Bones of the Hills

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘You fools!’ he roared. ‘What have you done?’

  The guards would not meet his eyes, but his brother only shrugged. The door in the gate shook suddenly, making them all jump. The bar rattled under an impact and, above, someone fell back from the wall with an arrow in his shoulder. Ibrahim winced as outside Mongol riders howled their frustration.

  ‘You have killed us all,’ Ibrahim said in fury. He felt the cool gaze of the man who had entered Almashan and ignored it. ‘Send him back out to them and they may yet spare us.’

  His brother shrugged. ‘Inshallah,’ he murmured. Their fate was in God’s hands. He had acted and the man was inside their city. The noise from outside increased in volume, making them all sweat.

  The messenger was panting at his narrow deliverance. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees and Ibrahim saw that he had brought the saddlebags with him.

  ‘My name is Yusuf Alghani,’ he said as he recovered. He had not missed the exchange between the two brothers and his eyes were very cold as he addressed Ibrahim. ‘Do not fear for your city. The Mongol animals have no siege weapons. Your walls are safe from them. Be thankful that you did not earn Allah’s displeasure with your cowardice.’

  Ibrahim crushed his rage and frustration to reply.

  ‘For you alone, my brother has put us all in danger. We are a trading city and only our walls keep us safe. What news is so important that you risked your life to come to Almashan?’

  Yusuf smiled, showing very white teeth in his sun-darkened face.

  ‘I have news of a great victory, but not for your ears. Take me to the shah and I will raise his heart.’

  Ibrahim blinked in confusion, looking to his brother and back to this confident young man.

  ‘Shah Mohammed is not in Almashan, brother. Is that what you thought?’

  Yusuf grinned, unabashed.

  ‘Do not play games, my friend. He will want to hear what I know. Take me to him and I will not mention how you nearly let me die before your walls.’

  Ibrahim spluttered in confusion.

  ‘Truly, he is not in Almashan. Is he coming here? Let me have drinks and food brought for you. Tell me what you know and I will pass it on when the shah arrives.’

  The messenger’s smile faded slowly as he understood, replaced by a great weariness.

  ‘I had hoped he would be here,’ he muttered to himself.

  Ibrahim watched as the young man tapped the fingers of one hand on the leather saddlebags, as if the contents had grown too hot to hold comfortably.

  ‘I must leave,’ Yusuf said suddenly. He bowed to Ibrahim, though the gesture was formal and stiff. ‘My words are for the shah alone and, if he is not in this place, I must travel to the next city. Perhaps they will not make me wait until the very last moment to let me in.’

  Ibrahim would have replied, but the noise at the gate ceased as suddenly as it had begun. With a nervous glance at his idiot brother, he raced back up the stone steps to the walls. The other men followed him and together they gazed out.

  The Mongols were riding away. Ibrahim breathed in relief and thanked Allah for his city. How many times had the council complained of the cost when he had reinforced and repaired the crumbling walls? He had been right and a thousand times right. The Mongols could not assault his home without their stone-throwers, perhaps not even then. Almashan scorned their swords and bows. Ibrahim watched in delight as the enemy warriors rode clear without looking back.

  ‘They are clever,’ Yusuf said at his shoulder. ‘It could be that they seek to lull us. I have seen it before. Do not trust them, master.’

  Ibrahim’s confidence had grown and he was expansive as he replied.

  ‘They cannot break our walls, Yusuf. Now, will you take cool drinks in my house? I am curious to know the messages you carry.’

  To his frustration, the young man shook his head, his attention still on the Mongol riders.

  ‘I will not stay here. Not when the shah is close by. He must be told. Greater cities than this one depend on me reaching him.’

  Before Ibrahim could reply, the man leaned over the parapet, looking down.

  ‘Did they kill my horse?’ he asked.

  Ibrahim’s brother cleared his throat.

  ‘They took it,’ he said. Yusuf swore as he went on. ‘I have a good mount, a mare. You could have her.’

  ‘I will buy her from you,’ Yusuf replied.

  Ibrahim’s brother bowed his head, though he was relieved at the offer.

  ‘She is very strong. For the shah’s man, I will give you an excellent price,’ he said.

  Ibrahim could only stand with his fists clenched as his brother sent a man to bring his second-best mare to the gate. The young messenger strode back down the stone steps and Ibrahim was forced to follow with the others. He could not help glancing at the bulging saddlebags once more, silently considering whether the contents would be worth cutting a man’s throat. As the thought formed, Yusuf seemed to sense it and smiled again.

  ‘There is nothing of value in my bags, master,’ he said. He reached up and tapped his head. ‘My messages are all in here.’

  Ibrahim coloured, flustered that the young man had guessed his thoughts. When the mare came, the messenger inspected the animal with the eye of one who knew horses. At last he was satisfied and paid Ibrahim’s brother more than he had asked, honouring him. Sourly, Ibrahim watched the young man check the belly strap and reins. Above their heads, the guards called that the way was clear.

  ‘I would pay well to hear those messages,’ Ibrahim said suddenly. To his surprise, the messenger hesitated. ‘In gold,’ Ibrahim went on, sensing the first weakness.

  ‘Very well, master,’ Yusuf replied. ‘I need funds to continue my search for the shah. But it must be quick.’

  As Ibrahim fought to hide his pleasure, the messenger passed the reins to a guard and followed him to the nearest house. The family within made no protest when Ibrahim told them to leave. In just moments, he was alone with the messenger, almost quivering to hear the news.

  ‘The gold you promised?’ Yusuf said softly.

  In his excitement, Ibrahim did not hesitate. He took a full pouch from under his robe, still warm and damp from his skin. The younger man hefted it, glancing at the contents with a wry smile before making it disappear.

  ‘This is for you alone, master,’ Yusuf said, his voice almost a whisper. ‘My poverty forces me to speak, but it is not for all ears.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Ibrahim urged. ‘It will go no further.’

  ‘Bukhara has fallen, but the garrison at Samarkand achieved a great victory. The khan’s army was shattered in the field. For this year alone, they are weak. If the shah returns to lead his loyal cities, he will have all their heads. If he comes, master. That is why I must find him quickly.’

  ‘Allah be praised,’ Ibrahim whispered. ‘I see now why you cannot delay.’

  The messenger pressed his hands to his forehead, lips and heart in the ancient gesture.

  ‘I am the shah’s servant in this, master. The blessing of Allah on you and your honourable house. Now I must ride.’

  Ibrahim moved quickly then, striding with more confidence back to the gate. He felt the eyes of all his men on him and even his foolish brother stared as if he might discern what the messages had been.

  Once more the small door in the gate opened to let in sunlight and air to that stifling place under the walls. The messenger bowed to Ibrahim and then led his mount through the gap. The door was shut and barred behind him and he dug in his heels, riding hard across the dusty ground.

  It was sunset before Yusuf caught up with the tuman of Tsubodai and Jebe. He rode into the makeshift camp they had made, acknowledging the calls of warriors. He was nineteen years old and more than pleased with himself. Even Tsubodai smiled at the young Arab’s confidence as he dismounted with a flourish and bowed before the two generals.

  ‘Is the shah there?’ Tsubodai asked.

  Yusuf shook his head
. ‘They would have told me, general.’

  Tsubodai pursed his lips in annoyance. The shah and his sons were like wraiths. The Mongols had chased the man and his guards right through to the end of summer and still he evaded them. Tsubodai had placed his hopes on him going to ground in the city on the river, its walls too high for an assault.

  ‘He is a slippery fish, that old man,’ Jebe said. ‘But we will catch him in the end. He cannot get south past our lines without someone seeing him, even with the men he has left.’

  Tsubodai grunted.

  ‘I wish I could be so certain. He had the wit to send his men on a false trail. We almost lost him then and it is much harder to track just a few.’ He rubbed his arm where one of the shah’s guards had surprised him. It had been a well-laid ambush, but the guards had been vastly outnumbered. Though it took time, Tsubodai and Jebe had slaughtered them to the last man. They had checked the face of every dead Arab, but they had all been young and strong. Tsubodai bit his lip at the memory. ‘He could hide himself in a single cave and scrub out his tracks. We could have ridden past him already.’

  ‘They know nothing in the city, general,’ Yusuf said. ‘The shah did not stop for supplies anywhere near here. The slavers would have heard and told me.’ He had expected to be congratulated on the success of his subterfuge, though it had been Tsubodai’s idea. Instead, the two generals were back to their discussions as if it had been nothing. He did not mention the pouch of gold he had won with a few lies. They had noticed the new mare he had brought back and would consider that enough of a reward for his work. The Mongol generals did not need to know everything.

  ‘The scouts report a dozen villages and towns further west of here,’ Jebe replied after glancing at Yusuf. ‘If he has passed through, someone will remember an armed group and an old man. We will drive him onwards, further and further from his cities. He cannot run for ever.’

  ‘He has managed this far,’ Tsubodai snapped. He turned to Yusuf, who still stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘You did well, Yusuf. Now leave us.’

  The young man bowed deeply. It was a good thing they paid well, these Mongols. If the shah could evade them until winter came again, Yusuf would be a rich man. As he walked back through the camp, he nodded and smiled to some of the warriors he knew. They were quiet as the evening came, as wolves were quiet when there was no prey in range. He saw them sharpening their swords and repairing arrows, slow and steady in their work. Yusuf shuddered delicately. He had heard of the attack on their women and children. He would not like to see what happened when they finally caught the shah and his sons.

  Jelaudin rubbed his eyes, furious at his own weakness. He could not let his three brothers see his air of confidence fade, not when they looked to him every day with fear and hope.

  He winced in the darkness at his father’s labouring breath, in and out in a slow wheeze that seemed to go on for ever. Every time it ceased, Jelaudin listened in despair, not knowing what he would do if the silence stretched and stretched around him.

  The Mongols had brought the old man down, just as if they had struck him with one of their shafts. The pursuit across plains and mountains had never allowed the shah to rest and recover. Damp ground and torrential rain had meant they all suffered colds and aching joints. At more than sixty years of age, the old man was like a bull, but the damp had seeped into his lungs and torn the strength right out of him. Jelaudin could feel tears spring fresh to his eyes and he rubbed them too hard, digging the heels of his hands into the sockets so that the pain would ease his anger.

  He had never been hunted before. In the first month, it was like a game to him. He and his brothers had laughed at the Mongols on their trail, coming up with ridiculous plans to lose them. As the rains had come, they had laid false trails, split their force, then split it again. They had ordered men to their deaths in ambushes that barely seemed to slow the implacable enemy who streamed after them.

  Jelaudin listened as his father’s breath crackled in the dark. His lungs were full of thick muck and he would wake soon, choking on it. Jelaudin would pound him on the back as he had so many times before, until the old man’s skin lost its waxy look and he could rise for one more day on the run.

  ‘Curse them all to hell,’ Jelaudin whispered. The Mongols must have had men who could follow the path of a bird in flight. Four times Jelaudin had risked turning his father back to the south. On each occasion, they had seen a distant line of scouts, spread wide and watching for just such an attempt. On the last, they had been forced to run to exhaustion, finally losing themselves in a city market. Jelaudin had barely escaped with his life and his father’s coughing had started two nights later, after sleeping on wet ground.

  It had hurt the brothers to send the last guards away. It was just too easy to track large groups of men, or even the last few dozen who had stayed doggedly with the shah they had pledged to serve. Now only Jelaudin remained with his three younger brothers to tend their father. They had changed their clothes and horses too many times to recall. They had only a little gold left for food and supplies, and when that was gone, Jelaudin truly did not know what would happen. He touched a small pouch of gems, hidden under his robe, taking comfort from the glassy click as he rolled them against each other. Away from the moneylenders in the great cities, he was not sure how he could sell even one safely. It was infuriating. He and his brothers could not live off the land the way the Mongols could. He had been born to silk, with servants to answer his slightest whim.

  His father choked in the gloom and Jelaudin reached to him, helping him sit up. He could not remember the name of the small town where they had stopped. Perhaps the Mongols were riding into the outskirts even as the shah heaved for breath.

  Jelaudin shook his head, despairing. One more night on the ground would have killed his father, he was sure of it. If it was Allah’s will that they be taken that night, at least it would be in dry clothes, with a meal inside their shrunken bellies. Better that than to have the wolves fall on them as they slept in fields like lambs.

  ‘My son?’ his father called, his voice querulous.

  Jelaudin pressed a cool hand to his father’s forehead, almost recoiling from the heat there. A fever was raging through him and he was not certain the old man even knew him.

  ‘Shh, father. You will wake the stable boys here. We are safe for the night.’

  His father tried to say something else, but a coughing fit broke the words into meaningless bursts of sound. The shah leaned over the edge of the bed to hawk and spit weakly into the bucket. Jelaudin grimaced at the sound. Dawn was close and he had not slept; could not sleep with his father needing him.

  The Caspian Sea was more than a hundred miles west of that shabby little town in the middle of moonlit fields. Jelaudin had never travelled beyond it. He could hardly imagine the lands or the people there, but he would be hiding among them if the Mongol line continued to sweep them further and further from home. He and his brothers were desperate to break through those who herded them, but how could it be done? He had even left three men hidden under wet leaves, so that the Mongols would pass them by. If they had survived, they would have brought help as winter came, surely? Every noise in the night was terrifying to the shah and his sons and there were no smiles any more at the enemy who would not stop, would not ever stop until they ran them into the ground.

  Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed sank back exhausted onto the straw pallet Jelaudin had found for him. His sons would sleep in the filthy stable and still it was better than anything they had known for months. Jelaudin listened to his father’s breathing become quieter and silently cursed the old man for his illness. They seemed to travel a shorter distance each day and Jelaudin doubted the Mongols moved as slowly.

  As his father slept, Jelaudin considered going to ground, as he had all through the hot months. He had needed the horses while there was a chance of breaking through, but if they sold or killed the animals and entered a city as a group of travellers, how c
ould the Mongols ever find them? They were only men, for all the fiendish skill of their trackers. He had urged the shah to stop at the ancient slave city of Almashan, but the old man would not hear of hiding like beggars. The very idea seemed to wound him. It had been hard enough to stop his father announcing their presence to the city elders and defying the Mongols from the walls.

  To stop was to die, Jelaudin was certain of it. The army chasing his father brought terror with them and few cities would sacrifice their own families for the shah and his sons. The moment the Mongols surrounded a city, Jelaudin knew he would be handed over, or murdered in his sleep. He had few choices left. Jelaudin stared through the darkness at the man who had given orders all his life. It was a hard thing to accept that the shah was too frail to know best how to avoid the animals on their trail. Though Jelaudin was the oldest son, he did not feel ready to scorn his father’s will.

  ‘We will stop, father,’ he whispered suddenly. ‘We will hide the horses and ourselves in a town. We have enough money to live simply while you recover your strength. They will pass us by. Let them be blind, Allah. If it is your will, let them pass us by.’

  His father could not hear through his delirium, the fever working its way into his lungs and leaving less and less each day to draw breath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On the outskirts of the town of Nur, Genghis strolled with his wives and brothers behind a cart drawn by camels. Though the days were short in winter, the breeze barely carried a chill. For those who had known ice and snow every year of their childhood, it was almost a spring day. His mind was clear and calm for the first time in months and he looked with pride as little Tolui managed the animals with a slap of the reins. His youngest son was barely fourteen, but the wedding ceremony had come at the demand of the girl’s father. Two years older than Tolui, she already nursed a baby boy in her ger and was pregnant with another child. It had taken a word from Borte to Genghis to make the marriage happen before one of the girl’s relatives was reluctantly forced to declare blood feud on the khan’s son.