The last Chin army raised their heads. Many of them grew bright-eyed with tears at a sight they had never expected to see again. They cheered the banners of a Chin emperor and Xuan felt his throat grow thick with pride and grief and joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
As the afternoon wore on, the tumans remained in the same place, just a few miles east of Shaoyang. The warriors saw that Kublai’s ger was being assembled and the constant, slight tension vanished. There would be no sudden order to mount and ride while the white ger was up. Between them, the eighty thousand men had three hundred thousand spare horses that ran together in a herd like the leaves of a forest, brown and grey and black and dun. As well as providing blood and milk for their riders, the ponies all carried some item of kit, from spare armour scales, ropes and glue, to hard blocks of cheese. It was the secret of their success that alone of all nations they could raid for hundreds of miles from the main camp.
Kublai seemed almost in a trance as he stood on the empty grassland, surrounded by the sea of horses and men. The carts of his camp could be seen in the distance, slowly coming up behind them. He was aware of Bayar walking over again to speak to him, but he did not reply, just stood in silence, drawn utterly into himself.
It had been Bayar’s order to raise the ger. The general was filled with apprehension. Whatever Kublai had read had left him pale and dumbstruck on the grassy plain. It was a crime punishable by flogging for a man to question a yam rider about his messages, but even so, Bayar watched closely as the man accepted tea and a pouch of bread and meat. The rider chewed with the same long stare that Bayar saw in Kublai and the general itched to take him for a walk and discover the truth.
The carts arrived without fanfare or any great welcome, now that the wives and children had gone. Oxen and camels were turned loose to graze. Forges were set up on the grass and fed with charcoal until the heavy iron glowed red. Warriors who needed something strolled in with no great urgency. All over the plain, others sat down to ease their legs and backs. Many of them took the chance to defecate in a place where they would not stay, or urinate into the grass. Others sharpened weapons and checked their bows and shafts as they liked to do at every opportunity. Some of them ate, others talked, but the strange stillness at the heart of the tumans was spreading out, so that more and more of them knew something was wrong.
When the ger was complete, Bayar approached Kublai again.
‘There is a place to rest, my lord,’ he said.
Kublai dragged his gaze back from very far away.
‘Bring my packs to me,’ he said softly. ‘There are things I need in them.’
Bayar bowed and trotted away. The strangeness of the day made him want to return to Kublai as soon as possible. He sent four scouts into the baggage carts to bring back the great rolls, tied with rope.
‘Put them inside,’ Bayar ordered the men. Kublai had not moved. ‘My lord, is the news so terrible? Will you tell me what’s wrong?’
‘The khan is dead, general,’ Kublai replied, his voice barely a whisper. ‘My brother is dead. I will not see him again.’
Bayar recoiled in shock. He shook his head as if he could deny the words. He watched as Kublai ducked into the ger, disappearing in the gloom within. Bayar felt as if he had been kicked in the chest, the air hammered out of him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to think.
Uriang-Khadai was close enough to see Bayar rocked by whatever Kublai had said to him. He approached the younger general with a wary expression, needing to hear, but at the same time deeply worried about what he might be told.
Bayar saw that there were many men nearby who had witnessed his reaction to the news. They had almost abandoned the pretence of not listening. Regardless of the penalties, he doubted the two yam riders would be left alone for long. The news could not be contained. Bayar found himself sweating at the thought. It would spread across the world. Campaigns would come to a halt, cities would grow still as they heard. The men of power in the khanates would know they were thrown back into the maelstrom once again. Some of them would fear the future; others would be sharpening their swords.
‘Mongke Khan is dead,’ Bayar told his superior.
Uriang-Khadai blanched, but gathered himself quickly.
‘How did it happen?’ he said.
Bayar raised his hands helplessly. Everything Kublai had achieved in Sung lands was thrown into chaos by a single message. He could hardly think. Watching him, Uriang-Khadai’s lips thinned to a seam of pale flesh.
‘Get a hold of yourself, general. We have lost khans before. The nation goes on. Come with me to speak to the yam riders. They will know more than we have been told.’
Bayar stared. He followed as Uriang-Khadai strode away, heading to the unwounded rider who stared at him like a rabbit faced with a wolf.
‘You. Tell me what you know.’
The yam rider swallowed a mouthful of bread and meat painfully, then stood.
‘It was an assassin, general.’
‘Orlok,’ Uriang-Khadai snapped.
The man was trembling as he repeated the title.
‘Orlok. I was sent out with a dozen others. More went north to the Chin yam lines.’
‘What?’ Uriang-Khadai stepped closer to him. ‘You were in Sung territory?’
‘The khan was coming south, orlok,’ the man stammered, his nervousness growing. He knew yam riders were meant to be untouchable, but sooner or later, he was going to have to tell the manner of the khan’s death. It struck at the heart of every yam rider in the khanates. They would never be as trusted again.
‘How far away are they?’ Uriang-Khadai demanded. ‘How many men? Must I ask for every detail before it spills from your mouth?’
‘I … I’m sorry, orlok. Twenty-eight tumans, but they will not come further. Orlok Seriankh is taking them back to Karakorum. The khan’s other brothers will have heard by now, certainly Lord Arik-Boke as he was in the capital. Lord Hulegu may hear any day now, if he has not already.’ The scout searched for something else to say under Uriang-Khadai’s cold stare. ‘I was there when the body of Guyuk Khan was found, orlok. The nation will pull back to Karakorum until there is a new khan.’
‘I was there when Tsubodai had the news of Ogedai’s death, young man. Do not tell me what I already know.’
‘No, orlok, I’m sorry.’
Uriang-Khadai turned to Bayar, frustrated with the yam rider and his nervousness.
‘Do you have questions for him?’
‘Only one,’ Bayar replied. ‘How did an assassin reach the khan in the middle of such an army?’
The exhausted young man looked as if his bread and meat had lodged in his throat.
‘He … dressed as a yam rider. He was let through. He was searched, but I heard he kept a razor hidden.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Uriang-Khadai growled.
Bayar looked at him in surprise, though the Christian curses were spreading even to those who had no knowledge of the faith itself.
Kublai stood inside the ger without moving for a long time. He wanted Chabi to come to him, but he could not summon the energy to send for her. He could hear the noises of his people around him, but at least the small space kept out their stares. It was a relief to be apart from them, though he did not weep. His thoughts moved sluggishly. As a boy, he had once swum in a frozen river and felt his arms and legs become numb, helpless, so that he thought he might drown. It had been Mongke who pulled him out, the older brother who laughed as he shivered and curled up on the bank.
He had a hundred memories, a thousand conversations vying for space in his mind. He remembered Mongke sending him out to hammer the Sung, but he also remembered the old ger they had found in a valley when they were fifteen or so. While the rest of their family slept, Kublai and Mongke had taken iron bars and destroyed it. The rotting wood and felt had collapsed on itself as they flailed and swung, lucky not to hit each other in their enthusiasm.
It was not a grand tale of
the sort to tell at a khan’s funeral, just two boys doing something stupid one night, for fun. They had discovered later that the ger had not been abandoned at all. When its owner had returned, he had been incandescent with rage and vowed to find the ones who had done it. He never had. Despite all the adult years that had passed since that day, Kublai smiled at the memory. He had lost friends before, but he had thought his brothers would always be there, in good times and bad. To lose Mongke was to take an axe to the foundations of everything he was.
Kublai was barely aware of falling as his legs gave way. He found himself sprawled on thick rolls of carpet, dust rising into the air around him. He felt choked and his hands moved unconsciously to the leather ties of his armour, tugging them loose until the lacquered chest-plate of scales yawned open. He snapped the last tie in a spasm of anger, throwing it down. The motion spurred him on and he pulled off his helmet and thigh-plates in rough movements, tossing them aside to clang against the other pieces on the canvas floor. It was not long before the last of the armour was on the pile and he sat in simple leggings and a stiff silk tunic with long sleeves that reached past his hands and had been folded into cuffs. He felt better without the armour and sat with his arms around his knees, thinking through what he must do.
Bayar saw the galloping scout before Uriang-Khadai. He tapped the older man on the shoulder and they both turned to watch as the scout angled his mount towards the only ger he could see in the assembly of grazing horses and resting men.
The scout dismounted at the ger, but Bayar intercepted him, taking him by the arm and walking him away until he could be sure Kublai would not hear the interruption.
‘Report,’ Bayar said.
The scout was flushed and his face gleamed with sweat. He had ridden far and fast. With only a glance at the ger, he bowed to both men.
‘Orlok, general. There is a Sung army in range. Ten foot regiments or more. Five of horse and many cannon. They have their own riders out and I only had time to make a rough estimate before I came back.’
‘How far?’ Uriang-Khadai said. His gaze fell on the ger that sat alone.
‘Thirty miles east, about.’ The scout made a gesture showing a movement of the sun in the sky.
‘With cannon, they won’t be here until tomorrow,’ Bayar said in relief.
‘Unless they react to contact and push on without the guns,’ Uriang-Khadai replied sourly. ‘Either way, it does not matter. We must withdraw.’
The scout looked from man to man in surprise. He had been riding out far ahead of the tumans and had no idea of the news that had come in his absence. Neither of them chose to inform him.
‘Change mounts and get back out as soon as you can,’ Uriang-Khadai said to the scout. ‘I need eyes close to them. Better still, take three others and place them at the quarter points so they can relay whatever you see to me quickly.’
The scout bowed and jogged away.
Whatever Bayar might have said next was lost when Kublai walked out of the ger. He had left his armour inside and both men gaped at the change in him. He wore a robe of gold silk with a wide belt of dark red. The chest was embroidered with a dark green dragon, the highest symbol of Chin nobility. He held a long sword, his knuckles white on the scabbard as he looked over and approached his two most senior men.
Bayar and Uriang-Khadai went down on one knee, bowing their heads.
‘My lord, I am sorry to hear such news,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He saw Kublai look up as four scouts mounted nearby and began to gallop away to the east. Uriang-Khadai chose to explain before he could be asked.
‘There is a Sung army coming west, my lord. They will not be here in time to prevent our withdrawal.’
‘Our withdrawal,’ Kublai echoed, sounding as if he did not understand. Uriang-Khadai faltered under the yellow gaze.
‘My lord, we can stay ahead of them. We can be back in Chin lands by spring. The yam rider said your brothers will have received the news already. They will be making their way home.’
‘Orlok, you do not understand me at all,’ Kublai said softly. ‘I am home. This is my khanate. I will not abandon it.’
Uriang-Khadai’s eyes widened as he understood the significance of Kublai’s Chin robes.
‘My lord, there will be a quiriltai, a gathering of princes. Your brothers …’
‘My brothers have no say in what happens here,’ Kublai interrupted. His voice grew hard. ‘I will finish what I have begun. I have said it. This is my khanate.’ He spoke the words with a kind of wonder, as if he had only then understood the turmoil inside him. His eyes were chips of bright gold in the sun as he continued.
‘No, this is my empire, Uriang-Khadai. I will not be made to leave. Ready the tumans for battle, orlok. I will face my enemies and I will destroy them.’
Xuan paced in the darkness. His mind buzzed too loudly to rest, stinging him with questions and memories. Armies were strange things, sometimes far greater than the individual strengths of the soldiers in them. Men who might have run on their own would stand with their friends and their leaders. Yet they all had to sleep and they all had to eat. Xuan had camped near to an enemy before and it remained one of the oddest experiences of his life. The armies were so close that he could see the Mongol campfires as points of light on the darkling plain. The two Sung lords had guards and scouts at all points around the camp, but no one expected the Mongols to attempt a night attack. Their strength was in speed and manoeuvres, strengths which would vanish in the blind dark. Xuan smiled at the thought of men sleeping peacefully next to those they would try to kill in daylight. Only humanity could have conceived such a strange and artificial way to die. Wolves might tear the flesh of deer, but they never slept and dreamed near their quarry.
Somewhere close, Xuan could hear the deep snoring of some soldier lying flat on his back. It made him chuckle, though he wished he too could find the balm of sleep. He was no longer young and he knew he would feel it tomorrow, when the horns sounded. He could only hope the battle would not last long enough for his weariness to get him killed. It was one of the great truths of battle, that nothing exhausted a man as quickly as the rush and struggle of fighting hand to hand.
Shadows moved in the darkness and Xuan raised his head, suddenly panicky. He heard his son’s voice and relaxed.
‘I am here, Liao-Jin,’ he whispered.
The small group came to him and though it was dark he knew each one of them. His four children were all the mark he had made on the world. Lord Jin An had understood that. Xuan thought with affection of the young Sung noble. He might have spirited his children away without speaking to Jin An, but it was just as likely they would have been discovered. Xuan had taken a risk in speaking honestly to him, but he had not misjudged his man. Lord Jin An had understood immediately.
Xuan pressed a bag of coins into his son’s hand. Liao-Jin looked at him in surprise, straining to see his father’s features in the starlight.
‘What is this?’ he said softly.
‘A gift from a friend,’ Xuan replied. ‘Enough to keep you all for a time. You will survive and you will be among your own people. I do not doubt you will find others willing to help you, but no matter what happens, you have a chance at a life and children of your own. Isn’t that what you wanted, Liao-Jin? Someone was listening, perhaps. Go now. I have given you horses and only two men to accompany you, my son. They are loyal and they want to go home, but I did not want to send so many that they might think of robbing you.’ Xuan sighed. ‘I have learned not to trust. It shames me.’
‘I am not going!’ Liao-Jin said, his voice too loud. His sisters shushed him, but he passed the bag of coins into their hands and stood close to his father, bending his head to speak into Xuan’s ear.
‘The others should go. But I am an officer in your regiment, father. Let me stay. Let me stand with you.’
‘I would rather see you live,’ Xuan said curtly. ‘There will be many here who die tomorrow. I may be one of them. If it happens, let me know my
sons, my daughters are safe and free. As your commander, I order you to go with them, Liao-Jin, with my love and my blessing.’
Liao-Jin did not reply. Instead, he waited while his sisters and brother embraced their father for the last time, standing aloof from them all. Without another word, Liao-Jin walked them away into the darkness, to where the horses waited. Xuan could see little, but he listened as they mounted and his youngest girl sobbed for her father. His heart broke at the sound.
The small group moved away through the camp and once again Xuan was pleased he had thought to seek permission from Lord Jin An. There would be no startled cries from Sung sentries in the night. Jin An had enjoyed the idea of it all and had even signed papers for Xuan that would help them if they were stopped in Sung lands. Everything else was down to fate. Xuan had done his best to give them a chance.
Footsteps approached and his heart sank with heavy knowledge. He was not surprised when the dark figure spoke with Liao-Jin’s voice.
‘They are gone. If you are to die tomorrow, I will be at your side,’ his son said.
‘You should not have disobeyed me, my son,’ Xuan said. His voice grew less harsh as he went on. ‘But as you have, stay with me as I walk the camp. I won’t sleep now.’
To his surprise, Liao-Jin reached out and touched him on the shoulder. They had never been a family given to open displays of affection, which made it worth all the more. Xuan smiled in the dark as they began walking.
‘Let me tell you about the enemy, Liao-Jin. I have known them all my life.’
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