Tsubodai glanced at him. “The river is the key. We have run and run. They will not expect an attack, not now. They will press us when they see we are beginning to cross, but we will hold them with arrows. By nightfall I want them on this side and our tumans on the other. It is no more than this king would expect from such easily driven enemies.”
Tsubodai smiled to himself. “Once we are across the Sajó, I will need the last minghaan to hold that bridge. It is the only weak spot in my preparations, Batu. If that thousand is quickly overwhelmed, they will be on us and the choke point of the river bridge will have been wasted.”
Batu thought about the bridge, which he had seen on the first crossing, when the tumans came trotting toward Buda and Pest. It was a main road of stone, wide enough for a dozen horses to ride abreast. He could hold it for days against knights, but the Magyar archers would simply use the banks to send shafts in tens of thousands. Even with shields, whoever stood on that bridge would fall eventually. He sighed to himself.
“Is that your task for me, Orlok? Another suicidal stand that I should not survive? I just want to be sure I understand your orders.”
To his surprise, Tsubodai chuckled. “No, not you. I need you tomorrow before dawn. I will leave it up to you whom you send for the task. They cannot retreat under attack, Batu. Be sure they understand that. The Hungarian king must believe we intend to run clear, that we cannot face his host in the field. Holding that bridge will convince him.”
Batu tried to hide his relief as he nodded. In the distance, Jebe’s tuman was already on the move, riding as fast as they could through the narrow structure that spanned the river. A seasoned officer, Jebe allowed no delays, and Batu could see a growing stain of men and horses on the other side. He heard trumpets behind him and bit his lip as the Hungarian Magyars continued to close the distance.
“This will be bloody, Tsubodai,” he said quietly.
The orlok looked at him, judging his worth with cold eyes. “We will pay them back for our losses. You have my word. Now go and choose your men. Make sure they have torches to light the bridge at sunset. I don’t want any mistakes, Batu. We have a busy night ahead.”
Temuge paced the corridor outside the healer’s rooms. He was pale at the muffled cries he heard, but he could not go back in. The first cut into Khasar’s shoulder had released a white liquid that stank so terribly it had been all he could do to keep from vomiting. Khasar had remained silent then, but he had shuddered as the knife sliced deeper into his back, gouging him. The black paste was still thick on his tongue, and Temuge thought his brother was hallucinating when he began to call for Genghis. Temuge had left at that point, with his sleeve pressed over his mouth and nose.
The sunlight had darkened in the corridor as he paced, though the city was never quiet now, not even in the palace rooms. Servants trotted past in groups, bearing anything from food to building supplies. Temuge had to stand back when one group came with a huge beam of oak, for what purpose he did not know. His nephew’s woman, Sorhatani, had begun preparations for siege almost on the day Ogedai had fallen. Temuge sneered at the thought, wishing for a moment that Genghis could return to slap some sense back into her. The city could not be held, any fool could see that. The best they could hope for was to send an emissary to Chagatai to begin negotiations. The only living son of Genghis was not so powerful that words were useless, Temuge told himself. He had volunteered to begin negotiations, but Sorhatani had only smiled and thanked him for his suggestion before he was dismissed. Temuge seethed afresh at the thought. At the very moment when the nation needed his expertise, he had to deal with a woman who understood nothing. He resumed his pacing, wincing as Khasar cried out, worse than before.
The city needed a strong regent, not Ogedai’s widow, who was still so stunned with grief that she looked to Sorhatani for guidance. Temuge thought again of forcing the issue. How many times had he come close to ruling the nation? The spirits had been against him before, but now it felt as if the bones had been thrown into the air. The city was terrified, he could feel it. Surely this was a time when a strong man, a brother to Genghis himself, could seize the reins? He cursed under his breath at the memory of the senior officer, Alkhun. Temuge had tried to sound him out, to gauge his feelings about the two women running Karakorum. The man had known his purpose, Temuge was almost sure. Alkhun had shaken his head. Before Temuge could do more than broach the subject gently, the man had dismissed himself with extraordinary abruptness, almost rudeness. Temuge had been left in a corridor, staring after him.
His thoughts were interrupted as the healer came out, wiping blood and the white filth from his hands. Temuge looked up, but the Chin man shook his head in silence.
“I am sorry. The growths were too deep and there were too many. The general would not have lived much longer. He lost a great deal of blood. I could not hold him here.”
Temuge clenched his fists, suddenly angry. “What? What are you saying?” he demanded. “He’s dead?”
The healer looked at him sadly. “He knew there were many risks, my lord. I am sorry.”
Temuge shoved past him and went into the room, almost gagging at the stench of sickness there. He jammed his sleeve into his mouth once again as he saw Khasar staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy. The exposed chest was a mass of scars, white rope lines of a thousand battles, reaching down to his arms, which were thick with them, so that it barely looked like flesh. He saw again how thin Khasar had become, the bones showing clearly under tight skin. It was a relief that the healer had laid him faceup. Temuge had no wish to see those purple wounds again, not while the odor filled his lungs. He gagged as he approached his brother’s body, but he managed to reach out and close the eyes, pressing hard so that they remained shut.
“Who will look after me now?” Temuge muttered. “I am the last of us, brother. What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?” To his astonishment, he began to weep, the tears feeling hot against his cheeks.
“Get up, you fool,” he said to the body. “Just get up and tell me I am weak and pitiful for weeping. Get up, please.” He sensed the healer’s presence at the door and spun round.
“My lord, do you want—” the man began.
“Get out!” Temuge roared. “This is not your business!”
The healer vanished from the door, closing it softly behind him.
Temuge turned back to the figure lying on the bed. Somehow the smell had ceased to bother him.
“I am the last of us, Khasar. Bekter and Temujin and Kachiun, Temulun and now you. You are all gone now. I have no one left.” The realization brought fresh tears and he slumped into a seat. “I am alone in a city that waits to be destroyed,” he whispered.
For an instant, his eyes brightened with bitter rage. He had the right to inherit his brother’s line, not some bastard son who had been nothing but a trial to his father. If Temuge had commanded a loyal tuman, he knew Chagatai would not live to take Karakorum. Chagatai would burn all the books in Karakorum’s library, without understanding for a moment what treasures lay within. Temuge swallowed his grief and began to think and weigh his options. Sorhatani did not understand the stakes involved. Perhaps the city could be held if it had a man who understood its value, not a woman who had merely inherited her power through no talent of her own. Tsubodai would hear soon, and he despised Chagatai. The entire army would come east like a storm to defend the capital city. Temuge concentrated harder, weighing his decisions and choices. If the city survived, Guyuk would be grateful.
It felt as if his life had been preparing him for this point, this decision. His family was no more and without them he felt a strange freedom. With the last witnesses gone, his old failures were just ashes, forgotten.
There would be some who chafed under Sorhatani’s rule. Yao Shu was certainly one and Temuge thought the chancellor would know of others. It could be done before Chagatai arrived. Sometimes, power could change hands as quickly as a knife thrust. Temuge stood up and looked down at Khasar’s
body for the last time.
“He will burn the books, brother. Why should I allow that? I was there in the beginning, when death was just a breath away. I promise I will not be afraid now, with your spirit watching me. I was born to power, brother. It is the way the world should be, not the way it has become. I am the last of us, Khasar. This is my time now.”
King Bela watched as the camp was set around him, beginning with his own tent. It was a magnificent affair of oiled struts and sturdy canvas against the wind. He could already smell the meal his servants were preparing. Standing at the center of it all, he felt a surging pride. His army had not needed the Cuman nomads to drive the Mongols back, day after day. Good Magyar steel and courage had been all that was required. It amused him to think he had herded the Mongol shepherds like one of their own flocks. He could regret that he had not driven them harder against the banks of the Sajó River, but they had not checked in their headlong retreat, barely pausing at the bridge before flowing across it. When he shaded his eyes against the setting sun, he could see the enemy tents, strange circular things that dotted the landscape across the river. They had none of the order and quiet efficiency he saw around him, and he relished the thought of the pursuit still to come. He had the blood of kings in his veins, and he felt his ancestors crying out to see the invader thrown back, broken and bloody on the mountains they had come from.
He turned as one of Von Thuringen’s knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.
“Sir Henry,” King Bela said in greeting.
The knight dismounted slowly and bowed. He spoke in French, both men fluent in that language.
“My lord, they are attempting to hold the bridge against us. Eight hundred, perhaps a thousand of them have sent their horses back to the others.”
“They would prefer it if we did not cross, eh, Sir Henry?” King Bela chuckled expansively. “They have felt our breath on their necks for days, and they would rather we left them to their retreat.”
“As you say, my lord. But it is the only bridge for a hundred miles or more. We must dislodge them tonight or in the morning.”
Bela thought for a moment. He was in a very good mood.
“When I was a boy, Sir Henry, I would collect limpets from the rocks near Lake Balaton. They would cling to the stones, but with my little knife, I would work them free for the pot! Do you follow me, Sir Henry?”
Bela laughed at his own wit, though the knight only frowned slightly, waiting for orders. The king sighed at such a stolid companion-in-arms. There was little humor in the ranks of knights, with their dour version of Christianity. A waft of roast pork reached them on the air, and King Bela clapped his hands together in anticipation, making his decision.
“Send archers, Sir Henry. Let them have a little sport, a touch of target play before sunset. Hit them hard and drive them back over the river. Is that clear enough for you?”
The knight bowed again. Sir Henry of Braybrooke had a boil on his leg that needed lancing and a sore foot that seemed to be rotting in its bandages, for all the unguents and poultices he tried. The meal he would enjoy would be a thin soup and stale bread, with perhaps a little sour wine to force it down his dry throat. He mounted carefully, stiff with his discomforts. He did not enjoy slaughter, though the godless Mongols deserved to be wiped from the face of the good earth. Still, he would follow the king’s order, honoring his vow of obedience to the knights.
Henry of Braybrooke passed on the king’s command to a regiment of archers, four thousand bowmen under a Hungarian prince he neither liked nor respected. He stayed just long enough to watch them begin their march to the bridge and then went to join the lines for soup and bread, his stomach growling.
Chagatai looked out into bright sunshine. In his right hand, he held a yellowed parchment that had traveled more than a thousand miles along the yam stations. It was stained and grubby from its journey, but the brief lines written there made his heart pound. The yam rider who had delivered it still held position with one knee bent, his presence forgotten the moment Chagatai had begun to read. In hastily scrawled Chin characters, the message was one he had both expected and almost dreaded for years. Ogedai had fallen at last.
It changed everything. Chagatai had become the last surviving son of Genghis Khan, the last in the direct line of the nation maker, the khan of khans. Chagatai could almost hear the old man’s voice as he thought through what lay ahead. It was a time to be ruthless, to snatch the power that had once been promised, that was his by right. Tears sprang to his eyes, partly in memory of his youth. He could be the man his father had wanted him to be at last. Unconsciously he crumpled the yellow papers.
Tsubodai would stand against him, or at least in favor of Guyuk. The orlok had never been in Chagatai’s camp. He would have to be quietly killed, there was no other way. Chagatai nodded to himself, the simple decision opening up other pathways into the days to come. He had stood in the palace of Karakorum with Ogedai and Tsubodai. He had heard his brother talk of Tsubodai’s loyalty, but Chagatai knew he could never trust the orlok. There was simply too much history between them, and he had seen the promise of death in Tsubodai’s hard eyes.
Karakorum was the key to the lock, he was certain. There was no history of direct descent of power, at least not in the tribes of the Mongol nation. The khan had always been chosen from those best suited to lead. It did not matter that Guyuk was Ogedai’s eldest son, or that Ogedai favored him, any more than it had mattered that Ogedai was not the eldest of the brothers. The nation knew no favorites. They would accept whoever held the city. They would follow whoever had the strength and will to take Karakorum. Chagatai smiled to himself. He had many sons to fill those rooms, sons who would make the line of Genghis stretch to the end of history. His imagination filled with a dazzling vision, an empire that would reach from Koryo in the east to the western nations, under just one strong hand. The Chin had never dreamed so far, but the land was vast and it tempted him to try to hold it all.
He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.
“It is time, Suntai,” Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. “The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.”
His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider, and after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.
“Your will, my lord khan.”
THIRTY-ONE
Guyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela’s call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.
Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.
As he
rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to one another, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains, and he smiled at the man’s expression, lifted by his simple joy.
When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu’s closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu’s flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.
At the edge of the forest, there were rocky outcrops, and Guyuk picked his way past the broken ground as it merged with grassland. He could already see Mongke’s tuman forming up, as well as his own men coming in from all directions and taking their positions. Guyuk kicked his mount into a canter and rode across.
Even from a distance, Guyuk heard the jingle of bells that meant a yam rider had reached them. His pulse raced with excitement at getting news of any kind. It was too easy to feel isolated away from the main army, as if his battles and raids were the whole world. Guyuk forced himself to relax as he rode. Tsubodai would be calling them back for the final push to the west. Truly the sky father had blessed their enterprise, and he had never once regretted coming so far from the plains of home. Guyuk was young, but he could imagine the years ahead, when all those who had ridden in the great trek would share a special bond. He felt it already, a sense of shared danger, even of brotherhood. Whatever else Tsubodai had intended, the trek had forged bonds between the generals who had ridden with him.
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