Empire of Silver

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘Get up, you fool,’ he said to the body. ‘Just get up and tell me I am weak and pitiful for weeping. Get up, please.’ He sensed the healer’s presence at the door and spun round.

  ‘My lord, do you want…’ the man began.

  ‘Get out!’ Temuge roared. ‘This is not your business!’

  The healer vanished from the door, closing it softly behind him.

  Temuge turned back to the figure lying on the bed. Somehow the smell had ceased to bother him.

  ‘I am the last of us, Khasar. Bekter and Temujin and Kachiun, Temulun and now you. You are all gone now. I have no one left.’ The realisation brought fresh tears and he slumped into a seat. ‘I am alone in a city that waits to be destroyed,’ he whispered.

  For an instant, his eyes brightened with bitter rage. He had the right to inherit his brother’s line, not some bastard son who had been nothing but a trial to his father. If Temuge had commanded a loyal tuman, he knew Chagatai would not live to take Karakorum. Chagatai would burn all the books in Karakorum’s library, without understanding for a moment what treasures lay within. Temuge swallowed his grief and began to think and weigh his options. Sorhatani did not understand the stakes involved. Perhaps the city could be held if it had a man who understood its value, not a woman who had merely inherited her power through no talent of her own. Tsubodai would hear soon, and he despised Chagatai. The entire army would come east like a storm to defend the capital city. Temuge concentrated harder, weighing his decisions and choices. If the city survived, Guyuk would be grateful.

  It felt as if his life had been preparing him for this point, this decision. His family were no more and without them he felt a strange freedom. With the last witnesses gone, his old failures were just ashes, forgotten.

  There would be some who chafed under Sorhatani’s rule. Yao Shu was certainly one and Temuge thought the chancellor would know of others. It could be done before Chagatai arrived. Sometimes, power could change hands as quickly as a knife thrust. Temuge stood up and looked down at Khasar’s body for the last time.

  ‘He will burn the books, brother. Why should I allow that? I was there in the beginning, when death was just a breath away. I promise I will not be afraid now, with your spirit watching me. I was born to power, brother. It is the way the world should be, not the way it has become. I am the last of us, Khasar. This is my time now.’

  King Bela watched as the camp was set around him, beginning with his own tent. It was a magnificent affair of oiled struts and sturdy canvas against the wind. He could already smell the meal his servants were preparing. Standing at the centre of it all, he felt a surging pride. His army had not needed the Cuman nomads to drive the Mongols back, day after day. Good Magyar steel and courage had been all that was required. It amused him to think he had herded the Mongol shepherds like one of their own flocks. He could regret that he had not driven them harder against the banks of the Sajo river, but they had not checked in their headlong retreat, barely pausing at the bridge before flowing across it. When he shaded his eyes against the setting sun, he could see the enemy tents, strange circular things that dotted the landscape across the river. They had none of the order and quiet efficiency he saw around him, and he relished the thought of the pursuit still to come. He had the blood of kings in his veins and he felt his ancestors crying out to see the invader thrown back, broken and bloody on the mountains they had come from.

  He turned as one of Von Thuringen’s knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.

  ‘Sir Henry,’ King Bela said in greeting.

  The knight dismounted slowly and bowed. He spoke in French, both men fluent in that language.

  ‘My lord, they are attempting to hold the bridge against us. Eight hundred, perhaps a thousand of them have sent their horses back to the others.’

  ‘They would prefer it if we did not cross, eh, Sir Henry?’ King Bela chuckled expansively. ‘They have felt our breath on their necks for days and they would rather we left them to their retreat.’

  ‘As you say, my lord. But it is the only bridge for a hundred miles or more. We must dislodge them tonight or in the morning.’

  Bela thought for a moment. He was in a very good mood.

  ‘When I was a boy, Sir Henry, I would collect limpets from the rocks near Lake Balaton. They would cling to the stones, but with my little knife, I would work them free for the pot! Do you follow me, Sir Henry?’

  Bela laughed at his own wit, though the knight only frowned slightly, waiting for orders. The king sighed at such a stolid companion-in-arms. There was little humour in the ranks of knights, with their dour version of Christianity. A waft of roast pork reached them on the air and King Bela clapped his hands together in anticipation, making his decision.

  ‘Send archers, Sir Henry. Let them have a little sport, a touch of target play before sunset. Hit them hard and drive them back over the river. Is that clear enough for you?’

  The knight bowed again. Sir Henry of Braybrooke had a boil on his leg that needed lancing and a sore foot that seemed to be rotting in its bandages, for all the unguents and poultices he tried. The meal he would enjoy would be a thin soup and stale bread, with perhaps a little sour wine to force it down his dry throat. He mounted carefully, stiff with his discomforts. He did not enjoy slaughter, though the godless Mongols deserved to be wiped from the face of the good earth. Still, he would follow the king’s order, honouring his vow of obedience to the knights.

  Henry of Braybrooke passed on the king’s command to a regiment of archers, four thousand bowmen under a Hungarian prince he neither liked nor respected. He stayed just long enough to watch them begin their march to the bridge and then went to join the lines for soup and bread, his stomach growling.

  Chagatai looked out into bright sunshine. In his right hand he held a yellowed parchment that had travelled more than a thousand miles along the yam stations. It was stained and grubby from its journey, but the brief lines written there made his heart pound. The yam rider who had delivered it still held position with one knee bent, his presence forgotten the moment Chagatai had begun to read. In hastily scrawled Chin characters, the message was one he had both expected and almost dreaded for years. Ogedai had fallen at last.

  It changed everything. Chagatai had become the last surviving son of Genghis Khan, the last in the direct line of the nation-maker, the khan of khans. Chagatai could almost hear the old man’s voice as he thought through what lay ahead. It was a time to be ruthless, to snatch the power that had once been promised, that was his by right. Tears sprang to his eyes, partly in memory of his youth. He could be the man his father had wanted him to be at last. Unconsciously, he crumpled the yellow papers.

  Tsubodai would stand against him, or at least in favour of Guyuk. The orlok had never been in Chagatai’s camp. He would have to be quietly killed, there was no other way. Chagatai nodded to himself, the simple decision opening up other pathways into the days to come. He had stood in the palace of Karakorum with Ogedai and Tsubodai. He had heard his brother talk of Tsubodai’s loyalty, but Chagatai knew he could never trust the orlok. There was simply too much history between them and he had seen the promise of death in Tsubodai’s hard eyes.

  Karakorum was the key to the lock, he was certain. There was no history of direct descent of power, at least not in the tribes of the Mongol nation. The khan had always been chosen from those best suited to lead. It did not matter that Guyuk was Ogedai’s eldest son, or that Ogedai favoured him, any more than it had mattered that Ogedai was not the eldest of his brothers. The nation knew no favourites. They would accept whoever held the city. They would follow whoever had the strength and will to take Karakorum. Chagatai smiled to himself. He had many sons to fill those rooms, sons who would make the line of Genghis stretch to the end of history. His imagination filled with a dazzling vision, an empire that would reach from Koryo in the east to the western nations, und
er just one strong hand. The Chin had never dreamed so far, but the land was vast and it tempted him to try to hold it all.

  He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.

  ‘It is time, Suntai,’ Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. ‘The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.’

  His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider and, after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.

  ‘Your will, my lord khan.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Guyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela’s call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.

  Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.

  As he rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to each other, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains and he smiled at the man’s expression, lifted by their simple joy.

  When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu’s closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu’s flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.

  At the edge of the forest there were rocky outcrops and Guyuk picked his way past the broken ground as it merged with grassland. He could already see Mongke’s tuman forming up, as well as his own men coming in from all directions and taking their positions. Guyuk kicked his mount into a canter and rode across.

  Even from a distance, Guyuk heard the jingle of bells that meant a yam rider had reached them. His pulse raced with excitement at getting news of any kind. It was too easy to feel isolated away from the main army, as if his battles and raids were the whole world. Guyuk forced himself to relax as he rode. Tsubodai would be calling them back for the final push to the west. Truly the sky father had blessed their enterprise, and he had never once regretted coming so far from the plains of home. Guyuk was young, but he could imagine the years ahead, when all those who had ridden in the great trek would share a special bond. He felt it already, a sense of shared danger, even of brotherhood. Whatever else Tsubodai had intended, the trek had forged bonds between the generals who had ridden with him.

  As he rode up to Mongke, Guyuk saw 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 armour, 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 offence.’ 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 travelled almost five thousand miles to reach his hand.

  He bit his lip as he read, his eyes travelling 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 honour.’

  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 odour 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 n
eck, 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 Sajo river was running full and fast and they drowned swiftly in their armour, 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 each other, 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.