The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  As he rode up to Mongke, Guyuk saw that his friend was flushed and angry. Guyuk raised his eyebrows in unspoken question, and Mongke shrugged.

  “He says he will speak only to you,” he said stiffly.

  Guyuk looked in surprise at the young yam rider. He was travel-stained, though that was normal enough. Guyuk saw great patches of sweat on the rider’s silk tunic. He wore no armor, but carried a leather satchel on his back that he had to struggle to remove.

  “My instructions are to give the message only into the hands of Guyuk, my lord. I meant no offense.” The last comment was directed at Mongke, who glowered at him.

  “No doubt Orlok Tsubodai has his reasons,” Guyuk said, accepting the satchel and opening it.

  The weary rider looked uncomfortable in the presence of such senior men, but he shook his head.

  “My lord, I have not seen Orlok Tsubodai. This message came down the line from Karakorum.”

  Guyuk froze in the process of pulling out a single folded parchment. The men watching saw him grow pale as he examined the seal. With a quick snap, he broke the wax and opened the message that had traveled almost five thousand miles to reach his hand.

  He bit his lip as he read, his eyes traveling back to the beginning over and over as he tried to take it in. Mongke could not bear the strained silence.

  “What is it, Guyuk?” he said.

  Guyuk shook his head. “My father is dead,” he replied, dazed. “The khan is dead.”

  Mongke sat still on his horse for only a moment, then dismounted and knelt on the grass with his head bowed. The men around him followed suit, word spreading among their number until both tumans were kneeling. Guyuk looked over their heads in confusion, still unable to take it in.

  “Stand up, General,” he said. “I will not forget this, but I must return home now. I must go back to Karakorum.”

  Mongke rose, showing no emotion. Before Guyuk could stop him, he pressed his forehead against Guyuk’s boot in the stirrup.

  “Let me take the oath to you,” Mongke said. “Allow me that honor.”

  Guyuk stared at the man looking up at him with such fierce pride in his eyes.

  “Very well, General,” he said softly.

  “The khan is dead. I offer you salt, milk, horses, gers, and blood,” Mongke replied. “I will follow you, my lord khan. I give you my word and my word is iron.”

  Guyuk shuddered slightly as the words were echoed by the kneeling men around them, until they had been said by all. The silence held and Guyuk looked over them, beyond the horizon to a city only he could see.

  “It is done, my lord,” Mongke said. “We are bound to you alone.” He mounted in one leap and began snapping orders to the closest minghaan officers.

  Guyuk still held the yellow parchment as if it would burn him. He heard Mongke ordering the tumans north, to join Tsubodai.

  “No, General. I must leave tonight,” Guyuk said. His eyes were glassy, his skin like wax in the sunlight. He barely noticed Mongke bring his horse alongside, or felt the grip as Mongke reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “You will need the other tumans now, my friend,” Mongke said. “You will need all of them.”

  Tsubodai crouched in the darkness. He could hear the river running close by. The air was filled with the odor of men and horses: damp cloth, sweat, spiced mutton, and manure, all mingling in the night air. He was in a grim mood, having watched a minghaan of warriors slowly cut to pieces as they tried to hold the river bridge on his orders. They had completed their task, so that darkness came without the main Magyar army crossing. King Bela had forced just a thousand heavy horse across in a bridgehead, establishing his position for the morning. They would not sleep, with Mongol campfires all around them. The sacrifice had been worthwhile, Tsubodai thought. King Bela was forced to wait for the morning before he could flood across the bridge and continue his dogged pursuit of the Mongol army.

  Wearily, Tsubodai cracked his neck, loosening tired joints. He did not need to motivate his men with a speech or fresh orders. They too had watched the last stand of the minghaan. They had heard the cries of pain and seen the splashes as dying men tumbled into the waters. The Sajó River was running full and fast, and they drowned swiftly in their armor, unable to rise to the surface.

  The moon was half full, casting its light over the landscape. The river shone like a silver rope, blurred into darkness as the tumans splashed through the shallow ford. This was the key to Tsubodai’s plan, the fording place he had scouted on the first crossing out of the mountains. Everything Bela had seen made him believe the Mongols were running. The way they had held the bridge showed its importance to them. Since then, Tsubodai had used the dark hours as the moon rose above the grasslands around the river. It was a gamble, a risk, but he was as tired of running as his men.

  Only his ragged conscripts now held the land beyond the river. They sat around a thousand fires in the moonlight, moving from one to another and making it look as if a vast camp had been set. Instead, Tsubodai had led the tumans three miles to the north. On foot, they led their horses across the fording point, out of sight and sound of the enemy. He had left not a single tuman in reserve. If the plan failed now, the Hungarian king would storm across the river at dawn and the ragged levy would be annihilated.

  Tsubodai sent whispered orders to hurry the pace. It took hours to get so many men across, especially as they tried to keep quiet. Again and again, he jerked his gaze up to the moon, watching its passage and estimating the time he had left before dawn. King Bela’s army was huge. Tsubodai would need the entire day to avenge his losses in full.

  The tumans gathered on the other side of the river. The horses were snorting and whinnying to one another, their nostrils blocked by the grubby hands of warriors to muffle the sounds. The men whispered and laughed with each other in the darkness, relishing the shock that would ripple through the army chasing them. For five days they had run. Finally it was time to stop and hit back.

  In the gloom, Tsubodai could see that Batu was grinning as he trotted up for orders. He kept his own face stern.

  “Your tuman is to hit the vanguard of their camp, Batu, where their king rests. Catch them asleep and destroy them. If you can reach the sandbag walls, tear them down. Approach as quietly as you can, then let your arrows and swords shout for you.”

  “Your will, Orlok,” Batu replied. For once, there was no mockery as he spoke the title.

  “I will ride with the tumans of Jebe and Chulgetei, to strike against their rear at the same moment. They are certain of our position and they will not expect us tonight. Their walls are worse than useless, for they feel safe within them. I want them in panic, Batu. Everything depends on routing them quickly. Do not forget that they outnumber us still. If they are well led, they could rally and reform. We will be forced to fight to the last man, and the losses will be huge. Do not throw away my army, Batu. Do you understand?”

  “I will treat them as if they were my own sons,” Batu said.

  Tsubodai snorted. “Ride then. Dawn is close and you must be in position.”

  Tsubodai watched as Batu vanished silently into the darkness. There were no signal horns or naccara drums, not with the enemy so close and unsuspecting. Batu’s tuman formed up without fuss, setting off at a trot toward the Hungarian camp. The Mongol carts and gers and wounded had remained behind with the conscripts, left to fend for themselves. The tumans were unencumbered, able to ride fast and strike hard, as they preferred.

  Tsubodai nodded sharply to himself. He had farther to ride than Batu’s tuman, and time was short. He mounted quickly, feeling his heart beat stronger in his chest. It was rare for him to feel excitement, and he showed nothing in his face as he led the last two tumans into the west.

  • • •

  King Bela came awake, starting in his sleep at a crash of sound. He was covered in sweat and rubbed the last wisps of a nightmare from his eyes as he stood. In his blurred thoughts, he could hear the clash and screams of ba
ttle, and he blinked, becoming aware that the sounds were real. In sudden fear, he stuck his head outside the command tent. It was still dark, but he saw Conrad von Thuringen on his horse, already in full armor. The marshal of the Teutonic Knights did not see the king as he trotted past, shouting orders Bela could not make out over the tumult. Men were running in all directions, and out beyond the sandbags, he heard battle horns sound in the distance. Bela swallowed drily as he recognized a distant rumble that was growing louder and clearer with every passing moment.

  He cursed and turned back to his tent, fumbling for clothes in the darkness. His servants were nowhere to be found, and he stumbled over a chair, hissing with pain as he rose. He pulled a pair of heavy trousers from the fallen chair back and yanked them on. It all took precious time. He grabbed the embroidered jacket of his rank, pulling it over his shoulders as he raced out into the night. His horse had been brought and he mounted, needing the height to see.

  The first light of dawn had stolen upon them in those moments. The sky to the east was growing pale, and with a shock of horror, Bela could see his ranks boiling in utter chaos. The sandbag walls there had spilled across the grass, worse than useless. His own men were coming through the gap, driven back by the savage riders and arrows slaughtering them outside. He heard Von Thuringen bellow orders to his knights as they rode to shore up the defenses there. Desperate hope kindled in him.

  The roar of drums began again and the king spun his charger on the spot. The Mongols were somehow behind him. How had they crossed the river? It was impossible, yet the drums rattled and grew.

  Stunned, Bela rode through the camp, preferring to move rather than remain still, though his mind was a blank. His Magyars had breached their own camp boundaries in two places, pouring through them to what felt like safety. He could barely comprehend the losses they must have taken to be falling back in such a way.

  As he watched, the holes widened and more and more crammed themselves behind the sandbags. Beyond them, the Mongols still tore into his bewildered men, sending them reeling with arrows and lances. In the growing light, there seemed no end to them, and Bela wondered if they had somehow hidden an army until then.

  Bela struggled to remain calm as the chaos increased around him. He knew he needed to retake the perimeter, to restore the camp and marshal his men within the walls. From there, he would be able to assess the losses, perhaps even begin a counterattack. He bawled the order to the messengers, and they rode out through the milling horsemen, shouting the words to anyone who could hear: “Rebuild the walls. Hold the walls.” If it could be done, he might yet save the day from disaster. His officers would make order from the chaos. He would throw the tumans back.

  The knights under Josef Landau heard him. They formed up and charged back across the camp in a solid mass. There were Mongols at the walls by then, and a hail of arrows buzzed through the camp. In such a crush, there was no need to aim. Bela could hardly believe the losses, but the knights struggled on like men possessed, knowing as he did that the walls were their only salvation. Von Thuringen led a hundred of his own armored men, the enormous marshal easy to mark with his beard and longsword.

  The knights proved their worth to him then, Landau and Von Thuringen shattering the Mongols who had dared to enter the camp, driving them back toward the wide holes in the walls. They fought with righteous rage, and for once the Mongols did not have room to nip and dart past them. Bela watched with his heart in his mouth as the Teutonic Knights blocked one breach with their horses, holding shields against the arrows still pouring through. Landau was struck by something and Bela had a glimpse of his head lolling limp as his horse bolted away. For a moment, the knight struggled, his arms flailing, then he fell into the churned mud almost at Bela’s feet. There was blood coming from under his neck plates, though Bela could see no wound. Trapped and suffocating in his armor, Landau died slowly, his body buffeted by those running around and over him.

  Unhorsed men yanked and sweated at the sandbags, rebuilding the walls as quickly as they could. The Mongols came again, using their horses to ride right up to the walls and then leaping over them, so that they landed tumbling. One by one, those intruders were killed, taken by the same regiment of archers who had assaulted the bridge the night before. Bela began to breathe more easily as the threat of imminent destruction receded. The walls were repaired, his enemies howling outside them. They had taken grievous losses, though nothing like his own. He thanked God he had built the camp large enough to shelter his men.

  King Bela stared at the heaps of dead soldiers and horses piled around the edges. They were thick with shafts, some still twitching. The sun was high and he could not believe the time had passed so quickly since the first alarms.

  From the back of his horse, he could see the Mongols were still pressing close to the walls. There was only one true gate and he sent archers to cover it against another attack. He saw Von Thuringen gather the knights there in a column, and Bela could only watch as they pulled down their visors and readied lances. At a bellow from Von Thuringen, the gate was pulled open. Almost six hundred kicked their chargers into a gallop and rode out into the storm. Bela thought he would not see them again.

  He had the wits to send archers with full quivers to every wall. All around him, the snap of bows began, and he breathed faster as he heard guttural yells from outside. The Teutonic Knights were in their element, slicing through the Mongol riders, using weight and speed to cut them down as they roared and screamed outside the sandbag walls. Bela could hardly control his fear. Inside the camp, men and horses roiled in a crush, but a great part of his army had been slaughtered in their sleep. Outside, Bela heard the jeers and whoops of the Mongols suddenly choked off as Von Thuringen battered through them. He felt himself grow cold. He would not escape from this place. They had trapped him and he would die with the rest.

  It seemed an age before Von Thuringen came back through the gate. The gleaming column of knights had been reduced to no more than eighty, perhaps a hundred. The men who returned were battered and bloody, many of them reeling in their saddles with arrows sticking out of their armor. The Magyar horsemen were in awe of the knights, and many of them dismounted to help them down from the saddle. Von Thuringen’s huge beard was stained with rusty blood, and he looked like some dark god, his blue eyes furious as they fell on the Hungarian king.

  Bela needed guidance and he returned the gaze like a deer staring helplessly at a lion. Through the heaving mass of men, Conrad von Thuringen came riding, the marshal’s face as grim as his own.

  Batu was panting as he rode up to Tsubodai. The orlok stood by his horse on a ridge of land that stretched across the battlefield, watching the battles he had ordered. Batu had expected the orlok to be furious at the way the attack had gone, but instead Tsubodai smiled to see him. Batu rubbed at a clot of mud sticking to his neck and returned the smile uncertainly.

  “Those knights are impressive,” Batu said.

  Tsubodai nodded. He had seen the bearded giant throw his men back. The Mongol warriors had been too close, unable to maneuver when the knights came charging out. Even so, the sudden attack had been unnerving for its discipline and ferocity. The knights had hacked their way through his men like tireless butchers, closing the gaps in their own ranks as arrows found them and sent them falling to the ground. Each one that fell took two or three warriors with him, grunting and kicking out until he was held and cut.

  “There are not so many now,” Tsubodai replied, though the attack had shaken his certainties. He had not dismissed the threat of the knights, but perhaps he had underestimated their strength in the right time and place. That bearded maniac had found the moment, surprising his tuman just as they were howling for victory. Still, only a few knights made it back. When the volleys of arrows began to snap out from the walls, Tsubodai had given the order to retreat out of range. His own warriors had begun to return the shafts, but the deaths were unequal as Bela’s archers shot from behind a stable wall of sandbags. For
an instant, Tsubodai had considered another charge to break the walls, but the cost would have been too high. He had them inside their own walls, weaker than any Chin fortress. He doubted they had enough water for so many crammed into the camp.

  The orlok stared out across the plains with its heaps of bodies, some still crawling. The attacks had smashed the Hungarian army, shattering their overconfidence at last. He was pleased, but he bit his lip as he pondered how to finish the work.

  “How long can they hold?” Batu asked suddenly, echoing his thoughts so closely that Tsubodai looked at him in surprise.

  “A few days before their water runs out, no more,” he said. “But they will not wait until then. The question is how many men and horses, how many arrows and lances, they have left. And how many of those cursed knights.”

  It was hard to make a good estimate. The grasslands were littered with the dead, but he could not know how many had survived to reach their king. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up the image of the land as if he flew above it. His ragged conscripts were still across the river, no doubt staring balefully at the small contingent who had forced the bridge and held the other side. The king’s camp lay between Tsubodai and the river, trapped and held in one spot.

  “Let me send a messenger to bring the foot soldiers back across the river,” Batu said, once again mirroring his thoughts.

  Tsubodai ignored him. He did not yet know how many of his Mongol warriors had been killed or wounded that morning. If the king had saved even half his army, he would have enough left to force a battle on equal terms, a battle that Tsubodai could win only by throwing his tumans in hard. The precious army he had brought on the great trek would be reduced, battered against an enemy of equal strength and will. It would not do. He thought furiously, opening his eyes to stare at the land around the camp. Slowly he smiled, and this time Batu was not there before him.