“I have not yet given you permission to leave,” Tsubodai said.
His face was still emotionless, but his voice had hardened and his eyes were very cold. Batu smiled and Tsubodai could see he was on the point of saying something that would tear down the strained courtesy between them. This was why he preferred to deal with more senior men, who had some idea of consequences and would not throw their entire lives away on a bad-tempered moment. Tsubodai spoke quickly and firmly to head him off.
“If I have the slightest doubt about your ability to follow my orders, Batu, I will send you back to Karakorum.” Batu began to take a breath, his face twisting as Tsubodai went on relentlessly. “You may take your complaints to your uncle there, but you will no longer ride with me. If I give you a hill to take, you will destroy your entire tuman rather than fail. If I tell you to ride to a position, you will break your horses to reach it in time. Do you understand? If you fail me in anything, there will be no second chance. This is not a game, General, and I do not care what you think of me, not at all. Now, if you have something to say to me, say it.”
At almost twenty, Batu had matured in the years since winning the horse race at Karakorum. He took command of his temper with a swiftness that surprised Tsubodai, reining in his emotions and shuttering them away so that his eyes were blank. It showed he was more man than boy, but it made him a far more dangerous adversary.
“You may put your faith in me, Tsubodai Bahadur,” Batu said, this time without the sneer in his voice. “With your permission, I will return to my column.”
Tsubodai inclined his head and Batu trotted his mount back down the goat path that led to the base of the hill. Tsubodai stared after him for a time, then grimaced to himself. He should have sent him back to Karakorum. With any other officer, he would have had him whipped and strapped to a horse to be ridden home in disgrace. Only the memories of Batu’s father and, yes, his grandfather held Tsubodai’s hand. They had been men to follow. Perhaps the son could be made in their image, unless of course he got himself killed first. He needed to be tested, to gain the soul weight that came only from true knowledge of skill, rather than empty arrogance. Tsubodai nodded to himself as he looked over the lands ahead. There would be many opportunities to temper the young prince in fire.
The Russian lands had been wide open for the sort of attack Tsubodai had perfected. Even the nobles there had homes and towns protected by little more than a wooden palisade. Some of them had the solidity of decades or even centuries, but the Mongol war machine had overcome such obstacles in Chin territory. Their catapults smashed apart the ancient logs, sometimes crushing those who sheltered behind them. It was true that the Mongol archers had to contend with thicker forests than they had ever seen, sometimes stretching for thousands of miles and able to hide large forces of horsemen. The last summer had been hot, and heavy rainfall meant the ground was often too soft to move forward with any speed. Tsubodai disliked the marshes intensely, but he was coming to the opinion that if it hadn’t been for those, Genghis had made an error in attacking to the east. The lands to the west were still ripe, and as yet, Tsubodai had seen no force worthy to challenge his tumans as they scoured the land. The Mongol sweep took them hundreds of miles into the north, and winter brought blessed relief from the flies and rain and disease.
For the first year, he had kept to the east of the Volga River, preferring to crush any possible threat from the area that would become his rear and be part of the supply route to Karakorum. Though the distances were vast, there was already a constant stream of riders. The first yam way stations were rising behind his tumans, as well fortified as anything else in Russian territory. Tsubodai cared nothing for the buildings, but they housed grain, saddles, and the fastest mounts from the herds, ready for whoever needed to race through.
It was a spring morning when Tsubodai gathered his most senior officers on a meadow by a lake filled with wildfowl. His scouts had spent the morning trapping thousands of birds in nets, or taking them in flight for sport. The women in the camps were plucking the birds to be roasted that evening, creating great drifts of feathers that tumbled over the grass like spilled oil.
Batu watched with carefully hidden interest as Tsubodai brought forward one of his strongest warriors. The man’s face could not be seen under the helmet of polished iron. Everything he wore had been captured farther to the west. Even the horse was a monster, black as night and half as high again at the shoulder as any Mongol pony. Like its rider, it was sheathed in iron, from plates around its eyes to a skirt of hardened leather and metal to protect its hindquarters from arrows.
Some of the men looked on it with greed in their eyes, but Batu scorned such a beast. As large as it was, with such a burden of armor he was certain it would be slow, at least in the thrust and parry of battle.
“This is what we will face as we move west,” Tsubodai said. “Men like this in cages of iron are the most feared force on a battlefield. According to the Christian monks in Karakorum, they are unstoppable in the charge, a weight of metal and leather that can crush anything we have.”
The senior men shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to believe such a wild claim. They watched in fascination as Tsubodai brought his pony close to the larger animal. He looked small next to the man and horse, but he used his reins lightly to take his pony around in a tight circle.
“Raise your hand when you can see me, Tangut,” he said.
It was not long before they understood. The line of sight Tsubodai had revealed was just a small strip to the front.
“Even with the visor raised, he can see nothing at the side or behind, and that iron will be hard to turn quickly.” Tsubodai reached out and clanged his fist against the warrior’s breastplate. It rang like a bell.
“His chest is well protected. Under this is a layer of iron links, like metal cloth. It serves a similar purpose to our silk tunics, but is made to withstand axes and knives more than arrows.”
Tsubodai gestured to a boy holding a long lance, and the boy ran to the armored warrior and handed it up to him, tapping his leg for attention.
“This is how they are used,” Tsubodai said. “Like our own heavy horse, they ride head-on against an enemy. In a charge, they have no flaw or hole in their armor.”
He nodded to Tangut and they all watched as the warrior trotted away, his ungainly metal carapace jingling with every step.
At two hundred paces, the man turned his heavy mount, which reared and flattened its ears. He dug in his heels and the animal lunged forward, the thick legs thumping the ground. Batu saw how dropping the horse’s head brought the armor of chest and skull together, forming an impenetrable shell. The lance lowered, the point cutting the air in circles as it centered on Tsubodai’s chest.
Batu found he was holding his breath, and he let it go, annoyed with himself for falling under Tsubodai’s spell. He watched coldly as the warrior hit full gallop, his lance a deadly weapon. The hooves thundered and Batu had a sudden vision of a line of such men sweeping across a battlefield. He swallowed at the thought.
Tsubodai moved quickly, darting to one side with his pony. They saw the armored warrior try to correct, but he could not turn at full speed and swept past.
Tsubodai raised and drew his bow in a fluid motion, aiming casually. The front of the horse was as well armored as its rider. There was even a crest of armor running along the line of the mane, but below that the great neck was open and bare.
Tsubodai’s arrow punched into the flesh and the horse screamed, spattering bright blood from its nostrils.
“From the sides, to a good bowman, they are unprotected,” Tsubodai shouted over the noise. He spoke without pride: Any one of the men watching could have made the shot. They smiled at the thought of such powerful enemies brought down by speed and arrows.
They could all hear the tortured snorting of the horse as it wrenched its head back and forth in pain. Slowly it sank to its knees and the warrior stepped clear. He dropped his lance and drew a long
sword, advancing on Tsubodai.
“To defeat such armored men, we must first kill the horses,” Tsubodai went on. “Their armor is designed to deflect arrows shot from the front. Everything is made for the charge, but on foot, they are like turtles, slow and ponderous.”
To make his point, he selected a thick arrow with a long steel tip. It was a wicked-looking thing, smooth and polished, with no barbs to slow its speed.
The approaching warrior saw the action and hesitated. He did not know how far Tsubodai was willing to go to make his point, but the general would be equally ruthless with a man whose nerve failed. The moment of indecision passed and the warrior clumped forward, straining to pump his heavy legs and arms quickly so that he could bring his sword to bear.
From the saddle, Tsubodai guided his mount with his knees, sending the pony dancing back out of sword range. He drew again, feeling the immense power of the bow as he pulled the three-foot shaft right back to his ear. With the warrior just a few paces away, Tsubodai loosed and watched closely as the shaft passed straight through the side plates.
The warrior went down hard with a crash of metal. The arrow was lodged in his armor, the feathers showing clearly as he toppled. Tsubodai grinned.
“They have just one strength—in a line, facing forward. If we allow them to use that strength, they will sweep us away like wheat to a scythe. If we scatter and ambush them, stage false retreats and flank them, they will be as children to us.”
Batu watched as Tsubodai’s serving men carried the dying warrior away between them, sweating and struggling under the massive burden. At a distance, they stripped the armor, revealing a mailed body spitted through by the shaft. They had to break the arrow to get the plate free and bring it back to Tsubodai.
“According to those boastful Christians who wished to frighten us, these knights have had no equal on the battlefield for a hundred years.” He held up the metal plate and everyone there could see the sunlight gleam through the neat hole. “We cannot leave a major force or city behind us or on our flanks, but if this is the best they have, we will surprise them, I think.”
They raised their own bows and swords then, cheering Tsubodai’s name. Batu joined them, careful not to be the only one who remained outside the group. He saw Tsubodai’s gaze flicker over him. A look of satisfaction crossed the general’s face at seeing Batu shout with the others. Batu smiled at the thought of holding Tsubodai’s head up in just such a way. It was only a fantasy. The army was strong, but he knew they needed Tsubodai to lead them west against the great armies of horsemen and farther to these men of iron. For Batu, men like Tsubodai were old and approaching the end of their time. His chance would come naturally; he did not need to force its progress.
Chagatai had built a summer palace on the banks of the Amu Darya river, the western edge of his empire that led as far south as Kabul. For the site, he had chosen a high ridge over the river where there was always a cool breeze, even in the hottest months. The sun of his khanate had baked him lean and dark, as if all the moisture had been boiled out, leaving him as hard as ancient birch. He ruled the cities of Bukhara, Samarkand, and Kabul, with all their wealth. The citizens there had learned to deal with the summer heat, sipping cool drinks and sleeping through the afternoon before rising again. Chagatai had chosen almost a hundred new wives from those cities alone, and many of them had already given birth to sons and daughters. He had taken Ogedai’s order to breed a new army literally, and he enjoyed the sound of the squalling children in the infant rooms of his seraglio. He had even learned the new word for his collection of beautiful women, as there was nothing like it in his own tongue.
Yet there were times when he missed the frozen plains of his homeland. Winter was a passing thing in his new lands, always with the promise of a return to green life. Though their nights could be bitter, the people of his new khanate had no concept of the endless, crushing cold that had shaped the Mongol people, the desolate high plains that had to be fought for every meal, with life and sudden death as the stakes. His heartland had groves of figs and fruit, rolling hills and rivers that flooded every few years and had not run dry in living memory.
His summer palace had been built to the same specifications and measurements as Ogedai’s in Karakorum—then carefully reduced in all dimensions. Chagatai was nowhere near the fool some believed him to be. No great khan would enjoy hearing of a building to rival his own, and Chagatai was careful to remain a support rather than become any kind of threat.
He heard his servant approaching along the marble corridor that led to the audience room over the river. Suntai’s sole concession to the climate was wearing open sandals with iron studs that clacked and echoed long before he could be seen. Chagatai stood on the balcony, enjoying the sight of the ducks sweeping in to settle in the reed beds along the banks. Above them, a lone white-tailed eagle hung in perfect stillness, silent and deadly.
As Suntai entered, Chagatai turned and gestured to a bottle of arrack on the table. Both men had developed a taste for the aniseed drink so popular among the Persian citizens. Chagatai turned back to the river as Suntai clinked the cups together and poured, adding a dash of water so that it whitened like mare’s milk.
Chagatai accepted the cup without taking his eyes off the eagle over the river. He squinted against the setting sun as it stooped, dropping suddenly to the waters and rising again with a squirming fish in its claws. The ducks rose in mindless panic and Chagatai smiled. When the air cooled in the evenings, he found he had grown affectionate toward his new home. It was a fitting land for those who would come after him. Ogedai had been generous.
“You have heard the news,” Chagatai said. It was a statement rather than a question. Any message that reached his summer palace would have passed through Suntai’s hands at some point.
Suntai nodded, content to wait to hear his master’s mind. To those who did not know him, he looked like any other warrior, though one who had marked his cheeks and chin with heavy lines of knife scars as some did, removing the need to shave on campaign. Suntai was always grubby and his hair was thick with ancient, rancid oil. He scorned the Persian habit of bathing, and he suffered worse than most with boils and spreading rashes. With his dark eyes and lean frame, he looked like a rough killer. In fact, the mind behind the carefully created image was sharper than the knives he carried hidden against his skin.
“I did not expect to lose another brother so soon,” Chagatai said softly. He emptied the cup down his throat and belched. “Two are gone. Just two of us remain.”
“Master, we should not stand at a window to discuss such things. There are always ears to hear.”
Chagatai shrugged and gestured with his empty cup. Suntai walked with him, deftly snatching up the jug of arrack as he passed the table. They sat facing each other at an ornate table of gold-inlaid black wood, once the property of a Persian king. It was not symbolism that placed it at the very center of the room. Suntai knew they could not be overheard by the keenest listener with his ears pressed to the outer walls. He suspected Ogedai would have spies in the new summer palace, just as Suntai had placed them with Tsubodai and Ogedai, Khasar and Kachiun, all the senior men he could reach. Loyalty was a difficult game, but he loved it.
“I have reports of the fit suffered by the khan,” Suntai said. “I cannot say how close he was to death without interviewing the shaman who tended him. He is not one of mine, unfortunately.”
“Nevertheless, I must be ready to move at the first messenger to come galloping in.” Despite the placement of the table, Chagatai was unable to resist glancing around to be sure no one could hear him, and he leaned forward, his voice very low.
“It took forty-nine days for me to hear this, Suntai. It is not good enough. If I am to take the great khanate as my own, I must have better news and faster. The next time Ogedai falls, I want to be there before he is cold, do you understand?”
Suntai touched his forehead, mouth, and heart with his fingertips in the Arab gesture of respect
and obedience.
“Your will commands me, my lord. One of my closest servants was gored in a boar hunt. It has taken time to replace him in the great khan’s retinue. However, I have two others ready for promotion to his personal staff. In just a few months, they will be part of his innermost councils.”
“Make it so, Suntai. There will be only one chance to take the reins. I do not want his weakling son gathering the tribes before I can act. Serve me well in this and you will rise with me. The nation of my father is too strong for a man who cannot command even his own body.”
Suntai smiled tightly, rubbing the ugly ridged skin of his cheeks. The instinct of years prevented him from agreeing with the treason, or even to nod his head. He had spent too long with spies and informants, and he never spoke without carefully weighing the words. Chagatai was used to his silences and merely refilled the cups, adding the splash of water that took the edge off the bitterness.
“Let us drink to my brother Tolui,” Chagatai said.
Suntai looked closely at him, but there was real grief in his eyes. The khan’s spymaster raised his cup and dipped his gaze.
“He would have made my father proud with such a sacrifice,” Chagatai went on. “It was insane, but by the sky father, it was a glorious insanity.”
Suntai drank, aware that his lord had been drinking most of the day already. It showed in his bloodshot eyes and clumsy movements. In comparison, Suntai only sipped from his cup. He almost choked when Chagatai slapped him on the shoulder and laughed, spilling the white liquid across the lacquer.
“Family is everything, Suntai, never think that I forget that …” He trailed off, staring into memories for a time. “But I was my father’s choice to succeed him. There was a time when my destiny was written in stone and carved deep. Now, I must make it for myself, but it is nothing more than fulfilling the old man’s dreams.”
“I understand, my lord,” Suntai said, refilling Chagatai’s cup. “It is a worthy aim.”
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle Page 148