The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  “Ah, I needed to laugh,” Genghis said. “I needed to sit in a garden surrounded by dead women and have an assassin tell me I have built nothing in my life.” He chuckled again and even Tsubodai smiled though his blade remained ready.

  The Old Man of the Mountains had intended to pour scorn on the khan before going to his death with dignity intact. To have the man guffaw in his face made him flush, his sense of cool superiority torn apart.

  “You think you have achieved something with your life?” the Old Man hissed. “You think you will be remembered?”

  Genghis shook his head as amusement threatened to overwhelm him again. He was still chuckling as he stood up once more.

  “Kill this old fool for me, would you, Tsubodai? He is nothing but a bag of wind.”

  The assassin spluttered in rage as he tried to reply, but Tsubodai chopped down, leaving him gurgling in his own blood. Genghis had already dismissed the man from his mind.

  “They left me a warning, with the village they destroyed, Tsubodai. I can do no less for them, if any still survive. I want them to remember the cost of attacking me. Have the men start on the roof and pitch the tiles and stones off the cliffs. I want nothing left here to show they ever had a home.”

  Tsubodai nodded, bowing his head. “Your will, my lord khan,” he said.

  Jelaudin lit a cone of incense to his father, thinking of him on the anniversary of his passing. His brothers saw tears in his eyes as he straightened and spoke soft words on the morning breeze.

  “Who will give life to bones when they are dust? He will give them life who made them first.” He paused and lowered himself, touching his forehead to the ground as he honored the Shah who, in death, had become the light of his son’s followers.

  Jelaudin knew he had changed in the year since his despair on the tiny island of the Caspian. He had found his calling and many of the men who had come to defend the faith regarded him as a holy man. They had grown in numbers, traveling for hundreds of miles to join his war against the invading khan. He sighed as he failed to keep his mind clear for prayer on this day of all days. His brothers had become his staff officers, though they too seemed to regard him almost with reverence. Yet for all the faith, someone had to provide food and tents and weapons for those who had none. It was for those things that he had answered an invitation to meet a prince of Peshawar. They had met only once as boys in Bukhara, when both were spoiled and fat with sweetmeats. Jelaudin had only a hazy memory of the boy and no knowledge of the man he had become. Still, the prince ruled a region where the fields were rich with grain, and Jelaudin had come further south than he had ever known. He had walked until his sandals fell apart, then further, until the soles of his feet were as leathery as his shoes had once been. Rains had quenched his thirst and the hot sun had burned him thin, making his eyes fierce over a beard which had grown thick and black.

  Smoke drifted up from the brazier as he remembered his father. The Shah would be proud of his son, Jelaudin thought, if mystified at the ragged robes he chose to wear. His father would not understand that he now disdained any show of wealth and felt the cleaner for it. When Jelaudin looked back on the soft life he had led, he could only shudder. Now he read the Koran and prayed and fasted until his thoughts were all on vengeance and the army that swelled around him. He could hardly imagine the vain young man he had been, with his fine black horse and clothes of silk and gold. All those things were gone and he had replaced them with faith that burned hot enough to destroy all the enemies of God.

  When he turned from the smoke, Jelaudin saw his brothers waited patiently with their heads bowed. He rested his hand on Tamar’s shoulder as he passed, striding up the steps to the prince’s palace. Armored soldiers averted their eyes from him, then stared after the ragged figure who had come to see their master. No one raised a hand to stop the holy man who had brought an army to Peshawar. Jelaudin walked with firm steps until he reached the audience hall. Slaves drew open the doors and he did not bow as he saw the man who had called him to his home.

  The rajah of Peshawar was a slim warrior, wearing a silk tunic cut with a sash that fell loosely by his hip, barely covering the golden hilt of a sword. His features were soft and fleshy, despite his narrow waist, and there was little to remind Jelaudin of the boy he had met so long ago. As Jelaudin approached, the Indian prince sent away two advisers and stepped down from a throne to bow.

  Jelaudin raised him with one hand, though the gesture pleased him.

  “Are we not equals, Nawaz? You do me great honor with your hospitality. My men have not eaten so well for months.”

  The young rajah flushed with pleasure. His gaze wandered over Jelaudin’s dark brown feet, made hard with callus and dirt. Jelaudin grinned, wondering how he would have received such a ragged visitor when he was the son of Khwarezm.

  “I have heard wonderful things, Jelaudin,” the younger man replied at last. “Men from my own guard have volunteered their service against this foreign khan.”

  “They are welcome, my friend, but I need supplies more than men. If you have horses and carts to offer me, I will fall on your neck with gratitude. If you have food for my army, I will even kiss those golden slippers you wear.”

  Prince Nawaz flushed even deeper at the wry tone, overcome.

  “You shall have all those things. I ask only that you let me ride with you when you go north.”

  Jelaudin weighed the young man, seeing in him a flicker of the same fire that sustained his army outside the palace. They burned, these young ones, whether they were rich or poor, blessed or cursed in their lives. They wanted to be led. That was the great secret he had discovered, that the right words would ignite them to a fervor that could never again be put out. Warmed by it, they would turn against their tribes, even their families, to follow him. He had witnessed fathers walking away from weeping wives and children without looking back as they came to him. If his father had ever discovered the right words, Jelaudin was sure he could have led his armies to the end of the world.

  Jelaudin closed his eyes briefly. He was exhausted from the long march over mountains, and even the sight of the river Indus that fed a continent had not banished his weariness. At first he had walked because he did not have a horse. After that, he had walked because to do so impressed his men. Yet the miles and hills had sapped him, and it was tempting to ask for just one night in a cool bed before he sent his brothers scurrying around to feed the army and he had to walk those hills again. He resisted, knowing that it would lessen him in the prince’s eyes. The young man did not feel his equal, no matter that he dressed in a robe that a beggar might scorn. Instead, Nawaz saw his faith and was humbled in its presence.

  Jelaudin came to himself with a start, realizing he had not spoken for a long time, instead swaying as he stood in silence.

  “Will your father not object, Nawaz?” he said at last. “I have heard he does not follow the great faith.” He watched as the prince’s face twisted in dislike.

  “He does not understand, with his thousand shrines and foolish temples. He has forbidden me to go with you, but he has no power over me! These lands are mine and all the wealth of them I give to you. My men are sworn to me alone and my father cannot take them from me. Let me call you master and walk beside you on the road.”

  Jelaudin smiled tiredly, feeling the younger man’s enthusiasm ease some of the ache in his bones.

  “Very well, Nawaz. You will lead your men to a holy war and throw back the infidel. You will stand on my right hand and we will triumph.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  GENGHIS SMILED to see his grandson Mongke paddling at the lake edge. His scouts had found the body of water some hundreds of miles to the northeast of Samarkand, and he had brought the gers and families there, while his army administered the lands and cities of Khwarezm. The caravans moved again, from as far as Russia and Chin lands, but now they were met by Mongol officials trained by Temuge and backed by warriors. A part of every merchant’s cargo was removed, bu
t in return, they needed no guards of their own. The khan’s word protected the roads for a thousand miles and more in any direction from Samarkand.

  Mountains surrounded the lake and plain, far enough away so that Genghis did not feel enclosed. He knew his warriors would be watching on every peak, but he could not see them. It was somehow comforting to know that the mountains would still be there when all those who lived were dust.

  Ogedai had taken well to his new position as heir. Genghis had sent him out with the tumans, learning every detail of the men he would command. That was expected, but Genghis had also placed Ogedai with Temuge, who taught him how to keep an army fed and clothed. Ogedai soaked up every skill the tribes could impart, as well as languages and even writing. The heir was never seen without a group of tutors at his back, but he seemed to thrive on it.

  Genghis stretched his back, feeling at peace. The sounds of war were distant in that place, and he was enjoying the cries and laughter of the boys in the water, sunning themselves and learning to swim like fish. Some even dived below the surface, launching from rocks in great splashes. Their mothers called and peered anxiously into the depths, but they always surfaced, blowing and laughing at those who worried for them.

  Genghis felt a small hand tugging at his leggings and he reached down to swing Kublai into the air. The tiny little boy was just three years old, but from the age of just a few months, he had beamed whenever he saw his grandfather. Genghis had taken a liking to him.

  With a jerk, the khan put his grandson on his shoulders and walked to the water’s edge, wincing a little as Kublai gripped his hair too tightly.

  “I will not let you fall, little man,” Genghis said. He saw Mongke catch sight of the rare treat and hold his arms out to be lifted up in turn. Genghis shook his head.

  “In a while. Until then, Kublai rides.”

  “Another story!” Kublai called from above his head. Genghis thought for a time. Kublai’s mother had said his tales were too violent for a little boy, but Kublai seemed to enjoy them regardless. Genghis could see Sorhatani watching him from a little way off down the shore. At nineteen years old, she had grown into a woman of unusual beauty. Genghis sometimes wondered how little Tolui had snared her.

  “Would you like to hear about the khan of the assassins?”

  “Yes, tell me!” Kublai shouted joyfully.

  Genghis smiled, turning this way and that so that the boy giggled at the sudden movements.

  “He was a huge man,” Genghis said, “with arms strong enough to bend an iron bar. His beard was like black wire and it stretched almost to his waist! It was two years ago that I came across him in his fortress. He leapt on my back as I passed underneath an arch, and I could not break his grip. I felt his hands around my throat, squeezing and squeezing until I thought my eyes would pop out from my head!”

  He mimed a terrible grip, while Mongke came out from the water and watched with his eyes wide.

  “How did you get him off?” Mongke asked.

  Genghis looked down and thought for a moment.

  “I could not, Mongke. I tried to shake him free, as I am doing with Kublai here, but he was too strong for me. He squeezed even harder and suddenly I saw my eyes rolling on the ground in front of me.”

  “How could you see them if they were on the ground?” Kublai asked immediately.

  Genghis laughed and lifted him down. “You are a clever boy, Kublai, but you are right. I could not see them. In fact, I could see me, with just holes where my eyes used to be and the assassin still clinging to my back. Yet as my eyes rolled, I saw a great ruby flashing in his forehead. I did not know it was his weakness, but I was desperate. With my hands, I reached up and ripped it out. His strength went with it, for the gem was the source of all his power. I collected my eyes and sold the ruby to buy a white horse. I survived, but even today, I have to be careful that my eyes do not come out again when I sneeze.”

  “That is not true,” Mongke said scornfully.

  “It is,” Kublai said, determined to defend his grandfather.

  The khan chuckled. “Who can say if I have remembered every detail correctly? He may not have had a beard.”

  Mongke snorted and struck his leg, which Genghis did not seem to notice. When Kublai and Mongke looked up, they saw their grandfather gazing into the distance, where two men were riding across the pebble beach toward him. A change came over the khan at the sight, and both boys watched quizzically, not understanding why the light mood had come to an end.

  “Go to your mother now. I will tell you another story tonight, if I have time.”

  Genghis did not watch them as they pelted away, sending sand and pebbles skittering from their bare feet. Instead, he straightened fully to receive the scouts. He knew the men who rode to him. He had sent them away from the families more than a year before, with carefully worded orders. Their return meant they had either failed, or found his missing son. He could not tell from their faces as they reached him and dismounted, bowing deeply.

  “My lord khan,” the first said.

  Genghis had no patience for polite greetings. “Did you find him?” he snapped.

  The man nodded, swallowing nervousness. “In the far north, lord. We did not stop to check once we saw gers and ponies of the sort we know. It could not be anyone else.”

  “Gers? He took none with him,” Genghis replied. “He has made a home then, so far away from the memory of me. Did his men see you?”

  Both scouts shook their heads with utter certainty, remaining silent. The khan would not want to know the details of how they had crept close to Jochi’s rough settlement, hiding themselves in snow though they almost froze to death.

  “Good,” Genghis replied. “You have done well. Take six fresh horses from my herd as your reward: two mares, two stallions, and two of the younger geldings. I will commend you to your general for this work.”

  The scouts bowed again, flushed with success as they mounted and rode to the maze of gers along the banks of the lake. Genghis was left alone for a moment, looking out over the waters. In all his life, not one of his generals had refused an order or even considered betraying him. Not until Jochi had vanished, taking seven thousand valuable warriors with him. Genghis had sent scouts in all directions, searching lands new and old for his son. It had taken almost two years, but he had found him at last. Genghis shook his head as his thoughts grew dark. It would end in blood, after all he had done in raising another man’s son as his own. The entire nation spoke of the vanished army, though not in the presence of the khan. Jochi had given him no choice.

  He looked along the shore to where the gers clustered, covering miles of land around the lake. It was a good place, but the grazing was very poor and the goats and sheep that fed them had to be walked back to slaughter each day. It was time to move on, he thought, enjoying the idea. His people were not made to stay in one place, with just one view, not when the world stretched around them with an infinite array of strange things to see. Genghis arched his back, feeling it click unpleasantly. He saw another rider setting out from the gers and sighed to himself. Though his eyes were not as sharp as they had once been, he knew his brother Kachiun from the way he rode.

  Genghis waited for his brother, enjoying the breeze coming off the water as the sun beat down. He did not turn as Kachiun called a greeting to Sorhatani and the boys.

  “You have heard then?” Genghis said.

  Kachiun came to stand by him, looking out over the same pale waters. “The scouts? I sent them to find you, brother. They have found Jochi, but that is not why I am here.”

  Genghis did turn then, raising his eyebrows at his brother’s serious expression.

  “No? I thought you would be full of advice on how I should deal with my son the traitor.”

  Kachiun snorted. “Nothing I can say will change what you do, Genghis. You are khan and perhaps you should make an example of him to the rest, I don’t know. That is for you to decide. I have other news.”

  Genghis
studied his brother, seeing how his once smooth face had taken on lines around the mouth and eyes. The age showed most when he smiled, which was less and less often since coming to Arab lands. Genghis owned no mirrors of the sort the Chin made, but he supposed his own face was just as weathered, or even more.

  “Tell me then, brother,” he said.

  “You have heard of this army in the south? I have had men watching it for some time.”

  Genghis shrugged. “Tsubodai and Chagatai have both sent men to watch them. We know more about that gathering of farmers than they do themselves.”

  “They are not farmers, Genghis, or if they are, they have the armor and weapons of soldiers. The latest reports are of sixty thousand men, if my scouts have learned to count so high.”

  “I should fear only sixty? They grow, then. We have watched them for a year or more. They shout and chant and wave their swords. Are they coming for us at last?” Genghis felt a cold hand clutch at his belly for all his lightness of tone. He had heard of the gathering army and their revered leader almost a year after he had returned from the assassins’ stronghold. His generals had prepared for attack, but the seasons had crept by and no army had marched against them. At times, he thought it was only the threat of them that kept him in lands where heat and flies bothered him every day.

  “My men captured three of their number,” Kachiun answered, interrupting his thoughts. “They were wild, brother, almost frothing at the mouth when they realized who we were.”

  “You made them talk?” Genghis said.

  “We could not, that was what surprised me. They merely spat threats at us and died badly. Only the last gave me anything and that was the name of the man who leads them.”

  “What do I care for names?” Genghis asked incredulously.

  “You know this one: Jelaudin, whose father was the Shah of Khwarezm.”

  Genghis stood very still as he digested the information. “He has done well. His father would be proud of him, Kachiun. Sixty thousand men? At least we know for sure that he will come north, after my head. There will be no more talk of purges into India, not now we know it is Jelaudin.”