Khasar nodded, his heart still hammering. It had been years since he had seen such a show of rebellion from warriors of his people. He was raging, his face flushed.
“My ten thousand will answer the insult,” he snapped. “Where is Tsubodai?”
“I have not seen him since he went to Ogedai today,” Kachiun replied.
“You are senior. Send runners to his tuman and to Jebe. With them or without them, I am going into that city, Kachiun.”
The brothers and their bondsmen split up, riding different paths that would bring forty thousand men back to the gates of Karakorum.
For a time, the noises on the other side of the door died to almost nothing. With silent gestures, Tsubodai and Tolui lifted a heavy couch, grunting with the effort. It took both of them to shove it across the entrance.
“Are there any other ways in?” Tsubodai murmured.
Ogedai shook his head, then hesitated.
“There are windows in my sleeping chamber, but they open onto a sheer wall.”
Tsubodai cursed under his breath. The first rule of battle was to choose the ground. The second was to know the ground. Both had been taken from him. He looked around at the shadowy gathering, judging their mood. Mongke and Kublai were wide-eyed and thrilled to be part of an adventure. Neither realized the danger they were in. Sorhatani returned his gaze steadily. Under that silent stare, he took a long knife from his boot and passed it into her hands.
“A wall won’t stop them tonight,” he said to Ogedai, pressing his ear to the door.
They fell silent as he strained to hear, then jumped at a crash that made Tsubodai leap back. A thin trail of plaster dust curled down from the ceiling, and Ogedai winced to see it.
“The corridor is narrow outside,” Ogedai muttered, almost to himself. “They don’t have room to run at it.”
“That is good. Are there weapons here?” Tsubodai asked.
Ogedai nodded. He was his father’s son. “I’ll show you,” he said, beckoning.
Tsubodai turned to Huran and found the senior man ready at the door. Another crash sounded and voices rose in anger outside.
“Get a lamp lit,” Tsubodai ordered. “We don’t need to stay in the dark.”
Sorhatani set about the task as Tsubodai strode through to the inner rooms. He bowed formally to Ogedai’s wife, Torogene. She had lost her sleepy look and smoothed down her hair with water from a shallow bowl, placed there ready for the morning. Tsubodai was pleased that neither she nor Sorhatani seemed to be panicking.
“Through here,” Ogedai said ahead of him.
Tsubodai entered the sleeping chamber and nodded in appreciation. A small lamp still glowed there and he saw the wolf’s-head sword of Genghis on the wall above the bed. A bow gleamed on the opposite side, each layer of horn and birch and sinew polished to a rich color.
“Do you have arrows for it?” Tsubodai asked, bending the hooks open with his thumbs and hefting the weapon.
Ogedai smiled at the general’s evident pleasure. “It is not a decoration, General. Of course I have arrows,” he replied. A chest produced a quiver of thirty shafts, each the product of a master fletcher and still bright with oil. He tossed it to Tsubodai.
Outside, the crashing went on. Whoever it was had brought up hammers for the task, and even the floor trembled with the blows. Tsubodai crossed to the windows set high in the outer wall. Like the ones in the outer room, they were barred in iron. Tsubodai could not help thinking how he would break in, if he were attacking the rooms. Though they were solid enough, they had not been designed to withstand a determined enemy. That enemy was never meant to get close enough, or to have time to hammer out the bars before Ogedai’s Guards cut them to pieces.
“Cover the lamp for a moment,” Tsubodai said. “I do not want to be visible to an archer outside.” He pulled a wooden chest to the window and crouched on it, then rose suddenly to the barred space, ducking back just as quickly.
“There’s no one in sight, lord, but the wall to the courtyard below is barely the height of two men. They will come here, if they can find it.”
“But first they’ll try the door,” Ogedai said grimly.
Tsubodai nodded. “Have your wife wait here, perhaps, ready to call if she hears anything.” Tsubodai was trying to defer to Ogedai’s authority, but his impatience showed with every thump from the corridor outside.
“Very well, General.”
Ogedai hesitated, fear and anger mingling, swelling in him. He had not built his city to be torn screaming from life. He had lived with death for so long that it was almost a shock to feel such a powerful desire to live, to avenge. He dared not ask Tsubodai if they could hold the rooms. He could see the answer in the man’s eyes.
“It is strange that you are present for the death of another of Genghis’s sons, don’t you think?” he said.
Tsubodai stiffened. He turned back and Ogedai saw no weakness in his black stare.
“I carry many sins, lord,” Tsubodai said. “But this is not the time to talk about old ones. If we survive, you may ask whatever you need to know.”
Ogedai began to reply, bitterness welling up in him. A new sound made them both whip round and run. An iron hinge had cracked and the wood of the outer door splintered, a panel yawning open. The lamplight from the room spilled out into the darker corridor, illuminating sweating faces. At the door, Huran speared his blade into them, so that one at least fell back with a cry of pain.
• • •
The stars had moved partway across the sky by the time Khasar roused his tuman. He rode at the head in full armor, his sword drawn and held low by his right thigh. In formation behind him were ten groups of a thousand, each with its minghaan officer. Each thousand had its jaguns of a hundred men, led by officers bearing a silver plaque. Even they had their structures: ten groups of ten, with equipment to raise a ger between them and food and tools to survive and fight. Genghis and Tsubodai had created the system, and Khasar hadn’t given it a thought when he issued just one order to his yurtchi, his quartermaster. The tuman of ten thousand had formed on the plain, men running to their horses in what looked like chaos before the ranks coalesced and they were ready. Ahead lay Karakorum.
Khasar’s outriders reported other tumans on the move all around him. No one in the nation slept now. To the smallest child, they knew this was the night of crisis, so long feared.
Khasar had his naccara drummers sound a rhythm: dozens of unarmed boys on camels whose sole task was to inspire fear in an enemy with a rolling thunder. He heard it answered ahead and on the left, as other tumans took up a warning and a challenge. Khasar swallowed drily, looking for Kachiun’s men ahead. He had the feeling that events were slipping from his control, but he could do nothing else. His path had been set when men at the gate had dared to refuse a general of the nation. He knew they were Chagatai’s, but the arrogant prince had sent them out without his unit markings, to do his work like assassins in the night. Khasar could not ignore such a threat to his authority—to all the stages of authority that he represented, down to the youngest drummer on a swaybacked beast. He dared not think of his nephew Ogedai trapped in his own city. He could only react and force his way in, hoping there would be someone still alive to save.
Kachiun joined him, with Jebe’s Bearskin tuman and Tsubodai’s ten thousand. Khasar breathed in relief as he saw the banners stretching away into the dark, a sea of horses and flags. Tsubodai’s warriors knew their general was in the city. They had not disputed Kachiun’s right to order them in his place.
Like a mountain slowly falling, the vast array of four tumans drew close to the western gate of Karakorum. Khasar and Kachiun rode forward, hiding their impatience. There was no need for bloodshed, even then.
The men at the gate remained still, their weapons sheathed. Whatever their orders had been, they knew that to draw a blade was to invite instant destruction. No man wanted to be first.
The tableau held, with just the snorting of horses and fluttering b
anners. Then out of the darkness rode a new group of men, their passage lit with burning torches held by bannermen, so that in an instant, every man there knew that Chagatai had arrived.
Kachiun could have ordered Khasar to block Genghis’s son and had his own tumans cut a way into the city. He felt the weight of the decision hang on him, time running slowly as his pulse raced. He was not a man to hesitate, but he was not at war. This was not the desert of Khwarezm or the walls of a Chin city. He let the moment pass, and as it went, he clutched at it desperately, almost throwing away his life when it was too late.
Chagatai rode in like a khan, his bondsmen surrounding him in square formation. Some of the men at the gate went sprawling as horses knocked them down, but he did not look round. His gaze was fixed firmly on the two older generals, his father’s brothers, and the only men who mattered in the camp that night. He and his horse were armored and the air was cold enough for Kachiun to see plumes of mist from man and beast alike. Chagatai wore an iron helmet, with a horse’s-mane crest whipping through the air as he came in. He was no longer the boy they had known, and both men tensed under his flat stare.
Khasar made a hissing sound under his breath, signaling his anger to his brother. They knew Chagatai was there to prevent them entering Karakorum. They were not yet sure how far he would go to keep them outside.
“It is late to be training your men, Chagatai,” Khasar snapped, his voice loud.
They were separated by less than fifty paces, closer than he had been allowed to the man in a month. Khasar ached to reach for his bow, though the armor would likely save his target and then there would be a bloodletting on a scale unseen since they had destroyed the Xi Xia. The prince shrugged as he sat his horse, smiling with cold confidence.
“I am not training, Uncle. I am riding to see who threatens the peace of the camp in darkness. I find it is my own uncles, moving armies in the night. What am I to make of it, eh?” He laughed and the men around him showed their teeth, though their hands never left the bows, swords, and lances with which they fairly bristled.
“Be careful, Chagatai,” Khasar said.
The prince’s expression went hard at the words. “No, Uncle. I will not be careful when armies ride through my land. Return to your ger, your wives and children. Tell your men to go back to theirs. You have no business here tonight.”
Khasar took a breath to roar an order, but Kachiun shouted before he could unleash the tumans.
“You have no authority over us, Chagatai! Your men are outnumbered, but there is no need for blood to be spilled. We will enter the city tonight, now! Stand aside and there will be no strife between us.”
Chagatai’s horse sensed his surging emotions, and he had to turn it on the spot to stay in position, sawing its mouth with the reins. They could read the triumph on his face, and privately, both men despaired for Ogedai in the city.
“You misjudge me, Uncle,” Chagatai shouted, making sure he was heard by as many ears as possible. “You are the ones trying to force your way into Karakorum! For all I know, you are planning bloody murder in the city, a coup, with my brother’s head as the prize. I have come to stop you entering, to keep the peace.” He sneered at their surprise, his face savage as he waited for the arrows to fly.
Kachiun heard movement on his right and jerked in the saddle to see vast ranks of men moving into position around him, their officers lit with torches. He could not judge the numbers in the starlight, but his heart sank as he saw the banners of those loyal to Chagatai. The two sides glowered at each other, roughly equal, but Chagatai had done enough and he knew it. Kachiun and Khasar could not begin a civil war in the shadow of Karakorum. Kachiun looked east for the first signs of dawn, but the sky was dark and Ogedai was on his own.
FIVE
Down, Huran!” Tsubodai snapped.
He notched an arrow on the string as he ran. Huran dropped flat below the hole in the door, and Tsubodai sent a shaft hissing through into the darkness beyond. He was rewarded by a choking cry as he drew and loosed again. The distance was no more than ten paces. Any warrior of the tribes could have hit the gap, even under pressure. As soon as Tsubodai shot the second arrow, he dropped to one knee and rolled out of the way. Before he had stopped moving, a shaft buzzed into the room, going almost too fast to see. It struck behind Tsubodai with a loud thump, quivering in the wooden floor.
Huran had taken up a position with his back flat to the door, his head turned toward the hole. He was rewarded as a hand darted through, fingers scrabbling for the locking bar below. Huran swung his sword horizontally, cutting through meat and bone and almost jamming the blade into the wood. The hand and part of the forearm dropped to the ground, and an unearthly screaming sounded before it too was choked off. Perhaps those outside had led the man away to be tended, or killed him themselves.
Tsubodai nodded to Huran as their eyes met. Regardless of rank, they were the two most capable warriors in the room, able to remain calm and think, even when the smell of blood was thick.
Tsubodai turned to Ogedai. “We need a second position, lord.”
The man who would be khan was standing with his father’s wolf’s-head sword drawn, breathing too shallowly and looking paler than Tsubodai had seen him before. Tsubodai frowned to himself as Ogedai didn’t respond. He spoke louder, using his voice to snap the younger man out of his trance.
“If the door goes, they will rush us, Ogedai. You understand? We need a second place, a line of retreat. Huran and I will stay by this door, but you must get the boys and women back to the inner rooms and block the door as best you can.”
Ogedai turned his head slowly, dragging his eyes away from the dark hole that seemed to vomit forth the hatred of those behind it.
“You expect me to burrow myself away to gain a few more heartbeats of life? With my own children being hunted somewhere out there? I would rather die here, on my feet and facing my enemies.”
He meant it, Tsubodai saw, but Ogedai’s gaze drifted over Sorhatani and her two sons. For a moment, he locked eyes with his younger brother Tolui. Ogedai wilted under the stares of the family.
“Very well, Tsubodai, but I will return here. Tolui, bring your wife and sons and help me block up the inner door.”
“Take the bow with you,” Tsubodai said, yanking the quiver from his shoulders and tossing it to Ogedai.
The group of five moved back carefully, always aware of the line of sight for an archer in the halls outside. They knew a bowman was waiting in the darkness, and they knew the patience of their people, used to hunting marmots on the plains. The archer’s field of vision formed a cone that crossed the outer room down the center.
Without warning, Ogedai darted across the space and Sorhatani rolled, coming smoothly to her feet like a dancer. No arrow came as they reached a safe spot and turned.
Tolui stood on the other side. He had found a place in the shelter of a heavy beam with his sons, his face stiff with fear for them.
“I will go last, lads, understand?” he told them.
Mongke nodded immediately, but Kublai shook his head.
“You are the largest and the slowest,” he said, his voice quavering. “Let me go last.”
Tolui considered. If the archer was waiting with an arrow on the string and the bow half bent, he could loose a shot in an eyeblink, almost without aiming. Any of the men there would have wagered on the archer over them. The crashing at the door had stopped, as if the men outside were waiting. Perhaps they were. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ogedai’s wife Torogene beckoning to him.
It was just a few feet across a room, but it had become a chasm. Tolui took a deep, slow breath, calming himself and thinking of his father. Genghis had told him about breath, how men will hold theirs when they are frightened, or take a sudden breath before they launch an attack. It was a sign to watch for in an enemy. In yourself, it was a tool to manage fear. He took another slow breath and his hammering heart eased slightly in his chest. Tolui smiled at Kublai’s nervous defi
ance.
“Do as you’re told, boy. I’m quicker than you think.” He laid a hand on each son’s shoulder and whispered, “Go together. Ready? Now!”
Both boys sprinted across the innocent-looking space. An arrow flashed through the gap, passing behind Kublai’s back. He fell sprawling and Sorhatani dragged him clear, hugging him to her in desperate relief. She turned with her sons to look at Tolui, who nodded to them, sweat beading his brow. He had married a woman of aching beauty, and he smiled at her fierce expression, like a mother wolf with her cubs. The archer was clearly ready and they had been lucky. He cursed himself for not following immediately, before the archer could notch another shaft. He had lost the moment and perhaps his life as a result. He looked around for some sort of shield—a table, or even a thick cloth to spoil the man’s aim. The corridor was still silent as the attackers let their bowman work. Tolui took another slow breath, readying his muscles to spring across the gap and dreading the thought of a shaft tearing into him, smashing him off his feet in front of his family.
“Tsubodai!” Sorhatani called.
The general glanced back at her, catching her beseeching gaze and understanding. He had nothing to block the hole for the time they needed. His gaze fell on the single lamp. He hated the thought of plunging the room into darkness once again, but there was nothing else. He swept it up, flinging it through the hole from the side of the door. The crash sent Tolui safely across the gap to his family, and Tsubodai heard the thump of an arrow released into the door itself, the aim ruined. Kublai cheered the act and Mongke joined him.
For a few moments, the room remained lit by the flaming oil on the other side, but the men there stamped the flames out and they were left in blackness once again, far deeper than before. There was still no sign of dawn. The furious crashing resumed and splinters flew as the door groaned in its frame.
Tolui worked quickly at the entrance to the inner room. The door there had none of the strength of the outer one. It would not delay the attackers beyond the first few moments. Instead, Tolui kicked out the delicate hinges and began to make a barricade across the doorway. As he worked, he gripped his sons by the neck in quick affection, then sent them scurrying into Ogedai’s sleeping chamber to gather anything they could lift. He saw Torogene murmuring to them and they relaxed as she directed them. Both young men were used to their mother’s commands, and Torogene was a large woman, motherly and brisk in her manner.
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