‘You would attack the khan of the nation? Your own cousin?’
‘Not my khan,’ Batu said, taking another step. ‘You’ve had no oath from me.’
‘I was coming to you to accept that oath, Batu,’ Guyuk said.
Batu paused again and Guyuk was pleased to see he had worried him. Any small advantage would matter. For unarmoured men, both of them knew a fight might last only a few heartbeats. Perhaps two masters could hold each other off for a time, but for normal warriors, the lengths of razor steel they held were too deadly. A single gash could bite to the bone or remove a limb.
Batu stalked past Guyuk’s pony and Guyuk barked a command.
‘Strike!’
Batu lurched away from the animal, expecting it to kick out. They had both seen the warhorses of the Christian cavalry, trained to be weapons in battle. Guyuk’s pony did nothing and instead the eagle on its back launched with a huge spread of wings. Guyuk leapt forward at the same time, roaring at the top of his lungs.
In fear, Batu struck out at the bird, his sword coming down and across the eagle before its claws could reach him. The wings hid the wound from Guyuk’s sight, but it screeched and fell almost at Guyuk’s feet. He lunged for Batu’s chest and knew a moment of exultation as he saw Batu’s blade was too low to block.
Batu sidestepped, pulling his sword free from the crippled bird. It had landed on its back, its talons still raking the air and its head straining to reach him. For an instant, his arm was away from his body, outstretched. Guyuk had put everything into the lunge and could barely recover his balance, but he jerked his blade up and caught Batu along the ribs with the edge as he pulled back for another blow. The light deel opened in a gash and blood showed beneath it. Batu cursed and kept moving out of range, away from the bird and its master.
Guyuk smiled, though inwardly he was raging at the damage done to his eagle. He dared not glance down at it, but its cries were already weakening.
‘Did you think this would be easy?’ he taunted Batu. ‘I am the khan of the nation, cousin. I carry the spirit and the sword of Genghis. He will not let me fall to some dog-meat traitor.’
Without taking his eyes from Batu, Guyuk called over his shoulder: ‘Anar! Take your horse and ride back to camp. Bring my bondsmen. I will finish this scavenger while I wait.’
If he had hoped to provoke Batu into an attack, he got his wish. As Anar moved to his white mare, Batu surged forward, his sword alive in his hand. Guyuk brought his own blade across to block and grunted as he felt the man’s strength behind the blow. His confidence was jolted and he stepped back a pace before holding his ground. A memory flashed from his earliest lessons, that once you have started to retreat, it is hard to stop.
Batu’s blade was too quick to see and only his childhood training saved Guyuk as he parried twice more from instinct alone. The blades rang together and he felt a sharp sting on his forearm. To his disgust, he was already breathing hard, while Batu worked with his mouth closed, chopping blows at him without a pause. Guyuk stopped another attack that would have opened him like a goat, but his lungs were aching and Batu seemed tireless, growing faster and faster. Guyuk felt another sting on his leg as the tip of Batu’s blade caught him and opened a deep cut into the muscle. He took another step backwards and almost fell as the leg buckled. He could not turn to look for Anar and he could hear nothing beyond his own breathing and the clash of swords. He hoped his servant had run. Guyuk had begun to think he could not win against this man who used a sword with all the casual strength of a woodsman cutting trees. He continued to defend desperately, feeling warm blood course down his leg as he looked for just one chance.
He didn’t see Anar come from the side in a rush. Guyuk’s response across a lunge had put his blade right over, leaving him vulnerable. At that moment, Anar crashed into Batu and sent them both rolling on the grass. Guyuk could hear his own heartbeat thump, as if the world had grown still.
Anar was unarmed, but he tried to hold Batu as the man sprang to his feet, giving Guyuk his chance. Batu punched his sword twice into Anar’s side, two hard blows that drew the air and life out of him. Even then, Anar’s hands gripped Batu’s deel robe, dragging him off balance. Guyuk stepped forward in a wild rage. His first blow was spoiled as Batu jerked Anar around as a shield, then let him drop. Guyuk lunged for his heart, but he moved too slowly. Batu’s sword ripped into him before he could land the blow. He was aware of every sliding inch of metal as it passed into his chest between his ribs. Guyuk turned with it, his rage allowing him strength to try and trap the blade. He gasped as it tore him inside, but Batu could not pull it free. They hung almost in an embrace, too close for Guyuk to bring his own sword to bear. Instead, he hammered his hilt into Batu’s face, breaking his nose and smashing his lips. Guyuk could feel his strength vanishing like water pouring out of him and his blows grew weak until he was barely able to raise his hands.
His sword fell from his fingers and he sat suddenly, his legs useless. Batu’s sword came with him, still deep in his chest. Anar was lying on the ground, choking and gasping bloody air. Their eyes met and Guyuk looked away, caring nothing for the fate of a servant.
Darkness swelled across his vision. He felt Batu tugging at the sword hilt as a distant pressure, almost without pain. When it came free at last, Guyuk felt his bowels and bladder release. It was not a quick end and he hung on, panting mindlessly for a time before his lungs emptied.
Batu stood, looking down through swelling eyes at his dead cousin. The man’s companion lasted a long time and Batu said nothing as he waited for the choking sounds to stop, the desperate eyes to grow still. When they were both gone, he sank to one knee, placing his sword on the ground at his side and raising a hand to his face to feel the damage. Blood flowed in a sticky stream from his nose and he spat on the grass as it dribbled into his throat. His gaze fell to Guyuk’s sword, with the hilt in the shape of a wolf’s snarling jaws. He shook his head at his own greed and looked around for the scabbard in the grass. Moving stiffly, he cleaned the blade before re-sheathing it and placing it on Guyuk’s chest. The khan’s robe was already heavy by then, sopping wet with cooling blood. The sword was Batu’s to take, but he could not.
‘My enemy the khan is dead,’ Batu muttered to himself, looking on Guyuk’s still face. With Kublai’s information, he had known Guyuk would leave his guards and the safety of his camp. He had waited for three precious days, risking discovery by the scouts while he lay and watched. Doubts had assailed him the whole time, worse than thirst. What if Kublai had been wrong? What if he was throwing away the days he needed to take his people to safety? Batu had been close to despair when he saw Guyuk ride out at last.
Batu stood, still looking down. The summer darkness had come, though he was sure they had fought for just a short time. He glanced at the dead eagle and felt a pang of regret, knowing the bird’s bloodline came from Genghis himself. He stretched his back and stood taller, breathing clean air and beginning to feel the aches and wounds he had taken. They were not serious and he felt strong. He could feel life in his veins and he breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation. He did not regret his decision to face the khan with a sword. He had a bow and he could have taken both men before they even knew they were under attack. Instead, he had killed them with honour. Batu suddenly laughed aloud, taking joy in being alive after the fight. He did not know how the nation would fare without Guyuk. It did not matter to Batu. His own people would survive. Still chuckling, Batu wiped his sword on a clean part of the servant’s tunic and sheathed it before walking back to his horse.
The warriors stood around the body of their khan, stunned and silent as Mongke rode in. Crows called in the trees around them as the sun rose. The lower branches seemed to be full of the black birds and more than one hopped on the ground, flaring its wings and eyeing the dead flesh. As Mongke dismounted, one of the warriors kicked out at a crow in irritation, though it took flight before he could connect.
Guyuk lay where he had fallen, h
is father’s sword placed on his chest. Mongke strode through his men and loomed over the khan’s body, his emotions hidden behind the cold face every warrior had to learn. He stood there for a long time and no one dared speak.
‘Thieves would have taken the sword,’ he said at last. His deep voice grated with anger and he reached down and picked up the blade, pulling out a length of the steel and seeing it had been cleaned. His gaze searched the bodies, settling on the smears that marked the tunic of the khan’s servant.
‘You saw no one?’ Mongke said suddenly, whirling on the closest scout. The man trembled as he replied.
‘No one, lord,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘When the khan did not return I went out to look for him … then I came to find you.’
Mongke’s eyes burned into him and the scout looked away, terrified.
‘It was your task to scout the land to the east,’ Mongke said softly.
‘My lord, the khan gave orders to bring the scouts in,’ the man said without daring to look up. He was sweating visibly, a trail like a tear working its way down his cheek. He flinched as Mongke drew the wolf’s-head sword, but he did not back away and simply stood with his head down.
Mongke’s face was calm as he moved. He brought the sword edge down on the man’s neck with all his strength, cutting the head free. The body fell forward, suddenly limp as Mongke turned back to the bodies. He wished Kublai were there. For all his distaste for his brother’s Chin clothes and manners, Mongke knew Kublai would have offered good counsel. He felt lost. Killing the scout had not even begun to quench the rage and frustration he felt. The khan was dead. As orlok of the army, the responsibility could only be Mongke’s. He stayed silent for a long time, then took a deep, slow breath. His father Tolui had given his life to save Ogedai Khan. Mongke had been with him at the end. Better than any other, he understood the honour and the requirements of his position. He could not do less than his father.
‘I have failed to protect my oath-bound lord,’ he muttered. ‘My life is forfeit.’
One of his generals had come close while he stood over the body of the khan. Ilugei was an old campaigner, a veteran of Tsubodai’s Great Trek into the west. He had known Mongke for many years and he shook his head immediately at the words.
‘Your death would not bring him back,’ he said.
Mongke turned to him, anger flushing his skin. ‘The responsibility is mine,’ he snapped.
Ilugeiei bowed his head rather than meet those eyes. He saw the sword shift in Mongke’s hand and straightened, stepping closer with no sign of fear.
‘Will you take my head as well? My lord, you must put aside your anger. Choosing death is not possible for you, not today. The army has only you to lead them. We are far from home, my lord. If you fall, who will lead us? Where will we go? Onwards? To challenge a grandson of Genghis? Home? You must lead us, orlok. The khan is dead, the nation is without a leader. It lies undefended, with wild dogs all around. Will there be chaos, civil war?’
Grudgingly, Mongke forced himself to think beyond the still bodies in the glade. Guyuk had not lived long enough to produce an heir. There was a wife back in Karakorum, he knew. Mongke vaguely recalled meeting the young woman, but he could not bring her name to mind. It no longer mattered, he realised. He thought of his mother, Sorhatani, and it was as if he heard her voice in his ear. Neither Batu nor Baidur had the support of the army. As orlok, Mongke was perfectly placed to take over the nation. His heart beat faster in his chest at the thought and his face flushed as if those around could hear him. He had not dreamed of it, but the reality had been thrust upon him by the bodies lying sprawled at his feet. He looked down at Guyuk’s face, so slack and pale with his blood run out of him.
‘I have been loyal,’ Mongke whispered to the corpse. He thought of Guyuk’s wild parties in the city and how they had sickened him. Knowing the man’s tastes, Mongke had never been truly comfortable with Guyuk, but all that was behind. He struggled with a vision of the future, trying to picture it. Once more, he wished Kublai were there, instead of a thousand miles away in Karakorum. Kublai would know what to do, what to say to the men.
‘I will think on it,’ Mongke said to Ilugei. ‘Have the khan’s body wrapped and made ready for travel.’ He looked at the wretched body of Guyuk’s servant, noting the slick of dry blood that had poured out of his mouth. Inspiration struck him and he spoke again.
‘The khan died bravely, fighting off his murderer. Let the men know.’
‘Shall I leave the body of the killer?’ Ilugei said, his eyes gleaming. No one loved a lie like a Mongol warrior. It might even have been true, though he wondered how Guyuk’s sword could have been cleaned and laid down so carefully by a dying man.
Mongke thought for a time, before shaking his head.
‘No. Have him quartered and the pieces thrown into one of the night pits. Let the flies and the sun feast.’
Ilugei bowed solemnly at the order. He thought he had seen the light of ambition kindle in Mongke’s eyes. He was certain the man would not turn down the right to be khan, no matter how it had come about. Ilugei had despised Guyuk and it was with relief that he thought of Mongke leading the nation. He had no time for the insidious Chin influences that had become so much a part of the nation’s culture. Mongke would rule as Genghis had, a traditional Mongol khan. Ilugei struggled not to smile, though his heart rejoiced.
‘Your will, my lord,’ he said, his voice steady.
CHAPTER TEN
It took a month to bring the army home to Karakorum, almost half the time it had taken to ride out. Freed of Guyuk’s command, Mongke had the men up before dawn each morning, moving on at a hard pace and begrudging every stop to snatch food or sleep.
When they sighted the pale city walls, the mood amongst the men was hard to define. They carried the body of the khan and there were many who felt the shame of failing in their duties to Guyuk. Yet Mongke rode tall, already certain in his authority. Guyuk had not been a popular khan. Many of the warriors took their manner from Mongke and did not hang their heads.
The news had gone before them, by way of the yam riders. As a result, Sorhatani had been given time to prepare the city for days of mourning. Braziers filled with chips of cedar and black aloes wood had been set alight that dawn, with the approach of the army. A grey smoke rose into the air across Karakorum, wreathing the city in mist and rich scents. For once, the stink of blocked sewers was masked.
With Day Guards in their best armour, Sorhatani waited by the city gate, looking out over the road to her son’s army coming home. Kublai had barely made it back before his brother and then only by resuming his guise as a yam rider. Sorhatani felt her age as she stood in the breeze, staring at the dust raised by tens of thousands of horses and men. One of the Guards cleared his throat and then began a spasm of coughing that he could not control. Sorhatani glanced at him, her eyes warning him to be silent. Mongke was still some way off and she took a step towards the warrior, placing her hand on his forehead. It was burning and she frowned. The red-faced warrior was unable to reply to her questions. As she spoke, he raised a hand helplessly and in irritation she waved him out of line.
Sorhatani felt an itch begin in her own throat and swallowed hard to control it before she embarrassed herself. Two of her servants were in bed with the same fever, but she could not think of that now, with Mongke coming home.
Her thoughts strayed to her husband, dead so many years before. He had given his life for Ogedai Khan and he would never have dared to dream that one of his own sons would rise. Yet who else could be khan now that Guyuk was dead? Batu owed everything to her, not just his life. Kublai was certain he would not be an obstacle to her family. She sent a silent prayer to her husband’s spirit, thanking him for the original sacrifice that had made it all possible.
The army came to a halt and settled in around the city, unburdening the horses and letting them run free to crop grass that had grown lush in their absence. It would not be long before the plains of Karak
orum were bare dirt again, Sorhatani thought. She watched as Mongke came riding in with his minghaan officers, wondering if she could ever tell him the part she had played in Guyuk’s death. It had not worked out as she and Kublai had planned. All she had intended was for Batu to be saved. Yet she could feel no regret for the loss of the khan. She had already seen some of his favourites reduced to trembling horror as they heard their protector had gone. It had been hard for her not to enjoy their distress, having so long endured their petty dominance. She had dismissed the guards Guyuk had set to watch her. She had no real authority to do so, but they had been able to feel the wind changing as well. They had left her apartments at undignified speed.
Mongke rode up and dismounted, embracing her with awkward formality. She noted he wore the wolf’s-head sword on his left hip, a potent symbol. She gave no sign she had seen it. Mongke was not yet khan and he had to tread a difficult path in the days ahead, until Guyuk was buried or burnt.
‘I wish I could have come back with better news, mother.’ The words still had to be said. ‘The khan has been killed by his servant, murdered while he was out hunting.’
‘It is a dark day for the nation,’ Sorhatani replied formally, bowing her head. Her chest tightened as a cough threatened and she swallowed spit in quick gulps. ‘There will have to be another quiriltai, another gathering of the princes. I will send out the yam riders to have them come to the city next spring. The nation must have a khan, my son.’
Mongke looked sharply at her. Perhaps only he could have heard the subtle emphasis of the last words, but her eyes gleamed. He nodded just a fraction in answer. Among the generals, it was already accepted that Mongke would be khan. He had only to declare himself. He took a deep breath, looking around him at the honour guard Sorhatani had assembled. When he spoke, it was with quiet certainty.
Conqueror (2011) Page 10