The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  “Horses first!” he shouted again, and dropped his hand.

  The crack that followed made his heart race. A hundred long shafts soared out, hardly slowing before they hit the emerging horsemen. The first rank collapsed like a burst waterskin, horses and men falling on the dusty ground. Samuka raised his hand again and dropped it almost immediately, knowing the next hundred would be ready. Nothing could resist such hammering blows. Though the Arabs wore armor and carried shields, they fell hard with their horses, then more arrows impaled those who staggered to their feet.

  The air above the gates filled with whirring shafts as the archers on the walls bent and loosed. Samuka ducked instinctively, though the barriers protected him. Those that shot high dropped on the shields of his men. They were experienced and took the blows with a light hand, soaking up the impacts.

  Still the riders came out. Samuka sent volley after volley at the lines until there were hills of dead men and horses before Otrar. Some of his men died as arrows from the walls beat past their guard, but it was only a few.

  Lulls came as the garrison used their own wooden barricades to clear the bodies. It took time and the Mongols were pleased to wait before beginning the slaughter once more. Even then, Samuka despaired as he estimated the arrows remaining. If every shot took a life, it would still come to swords in the end.

  The brutal exchange went on. If the garrison were willing to ride straight out, Samuka could at least hold them until dark, he was almost sure. His confidence was on the rise when he saw fresh movement on the walls. He glanced up quickly, assuming it was a change of men, or arrows being brought up to them. He grimaced at the sight of ropes spilling over the crest and soldiers clambering down, burning their hands in the need to reach the ground quickly.

  Samuka swore, though he had expected it. Already, hundreds were forming up out of his range, and all the time, his men sent shafts into the gateway, killing screaming riders as they struggled to break out. Samuka summoned a scout and sent him to Ho Sa on the other side of the city. If the warriors there were still untouched, he could bring a few hundred around and sweep the new threat away. As Samuka watched, more and more ropes became black with climbing men and the ranks on the ground grew thicker and more confident. His heart sank as he saw them begin to run toward his position, swords and shields bright in the afternoon sun. Once more he dropped his hand to send arrows at riders urging their mounts over their own dead. He could not maneuver until the arrows were gone.

  If the Otrar officers had decided to take a wide route around him, Samuka would have been forced to cut them off. It was too early to allow them to ride in support of the Shah. Samuka watched them carefully, but in his rage and excitement, the governor had clearly ordered them to sweep the Mongols away. They came at the run and Samuka had his mobile five hundred meet them with arrows as they closed, the shafts tearing through their ranks. More and more climbed out of the city, and Samuka clenched his jaw in anger and frustration as the first garrison soldiers met his.

  While his men fought savagely, four hundred Mongol riders came racing round the city and charged straight at the infantry of Otrar. At first they cut through them, loosing one vicious wave of shafts before they drew their swords and fell to the killing. The garrison buckled under the onslaught, but every Mongol warrior was met by three or four Arab soldiers. Samuka saw their numbers dwindle as the charge came to a shuddering halt. Assailed on all sides, they fought well and no one broke, but the Arabs cut them down until just a few dozen remained in the press, hacking desperately at anything they could reach. They too fell at last and Samuka groaned aloud as almost ten thousand of the garrison re-formed. He had one last bone to throw and it would not be enough.

  Inside the iron gate, he could see lines of fresh cavalry, shouting and holding up their shields. They knew they had the victory.

  Wearily, Samuka pulled the silk banner from where he had stuffed it under a saddle cloth. The breeze made it flutter as he raised it over his head. He looked up at the hill behind the city and felt a shadow pass over his face before he heard the crack of the catapults.

  Pottery balls shattered against the gate into Otrar, each as large as a man could carry. Samuka held out an arrow with the head bound in oil-soaked cloth and let a warrior light it from a shuttered lamp. He saw two more clay pots break in the gate, sending a horseman tumbling. Samuka sighted carefully and let the arrow go.

  He was rewarded by a rush of flame that enveloped the gate and incinerated all those trying to come through it. The Chin fire oil was terrible to see, the heat so intense that many of the Mongol ponies danced back from it until they were brought under control. The catapults on the hill sent more clay pots over the heads of his men, adding to the inferno until the gate itself began to glow dull red. Samuka knew he could ignore the gate for a time. No one could cross those flames and live. He had intended to join Ho Sa on the other side while the first one roared in flames, but the plan was ruined by the mass of soldiers who had climbed down.

  As his men turned their bows on the Arab infantry and crumpled them, Samuka shook his head to clear it. Foot soldiers could not trouble Genghis, he reminded himself. One sharp blast on a scout horn had his men turning their horses to him.

  Samuka used his sword to point and kicked his mount forward, passing close enough to the fiery gate to feel its warmth on his cheek. Even as he did so, the city vomited fresh soldiers down the ropes to replace the dead, but no enemy remained to face them.

  It was strange to leave a battle behind. Otrar was not a small city and Samuka saw blurred figures on the walls as he and his men raced along in their shadow, alone with the rhythm of hooves and the smell of smoke. He did not know how long the supply of Chin fire oil would last, and he suffered at the thought that a better thinker would have found a way to hold both gates.

  He heard Ho Sa’s men before he saw them, and Samuka drew his bow from its holder, an extension of his strong right arm. The walls rushed by and the sound grew until he came upon a scene of bloody chaos.

  Ho Sa had struggled to hold the second gate, Samuka saw at a glance. Without the catapults, he and his men had been driven back by waves of soldiers. They roared at the Mongols, berserk to the point of pulling arrows from their own flesh as they marched and leaving bloody footsteps on the ground.

  Samuka’s last thousand men hit them from behind, cutting into the Arab regiments in an impact so colossal that they smashed almost through to Ho Sa’s core of warriors in one sweep. Samuka felt them slowing around him as horses were killed, or hemmed in too close by dying enemies. He reached for an arrow, but found nothing and threw down the bow as he drew his sword once more.

  He could see Ho Sa fighting for every step as the warriors were pushed back. Samuka grunted and hacked with all his strength to reach him, but more and more men came rushing round the city after him and he felt as if he were being swallowed in a dark and roaring sea.

  The sun was dipping toward the west. Samuka realized he had been fighting for hours, but it was not long enough. The second gate was a hundred paces away and no flames burned there. He could see horsemen coming out and they did not join the others. Samuka cried out in rage and despair as they streamed away in a ragged column. Even a small number of cavalry hitting the khan’s rear could mean the difference between life and death.

  Samuka blinked blood out of his eyes as he kicked a man away from his right stirrup. Of the men Khasar had left him, just a few hundred still lived. They had killed many more than their own number, but this was the end. Somehow, Samuka had thought he would survive it, despite the odds. The image of his body cooling on the ground was beyond his imagination.

  Samuka shouted Ho Sa’s name across the swarming heads and hands of men clutching at him. He could feel their fingers tugging at his legs, and he kicked wildly and slashed with his sword as Ho Sa saw him. Perhaps for a moment, the Xi Xia officer thought he was calling for aid, but Samuka gestured with his sword after the fleeing cavalry. As Ho Sa turned to follow the g
esture, Samuka saw him gashed across the neck, blood gushing as he collapsed.

  Samuka howled in fury as he brought his blade down on fingers digging into his thighs. Bearded faces clustered so thickly around him that his horse came to a halt, and Samuka felt a sudden calm, mingling with surprise. Khasar had not come back. He was lost and alone and all his men were dying.

  Hands gained purchase on some part of his armor, and to his horror, Samuka felt himself begin to slip. He killed another man with a wild swing, but then his arm was trapped and the sword torn from his hand. His horse lurched with unseen wounds and the men around him were so close that he could see their red throats as they yelled. Samuka slid into the mass, still flailing. The setting sun vanished as he fell at the feet of stamping, stabbing men. The pain was worse than he had feared. He told himself that he had done all he could, but it was still a hard death and the garrison of Otrar was out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EVEN OVER THE NOISE OF GALLOPING HOOVES, Tsubodai could hear the crackle of feathers at his ear as he drew his bow. He rose from the saddle and sighted on the front legs of an elephant that was coming at him like a landslide. On every side, his men copied the action, and when he released, a black blur of arrows snapped out. None of the warriors had to think about their actions. They had trained for it ever since they had been tied to a sheep and taught to ride at two or three years old. Before the first arrows hit, they had a second on the string. Powerful cords of muscle swelled in their right shoulders as they pulled back again.

  The elephants bellowed and reared in pain, swinging their heads from side to side. Tsubodai saw shafts sink into the massive gray legs, catching them in full stride and breaking the rhythm of the charge. Half of the enormous animals stumbled as a leg buckled. Others raised their trunks and showed yellow tusks in enraged challenge. If anything the speed increased, but the second wave of arrows cracked out and the elephants shuddered with the impacts. Arrows snagged between their legs, wrenching at wounds.

  Tsubodai reached automatically for another arrow, but his fingers closed on an empty quiver. He was almost at the Shah’s cavalry by then, and he dropped his bow back into the stiff leather fold on his saddle and raised his sword over his right shoulder, ready to chop down.

  The men around him loosed one last shaft at the approaching lines, and Tsubodai stood in his stirrups as he saw the closest elephants rear on their hind legs, wild with pain. Their handlers screamed, beating wildly as they were spun around. His heart seemed to slow as he saw one of them plucked off a broad back and thrown to the ground with appalling force. The elephants turned in agony from the line of galloping warriors, knocking down horses and men.

  Tsubodai shouted in triumph as the massive animals retreated blindly into the Shah’s ranks. They cut lines through the advancing soldiers as if they waded through thick grass, using their tusks to toss aside fully grown men. Nothing could stop them in their madness. In just moments, Tsubodai faced broken front ranks, dazed and bloodied by the passing beasts. Some of the Arabs recovered quickly enough to send their own arrows whirring from double-curved bows. Mongol warriors and horses were cut down, but the others showed their teeth and rode. In the last instants before the forces met, Tsubodai picked his man and guided his pony with knees alone.

  The Mongol warriors went over the first line into chaos. Tsubodai took the head of one soldier, then almost lost his seat as another aimed a blow at him and he ducked under it. As Tsubodai rose, he held out his blade and his shoulder wrenched at the impact against armor. His low stance and weight kept him in the saddle as an Arab fell and Tsubodai found himself in one of the bloody tracks the elephants had left. He could still see them charging away, tormented and blind to the destruction in their wake. Tsubodai silently thanked the monstrous animals as he looked around for another enemy.

  The Shah’s ranks had been shocked into immobility by the rampaging elephants. Arab archers scattered, dying as they bawled orders in fear while the Mongols came in hard, taking wounds without a sound while they hacked and chopped. Good blades were ruined on Arab armor, but their arms rose and fell without respite, and if a shield stopped one strike, they whipped another in above or below, cutting legs and throats. They were faster than those who faced them. Tsubodai clashed with a huge, bearded Arab, fighting in a mindless frenzy. Tsubodai could smell the man’s sweat as he used his pony’s shoulder to knock him off balance. In the instant before he was past, Tsubodai saw the curved sword had no guard and let his blade slide, cutting three fingers cleanly so that the weapon spun away. The Shah’s men were large and Tsubodai wondered if they had been picked for their strength more than skill. Their blows hammered at his warriors, but again and again, Mongols ducked or swayed away, cutting back where they could and moving on. Many of the Shah’s soldiers took three or four wounds before blood loss felled them.

  Tsubodai saw hundreds of foot soldiers gather around a horseman riding a black stallion. Even at a distance, he could see the animal was very fine. Its rider was yelling orders and men formed up with him, making a wedge. Tsubodai braced for a counterattack, but instead they raised shields and began a fighting retreat back to the main lines.

  The Mongol general did not have to give new orders. His minghaan officers were on their own and four of them sensed the withdrawal and raced to attack. Arrows would have slaughtered the retreating soldiers, but there were none left and the Arab ranks stayed together in good order, leaving hills of the dead behind them.

  In the distance, Tsubodai heard scout horns moaning across the land. He looked up and saw the tumans of Genghis riding in. The khan had entered the field at last and Tsubodai wiped his eyes of sweat, filled with a terrible pleasure.

  His men had shattered those sent against them, but Tsubodai still chafed. The orderly withdrawal had done its work, preventing him from collapsing the lines in on themselves and cutting the head from the Shah’s main army. He and his men milled around on the edge of the battle, some still engaged in fighting the last few knots of weary infantry. Tsubodai wondered who the young officer had been who had prevented a complete rout. The man had held his soldiers together in the fire of battle, and Tsubodai added the knowledge to what he knew of the enemy. The Shah had at least one competent officer under his command, it seemed.

  The minghaans re-formed in a landscape of broken men, littered armor and weapons. Some of them dismounted to yank precious arrows out of flesh, but only a few were good enough to be used again. Tsubodai felt his heartbeat settle and took in the battlefield, judging where he was needed. The Shah’s army was out of the passes and he could see the tumans of Jebe and Jochi cutting them bloody in the rear. The sun was deep in the west and he thought Genghis would hardly have time to attack before the light faded.

  Tsubodai nodded to himself. He could see the last of the Shah’s infantry were back on the flank, staring out balefully at the Mongol warriors milling amongst the bodies. Most of the elephants had vanished, though some lay kicking where they had been hit with more arrows from the Shah’s own ranks, rather than letting them smash through. Tsubodai was tired and he ached in a dozen places, but the battle was far from over.

  “Form on me!” he shouted, and those who heard responded. As the Shah’s ranks marched past, fresh foot soldiers came under Tsubodai’s cold gaze. He could hardly believe it, but the Shah’s soldiers were so determined to reach Otrar that they pressed on regardless of the attacking forces.

  Tsubodai shook his head. The generals had shown the strength of mobile forces, with the officers acting on their own. Yet the Shah’s army lumbered on, holding to a single command no matter what faced them. Tsubodai thought the Shah as ruthless as Genghis himself in the way he spent his men.

  As Jelme’s men formed with his into columns, Tsubodai saw frightened faces turn toward him in the Shah’s army. They knew what was coming, even as he made the decision. He watched them bend their bows and make ready.

  Tsubodai reached for the scout’s horn at his neck, only to find it in two piec
es, cut by a blow he could not remember. He swore to himself, blind to the grins his words produced in those close by.

  “With me!” he bellowed. To his left, Jelme’s men dug in their heels and rode.

  Genghis had pushed hard for twenty miles to be in that place, changing to fresh mounts when the battle was in sight. He saw the Shah had come clear of the hills, but there was no help for that. He looked along the lines to where his son Chagatai galloped and further to Khasar. Fully fifty thousand men rode at his back, with a great tail of spare horses riding behind them. Yet they faced an army that stretched further than he could see. Tsubodai’s flags were barely visible on his left, attacking the flanks. Behind the Arab host, dust clouds roiled and raged. Genghis thought Samuka and Ho Sa would be dead by then, but Otrar was far away and its garrison could not reach the battle that day. He had done all he could, but this was the final fling of the bones. It came to this and he had no other plan except to hit the Shah’s column and envelop it in horns.

  Genghis snapped an order to a bannerman and heard the fluttering as a gold flag went up. All along the line, thousands of bows creaked. The Shah’s army tried to brace for the impact, though their officers urged them on. No one wanted to face these grim warriors again, but there was nowhere to go. They screamed defiance as the gold flag dipped and the air blackened.

  The Mongol lines struck at full speed, roaring, the sheer pace as dangerous as the weapons they carried. The wide Mongol horns spilled around the head of the Shah’s army, racing along the flanks and cutting in. The light was already gray as the armies met, the sun sinking over the west. The evening was clear and perfect as the Mongols flung themselves at the host of their enemy.

  Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed cried out in shock as a line of Mongols cut right through to him. His mounted guard slaughtered them to a man, but he was surrounded on all sides and half his army could not bring their weapons to bear. The Shah was close to panic as he looked in every direction. It would be dark very soon and yet the Mongols still fought like madmen. They did not make a sound, even when life was ripped from them. The Shah could only shake his head at such a display. Did they not feel pain? His son Jelaudin believed they were more like dumb animals than men, and he could have been right.