‘Can you beat them?’ Zhenjin asked, looking into his father’s eyes.
Kublai realised his son was afraid and he made himself relax.
‘I think so, yes. Nothing is certain.’
‘They have more tumans than us,’ Zhenjin went on, prodding him for a reaction.
Kublai shrugged. ‘We are always outnumbered. I don’t think I’d know what to do if I came across an army smaller than mine.’ He saw the forced lightness wasn’t reassuring his son and his tone became serious. ‘I am not the first man to try to think how to counter the advantages of a Mongol tuman in battle. However, I am the first one of us to try. I know our tactics better than any man alive. I think I can find a few new tricks. My brother’s warriors have spent the last few years growing soft around the capital city. My tumans are used to fighting every day, every step. And they are used to winning. We’ll eat them alive.’
His son grinned at his bravado and Kublai chuckled with him.
‘Practise your patterns now, Zhenjin. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.’
His son made a show of groaning, but under his father’s eye, he found a flat space in the rocks and began the flowing series of movements and stances he had learned from Kublai. Yao Shu had taught the sequences years before, each with its own name and history.
Kublai watched with a critical eye, remembering how Yao Shu had never been satisfied. There was no such thing as perfection in a pattern, but it was always the aim to make every kick and block and turn as close to it as possible.
‘Turn your head before you move,’ Kublai said. Zhenjin hesitated.
‘What?’ Zhenjin replied without moving his head.
‘You have to imagine opponents coming at you from more than one direction. It is not a dance, remember. The aim is to break a bone with every blow or block. Imagine them all around you and respond.’
Kublai grunted approval as his son turned his head sharply, then swept an imaginary kick away from him in a great circular block. As Kublai looked on, his son plunged a knife-hand into an invisible throat, his fingers outstretched and rigid.
‘Hold there and consider your rear leg,’ Kublai called to him. He watched as Zhenjin adjusted his stance, dropping lower before moving on. Kublai looked fondly at his son. It would be a fine thing to give him an empire.
Arik-Boke could smell his own sweat as he rode, the bitter scent of a healthy animal. He had not allowed himself to grow weak in his time as khan. His squat body had never been graceful, but it was strong. He prided himself on being able to exhaust younger men in any contest. From a young age, he had learned a great truth, that endurance was as much will as anything physical. He grunted to himself as he rode, his breath snuffling from his ruined nose. He had the will, the ability to ignore pain and discomfort, to push himself beyond the limits of weaker men. The righteous anger he had felt on hearing of Kublai’s betrayal had not left him for a waking moment since that day. The aches and complaints of the flesh were nothing to him while his brother rode the plains in challenge.
His tumans took their mood from his, riding with grim determination as they quartered the land in search of any sign of the traitor. Arik-Boke hardly knew the men with him, but that was not important as long as they obeyed their khan. His senior officers were spread out over an immense line, each commanding their own force of forty thousand. Any two would surely equal whatever army Kublai could bring to the field, Arik-Boke was certain. When all five came together like fingers curling into a fist, he would crush his brother’s arrogance.
It gave Arik-Boke some pleasure to plan his vengeance as he rode. There had been too many men in the nation who thought they could rule. Even the sons of Genghis had warred amongst themselves. Guyuk Khan had been killed on a hunt, though Arik-Boke suspected Mongke had arranged it. Such things were already history, but he could make Kublai’s death a hot blade sealing a wound. He could make it a tale to spread fear wherever his enemies met and plotted. It would be right to make an example of Kublai. They would say the khan had torn his own brother down and they would feel fear. Arik-Boke nodded to himself, savouring the sensations. Kublai had a wife and children. They would follow his brother into death when the rebellion had been destroyed.
He sat straighter in the saddle when he saw his scouts racing in from the west. The tumans who rode with the khan were the central block of five, while his orlok Alandar commanded the right wing as they moved south. Arik-Boke felt heat rise in him as he began to breathe faster. Alandar knew the orders. He would not have sent the scouts in unless he had sighted the enemy at last.
The galloping men raced across the front rank of the tumans, cutting in at an angle to where Arik-Boke’s banners flew. Thousands watched them as they reached the khan and swung their mounts between the lines. His bondsmen used their horses to block the scouts from coming too close, a sign of the new fear that had come to the nation since the death of Mongke.
Arik-Boke didn’t need to wait for them to be searched and passed on through to him. The closest scout was just a couple of horses away and he shouted a question.
The scout nodded. ‘They have been sighted, my lord khan. Forty miles, or close to it.’
It was all he needed and he waved the scout off, sending him running back to his master. His own scouts had been waiting for the word. As soon as they heard, they kicked their mounts into a lunging canter. In relays, the news would bring all the tumans in, a hammer of the most dangerous fighting forces ever assembled. Arik-Boke grinned to himself as he angled his horse to the west and dug in his heels. The blocks would turn in place behind him, becoming a spear to thrust into his brother’s hopes.
He glanced up at the sun, calculating the time it would take him to make contact. The rush of enthusiasm damped down as suddenly as it had arisen. The scout had ridden forty miles already, which meant Kublai’s forces had been free to act for half a day. By the time Arik-Boke’s tumans reached him, it would be dusk or night.
Arik-Boke began to sweat again, wondering what orders he should give to attack a force he could not yet see, a force that would certainly have moved by the time he arrived in the area. He clamped down on his doubts. The plan was a good one and if he didn’t bring his brother to battle until the following day, it would not matter in the end.
Kublai stared at a single point in the distant hills, waiting for confirmation. There. Once more he saw the flash of yellow, appearing and disappearing in an instant. He let out a slow breath. It was happening, at last. The bones had been thrown and he would have to see how they fell.
‘Answer with a red flag,’ he called to his scout. Miles away, the man who had signalled would be watching for a response. Kublai kept looking out at the blurred point as his man spread a red cloth as tall as himself and waved it before letting it fall.
‘Wait … wait … now, yellow,’ Kublai ordered. He felt some of his tension ease now that his plans were actually going into effect. Signal flags were nothing new over long distances, relayed from valley to valley by men on the peaks. Even so, Kublai had refined the practice, using a system of five colours that could be combined to send a surprising amount of information. The distant watcher would have seen the flags and passed on the message, covering miles far faster than a horse could ride.
‘Good,’ Kublai said. The scout looked up, but Kublai was talking to himself. ‘Now we’ll see whether my brother’s men have the stomach to fight for a weak khan.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Alandar muttered to himself in irritation as his scouts came racing in, clearly expecting him to gallop off immediately in response to the news they brought. Instead, he had to balance his orders with the best tactical decisions on the ground. It was not a pleasant position and he was not enjoying the morning. Karakorum was over two hundred miles behind him and he had lost the taste for sleeping under the stars and waking stiff and frozen. His block of tumans had ridden at good speed, covering the land and staying in touch with Arik-Boke, but Alandar could not shake the feeling of unea
se that plagued him. Everything he knew of Kublai said the man was not a fool, but Arik-Boke was convinced he could be run down like a deer in a circle hunt. Alandar’s own men expected him to roar battle orders at the first sign of contact, and as the scouts reported, he could feel their eyes on him, questioning. He stared straight ahead as he rode.
His four generals were close by and he whistled to bring the most senior man to him. Ferikh was a solid officer, with white hair and twenty years of experience under three khans. He trotted through the ranks at the summons, his expression serious.
‘You have new orders, orlok?’ he asked as he came up.
‘Not yet. It feels like a trap, Ferikh.’
The general turned automatically to stare at where Kublai’s tumans had been sighted, racing along a pass between two valleys. The contact had been brief, but just long enough to send Alandar’s scouts pounding back with news. In relays, the news would be stretching out to the blocks in the long sweeping line.
‘You do not have to respond, orlok,’ Ferikh said. Alandar winced slightly to see the disappointment on the older man’s face. ‘The khan can decide when he has brought up the middle tumans.’
‘Which will not happen until dark,’ Alandar said.
Ferikh shrugged. ‘Another day will not make a difference.’
‘You think it’s a trap?’ Alandar asked.
‘Perhaps. A brief sighting of a small group, no more than six or seven thousand. They might want us to go charging in after them and then stage an ambush. It’s what I would do.’
Alandar rose as tall as he could manage in his saddle, looking at the hills all around them.
‘If it’s an ambush, they will have a large force somewhere near, ready to spring out as soon as we move.’
He was in a difficult position and Ferikh appreciated his dilemma. The men expected their officers to show courage and quick thinking. They had heard the news and they waited for the order to ride hard and fast, but Alandar had not spoken. If he fell for some ploy, he would risk the tumans with him and Arik-Boke’s anger. Yet if he came across the tail of Kublai’s army and failed to take the chance, he would look like a fool or a coward. He was caught between impossible choices and so did nothing, letting time make his decision for him.
In the distance, on his left side, his attention snagged on a blur in the air. Alandar turned round to stare and his expression changed slowly as he realised what he was looking at.
‘Tell me I’m right that I can see dust beyond those hills, Ferikh.’
The general squinted. His long sight was not as sharp as it had once been, but he made a tube with his hands and focused down it, an old scout’s trick.
‘Has to be a large force to send up a cloud like that,’ he said. ‘Judging by where we saw the first ones, they’d be in about the right position to hit our flank.’
Alandar breathed out in relief. He would have a victory to report to the khan after all.
‘Then I think we’ll see some fighting today. Send five thousand between the hills after the ones we saw first. Let them think they’ve fooled us. The main tumans can cut through … there.’ He pointed to a break in the green hills that would allow him to swing round and attack the army making the dust rise. ‘Go slowly, general. If it’s Kublai’s main force, we’ll stay out of range, ready to disengage. It will be enough to hold them in place until the khan reaches us.’
Alandar looked east, behind him, where the rest of Arik-Boke’s army would be riding in support. ‘We should have four more tumans coming up soon, then the khan’s own tumans. The last will be here sometime after noon tomorrow. I’ll give new orders as they arrive.’
Ferikh sensed the relief in the orlok at being able to make a decision. He bowed his head briefly, already enjoying the thought of confounding those who had tried to fool the khan’s own army.
Five minghaans pushed forward towards the first valley and then Alandar gave the order for his main tumans to swing round and dash for the break in the hills. They surged into a gallop and the expressions of the warriors were cheerful with anticipation. They had all seen the faint trace of dust by then and they were already imagining the false khan’s confusion as they appeared from a different direction, falling like wolves onto his flank.
Alandar was in the first line that entered the cleft, his tumans thundering behind him. He thought he had seen through whatever ruse Kublai was intending, but he was still aware that Kublai’s entire force outnumbered his. Even so, he could not shake the sense of satisfaction that he could spring a trap on those who sought to fool him. He had not risen to command the khan’s armies by making mistakes. For a moment, he thought of Mongke’s orlok, Seriankh. He had been removed from authority for losing his master and fought somewhere in the ranks. Alandar still thought the man was lucky to have kept his life.
Alandar passed into the shadowed ground, with steepening slopes rising on either side. Somewhere ahead and to the right would be a force of warriors riding to surprise his tumans. He leaned forward in the saddle, his hand dropping to the long sword that slapped against his mount’s flank. The land began to open out and in the sunlight he could see a green valley before him. In the distance, he thought he could hear sounds of battle as his minghaans met and clashed with the false group he had been meant to attack. Bows bent on either side of him as his warriors prepared a crushing volley of shafts. For a time they would ride without reins, using only their knees to guide the ponies at full gallop. Alandar could feel the moment when all four hooves left the ground as a rhythm beneath him. He would not use a bow that day, though he had one strapped to his saddle. He felt the excitement of the men around him, the quick breaths of air that seemed suddenly cold as the hills fell away and his front rank plunged out into the sun. His tumans feared nothing on earth and he led them. It felt glorious as he craned forward for the first glimpse of the enemy.
Surprise and disappointment flashed through Alandar’s tumans as they rounded the foot of the hill and were able to look down the valley stretching to the east. They shouted and pointed to each other as they rode further in, so that thousands of throats made a growling wail that fell away.
There were horses in the valley, thousands of them. It did not take a soldier of Alandar’s experience to see they were not mounted by Mongol warriors. He gaped at the sight of Arab boys whooping and kicking at a milling mass of animals. Each one seemed to have some wide branch tied to its tail, so that it dragged on the dusty ground.
Alandar felt his stomach tighten in fear. If these were the distraction, where were Kublai’s tumans? Almost without thought, he slowed his pace and the tumans matched him, coming down to an easy canter and then a trot. They were nervous at the sight of the trap, knowing they had been drawn in, but not yet seeing the danger.
Alandar jerked round in the saddle as he heard yells and warning horns sound behind. His tumans were still in the cleft between hills, stretched out. Something was happening half a mile behind him and he cursed aloud, yanking the reins savagely to halt. He could hear the sound of bows thrumming at the entrance to the valley, echoing back like the buzzing of bees.
For a moment, he could not think. The valley was too narrow to turn his tumans. The enemy was hitting them and he could not bring his force to bear. He raised his arm and ordered his men forward. If he could bring them all out of the valley, they would be able to manoeuvre once again. The lines surged forward with him, ignoring the boys on their horses as they whooped and jeered. His lines stretched out and Alandar saw movement on his left. He almost cried out in frustration as he realised the position. With a dozen of his personal guard, he pulled his horse out of rank. Behind the knot of men, his tumans kept going, clearing the valley behind as his heart sank.
Mongol warriors were riding at full speed out of the hills there, straight for his flank. Alandar could only roar a warning and even then his men were exposed, under attack from the rear and the side at the same time. He showed his teeth in a grimace, then drew his sword. The enem
y had worked him into the spot they wanted, but the games were over and it was time to fight. His generals bellowed orders and the first volleys soared out to meet the flanking force, blurring through the air. It was his one advantage over a flying column, that he could bring more bows to bear on their front rank.
They were already widening their line to fifty as the first arrows reached them. Alandar watched in shock as the enemy ranks raised cumbersome shields and seemed to snatch the arrows from the air. He had never seen Mongol warriors carry such heavy things into battle. They used the bow and the bow required two hands at all times. His generals were already turning men to face them, the orders running quickly down to the minghaan commanders and the leaders of each hundred in the tumans. His men were shifting from a running flank to a wide front, but it was one of the hardest possible manoeuvres and involved halting thousands in good order. Even so, it was beginning to happen.
Alandar felt hope swell in his chest, but then the enemy threw down their shields and raised bows. Shafts hummed back across the shrinking space between the racing armies. Alandar saw his ranks could not form up in time and he winced as the enemy archers poured volleys into the milling lines. He saw a dark stripe across his vision as something clipped his shoulder and went spinning away, rocking him back in the saddle. Another shaft thumped into his horse, sinking to the feathers in its throat so that the animal began to cough and spray blood from its nostrils.
Alandar panicked, dismounting with a stumble as the horse went down. His men had to clear the valley and they could do it only by riding hard and fast away from those who attacked. At the same time, he had to make a strong stationary line to answer the flanking attack. The orders clashed in his mind and he could not see a way through. The sun was warm on his face and arrows whirred past him without making him flinch. His guards were looking to him, but as he mounted a fresh horse from instinct, he sat with a blank expression, frozen. For a time, his tumans fought on their own.
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