The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  The blade came loose and she fell backwards, her arm covered in his blood. The Arab slumped and fell almost beside her, so that for an instant, their eyes met. She struck out again in panic, but he was already dead.

  She stood then, her chest heaving as she was filled with a dark pleasure. Let them all die in such a way, with their bowels opening and their bladders darkening the ground! She heard galloping hooves and looked up dazedly as another Arab stallion came to smash her from her feet. She could not move in time and the exhilaration of the kill left her to be replaced by a vast weariness.

  Facing the Arab soldier, she saw Yao Shu before he did. The Buddhist monk shot across the face of the horse, aiming a heavy stick at a foreleg. She heard a crack and the animal went down hard. As she watched in a daze, it turned right over in front of her, crushing the man on its back. Chakahai could only stare at the kicking legs, seeing that one of them hung at a vicious angle. She felt Yao Shu’s hands pulling her between gers and then the world came back in a rush and she began to retch weakly.

  The little monk moved as jerkily as a bird, looking for the next threat. He caught her staring at him and only nodded, raising the stick he had used in salute.

  “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. She would reward him, if they survived it, she promised herself. Genghis would honor him before them all.

  “Come with me,” he said, letting his hand rest briefly on her shoulder before he led the way through the gers away from the fire. Chakahai looked at the blood staining the wrap on her right hand and felt only satisfaction at the memory. Genghis would be proud of her, if he still lived.

  Ala-ud-Din turned his head as he heard a series of short, hard sounds. He did not understand the words, only that men were coming. His stomach twisted in panic that the khan had tracked him down already. He bawled new orders for his men to leave the gers and face the enemy. Many of them were lost to him in an orgy of destruction, their faces wild with fanatic madness. Yet Jelaudin heard as he raced in, and two more of his sons repeated the orders, shouting until they were hoarse.

  The smoke was thick and at first Ala-ud-Din could see nothing, hear nothing but approaching hooves. The sound echoed through the encampment and his mouth went dry. Surely there were thousands coming for his head?

  Out of the smoke, horses came at full gallop, the whites of their eyes showing clearly as they ran. They had no men on their backs, but in that confined place, they could not stop for the Shah’s men. With Jelaudin, Ala-ud-Din was fast enough to dodge behind a ger, but others reacted too slowly. The horses ran like a river bursting its banks through the camp, and many of his guards were knocked down and trampled.

  Behind the Mongol mounts came the maimed men. Ala-ud-Din heard their battle cries as they raced by in the host of horses. They were both young and old, many without limbs. One of them turned to kill the Shah, and Ala-ud-Din saw the man carried only a heavy stick in his left hand. His right was missing. The Mongol warrior died swiftly under Jelaudin’s sword, but some of them held bows and the Shah shuddered at the song of arrows in the air once more. He had heard it too often over the previous month.

  The smell of blood and fire was in the air, too thick to breathe as more and more gers took flame. Ala-ud-Din looked for his officers, but they were all defending themselves. He felt surrounded, helpless in the confining maze of gers.

  “With me! To your Shah! With me!” he roared, digging in his heels. He had barely been able to hold his horse in place. Released, the animal moved like it had been shot from a bow, careering across the camp and leaving the smoke and terror behind.

  Jelaudin repeated his order and the survivors followed, as relieved as their master to be away from the fighting. The Shah rode blindly, standing high on his stirrups for some sign that he was heading the right way. Where was the river? He would have given a second son for an elephant’s height to let him see his way out. Even as his men fought free of the stampeding horses and the maimed men, he saw lines of children, boys and girls alike, rushing along the gers on either side. Arrows flew at his men and knives were thrown, but none fell and he did not stop until the river was in sight.

  There was no time to look for a fording place. The Shah plunged into the freezing water, the shock of it numbing him as spray spattered on all sides. Allah be thanked it is not too deep! he thought as his horse surged across to the far bank. He almost fell from the saddle as the animal struggled up through mud worn smooth by the river. At last he had firm ground under him and he rested, panting and looking back at the burning camp.

  Kokchu cowered in the shadow of a ger as Arab warriors raced past, unaware of him. The maimed warriors pursued them with guttural yells, and they were fearsome to behold. Kokchu had tended many of their wounds and cut limbs from screaming men as helpless as babies, but those who had lived had nothing left to lose. Men who could not walk could yet ride, and many of them gave their lives willingly, knowing that they would never again have a chance to fight for the khan. Kokchu saw one who was missing his right leg to the knee. His balance was all wrong, but when the Arabs slowed on the narrow paths, the warrior caught a straggler and threw himself at him, sending them both to the ground. The warrior held on tightly, desperate to kill before his enemy regained his feet. They had fallen next to Kokchu and the shaman saw the warrior’s gaze fall on him, desperate for help.

  Kokchu stood back, though he fingered his knife nervously. The felled Arab plunged a knife into the warrior’s side and ripped it back and forth with savage strength. Still the man fought on, his arms iron strong from years supporting his weight. One of them was around the Arab’s throat and it tightened convulsively, the fingers crushing. The Arab choked and stabbed in a frenzy as he grew purple.

  Kokchu darted forward and used his knife to slit the Arab’s throat, gashing the warrior’s fingers as he did so. Blood poured as both men died together, but Kokchu stepped in, his fear vanishing in rage at a helpless enemy. As the Arab fell back, Kokchu jammed in the knife again and again, keening mindlessly to himself until he was chopping at dead meat.

  He rose panting, his hands on his knees as he sucked great lungfuls of warm air. In the gloom of a nearby ger, he saw Genghis’s sister Temulun staring at him and wondered what she thought she had seen. She smiled then and he relaxed. He could not have saved the maimed warrior, he was almost sure.

  The flames around Kokchu seemed to heat his blood, perhaps also the wildness that came from feeling death pulse under his hands. He felt strong as he took three strides to the ger and pushed his way in with her, yanking the door closed behind them. The thought of her golden skin taut with lines of dried blood filled his mind, maddening him. She was not strong enough to resist as he pulled her deel from her shoulders, exposing her to the waist. The lines he had drawn were still there, pathetic proof of her faith. He began to devour them, licking off the bitter taste. He felt her hands striking at him, but they were distant and brought no pain. He told himself she felt the same passion as he pushed her back on the low bed, ignoring the desperate cries that no one else would hear. Part of him screamed that it was madness, but he was lost for a time as he moved in her, his eyes like black glass.

  Tsubodai and Jebe had seen the smoke from afar and arrived at the camp in the early evening, their horses lathered and exhausted. Almost ten thousand gers had been burned and the stink of it was sour on the breeze. Even then, there were hundreds of women and children roaming the camp with leather buckets, pouring river water on anything that still smoldered.

  Dozens of the Shah’s guard lay dead on the ground to be kicked and abused by children as they passed by. Tsubodai came across the bodies of five girls lying sprawled between a ger. He dismounted and knelt with them for a time, saying quiet words of apology that they could not hear.

  When he rose, Jebe was there and both men shared a complete understanding. The Shah would not escape them, no matter where he ran.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE NATION HAD GATHERED AROUND OTRAR, holding it in
a fist. In normal times, the idea of the khan’s sons running a race would have been an event for the warriors. They would have wagered fortunes on which brother would be first to touch the walls of the city. In the end, when Jochi staggered in with Chagatai some way behind, their arrival went almost unnoticed. The nation waited for news that the camp was safe, and every man there had parents, wives, or children. Jochi’s tuman had not met his eyes when he caught sight of the tiger skin draped across his horse. The beast’s dried head had been roughly hacked from it, the sole sign that Genghis had not forgotten his sons fighting in front of the ranks. Jochi had fingered the torn skin in silence for a time, then turned away.

  When the first riders came a day later, the tumans reeled at the news, everything they had feared. For a time, they were left with hope that their families might have been spared, but Khasar arrived with the survivors and the dead. Warriors ran to each cart as it came in, searching for their wives and children. Others waited in silent agony as the weary women passed them, desperate for a face they knew. Some were rewarded by a sharp cry and an embrace. Most were left standing, alone.

  It took more than a month to collect every fallen warrior on the path back through the hills in the south. The Arabs were left to rot, but those who had fought for Genghis were brought in and treated with honor. Their bodies were stripped of armor and wrapped in soft white felt before being taken on carts to the highest peaks they could see and laid out for the hawks and eagles of that realm. The women who had died were tended by their sisters and mothers, with Chakahai, Borte, and Hoelun overseeing the grim work.

  Genghis had come to view the dead face of his sister when she was brought in. She had been found naked, with her throat cut in one great slash. His grief had been terrible to see. It was one more crime to bring to the feet of the Shah. His mother had aged overnight at the news, so that Hoelun seemed constantly dazed and had to be taken by the arm wherever she went. She had lost a son many years before, and ancient wounds bled again, leaving her ruined with tears. When Genghis turned his gaze on Otrar, those who saw knew the city would be reduced to dust in a hot wind.

  The catapults had been destroyed on their hill, deliberately set on fire as the Otrar garrison broke out and raced away to their own destruction. Twelve good men had been found around the charred timbers, cut down as they held their posts to the last. Genghis had merely grunted when that news reached him and set his Chin artisans to making more with Koryon lumber. The end of summer was quiet as they rested and recovered, with simmering rage always close to the surface. The city waited for them and no one came to the high walls anymore, still marked with soot from the burning oil Samuka had sent against them.

  Ho Sa and Samuka had been found among the heaped dead and been honored for the enemies they had taken with them. The storytellers wove their tale into ballads for the evenings, while the empty flesh was taken with the rest, with no more ceremony than the lowest warrior of the tribes. In the distance, the peaks were covered with the dead, and birds of prey hung like a dark cloud above them, feasting.

  Winter in that place was a weak thing compared to the bitter cold they knew in the north. Genghis could not know the mind of the governor of Otrar, but the onset of colder months seemed to bring agitation to the city while the Mongols waited for the catapults to be rebuilt. There was no sense of urgency in the tribes. They did not need to move to live, and one place was as good as any other. The city would fall, and if the inhabitants suffered as they waited, that too was well deserved.

  As the days grew shorter, Genghis could sometimes see distant figures on the walls, pointing and talking. Perhaps they could see the frames growing on the hill outside the city. He did not know or care. At times, he was almost listless, and even after the catapults were finished, he did not give the order, preferring to stay in his ger and drink through a black depression. He did not want to see accusation in the eyes of those who had lost their families. It had been his decision and he tortured himself with grief and fury, sleeping only when the drink made him pass out.

  The gates of Otrar opened without warning on a day of gray clouds and threatening rain. The Mongol army sent up a storm of sound, beating spears and bows on shields, showing their anger in the discordant clashing. Before Genghis or his remaining generals could respond, a small group of men came walking out and the gates closed swiftly behind them.

  Genghis was talking to Khasar when he heard the howl of the warriors. He walked slowly to his horse and climbed stiffly into the saddle, staring at Otrar.

  Just twelve men had left the protection of the walls. As Genghis watched, he saw his warriors riding hard at them, their swords bared. He might have stopped them, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

  The twelve Arabs bore one of their number trussed between them, his feet dragging on the dusty ground. They cowered back from the warriors swirling around them and held up their free hands to show they were unarmed. To the Mongols, that too was a provocation. Any man fool enough to venture among them without a blade or bow just excited their lust to kill.

  Genghis watched impassively as the warriors galloped across the face of the men’s progress. Closer and closer they rode until one of them clipped an Arab with his horse’s shoulder, sending him spinning.

  The small group paused in sudden terror and Genghis could see them calling to their fallen companion as he tried to struggle up. More warriors forced them on, yipping and urging as they might a lost sheep or goat. The man was left behind and warriors dismounted to finish him.

  The sound of his screams echoed from the walls of Otrar. The group of Arabs moved on, glancing back in horror. Another was knocked down with a blow from a sword hilt, so that a flap of his scalp was torn and blood covered his face. He too was left behind in a welter of kicking, stabbing men. Genghis sat his horse in silence as he observed their progress.

  Two Mongol women approached one of the Arabs and pulled him away from the others. He yelled something in his strange language and held both hands out and open, but they laughed at him and held him back from his companions. When they had passed, the man began to scream and this time he did not die quickly. The sounds grew in intensity, going on and on.

  When there were just six left of the group, Genghis held up his hand, sitting straight backed in the morning sun. Those who had watched for his signal pulled away from the bloodied Arabs and allowed a path to the khan. The group staggered on, pale with what they had seen. When they reached Genghis, they fell to the ground, abasing themselves before him. Their prisoner writhed in the dust, the whites of his eyes showing.

  Genghis watched coldly as one of the Arabs lifted his head and spoke in the Chin language, his words slow.

  “My lord, we have come to discuss peace!” he said. Genghis did not reply and only looked back at Otrar to where the walls were once again black with small figures, watching. The man swallowed the dust in his throat and tried again.

  “The city council has voted to hand over our governor to you, lord. We were led into war against our will and we are innocent. We beg you to spare us and take only Governor Inalchuk, who is the author of our troubles.”

  The man settled back to the dust now that the words were spoken. He could not understand why he and his companions had been attacked. He was not even sure if the khan had understood his words. Genghis gave no sign of it and the silence lengthened.

  The governor had been gagged as well as tied. Genghis heard the moan of muffled words and gestured to Khasar to cut the gag. His brother was not gentle and the blade sliced across Inalchuk’s lips as the cloth parted, making him cry out and spit blood.

  “These men have no power over me!” Inalchuk said through his pain. “Let me negotiate for my life, Lord Khan.”

  Genghis had learned only a few words of Arabic and could not understand. He waited patiently while an Arab merchant was brought, one of those who spoke many tongues. The merchant arrived looking as nervous as the others lying in the dust. Genghis gestured for the governor to speak agai
n and listened patiently to the translation into the Chin language. It occurred to him that he had better set Temuge to training more men in the task if he intended to stay long in Arab lands. It was hard to make himself care.

  When he understood Inalchuk, Genghis chuckled cruelly, waving away a fly that buzzed around his face.

  “They have tied you like a sheep for slaughter and delivered you to your enemy, yet you say they have no power over you?” he said. “What other power is there?”

  As the interpreter stumbled through the reply, Inalchuk struggled into a sitting position and touched his bound hands to his bleeding face, wincing.

  “There is no council in Otrar, lord. These are mere traders of my city. They do not speak for one appointed by the Shah himself.”

  One of the Arabs began to spit an answer, but Khasar lunged at him, kicking him onto his back.

  “Be silent!” Khasar snapped. He drew his sword and the battered Arabs followed the movement with nervous eyes. No interpretation was needed and the man did not try to speak again.

  “Spare my life and I will have six thousand oka of silver delivered to you,” Inalchuk declared. The interpreter hesitated over the sum and Genghis looked over to him. Under that yellow gaze, the shaking Arab merchant lowered himself to the ground with the others.

  “Lord, I do not know the word in the Chin tongue. It is a term of weight used by gold-and silversmiths.”

  “No doubt he offers a great deal,” Genghis replied. “He has set the value of his own life, after all.”