They hit the Mongol lines that formed before them out of chaos, crashing with stunning force against men who did not give way. The last volley of arrows had ripped through his men and even their armor and shields could not protect them at just a few paces. Jelaudin saw them fall, but then he was among the enemy, his sword swinging. He misjudged his first blow in his hunger for vengeance, so that it cracked across the helmet of a Mongol warrior. His speed gave the blow power and the man went flying backwards, trampled instantly under hooves. Jelaudin’s army had survived the first contact, and the Mongol center fell back in confusion.
Jelaudin saw horns form on the wings and the prince of Peshawar was there to send his men around the outside, trapping the horns almost before they could begin the maneuver. The Mongols had never fought men who knew their tricks and tactics as well as Jelaudin. He shouted, manic with rage and joy as the Mongols fell back, their scout horns blowing retreat.
Even then they fought and the carnage was terrible when the Arabs pressed them too closely. The warriors kept tight formation, withdrawing in groups while the closest lines covered their backs with arrows and swords. Jelaudin raised his hand and bows bent along his front rank. As the gap opened, they sent a volley into the Mongols, each man aiming at the enemy archers, who carried no shields. Dozens of them were killed and the army of Jelaudin pressed on, step by step, forcing them back from the fortress while the citizens of Parwan cheered on the walls.
The river by the town was less than a mile away when the Mongols gave up the running fight and raced for the bridge. Jelaudin galloped after them with his men, intent on their deaths. He had seen them ride in triumph too many times not to take pleasure from the sight. He rode lightly, the breeze cool on his face.
The Mongols did not stop at the bridge. The surviving warriors galloped across without slowing down, risking their lives in the crush of men. It was well done and Jelaudin’s men did not hesitate to follow them.
Jelaudin saw Mongol warriors leap from their horses and take axes to the ropes and timbers of the bridge, ignoring those who rode them down. Perhaps a hundred of his mounted men had crossed, and with terrible clarity, Jelaudin saw the Mongols intended to cut the force in half, leaving those on the fortress side helpless while they turned on the rest like mad dogs. The sight of such calm thinking broke through his frenzy and he reined in. He could direct his men to kill those who hacked at the bridge supports. If it held, he would destroy the Mongol forces to the last man, but if it fell, many of his men would die. He had done enough, he thought. He had wounded and bloodied an enemy who had not known defeat before. He took a horn from his waist, where it hung on a strap. It had once belonged to a Mongol scout, but his men were ready for the blaring note.
Those who had not yet reached the bridge turned back and formed into shining ranks, already cheering the victory. Those who had already gone over pulled away from the enemy and started to retreat across the river. Jelaudin watched with pride as they followed his orders without question, raising their shields to take the arrows that sailed after them.
The bridge fell, slapping into the river in a great spray. Perhaps fifty of his men were still on the other side and Jelaudin rode to the edge, looking down into the waters. It was too deep, he thought. Perhaps the men could have swum their horses across on another day, but not with enemy archers ready to rush them as they forced their mounts down the banks. Jelaudin raised his sword in salute to those who watched him from across the river, enemy and friend alike.
His men returned the gesture and turned their horses back, riding into the Mongols in one last charge. They were cut down, though each man went without fear, killing as many as he could.
The two forces faced each other across the torrent, panting and bloodied. Jelaudin could hardly describe the ecstasy of the moment. He saw the Mongol officer trot his mount to the opposite bank, and for a moment, they stared at each other. The Mongol shrugged at the trail of dead leading to the fortress in the distance. He raised his sword then, copying the gesture of respect before wheeling his mount and riding away. Genghis would hear and the subdued officer did not have to utter threats on his behalf.
“The news is in the mouth of every city, Genghis,” Kachiun said bitterly. “Before now, they saw us as unbeatable. This is a crack in that belief, brother. If we let it go unanswered, even for a season, they will grow in confidence and more will come to Jelaudin’s banners.”
“One successful raid does not make a general, Kachiun. I will wait for Tsubodai to return.” Genghis gestured irritably to the open plain he had found, eighty miles south of the lake where Kublai and Mongke had learned to swim. The nation could not remain anywhere for long. Lush grass was hard to find in Arab lands, but the world was large and Genghis had two sites picked out to move them to in another month. That was simply the way of their lives, and he did not think of it beyond quick decisions when the time came. Kachiun’s voice irritated him, interrupting his thoughts of Jochi and Tsubodai. It was true that Jelaudin’s army had killed more than a thousand of his men, the event sending ripples of disquiet through the Arab cities. The first tribute due from the Afghan city of Herat had not come, and Genghis wondered if it was delayed or whether they had decided to wait and see what he would do.
Kachiun waited, but when Genghis said nothing, he spoke again, his voice hard.
“The men lost were from my tuman, Genghis. Let me at least ride to the area and make this bastard prince nervous. If you won’t give me the army, let me raid his lines, striking and vanishing in the night as we have done before.”
“You should not fear these farmers, brother. I will deal with them when I know that Tsubodai has found Jochi.”
Kachiun held himself still, biting back the questions he wanted to ask. Genghis had not shared Tsubodai’s orders with him and he would not beg to be told, though he wanted very much to know. He still found it difficult to believe that Jochi had taken his men away and tried to lose himself. The spirits knew Jochi had been provoked, and at times, Kachiun could only curse the blindness of the father that had led to it, but the reality of betrayal had stunned them all. No one had ever turned against the man who had made the nation. For all his faults, Genghis was revered and Kachiun could hardly imagine the strength of will that allowed Jochi to wrench apart from everything he had known. He saw Genghis set his jaw obstinately, guessing at his thoughts as Kachiun tried again to make him understand.
“You are the one who built an empire in this place, Genghis, instead of just ruins. You put Arslan into Samarkand and Chen Yi into Merv when he came. They rule in your name, just as kings and shahs ruled before them in those places. Yet they are still invaders and there will always be those who want to see them torn out. Give these Arabs one glimpse of weakness and we will have rebellions in every place we have taken.” He sighed. “I am too old to do it all again, brother.”
Genghis blinked slowly and Kachiun did not know if he was truly listening or not. The khan seemed utterly obsessed with the son who had turned against him, perhaps because no one else ever had. Each day he would scour the horizon for some sign of Tsubodai. It was too soon, Kachiun knew. Even if Tsubodai had ridden as fast as light scouts, he would hardly have reached the northern land where Jochi had hidden himself. Once more Kachiun itched to know what Tsubodai had been told to do. He suspected he knew, and pitied Tsubodai for the task. Kachiun was aware that Tsubodai thought of Jochi almost as a son. It was typical of Genghis that he should test the man’s loyalty to the breaking point by sending him. His brother had always been ruthless with those around him, as well as himself.
Kachiun prepared to try once more, desperate to have Genghis understand. He swallowed dryly, realizing he could have used Tsubodai then. His brother listened to Tsubodai above all others, and he would not delay here while the cracks appeared in everything they had built.
“They countered horns, Genghis, swinging out around them. They have shields as good as any we have seen and armored horses that survive our arrows. It i
s not the numbers I fear, brother, but the way this Jelaudin uses them. If you will not come, let me send them back on their heels. They will not surprise my tuman with the same tactics. We will counter them and send a message to anyone who imagines we can be defeated.”
Genghis opened his mouth to suck at one of his back teeth.
“Do as you will, Kachiun,” he said, then thought better of leaving his brother with complete authority to act. “Take three tumans, your own and two others. Not Ogedai or Tolui. Their men are still fresh from the teat and I do not want them with you.”
Kachiun spoke quickly. “Jelme then, and Khasar.”
Genghis nodded, still staring into the north where his thoughts rested with Tsubodai.
“Skirmish, Kachiun, do you understand? If they are as terrible as I have heard, I do not want you to lose your men in the mountains. Bleed them a little, as you have done before, as you did at Yenking and against the Shah. I will come with Tsubodai.”
Kachiun bowed his head, relieved beyond words. “I will, brother,” he said, then paused at the point of turning away. “Tsubodai will not fail. I used to think you mad for raising him, but he is the best I have ever seen.”
Genghis grunted. “The problem is, Kachiun, that I do not know if I want him to fail or to succeed.” He saw Kachiun open his mouth to ask what he meant, and Genghis waved him away irritably.
“Go, brother. Teach these desert dwellers not to interfere with me again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
STANDING BETWEEN TWO PILLARS OF ROCK, Kachiun looked down into the Panjshir valley, seeing the tents and horses of Jelaudin’s army. The late morning was already hot and he was sweating and scratching idly at an armpit where a boil needed lancing. With Jelme and Khasar, he had ridden as hard as any scout, half killing the horses to bring swift vengeance for the defeat at Parwan.
The army of Jelaudin knew the Mongols had come. Kachiun could see robed figures watching them from every peak, men who had climbed hand over hand up sheer rock to their positions. One of them was far above his head, out of reach of any arrow. Kachiun could not snatch them down and he was uncomfortable under that silent scrutiny. All the watchers were turned toward him and some of them signaled the army in the valley with flags, keeping Jelaudin informed.
There too Kachiun could see evidence of a controlling mind, one who had learned from the enemy at last. The Arab camp was three miles across the river from the town of Parwan, on a stretch of open plain backed by mountains that rose like blades from the flat ground. The position allowed no ambush and could not be ridden around. It did not rely on walls, though Kachiun could see stone blocks and wooden stakes had been dragged into position before the enemy camp, perfectly placed to foul a charge. Squares of tents fluttered in the morning breeze, and even as Kachiun watched, flag signals from the peaks brought men out into solid ranks. They showed their confidence in such a position, daring the Mongols to ride against them.
“We must cross that river,” Jelme said at Kachiun’s shoulder. “Now we know where they are, we can search for a ford.”
Kachiun had overall command of the three tumans and he nodded, still staring into the valley as Jelme sent scouts riding to find the best place across the barrier. He bit his lip at the thought, knowing that Jelaudin would have marked the fording places for a hundred miles. There was no chance for a surprise attack when the Shah’s son knew exactly where they would come from. Still, they had to cross. Jelaudin had chosen the spot for the battle. He knew the land; he had the numbers and every other advantage that mattered. Once again Kachiun wished Genghis had sent more men with him, this one time.
Kachiun squinted at the watcher far above him, hundreds of feet above his head. The man squatted in white robes, having climbed a face of rock that reached almost to a point. Kachiun resisted the urge to send warriors up to cut him down. The man may have taken days to reach the precarious position overlooking an entrance to the valley. If he had waterskins and supplies with him, he could defend it against climbing men for as long as he wanted.
His brother Khasar rode up to the front. Kachiun saw he too glared at the man on the heights.
“We cannot sit here all day, brother,” Khasar said as he reined in. “I could ride down and destroy that little town, at least. The Arabs might lose heart when they see the smoke rise.”
Kachiun looked over the valley. The minghaan officers who had been defeated had described the ground in great detail, pathetically eager to please after the shame of their loss. Kachiun could not see figures moving anywhere in the town, and he assumed the people had retreated again to the fortress that loomed above the plain. If he’d thought there was the slightest point to it, he would have sent Khasar down like an arrow. Instead, he shook his head.
“What is one more town, to us or them? When we have beaten this army, we can take that fortress as we please.”
Khasar shrugged at his reply and Kachiun went on, speaking his thoughts aloud to make them clear.
“He is confident, Khasar, with the mountains at his back.”
“He is a fool then,” Khasar said lightly.
“He is not a fool, brother. This man has seen us gut his father’s army. He knows our tactics and strengths, perhaps our weaknesses. See how has placed blocks of stone to interrupt our lancers and bow lines. He is confident and that worries me.”
“You think too much, Kachiun. When Jelme has found a way across the river, we will pin him against those hills. We will make an example of him.”
Kachiun nodded warily. Genghis had not demanded a quick victory, only that he take first blood from the enemy. Yet the first rule of war was to avoid letting the enemy choose the terrain and set the terms. Kachiun cracked the knuckles of his hands, then his neck, wishing Tsubodai were there for his insight.
It was not long before Jelme’s scouts returned, reporting a shallow ford barely five miles away along the river. Kachiun gave the order for the tumans to move, and he could not help glancing up at the flicker of bright flags from one peak to the next as the movement was reported.
“They come,” Jelaudin murmured, reading the flags.
“They have no choice,” Nawaz replied.
Jelaudin glanced at the rajah from under lowered brows, hiding his amusement at this peacock he had made his second in command. Under his armor, the rajah was dressed in silk of purple and gold, topped by a turban of pale blue. To Jelaudin’s eyes, he looked as if he had been dressed by a prostitute or an actor, but he did not doubt the man’s resolve.
Once more Jelaudin reviewed the lines of his men, though he had inspected them a thousand times. There were no flaws, he was certain. The mountains protected their rear, while heavy slabs from Parwan’s walls lay in clusters ahead, exactly where they would disrupt the Mongol riders. If the enemy had sent someone to the town, they would have found great sections of the walls missing, floated across the river on rafts of wood taken from homes. The people of that place had lost much for this defense, but they did not begrudge the sacrifice, not when the army had brought success against the unbelievers already. The fortress that sheltered them was too far away across the river for Jelaudin to see individual faces, but he knew they watched from the heights. They at least would have a spectacular view of the fighting to come.
“We have until this afternoon, if they use the first ford across the river,” Jelaudin said. “Let us walk among the men one more time. Some will be nervous and it will help them to see us calm and cheerful.”
His own eyes belied the casual tone, but Nawaz did not comment, merely ducking his head and dismounting to walk with him.
“I had expected more than thirty thousand of them,” Nawaz said as they passed between tents. “Are they so arrogant?”
Jelaudin nodded. “They are justified in their arrogance, my friend. They took my father’s army apart when he had three times their number. This will be a hard fight, even after all I have done.”
Nawaz blew air from his lips, showing his scorn for the idea. �
�I have emptied my treasury to give you the shields and armor you wanted. In turn, you have fired the men’s hearts.” He saw Jelaudin glance at him and went on. “I am not a fool. You know them better than any man, but by tonight we will be burning piles of their dead.”
Jelaudin smiled at the rajah’s confidence. It was true that he knew the Mongols for the force in war that they were. He could hope for victory, but nothing in this life was guaranteed.
“I will lead the men in prayers today at noon. If Allah looks kindly on us, we will shatter the legend of this khan, so that his strength bleeds out. Win here and all those cities that watch and wait will throw in with us to root the man from our land. Lose and he will not be challenged again. Those are the stakes, Nawaz.”
The rajah lowered his head, abashed. He held Jelaudin in awe, even before he had sent the Mongols running across their bridge. More than anything, he wanted to impress this man he had known as a boy, just a year older than him. His gaze swept the lines of men Jelaudin had brought under a single banner. Turkomans, Berbers, Bedouins from the far deserts, and dark-skinned warriors from Peshawar, marked from the rest by the armor of his personal guard. There were Afghans too in the ranks, serious men who had come down from the hills with heavy, curved swords. None of them were mounted for the battle to come. Jelaudin had chosen a position that would remove the advantage of the Mongol horses. His army would fight on foot. They would stand or be destroyed.
He had worked hard over the previous days to prepare the position, knowing that the Mongols would not be slow in their response. Nawaz had even labored with his men to take the stones from Parwan across the river. The rajah hoped they saw that he could put aside his dignity to work with them, though his self-conscious efforts had made Jelaudin laugh. Nawaz flushed as he recalled Jelaudin’s words on the subject of pride. He was a prince of Peshawar! It came naturally to him, though he strove to be humble.
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