exposed. Nothing unnerved fighting men more than being struck from before and behind at the same time. He began to shout an order for three of his officers to take their centuries and wheel around to charge the rear. As he turned, a movement on the hills caught his eye and he grinned in relief. In the distance, a line of Russian heavy horse came back over the ridge, banners flying lightly in the breeze. Anatoly judged the distances and made his decision. He called a scout over to him.

‘Ride to my brother and tell him to hit the force at our rear. He must prevent them from joining the battle.’

The young man raced away, unencumbered by armour or weapons. Anatoly turned to the front, his confidence swelling. With the rear secured, he outnumbered those who were galloping towards him. His orders had taken only moments and he knew he could punch through the Mongols like an armoured fist.

Anatoly pointed his long spear over his horse’s ears.

‘Charge formation! For the white Christ, onward!’

Anatoly’s scout raced at full gallop across the dusty ground. Speed was everything with two armies converging on the column. He rode with his body pressed as low as he could go, the horse’s head lunging up and down by his own. He was young and excited and rode almost to Ilya Majaev’s men before pulling up in shock. Only four hundred had come back over the crest and they had been through hell. Brown slicks of blood showed on many men as they approached and there was something odd about the way they rode.

The scout suddenly understood and heaved at his reins in panic. He was too late. An arrow took him under a flailing arm and he tumbled over the horse’s ears, making the animal bolt.

Jochi and the other Mongols did not look at the prone figure as they galloped past. It had taken a long time to pull the chain mail off the dead, but the ruse was working. No force rode out to cut them off and, though the Russians didn’t know it, they were being attacked on three sides. As the slope lessened, Jochi dug in his heels and brought the heavy spear out of its leather socket. It was a cumbersome thing and he had to strain to hold it steady as he and his men thundered towards the Russian flank.

Anatoly was at full gallop, more than half a ton of flesh and iron focused on a spear point. He saw the front ranks shudder as the Mongol archers loosed their first shafts. The enemy were fast, but the column could not be held back or even turned at that speed. The noise of shield impacts and hooves was deafening, but he heard screams behind him and wrenched himself back to clarity. He was in command and, as his mind cleared, he shook his head in horror. He watched Ilya strike the main flank, cutting into the very men who had pledged themselves to the Majaev family on the pilgrimage.

As he gaped, Anatoly saw the men were smaller and wore bloody iron. Some had lost their helmets in the first clash to reveal yelling Mongol faces. He blanched then, knowing his brother was dead and the twin attack would crush the rear ranks. He could not turn and, though he bawled frantic orders, no one heard him.

Ahead, the Mongols let them come in, loosing shafts by the thousand into the Russian horsemen. The shields were battered and the column jerked like a wounded animal. Men fell by the hundred. It was as if a scythe had been drawn across the face of the column, cutting through living men.

Behind, the Mongols rolled up the baggage train, killing anyone on the carts who raised a weapon. Anatoly strained to think, to make out details, but he was in among the enemy. His spear ripped along a horse’s neck, opening a great gash that spattered him in warm blood. A sword flashed and Anatoly took the blow on his helmet, almost losing consciousness. Something hit him in the chest and suddenly he could not breathe, even to call for help. He strained for just a cupful of air, just a sip, but it did not come and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough to numb his final agony.

At the fires that evening, Tsubodai rode through the camp of his ten thousand. The dead knights had been stripped of anything valuable and the general had pleased the men by refusing his personal tithe. For those who received no pay for their battles, the collection of bloodstained lockets, rings and gems was something to covet in the new society Genghis was creating. A man could become wealthy in the army of the tribes, though they thought always in terms of the horses they could buy with their riches. The knights’ forges were of more interest to Tsubodai, as were the spoked cartwheels themselves, ringed in iron and easier to repair than the solid discs the Mongols used. Tsubodai had already instructed the captured armourers to demonstrate the skill to his carpenters.

Jochi was examining the forehoof of his favourite pony when Tsubodai trotted up to him. Before the younger man could bow, Tsubodai inclined his head, giving him honour. The jagun Jochi had commanded stood with pride.

Tsubodai lifted his hand to show Jochi the gold paitze he had taken from him before noon.

‘You had me wondering how Russians could come back from the dead,’ Tsubodai said. ‘It was a bold stroke. Take this back, Jochi. You are worth more than silver.’

He tossed the gold plaque through the air and Jochi caught it, struggling to keep his composure. Only the praise of Genghis himself would have meant more at that moment.

‘We will ride home tomorrow,’ Tsubodai said, as much for the men as Jochi. ‘Be ready at dawn.’

CHAPTER TWO

Chagatai felt an itch in his left armpit, where sweat dribbled under his best armour. Though he was the second son of the khan, he sensed it would not be right to give the spot a good scratch while he waited for the king of Koryo.

He risked a quick glance at the man who had brought him to the distant, walled city of Songdo. The hall of kings was stifling in the midday heat, but Jelme showed no discomfort in his lacquered armour. Like the courtiers and the royal guards, the Mongol general could have been carved out of wood.

Chagatai could hear water running in the far distance, the gentle sound somehow magnified in the oppressive heat and silence. The itch became maddening and he struggled to think of something else. As his gaze rested on a high ceiling of white plaster and ancient pine beams, he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. For all their dignity, the Wang dynasty had not been able to crush the Khara-Kitai when those people came into their land from Chin territory and built fortresses. If Jelme had not volunteered his army to burn them out, the Koryon king would still be a near prisoner in his own palace. At fifteen years old, Chagatai felt a vague smugness at the thought. He had all the pride and arrogance of a young warrior, yet in this case he knew it was justified. Jelme and his warriors had come into the east to see what armies might stand against them and view the ocean for the first time. They had found enemies in the Khara-Kitai and driven them out of Koryo like whipped dogs. Chagatai knew it was only just that the king pay a tribute, whether he had asked for help or not.

Sweating in the heavy air, Chagatai tortured himself with memory of the breeze off the sea in the south. The cool wind had been the only good thing about that blue vastness, in his opinion. Jelme had been fascinated by the Koryon ships, but the thought of wanting to travel on water baffled Chagatai. If it could not be ridden, he had no use for it. Even the memory of the royal barge swaying at anchor made his stomach clench.

A bell sounded out in the courtyard, the tone echoing through gardens where bees buzzed in hives around acacia blossoms. Chagatai pictured the Buddhist monks heaving on the log that struck the great bell and he straightened, once more aware of how he stood. The king would be on his way and his torment would come to an end. He could stand an itch a little longer: just the thought of relief made it seem bearable.

The bell boomed again and servants slid back screens, opening the hall to the scent of pines from the surrounding hills. Despite himself, Chagatai let out a sigh as the intense heat began to lessen. The crowd moved subtly as they strained to see the king and Chagatai used the distraction to dig two fingers into his armpit and scratch vigorously. He sensed Jelme’s gaze flicker to him and resumed his impassive expression as the king of the Koryo people entered at last.

None of them were tall, Chagatai thought, as he saw the diminutive monarch waft through a carved doorway. He supposed the man’s name was Wang, after his family, but who knew or cared how these wiry little people named each other? Chagatai looked instead at a pair of serving girls in the king’s retinue. With their delicate golden skin, they were far more interesting than the man they served. The young warrior stared as the women fussed around their master, arranging his robes as he seated himself.

The king did not seem aware of the watching Mongols as he waited for his attendants to finish. His eyes were almost the same dark yellow as Genghis’, though they lacked his father’s ability to inspire terror. Compared with the khan, the Koryon king was just a lamb.

The servants finished their tasks at last and the king’s gaze finally focused on the arban of ten warriors Jelme had brought. Chagatai wondered how the man could bear such thick cloth on a summer’s day.

When the king spoke, Chagatai could not understand a word. Like Jelme, he had to wait for the translation into the Chin language he had struggled to master. Even then, he could hardly catch the meaning and listened in growing frustration. He disliked foreign languages. Once a man knew the word for a horse, why use another? Obviously Chagatai understood that men from far lands might not know the right way of speaking, but he felt they owed it to themselves to learn and not continue their gibberish, as if all tongues were of equal value.

‘You have kept your promises,’ the translator said solemnly, interrupting Chagatai’s thoughts. ‘The Khara-Kitai fortresses have burned for many days and that foul people have gone from the high and beautiful land.’

Silence fell again and Chagatai shifted uncomfortably. The court of the Koryo seemed to delight in slowness. He recalled his experience of the drink they called ‘nok cha’. Jelme had frowned at the way Chagatai emptied his cup in a gulp and held it out for another. Apparently, the pale green liquid was too valuable to be drunk like water. As if one warrior should care how another ate or drank! Chagatai ate when he was hungry and often forgot to attend the elaborate meals of the court. He could not understand Jelme’s interest in pointless rituals, but he had not spoken his thoughts aloud. When he ruled the Mongol nation, he would not allow pretension, he vowed to himself. Food was not something to linger over, or prepare in a thousand flavours. It was no wonder that the Koryon people had come so close to being conquered. They would be required to speak one language and eat perhaps no more than two or three different dishes, prepared quickly and without fuss. It would leave more time for training with weapons and exercise to make the body strong.

Chagatai’s wandering thoughts stilled as Jelme spoke at last, apparently having weighed every word.

‘It is fortunate that the Khara-Kitai chose to attack my scouts. Our needs met in their destruction. I speak now for the great khan, whose warriors have saved your country from a terrible enemy. Where is the tribute promised by your ministers?’

As the translation droned, the king stiffened slightly in his seat. Chagatai wondered if the fool took some insult from the words. Perhaps he had forgotten the army camped outside the city. At a single command from Jelme, they would burn the polished beams around the king’s head. It was still a mystery to Chagatai why they had not. Surely Genghis had sent them out to hone their skills? Chagatai appreciated distantly that there was an art in negotiating that he had yet to learn. Jelme had tried to explain the need to deal with foreign powers, but Chagatai could not see it. A man was either an enemy or a friend. If he was an enemy, everything he owned could be taken. Chagatai smiled as he completed the thought. A khan needed no friends, only servants.

Once more, he daydreamed about ruling his people. The tribes would never accept his brother, Jochi, if he was even the khan’s son at all. Chagatai had done his part in spreading the rumour that Jochi was the result of a rape, many years before. Genghis had allowed the whispers to grow deep roots by his distant manner towards the boy. Chagatai smiled to himself at the memories, allowing his hand to drift to the hilt of his sword. His father had given it to him rather than Jochi, a blade that had seen the birth of a nation. In his most private heart, Chagatai knew he would never take an oath to Jochi.

One of the king’s ministers leaned close to the throne to exchange whispered words. It went on long enough for the ranks of courtiers to wilt visibly in their robes and jewels, but at last the minister retreated. Once more the king spoke, his words translated smoothly.

‘Honoured allies may accept gifts in token of a new friendship, as has been discussed,’ the king said. ‘One hundred thousand sheets of oiled paper have been prepared for you, the labour of many moons.’ The assembled crowd of Koryon nobles murmured at the words, though Chagatai could not imagine why paper would be seen as valuable. ‘Ten thousand silk vests have been sewn and the same weight added in jade and silver. Two hundred thousand kwan of iron and the same in bronze have come from the mines and the guild of metalworkers. From my own stores, sixty tiger skins have been wrapped in silk and made ready to travel with you. Finally, eight hundred cartloads of oak and beech are the gift of the Wang dynasty, in thanks for the victory you have brought to the Koryon people. Go now in peace and honour and count us always as allies.’

Jelme nodded stiffly as the translator finished.

‘I accept your tribute, majesty.’

A slight flush had appeared on his neck. Chagatai wondered if the general would ignore the king’s attempt to save face. Tribute was given to conquerors and Jelme stood in silence for a long time as he considered the king’s words. When he spoke again, his voice was firm.

‘I ask only that six hundred young men between the ages of twelve and sixteen be added to it. I will train them in the skills of my people and they will know many battles and great honour.’

Chagatai struggled not to show his approval. Let them choke on that, with their talk of gifts and honoured allies. Jelme’s demand had revealed the true balance of power in the room and the courtiers were visibly distressed. The silence stretched in the hall and Chagatai watched with interest as the king’s minister bowed close once more. He saw the king’s knuckles whiten as his grip on the armrest tightened. Chagatai was tired of their posturing. Even the smooth-limbed women at the king’s feet had lost their allure. He wanted to get out into the cool air and perhaps bathe in the river before the sun lost its heat.

Yet Jelme did not move a muscle and his glare seemed to make the men around the king nervous. Their darting glances were wasted on the silent warriors as they stood and waited for a certain outcome. The city of Songdo had fewer than sixty thousand inhabitants and an army of no more than three thousand. The king could assume whatever airs he wanted, but Chagatai knew the truth of the situation. When the answer came at last, it was no surprise.

‘We are honoured that you would accept so many young men into your service, general,’ the king said.

His expression was sour, but Jelme responded to the interpreter, mouthing further expressions of goodwill that Chagatai drowned out. His father had called Jelme home after three years of scouting the east. It would be good to see the mountains again and Chagatai could barely restrain his impatience at the thought. Jelme seemed to think this paper would be important, though Chagatai doubted Genghis would value it. In that, at least, his father was predictable. It was a good thing Jelme had demanded silk and hard woods as well. Those things were worth having.

Without an obvious signal, the bell sounded again in the courtyard outside, ending the audience. Chagatai watched the servant girls as they readied their master to stand and fell in behind him. He sighed as the room relaxed subtly around him, taking pleasure in scratching his armpit once more. Home. Jochi would be coming back as well, with Tsubodai. Chagatai wondered how his brother would have changed in three years. At seventeen, he would be fully grown and no doubt Tsubodai had trained him well. Chagatai cracked his neck with his hands, relishing the challenges to come.

In the southern half of Chin lands, warriors of the third army of Genghis were drinking themselves senseless. At their backs, the citizens of Kaifeng waited behind high walls and gates, already despairing. Some of the Chin had accompanied the emperor himself as he had come south from Yenking three years before. They had seen the smoke in the northern sky as that city burned. For a time, they thought the Mongols had passed them by, but then the army of Khasar came after them, drawing lines of destruction across the ground like a hot iron across flesh.

The streets of Kaifeng had become lawless even in the heart of the city. Those who had armed guards could climb to the walls and look down on the besieging army. What they saw brought no comfort or hope. To the Chin, even the casual nature of Khasar’s siege was an insult.

On this day, the great khan’s brother was amusing himself with a wrestling competition amongst his men. Khasar’s host of gers lacked a clear pattern and his vast herds of animals wandered aimlessly over the land, only rarely disturbed by the long whips of herdsmen. The Mongols had not so much surrounded Kaifeng as made camp there. To the Chin who hated and feared them, it was galling to see the enemy enjoying games and sports while Kaifeng began to go hungry. Though the Chin were no strangers to cruelty, the Mongols were more callous than they could comprehend. Khasar’s army cared nothing at all for the suffering inhabitants of Kaifeng and only resented them for delaying the fall of the city. They had been there for three months and they showed a terrible, limitless patience.

The emperor’s city of Yenking had fallen to these primitive horsemen. Its great armies had not held them. With that example, no one in Kaifeng had real hope. The streets were ruled by ruthless gangs and only the strong dared go out at all. Food was distributed from a central store, but some days they had nothing. No one could know if the food was running out, or if it had been stolen on the way.

In the camp, Khasar rose to his feet, roaring in excitement with Ho Sa as the wrestler known as Baabgai, the Bear, heaved his opponent up over his head. The vanquished man struggled at first, but Baabgai stood unmoving, beaming like a stupid child at his general. The bets dwindled to a trickle and then nothing. The man he held was so battered and exhausted that he only tugged feebly at Baabgai’s square fingertips.

Khasar had found the wrestler among his Chin recruits, marking him apart immediately for his size and strength. He looked forward to having the massive idiot challenge one of the champions at home. If he judged the wagers well, he could beggar a few men in one match, his brother Temuge among them.

Baabgai waited impassively for Khasar’s order. Few others could have supported a grown warrior for so long and Baabgai’s face was pink and shiny with sweat.

Khasar stared through the big wrestler, his thoughts returning to the message from Genghis. The scout his brother had sent still stood where Khasar had placed him hours before. Flies were sucking at the salt on the scout’s skin, but the young man dared not move.

Khasar’s good mood vanished and he gestured irritably to his wrestling champion.

‘Break him,’ he snapped.

The crowd took a sharp breath as Baabgai dropped suddenly to one knee, bringing his opponent down on the outstretched thigh. The crack of a broken spine sounded across the clearing and all the men roared and exchanged betting tokens. Baabgai beamed toothlessly at them. Khasar looked away as the crippled man’s throat was cut. It was a kindness not to leave him alive for dogs and rats.

Sensing his thoughts turning darker, Khasar signalled for the next bout and a skin of black airag: anything to distract him from his gloom. If he’d known Genghis would be recalling the armies, he’d have made better time heading into Chin lands. With Ho Sa and Genghis’ son Ogedai, he’d spent leisurely years burning cities and executing their populations, all the time moving closer to where the boy emperor had taken refuge. It had been a very happy time for him.

He was not a man given to thinking too hard about himself, but Khasar had come to enjoy being in command. For men like Genghis, it came naturally. Khasar could not imagine Genghis allowing anyone to lead him to a toilet pit, never mind a battle. For Khasar, it had come slowly, the need growing like moss. For three years, he had not spoken to any of his brothers, Genghis, Kachiun or Temuge. His warriors had expected him to know where to ride and what to do once they arrived. Khasar had found it exhausting at first, just as a lead dog will last only so long at the head of a pack. He knew that well, but he discovered another truth, that leading was as exciting as it was exhausting. His mistakes were his own, but his triumphs were also his own. As the seasons passed, Khasar had changed subtly and he did not want to go home. Waiting for Kaifeng to fall, he was father to ten thousand sons.

He looked around at the men he had brought so far from home. His second in command, Samuka, was sober as always, watching the wrestling with detached amusement. Ogedai was yelling and sweating with drink, looking small at the shoulder of warriors. Khasar let his gaze drift over the boy, wondering how he would take the news of their return. At Ogedai’s age, everything was new and exciting and Khasar thought he would be pleased. His mood soured further as he studied his men. Every one of them had proved his worth. They had taken women by the thousand, horses, coins and weapons, too much to spend a lifetime cataloguing. Khasar let out a long sigh. Yet Genghis was the great khan and Khasar could no more imagine rebelling against his older brother than he could sprout wings and fly across the walls of Kaifeng.

Ho Sa seemed to sense the general’s mood and raised a skin of black airag to him, the noise of the wrestling bout swelling around them both. Khasar smiled tightly, without pleasure. With Samuka, Ho Sa had heard the scout’s message. The day had been ruined and both men knew it.

The Xi Xia officer would once have shuddered at the thought of drinking with lice-ridden tribesmen. Before the Mongols had come, Ho Sa had lived a life of simple austerity, proud of his place in his king’s army. He had woken each dawn for an hour of exercise before bathing, then begun the day with black tea and bread dipped in honey. Ho Sa’s life had been almost perfect and he sometimes longed for it, while dreading its dullness at the same time.

On very dark nights, when all the pretences of men are laid bare, Ho Sa knew he had found a place and a life he would never have enjoyed in the Xi Xia. He had risen to third in command of a Mongol army and men like Khasar trusted him with their lives. The bites of fleas and lice were a small price to pay in return. Following Khasar’s black gaze, Ho Sa too glowered drunkenly at Kaifeng. If all an emperor could do was cower behind high walls, he was no emperor as far as Ho Sa could see. He took another gulp of the clear airag and winced as it stung a cut on his gums.

Ho Sa did sometimes miss the peace and routines of his old life, but he knew they continued somewhere. That thought brought him comfort when he was tired or wounded. It also helped that he had a fortune in gold and silver. If he ever did return home, he would have wives, slaves and wealth.

The second match finished with a broken arm and both men bowed to Khasar before he gave them leave to have their wounds treated. The day’s events would cost him perhaps a dozen injured and a few killed, but it was worth it to inspire the others. They were not delicate young girls, after all.

Khasar glared at the scout. It had been Khasar himself who had taken the lonely forts the Mongols now used as way stations for their messengers. They stretched in an unbroken line all the way back to the charred remains of Yenking in the north. If Khasar had realised the new trade road would enable Genghis to send a recall order only eighteen days before, he might not have done it. Would his brother understand if he waited another year for the fortress city to fall? Khasar kicked at a stone, startling the scout as he stood there. He knew the answer. Genghis would expect him to drop everything and return, bringing the khan’s son, Ogedai, with him. It was galling and Khasar stared at Kaifeng as if he could bring the walls down with anger alone. He hardly saw the third bout of wrestling, though the hard-drinking crowd appreciated it.

‘Recite the orders again,’ Khasar said suddenly. Over the yelling warriors, he had to repeat himself twice to be heard.

The scout bowed his head, at a loss to understand the mood his message had created.

‘Come home and drink black airag with our people, my brother. In the spring, we will drink milk and blood.’

‘That is all?’ Khasar snapped. ‘Tell me how he looked when he sent you out.’

The scout shifted uncomfortably.

‘The Great Khan was discussing plans, lord, with his senior men. They had maps weighted with stones of lead, but I did not hear what they said before I was summoned.’

Ho Sa raised his head at that, his eyes glassy with drink.

‘Milk and blood will mean he plans a new war,’ he called.

The noise of the crowd dropped suddenly at his words. Ogedai had frozen to listen. Even the wrestlers paused, unsure whether they should go on. Khasar blinked and then shrugged. He didn’t care who heard.

‘If my brother had his precious maps out, that must be it.’ He sighed to himself. If Genghis knew he stood before the walls of Kaifeng, surely he would wait. The boy emperor had escaped them at Yenking. The thought of the Imperial Chin court watching the Mongols leave was almost unbearable.

‘Has my brother summoned Tsubodai and Jelme?’ Khasar said.

The messenger swallowed nervously under the eyes of so many.

‘I did not carry the messages, lord.’

‘You know, though. Scouts always know. Tell me, or I will have your tongue.’

The young messenger swallowed his doubts and spoke quickly.

‘Two other men rode out to bring the generals back to the khan, lord. This I heard.’

‘And the armies at home? Are they drilling and making ready, or just waiting?’

‘They are under orders to train the winter fat off them, lord.’

Khasar saw Samuka grin and he cursed under his breath.

‘Then it is war. Go back along the path I made and tell my brother “I am coming”. It is enough.’

‘Shall I say you will be there before the end of summer, lord?’ the scout asked.

‘Yes,’ Khasar replied. He spat on the ground as the scout raced away. He had taken every city for a hundred miles around Kaifeng, surrounding the emperor with destruction and cutting his supplies. Yet he would leave just when victory was assured. He saw Ogedai’s eyes were wide with excitement and Khasar looked away.

It would be good to see his brothers again, he realised. He wondered idly if Jelme or Tsubodai could match the wealth he had taken from the Chin cities. Whole forests had been cut to provide carts enough to carry it all. He had even recruited from among the Chin, so that he returned with two thousand more men than he had taken with him. He sighed to himself. What he had wanted was to bring Genghis the bones of an emperor. He cared nothing for the other spoils of war.

CHAPTER THREE

Genghis let his mare have her head on the open plain, hitting full gallop so that the warm air rushed by him and sent his long, black hair streaming in the wind. He wore only a light tunic that left his arms bare, revealing a dense web of white scars. The trousers that gripped the mare’s flanks were old and dark with mutton fat, as were the soft boots in the stirrups. He carried no sword, though a leather bowcase rested behind his thigh and a small hunting quiver bounced on his shoulders, its leather strap running across his chest.

The air was black with birds overhead, the noise of their wings clattering as hawks tore through them, bringing prey back to their masters. In the distance, three thousand warriors had formed an unbroken ring, riding slowly and driving every living thing before them. It would not be long before the centre was filled with marmots, deer, foxes, rats, wild dogs and a thousand other small animals. Genghis could see the ground was dark with them and he grinned in anticipation of the killing ahead. A deer ran bucking and snorting in panic through the circle and Genghis took it easily, sending a shaft into its chest behind the foreleg. The buck collapsed, kicking, and he turned to see if his brother Kachiun had witnessed the shot.

There was little true sport in the circle hunt, though it helped to feed the tribes when meat was running low. Nevertheless, Genghis enjoyed it and awarded places at the centre to men he wished to honour. As well as Kachiun, Arslan was there, the first man to take an oath to him. The old swordsman was sixty years of age and knife-thin. He rode well, if stiffly, and Genghis saw him take a pigeon from the air as the bird flew overhead.

The wrestler Tolui galloped across his vision, leaning low on the saddle to drop a fat marmot as it streaked across the grass in panic. A wolf came from a patch of long grass and made Tolui’s pony shy, almost unseating him. Genghis laughed as the massive warrior struggled upright. It was a good day and the circle was almost upon them. A hundred of his most valued officers raced here and there as the ground darkened into a solid stream of animals. They swarmed so thickly that more were crushed by hooves than spitted on killing shafts. The circle of riders closed until they stood shoulder to shoulder and the men in the middle emptied their quivers, enjoying themselves.

Genghis spotted a mountain cat in the press and kicked his heels in after it. He saw Kachiun on the same run and was pleased when his brother wheeled away to leave him the shot. Both men were in their late thirties, strong and supremely fit. With the armies returning, they would take the nation into new lands and Genghis was glad of it.

He had come back from the Chin capital worn out and racked by illness. It had taken almost a year for him to regain his health, but the weakness was now only a memory. As the end of summer approached, he felt his old strength and, with it, the desire to crush those who had dared to kill his men. He wanted his enemies proud and strong, so that he could cast them further down in his vengeance.

Genghis reached for another arrow and his fingers closed on nothing, making him sigh. The boys and girls of the camps would now run in with hammers and knives to finish the slaughter and begin preparing the carcases for a great feast.

The scouts for the khan had reported the armies of Khasar and Tsubodai only a few days’ ride away. His generals would be honoured with rice wine and black airag when they returned. Genghis wondered how his sons would have grown in the years apart. It was exciting to think of riding to war with Chagatai and Ogedai, taking new lands so that they too could be khans. He knew that Jochi was returning, but that was an old wound and he did not dwell on it. He had enjoyed peaceful years with his wives and young children, but if the sky father had a purpose for him, he knew it was not to spend his time quietly while the world slept.

Genghis rode to Kachiun as his brother clapped Arslan on the shoulders. Between them, the ground was red with blood and fur, and boys darted almost under the hooves as they yelled and called to each other in excitement.

‘Did you see the great cat I brought down?’ Genghis said to the two men. ‘It took two arrows just to slow it.’

‘It was a fine kill,’ Kachiun shouted, his face glowing with sweat. One scrawny boy came too close to Kachiun’s stirrups as he spoke and he reached down to cuff the lad, knocking him sprawling, to the amusement of his companions.

Arslan smiled as the little boy picked himself up and glared at the khan’s brother before racing off.

‘They are so young, this new generation,’ he said. ‘I can hardly remember being so small.’

Genghis nodded. The children of the tribes would never know the fear of being hunted as he and his brothers had. Listening to their laughter and high-pitched voices, he could only wonder at what he had achieved. Just a few herdsmen still roamed the valleys and mountains of his homeland. He had gathered the rest and made them a nation under one man and the sky father. Perhaps that was why he yearned to answer the challenge from the desert tribes. A man without enemies grew quickly soft and fat. A nation would fare badly without someone peering into their camps. He smiled at the thought. There was no shortage of enemies in the world and he thanked the spirits that they teemed in their millions. He could not imagine a better way of spending a life and he had good years ahead.

Arslan spoke again and the lightness had gone from his voice.

‘I have thought for many months, lord, that it is time I gave up my position as general. I am getting too old to stand a campaign in winter and perhaps too cautious. The men need someone younger who can risk it all on a single throw of the bones.’

‘You have years in you yet,’ Kachiun replied as seriously.

Arslan shook his head, looking to see how Genghis reacted to his words.

‘It is time. I will wait for my son Jelme to return, but I do not wish to leave my homeland again. My oath is to you, Genghis, and I will not see it broken. If you say ride, I will ride until I fall.’ He spoke of death. No warrior could fall from a saddle while he still lived. Arslan paused to see the khan understood his loyalty before going on.

‘No man can ride for ever. My hips and shoulders ache and my hands are stiff at the first touch of cold. Perhaps it is all the years of beating metal; I do not know.’

Genghis pursed his mouth, edging his mount closer so that he could grip his general’s shoulder.

‘You have been with me from the first days,’ he said softly. ‘No one has served with more honour. If you want to see your final years out in peace, I will release you from your oath.’

Arslan bowed his head, visibly relieved.

‘Thank you, my lord khan.’ When he looked up, his face was flushed with emotion. ‘I knew you when you were alone and hunted. I saw greatness in you then when I pledged my life. I have known this day would come and prepared my second for command of my tuman. It is your decision, but I recommend Zurgadai to replace me.’

‘No one could replace you,’ Genghis said immediately. ‘But I will honour your choice and your wisdom this last time. I know this Zurgadai, the one they call “Jebe”, the arrow.’

Arslan grimaced slightly. ‘As you say. You met him first when we rode against the Besud clan years ago. He killed your horse.’

Genghis let out a surprised exclamation.

‘I thought I knew the name! By the spirits, he could shoot a bow. Was it three hundred paces? I remember I almost broke my head open.’

‘He has mellowed a little, lord, but not too much. He has been loyal to you ever since you spared him that day.’

Genghis nodded.

‘Then pass your gold paitze to him and invite him to my council tent. We will make the feast a celebration of your life. The storytellers will sing your praises to the sky father and all the young warriors will know a great man is gone from the ranks.’

He thought for a moment as Arslan coloured in pride.

‘You will have a thousand horses from my own herd and a dozen women as servants for your wife. I will send three young men to guard you in your old age. You will not be lonely in your retirement, general. You will have sheep and goats enough to make you fat for a hundred years.’

Arslan dismounted and touched his head to Genghis’ foot in the stirrup.

‘You honour me, lord, but I need very little. With your permission, I will take my wife and just a small herd of breeding goats and horses. Together, we will find a quiet place by a stream and there remain. There are no thieves in the hills any longer and if by chance there are, my bow and sword still speak for me.’ He smiled at the man he had seen grow from a boy to a conqueror of nations. ‘Perhaps I will build a small forge and make one last sword to be buried with me. I hear the sounds of the hammer in my mind even now and I am at peace.’

Genghis found tears in his eyes as he viewed the man who had been like a second father to him. He too dismounted and embraced Arslan briefly, causing the shouting children around them to fall silent.

‘It is a good dream, old man.’

The lands around the Orkhon river were a deeper green than could be found anywhere else. The river itself was wide and clear. It had to be to support two hundred thousand men and women, with twice that number of horses when Khasar and Tsubodai arrived within a day of each other. Under the khan’s ruling hand, the nation had grown and there were always children squalling somewhere. Since his return from the Chin capital, Genghis had made a near permanent camp at the river, rejecting the plain of Avraga. It was true that Avraga would always be sacred as the place he had forged a nation, but it was a dry, flat land. In comparison, a nearby waterfall beat the waters of the Orkhon into white spray and the horses and sheep could drink their fill. Genghis had swum many times in its deep pools, regaining his strength.

Khasar had come in first and embraced his brothers: Genghis, Kachiun, even Temuge, who was no warrior, but ran the camps and settled disputes between families. Khasar brought Ogedai with him. The boy was barely thirteen years old, but stood muscular and long-limbed, with the promise of his father’s height. In the sharp planes of Ogedai’s face, the brothers could see an echo of the boy who had once kept them alive when they were banished and alone, just a few scraps of food away from starvation and death. Khasar gripped the back of Ogedai’s neck as he sent him forward to see his father, showing his pride.

‘He is a good hand with a bow and sword, brother,’ Khasar said, tilting a skin of black airag and directing a line of the spirit down his throat.

Genghis heard the delighted cry of his wife Borte from the family ger and knew his son would be surrounded by women in just a few moments.

‘You have grown, Ogedai,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I will want to hear all about your travels tonight.’ He watched as Ogedai bowed formally, the boy’s face hiding any emotion. Three years was a long time to be away, but Genghis was pleased with the stripling warrior who had returned to him. Ogedai had the same yellow eyes and Genghis approved of his stillness and calm. He did not test it by embracing him, not with so many warriors watching who would perhaps follow Ogedai in a charge one day.

‘Are you old enough to drink, boy?’ Genghis asked, hefting a skin in his hands. When his son nodded, he tossed it over and Ogedai took it cleanly, overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of his people all around. As his mother came forward and embraced him, he remained stiff, trying to show his father that he was not a little boy to melt into her arms. Borte hardly seemed to notice and held his face in both hands, weeping at his safe return.

‘Let him stand, Borte,’ Genghis muttered at her shoulder. ‘He is old enough to fight and ride with me.’ His wife ignored him and Genghis sighed to himself, his mood mellow.

Genghis felt his chest tighten as he saw Tsubodai trotting through the crowded plain towards him, Jochi at his side. Both men dismounted and Genghis saw that Jochi walked with the springy step of a natural warrior. He had grown an inch taller than the khan, though his dark eyes still reminded Genghis that some other man may have fathered him. He had not known how he would react to Jochi, but on instinct Genghis spoke directly to Tsubodai, ignoring him.

‘Have you carried them all before you, general?’ he said.

Tsubodai responded with a chuckle.

‘I have seen many strange things, my lord khan. I would have gone further if you had not called us back. Is it war, then?’

A shadow crossed Genghis’ face, but he shook his head.

‘Later, Tsubodai, later. I’ll have dogs for you to whip, but Arslan is stepping down as my general and when Jelme comes in, we will feast his life.’

Tsubodai showed sadness as he heard the news.

‘I owe him a great deal, lord. My poet is a fine man. May I offer his service?’

Genghis grinned.

‘For the swordsmith general, I have a dozen poets and storytellers fighting like cats for the honour, but your man may as well join them.’

Genghis could feel Jochi’s mother watching him as he spoke. Borte would be looking for some public acceptance of her first-born son before she too welcomed him home. As silence fell, Genghis turned at last to Jochi. It was hard not to bristle under that flat, black stare. It had been a long time in the camps since any man dared to meet the eyes of the khan in such a way and Genghis felt his heart thump faster, as if he faced an enemy.

‘I am pleased to see you well and strong, father,’ Jochi said, his voice deeper than Genghis had expected. ‘When I left, you were still weak from the assassin’s poison.’

Genghis saw Tsubodai’s hand twitch, as if he wanted to raise it to Jochi in warning. The general had sharper wits than Jochi, it seemed. The young warrior stood proudly before him as if he were not a rape-born whelp, barely welcome in the gers of his family.

Genghis struggled with his temper, very aware of the silent presence of his wife.

‘It seems I am a difficult man to kill,’ he said softly. ‘You are welcome in my camp, Jochi.’

His son remained still, though for Genghis to grant him guest rights like any common warrior was a subtle barb. He had not said the words to Tsubodai or Khasar; they were not needed between friends.

‘You honour me, my lord khan,’ Jochi said, bowing his head so that his father could not see his furious eyes.

Genghis nodded, weighing the young man as Jochi took his mother’s hands gently in his own and bowed, his face pale and strained. Borte’s eyes filled with tears of joy, but there was more restraint between mother and son than there had been with Ogedai. In such an atmosphere, she could not embrace the tall young warrior. Before Genghis could speak again, Jochi turned to his younger brother and all the stiffness left him in a rush.

‘I see you, little man,’ Jochi said.

Ogedai grinned and came forward to punch Jochi on the shoulder, prompting a brief wrestling match that ended with his head jammed into Jochi’s armpit. Genghis watched irritably, wanting to say something else that would prick Jochi’s easy manner. Instead, Jochi walked Ogedai away over his muffled protests at having his head rubbed. The khan had not actually dismissed his son, and Genghis opened his mouth to have him brought back.

‘Your son has learned well, lord,’ Tsubodai said before he could speak. ‘He has commanded a thousand in battles against the warriors of Russia and the men respect him.’

Genghis scowled, knowing the moment had somehow escaped him.

‘You have not raised him too fast?’ he said.

A weaker man might have agreed, but Tsubodai shook his head immediately, loyal to the young man he had fostered for three years.

‘He learned quickly what it means to command, lord, to have every man look to you alone for strength. My poet has many verses about Jochi and the men speak well of the khan’s son. He can lead. I have no greater praise.’

Genghis glanced over to where Jochi was laughing with Ogedai. Together, they looked younger, more like the boys who had grown in his ger. He nodded grudgingly, but when he spoke again, Tsubodai’s hopes fell.

‘Bad blood may come to the surface at any time, general. In a charge, or a battle, he could turn. Be careful not to risk your life on that one.’

Tsubodai could not contradict the khan without giving insult, though he burned to speak against the unfairness. In the end, his struggle remained internal and he bowed his head.

‘Jelme and Chagatai are only three days away,’ Genghis said, his expression lightening. ‘You will see a son of mine then, Tsubodai, and know why I am proud of him. We will light the land with lamps and eat and drink enough so that men will talk of it for years.’

‘As you say, lord,’ Tsubodai replied, hiding his distress. Over three years, he had seen Jochi grow into a fine man, one capable of leading armies. Tsubodai had seen no weaknesses in him and he knew he was a good judge of men. As he followed the khan’s gaze to his oldest son, Tsubodai grieved for the hurt Jochi must feel. No man should ever be rejected by his father. If Jochi had every other general at his feet and the scorn of Genghis, he would feel only the scorn. As Genghis turned away with Khasar and Kachiun, Tsubodai shook his head slightly before he reasserted the cold face and joined the other men in preparing for the feast. Jelme and Chagatai were coming and Tsubodai did not look forward to seeing Genghis praise his second son over the first.