Conqueror (2011)

by Conn Iggulden

  Before the last light had gone, Kublai’s gun teams finished their preparations, marking sites and placing shuttered lamps on poles. In the night, before the moon rose, the cannons were heaved forward to the marked positions, pushed in silence by dozens of straining volunteers. At the same time, the main force moved further back, away from the river. Kublai had seen no sign of similar work going on in the Sung camp, but he did not want to be surprised by some enterprising officer with the same idea. For once, his warriors would spend the night in the saddle or on the grass by their horses. The families were a mile further away from the river, well clear of danger. Kublai wondered what Chabi was doing at that moment. She had known tonight would be dangerous for him, but she’d shown no fear at all, as if there wasn’t a man alive who could trouble her husband. He knew her well enough to sense the performance in it, but even so he found it oddly reassuring. The thought of telling his wife and son he had failed was a better motivation than anything Mongke could do to him.

  The moon rose slowly and Kublai stood and watched it, rubbing his damp palms down his armour and wishing he wore a lighter robe. Even the nights were warm so far to the south and he was never comfortable. His cannons were covered by loose branches to confuse their shapes and he did not think the enemy would be able to see what he had done. On its own, it would be only a gesture at best, a brief taste of fear in the night before they pulled back and restored order. A young commander might have made the decision, intending to kill a few and make the enemy run about for a while. Kublai chuckled to himself. He hoped for more. Timing was going to be important and he strained his eyes in the darkness, looking for a sign. He had not spoken to Uriang-Khadai for some days, beyond the most basic courtesies. The man clearly resented the authority Kublai had exercised over him, suddenly a reality rather than an empty formality. Kublai sensed Uriang-Khadai was holding himself in check, waiting for some error to be made. The battle to come was important in many ways and the stakes worried him. Not only did he have to break the Sung army against him, but he also had to show his own generals that he was fit to lead. Kublai felt a headache begin behind his eyes and considered visiting a shaman for willow-bark powder or myrtle leaves. No, he dared not be out of position when the time came.

  Bayar watched the moon rise and began a slow trot. By his best reckoning, he was less than ten miles north of the Sung army, on the other side of the river. In the end, he and Kublai had agreed to lose two more days to ferry enough men across on the sheepskin rafts. Three tumans had made the crossing, with their horses and weapons taking most of the time. The rafts worked and Bayar sensed the anticipation in the ranks. With just a little luck, the Sung would have no idea they had even left Kublai’s army. Bayar stepped up the pace, judging the speed he needed to cover the ground and still keep the horses fresh. Ten miles was not far for the Mongolian ponies. They could cover it before the moon reached its zenith and at the end he could still order a gallop and be answered.

  The ground was firm away from the river and there were few obstacles, though no horsemen liked riding at night, regardless of the conditions. There would be falls and casualties, yet Bayar had his orders and he was cheerful. No one loved a surprise attack more than his people. The very idea filled him with glee. It did not hurt that Uriang-Khadai was still on Kublai’s side of the river. The orlok had been scornful of the great rafts and Bayar was pleased to be away from his baleful gaze for once. He sensed a camaraderie with Kublai that he had not expected. The khan’s brother was out of his depth in many ways, facing one of the most powerful enemies in the nation’s history. Bayar smiled as he rode. He did not intend to let him down.

  In the distance, Kublai saw a bright spark sear a trail across the sky. From so far away, it was little more than a needle of light that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. He had feared he would miss the sign and tried to relax his cramped muscles, held tight for too long. Bayar was there, with a Chin firework he had lit and thrown into the air from the saddle. As Kublai turned to give his orders, another spark appeared, in case the first one had been missed. High-pitched voices began to roar confused orders on the other side of the river.

  ‘Begin firing on my signal,’ Kublai shouted. He dismounted to attend to his own device, a long tube of black powder resting in an iron cradle. He brought a shuttered lamp close and lit the taper from it, standing back as it fizzed and sputtered before rising into the air in a great whoosh of light.

  The cannon teams had been waiting patiently for their moment and as they saw the signal the great iron weapons began to sound, cracking thunder across the river. The flashes lit up both banks for the briefest of moments, leaving ghosts on the vision of all those who stared into the blackness. They could not see where the balls landed, but distant screams made the gun teams laugh as they sponged down the barrels and reloaded, jamming in bags of black powder and fitting the hollow reeds to the touch-holes. The mouths of the cannon erupted in belches of flame, but the balls themselves were invisible as they soared across the water. Kublai noted the best rates of fire and wondered how it could be improved. There was just too long a gap between each shot, but he had the best part of a hundred heavy cannon lined up on the banks, all he could bring to bear on the Sung positions. The barrage would surely be devastating. He could imagine the flashes of light and cracks from the Sung perspective, followed by the whistle of stone balls ripping through the camp. Many of the shot balls disintegrated at the moment of firing, reducing their range, but sending razor shards along the firing path.

  On any other night, the Sung soldiers would have pulled back quickly. Kublai wished he could listen for Bayar’s tumans, but the noise was too great as the shots rippled on and on. He waited as long as he dared, then sent a second rocket up into the night sky. The thunder died as the teams saw it, though a last few cracks sounded as they got off one final shot. After the noise, the night was suddenly silent and the darkness was absolute. Kublai strained to hear. Far away, there was a new noise, growing steadily. He laughed aloud as he recognised the sound of Mongol drummer boys, beating their own thunder in the darkness across the river.

  Bayar had never known a battle at night. He had seen the signal rocket and then watched in amazement as the river bank was lit in flashes of gold, a rolling wave of destruction. He had once seen a dry lightning storm, with the thick air lit at intervals by flashes. This was like that, but each crack of light and sound revealed chaos in the Sung camp. He had to trust that Kublai would stop the barrage before Bayar’s warriors were among them. The spikes of light gave him the arrow range and he began to empty his quiver of thirty arrows, whipping them out and onto the string almost without thought. He could not aim with only the flashes to guide him, but he had a wide charging line of thousands of men and the arrows poured out of them. He lost count of the shafts he had shot and it was only when his grasping fingers closed on nothing that he cursed and hooked the bow to his saddle. Bayar drew his sword and the action was copied all along the line.

  The Sung had heard them coming, but dead men lay everywhere among their packed ranks. Kublai had been far more successful than he had known. The Sung soldiers had clustered on the river banks, pressing close to repel the night river-crossing they thought would come. Into that mass of waiting men, the cannonballs had torn red paths. Thousands had been killed. The forming lines dissolved in sheer panic as men ran from the terrible unseen death that was still cutting through their camp. They ran to get out of range, some of them dropping their shields and swords and pelting away.

  Out of the darkness, the arrows of Bayar’s tumans came slicing and tearing into them. The Sung soldiers were caught between jaws and they pushed and spun in a great crush as they tried to find a clear path out of the destruction. Bayar’s first lines hit a rabble of soldiers, cutting into them at full speed. Horses and men crashed together and Bayar’s own mount went down as it struck a knot of soldiers, smashing them apart. He fell hard and rolled over someone who yelled in his ear. The cannon-fire ceased at that mo
ment and in the darkness Bayar found himself wrestling with a man he could not see. He had lost his sword, but his fists were armoured to the knuckles and he pounded the dark figure over and over until it was still.

  The Sung army was in complete disarray. Bayar swore as someone else knocked into him, but the man picked himself up and ran on. They had no idea of the size of the force spearing into them from the dark night and the Sung officers had lost control. The tumans stayed together in their ranks, walking their horses onward together and killing anything in their way.

  In the moonlight, Bayar saw a pony and rider loom in front of him. He shouted before the raised sword could come down.

  ‘Give me your horse! And if you cut me, I’ll have your ears.’

  The warrior dismounted immediately, handing over the reins. Another rank was already upon them and once again Bayar had to shout to be recognised. He realised he could not leave the warrior to be cut down by his own men, so had him jump up behind. The pony snorted at the extra weight and Bayar calmed it with a rub of the ears before he trotted to the rank ahead. They spread across the Sung camp and Bayar saw that a few of the men had snatched lamps from sentry poles and used them to set fire to the tents and carts. The light of the flames began to restore his sense of the battlefield and what he saw amazed and delighted him. The Sung army was running and he rode over a carpet of the dead, thousands upon thousands of them. The ranks ahead were still killing and it was more to blood those behind than to save their sword arms that he bellowed orders to rotate the front ranks.

  His orders were answered instantly by signal horns. The first five ranks halted and the next moved up, Bayar among them. He passed panting men, spattered in the blood of their enemies. They sat bowed over their saddle horns, resting their aching sword arms on the high pommel. Many of them called out to the ranks passing them, asking where they had been while the real work was being done. Their spirits were high and Bayar chuckled as he went through. The flame-light was increasing as more and more tents were set on fire. Ahead, he could see a mass of men, pressing desperately to get away from the dark line of horses. Bayar saw a pony without a rider and stopped briefly to let his unknown companion take the mount. There was a body nearby and he was delighted to find a quiver with half a dozen shafts. Jumping down briefly, he flipped the body over and took a long knife from the ground, though he could not find a sword. His rank had gone on without him and he trotted to keep up as the killing began again.

  Kublai waited in an agony of suspense. He could hear the sounds of battle out there in the dark, the crash and scream of men and animals being killed. He had no way of knowing how Bayar was doing and wished for light as he had never wished for anything before. He wondered if the rockets could be fired together to light up a battlefield, but he had only a small store. The idea was tempting, however. It was one more thing to remember for the future.

  ‘That’s long enough,’ he said, almost to himself. He took another rocket from a roll of oilcloth and placed it in its cradle, pointing to the sky. As it lifted, it made a high whistling sound, similar to the shaped arrowhead the Mongols sometimes used. The tumans on his side of the river were ready for the signal and they began to ride to the ford. If the Sung still held their side, the tumans would be crossing without proper cover. His archers would send a hail across the banks, but in the darkness it would be impossible to aim. Kublai drew his sword, preferring to have its comforting weight in his hand.

  His horse hit the waters of the fording place in the midst of thousands of others, all trying to make the crossing at a canter. Kublai felt his horse lurch into a hole and quickly sheathed his sword again rather than lose it. He needed both hands and he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment as he flailed about.

  His horse was snorting and whinnying as it clambered up the far bank and plunged on with the rest. Kublai could not have controlled the animal if he’d wanted to and he found himself racing headlong towards the sounds of battle. All the plans he had made dissolved in confusion as he lost track of the position of the tumans, or even which way he was going. In the glow of burning tents, he could see a great mass of men. He only hoped he was not about to charge Bayar’s tumans. There was no point listening for Mongol voices or even the drummer boys. The noise of horses around him drowned all that out and he had somehow managed to get water in his ear during the crossing, so that he was deaf on one side.

  Two hundred yards ahead of him, the first ranks off the river ford met the Sung soldiers streaming away from Bayar’s tumans. The Mongol warriors had not strung their bows for the crossing and they barely had time to draw swords before the forces crashed together. Kublai could not halt or turn aside. Held in the press of moving horses, he was moved inexorably forward. He tapped the side of his head to clear his ear and smelled blood strongly on the air. He was beginning to realise that, for all the benefits of a surprise night attack, the danger was complete chaos on both sides. He heard yelling voices ahead and the unmistakable sound of Mongol warriors cheering in triumph. Kublai tried to gauge how much of the night was left by the position of the moon and wondered vaguely where Uriang-Khadai had gone. He hadn’t seen his orlok since the first round of cannon-fire. The cheering intensified and he headed towards it, helped by the light of burning tents, the fire beginning to spread right across the river plain.

  Kublai drew to a halt in the light of three burning carts piled against each other. With a rush of relief, he saw Bayar there, shouting commands and bringing some sense of order. When he saw Kublai, Bayar grinned and rode over to him.

  ‘Half of them have surrendered, at least,’ Bayar said. He stank of blood and fire, but he was jubilant. Kublai forced the cold face, remembering suddenly that he was meant to be a figure of distant and terrifying authority. Bayar didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘We’ve broken the back of their best regiments,’ Bayar went on, ‘and those that haven’t run have thrown down their weapons. Until the sun comes up, I won’t know the details, but I don’t think they’ll counter-attack tonight. You have the victory, my lord.’

  Kublai sheathed his sword, still unblooded. He endured a sense of unreality as he stared around at the piles of dead men. It had worked, but his mind filled with a dozen things they could have done differently.

  ‘I want you to look into using signal rockets to light a battlefield,’ he said.

  Bayar looked at him strangely. He saw a young man sitting with his hands relaxed on the pommel, his leggings soaked. As Kublai stared around him with interest, Bayar nodded.

  ‘Very well, my lord. I’ll start testing them tomorrow. I should finish herding the prisoners. We’re having to use their own clothes torn into strips to bind them.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Kublai replied. He looked to the east, but there was no sign of dawn.

  A thought struck him and he smiled in anticipation as he spoke again.

  ‘Send Orlok Uriang-Khadai to me. I would like to hear his assessment of the victory.’

  Bayar smothered his own smile as he dipped his head.

  ‘Your will, my lord. I’ll send him to you as soon as I find him.’

  The sun rose on a scene of complete devastation. In his imagination, Kublai could only compare it to the description he had read of the battle of Badger’s Mouth in northern Chin lands. Flies had gathered in their millions and there were too many dead soldiers to consider burying or even burning them. They could only be left behind for the sun to rot and dry.

  For a time, dawn had brought some excitement as the remaining Sung regiments were hunted down and the Mongol families crossed the river with slow care. Tumans rode out with fresh quivers and overhauled the scattered enemy before the sun was fully up. Thousands more were forcibly returned to the river, stripped of weapons and armour, to be bound with the rest. Mongol women and children walked among them, come to see the fearsome men their husbands, brothers and fathers had defeated.

  Yao Shu had remained behind in the main camp during the battle. He crossed the ford
with the families when there was enough light to ride without falling in. By noon, he was at Kublai’s ger, set up at his order on the battle side. Chabi was already there, her eyes full of concern for her exhausted husband. She fussed around him, laying out fresh clothes and making enough food to feed whoever might come to speak with Kublai. Yao Shu nodded to her as he accepted a bowl of some stew and ate quickly rather than give offence. She watched until he had finished it all. Yao Shu sat on a low bed with scrolls of vellum waiting to be read to the khan and he could do nothing, say nothing, until he was given permission. Even after a battle, the rules of ger courtesy held firm.

  Zhenjin entered at a run, skidding slightly as he came to a halt, his eyes large. Yao Shu smiled at the boy.

  ‘There are so many prisoners!’ Zhenjin said. ‘How did you beat them, father? I saw flashes and thunder all night. I didn’t sleep at all.’

  ‘He did sleep,’ Chabi murmured. ‘He snores like his father.’

  Zhenjin turned a look of scorn on his mother.

  ‘I was too excited to sleep. I saw a man with his head cut off! How did we beat so many?’

  ‘Planning,’ Kublai replied. ‘Better plans and better men, Zhenjin. Ask Uriang-Khadai how we did it. He will tell you.’

  The little boy looked up at his father in awe, but he shook his head.

  ‘He doesn’t like me to speak to him. He says I ask too many questions.’

  ‘You do,’ Chabi said. ‘Take a bowl and find somewhere else to eat it. Your father needs to speak to many of his men.’

  ‘I want to listen,’ the boy almost wailed. ‘I’ll be quiet, I promise.’

  Chabi smacked his head and pressed a bowl into his hand. Zhenjin left with a furious glare that she ignored completely.