The warrior drawing with a stick replied without hesitation. “Ten in the rear, General, on a wide sweep. Twenty to the front and flanks.”
Tsubodai nodded. He knew enough to move, at last.
“They must be killed, especially the ones behind the knights’ column. Take them when the sun is highest and do not let even one escape. I will attack as soon as you signal by flag that the scouts are down. Repeat your orders.”
The warrior spoke quickly, word perfect as he had been trained to be. Tsubodai allowed no confusion in the field. For all the use of flags to communicate over vast distances, he was still forced to rely on dawn, noon, and sunset as the only markers for time. He looked up through the trees at the thought, seeing that the sun was not far off midday. It would not be long and he felt the familiar flutter in his stomach that came before a battle. He had told Jochi it was to train him, and that was true, but not the whole truth. Tsubodai had held back that the knights traveled with portable forges in their baggage train. Blacksmiths were more valuable than any other artisan they could capture, and Tsubodai had been intrigued by reports of iron carts belching smoke as they rolled.
Tsubodai smiled to himself, enjoying the rising excitement. Like Genghis, he could find no love for the sacking of towns and cities. It was something that had to be done, of course, as a man would pour boiling water on a nest of ants. It was the battles Tsubodai wanted, each one proving or increasing his mastery. He had found no greater joy than out-thinking his enemies, confounding and destroying them. He had heard of the strange quest the knights were on, to a land so distant that no one knew its name. It did not matter. Genghis would not allow armed men to ride his lands—and all lands were his.
Tsubodai scuffed the drawings in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He turned to the second scout, who waited patiently, in awe of the general.
“Ride to Jochi and find what has delayed him,” Tsubodai ordered. “He will sit at my right hand for this attack.”
“Your will, lord,” the scout said, bowing before he scrambled to his horse and went careering through the trees at breakneck speed. Tsubodai squinted through the branches at the sun. He would move very soon.
In the thump and thunder of ten thousand horses, Anatoly Majaev glanced over his shoulder at the ridge little Ilya had disappeared behind. Where had his brother gone? He still thought of him as little Ilya, despite the fact that his brother outweighed him in both muscle and faith. Anatoly shook his head wearily. He had promised their mother he would look after him. Ilya would catch up, he was certain. He had not dared halt the column now that the Mongols had shown they were in the area. Anatoly had sent scouts all around, but they too seemed to have vanished. He looked behind again, straining his eyes for the banners of a thousand men.
Ahead, the valley narrowed in a pass through hills that could have been part of the Garden of Eden. The slopes were green with grass so thick a man could not hack through the roots in half a day. Anatoly loved this land, but his eyes were always on the horizon, and one day he would see Jerusalem. He muttered a prayer to the Virgin under his breath, and at that moment, the pass darkened and he saw the Mongol army riding out against him.
The scouts were dead then, as he had feared. Anatoly cursed and could not help but look back for Ilya once more.
Shouts came from behind and Anatoly turned completely in the saddle, swearing at the sight of another dark mass of riders coming up fast. How had they gone around him without being spotted? It defied belief to have the enemy move like ghosts through the hills.
He knew his men could scatter the Mongols in a charge. Already they had unhooked their shields and raised them, looking to him for orders. As the eldest son of a baron, Anatoly was the most senior officer. Indeed, it had been his family who had financed the entire trip, using some of their vast fortune to earn the goodwill of the monasteries that had become so powerful in Russia.
Anatoly knew he could not charge with the entire baggage train and rear ranks exposed. Nothing unnerved fighting men more than being struck from before and behind at the same time. He began to shout an order for three of his officers to take their centuries and wheel around to charge the rear. As he turned, a movement on the hills caught his eye and he grinned in relief. In the distance, a line of Russian heavy horse came back over the ridge, banners flying lightly in the breeze. Anatoly judged the distances and made his decision. He called a scout over to him.
“Ride to my brother and tell him to hit the force at our rear. He must prevent them from joining the battle.”
The young man raced away, unencumbered by armor or weapons. Anatoly turned to the front, his confidence swelling. With the rear secured, he outnumbered those who were galloping toward him. His orders had taken only moments and he knew he could punch through the Mongols like an armored fist.
Anatoly pointed his long spear over his horse’s ears.
“Charge formation! For the white Christ, onward!”
Anatoly’s scout raced along at full gallop across the dusty ground. Speed was everything with two armies converging on the column. He rode with his body pressed as low as he could go, the horse’s head lunging up and down by his own. He was young and excited and rode almost to Ilya Majaev’s men before pulling up in shock. Only four hundred had come back over the crest and they had been through hell. Brown slicks of blood showed on many men as they approached, and there was something odd about the way they rode.
The scout suddenly understood and wrenched at his reins in panic. He was too late. An arrow took him under a flailing arm and he tumbled over the horse’s ears, making the animal bolt.
Jochi and the other Mongols did not look at the prone figure as they galloped past. It had taken a long time to pull the chain mail off the dead, but the ruse was working. No force rode out to cut them off, and though the Russians didn’t know it, they were being attacked on three sides. As the slope lessened, Jochi dug in his heels and brought the heavy spear out of its leather socket. It was a cumbersome thing and he had to strain to hold it steady as he and his men thundered toward the Russian flank.
Anatoly was at full gallop, more than half a ton of flesh and iron focused on a spear point. He saw the front ranks shudder as the Mongol archers loosed their first shafts. The enemy were fast, but the column could not be held back, or even turned at that speed. The noise of shield impacts and hooves was deafening, but he heard screams behind him and wrenched himself back to clarity. He was in command, and as his mind cleared he shook his head in horror. He watched Ilya strike the main flank, cutting into the very men who had pledged themselves to the Majaev family on the pilgrimage.
As he gaped, Anatoly saw the men were smaller and wore bloody iron. Some had lost their helmets in the first clash to reveal yelling Mongol faces. He blanched then, knowing his brother was dead and the twin attack would crush the rear ranks. He could not turn, and though he bawled frantic orders, no one heard him.
Ahead, the Mongols let them come in, loosing shafts by the thousand into the Russian horsemen. The shields were battered and the column jerked like a wounded animal. Men fell by the hundred. It was as if a scythe had been drawn across the face of the column, cutting through living men.
Behind, the Mongols rolled up the baggage train, killing anyone on the carts who raised a weapon. Anatoly strained to think, to make out details, but he was in among the enemy. His spear ripped along a horse’s neck, opening a great gash that spattered him in warm blood. A sword flashed and Anatoly took the blow on his helmet, almost losing consciousness. Something hit him in the chest and suddenly he could not breathe, even to call for help. He strained for just a cupful of air, just a sip, but it did not come and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough to numb his final agony.
At the fires that evening, Tsubodai rode through the camp of his ten thousand. The dead knights had been stripped of anything valuable, and the general had pleased the men by refusing his personal tithe. For those who received no pay for their battles, the collection of bloodstaine
d lockets, rings, and gems was something to covet in the new society Genghis was creating. A man could become wealthy in the army of the tribes, though they thought always in terms of the horses they could buy with their riches. The knights’ forges were of more interest to Tsubodai, as were the spoked cart wheels themselves, ringed in iron and easier to repair than the solid discs the Mongols used. Tsubodai had already instructed the captured armorers to demonstrate the skill to his carpenters.
Jochi was examining the forehoof of his favorite pony when Tsubodai trotted up to him. Before the younger man could bow, Tsubodai inclined his head, giving him honor. The jagun Jochi had commanded stood with pride.
Tsubodai lifted his hand to show Jochi the gold paitze he had taken from him before noon.
“You had me wondering how Russians could come back from the dead,” Tsubodai said. “It was a bold stroke. Take this back, Jochi. You are worth more than silver, no matter what jagun wants you to lead them.”
He tossed the gold plaque through the air and Jochi caught it, struggling to keep his composure. Only the praise of Genghis himself would have meant more at that moment.
“We will ride home tomorrow,” Tsubodai said, as much for the men as Jochi. “Be ready at dawn.”
CHAPTER TWO
CHAGATAI FELT AN ITCH in his left armpit, where sweat dribbled under his best armor. Though he was the second son of the khan, he sensed it would not be right to give the spot a good scratch while he waited for the king of Koryo.
He risked a quick glance at the man who had brought him to the distant, walled city of Songdo. The hall of kings was stifling in the midday heat, but Jelme showed no discomfort in his lacquered armor. Like the courtiers and the royal guards, the Mongol general could have been carved out of wood.
Chagatai could hear water running in the far distance, the gentle sound somehow magnified in the oppressive heat and silence. The itch became maddening and he struggled to think of something else. As his gaze rested on a high ceiling of white plaster and ancient pine beams, he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. For all their dignity, the Wang dynasty had not been able to crush the Khara-Kitai when those people came into their land from Chin territory and built fortresses. If Jelme had not volunteered his army to burn them out, the Koryon king would still be a near prisoner in his own palace. At fifteen years old, Chagatai felt a vague smugness at the thought. He had all the pride and arrogance of a young warrior, yet in this case, he knew it was justified. Jelme and his warriors had come into the east to see what armies might stand against them and to view the ocean for the first time. They had found enemies in the Khara-Kitai and driven them out of Koryo like whipped dogs. Chagatai knew it was only just that the king pay a tribute, whether he had asked for help or not.
Sweating in the heavy air, Chagatai tortured himself with memory of the breeze off the sea in the south. The cool wind had been the only good thing about that blue vastness, in his opinion. Jelme had been fascinated by the Koryon ships, but the thought of wanting to travel on water baffled Chagatai. If it could not be ridden, he had no use for it. Even the memory of the royal barge swaying at anchor made his stomach clench.
A bell sounded out in the courtyard, the tone echoing through gardens where bees buzzed in hives around acacia blossoms. Chagatai pictured the Buddhist monks heaving on the log that struck the great bell, and he straightened, once more aware of how he stood. The king would be on his way and his torment would come to an end. He could stand an itch a little longer: just the thought of relief made it seem bearable.
The bell boomed again and servants slid back screens, opening the hall to the scent of pines from the surrounding hills. Despite himself, Chagatai let out a sigh as the intense heat began to lessen. The crowd moved subtly as they strained to see the king, and Chagatai used the distraction to dig two fingers into his armpit and scratch vigorously. He sensed Jelme’s gaze flicker to him and resumed his impassive expression as the king of the Koryon people entered at last.
None of them were tall, Chagatai thought, as he saw the diminutive monarch waft through a carved doorway. He supposed the man’s name was Wang, after his family, but who knew or cared how these wiry little people named each other? Chagatai looked instead at a pair of serving girls in the king’s retinue. With their delicate golden skin, they were far more interesting than the man they served. The young warrior stared as the women fussed around their master, arranging his robes as he seated himself.
The king did not seem aware of the watching Mongols as he waited for his attendants to finish. His eyes were almost the same dark yellow as Genghis’s, though they lacked his father’s ability to inspire terror. Compared to the khan, the Koryon king was just a lamb.
The servants finished their tasks at last and the king’s gaze finally focused on the arban of ten warriors Jelme had brought. Chagatai wondered how the man could bear such thick cloth on a summer’s day.
When the king spoke, Chagatai could not understand a word. Like Jelme, he had to wait for the translation into the Chin language he had struggled to master. Even then he could hardly catch the meaning and listened in growing frustration. He disliked foreign languages. Once a man knew the word for a horse, why use another? Obviously Chagatai understood that men from far lands might not know the right way of speaking, but he felt they owed it to themselves to learn and not continue their gibberish, as if all tongues were of equal value.
“You have kept your promises,” the translator said solemnly, interrupting Chagatai’s thoughts. “The Khara-Kitai fortresses have burned for many days, and that foul people have gone from the high and beautiful land.”
Silence fell again and Chagatai shifted uncomfortably. The court of the Koryo seemed to delight in slowness. He recalled his experience of the drink they called nok cha. Jelme had frowned at the way Chagatai emptied his cup in a gulp and held it out for another. Apparently, the pale green liquid was too valuable to be drunk like water. As if one warrior should care how another ate or drank! Chagatai ate when he was hungry and often forgot to attend the elaborate meals of the court. He could not understand Jelme’s interest in pointless rituals, but he had not spoken his thoughts aloud. When he ruled the Mongol nation, he would not allow pretension, he vowed to himself. Food was not something to linger over, or prepare in a thousand flavors. It was no wonder that the Koryon people had come so close to being conquered. They would be required to speak one language and eat perhaps no more than two or three different dishes, prepared quickly and without fuss. It would leave more time for training with weapons and exercise to make the body strong.
Chagatai’s wandering thoughts stilled as Jelme spoke at last, apparently having weighed every word.
“It is fortunate that the Khara-Kitai chose to attack my scouts. Our needs met in their destruction. I speak now for the Great Khan, whose warriors have saved your country from a terrible enemy. Where is the tribute promised by your ministers?”
As the translation droned, the king stiffened slightly in his seat. Chagatai wondered if the fool took some insult from the words. Perhaps he had forgotten the army camped outside the city. At a single command from Jelme, they would burn the polished beams around the king’s head. It was still a mystery to Chagatai why they had not. Surely Genghis had sent them out to hone their skills? Chagatai appreciated distantly that there was an art in negotiating that he had yet to learn. Jelme had tried to explain the need to deal with foreign powers, but Chagatai could not see it. A man was either an enemy or a friend. If he was an enemy, everything he owned could be taken. Chagatai smiled as he completed the thought. A khan needed no friends, only servants.
Once more he daydreamed about ruling his people. The tribes would never accept his brother Jochi, if he was even the khan’s son at all. Chagatai had done his part in spreading the rumor that Jochi was the result of a rape, many years before. Genghis had allowed the whispers to grow deep roots by his distant manner toward the boy. Chagatai smiled to himself at the memories, allowing his hand
to drift past the hilt of his sword. His father had passed it into his hands over Jochi, a blade that had seen the birth of a nation. In his most private heart, Chagatai knew he would never take an oath to Jochi.
One of the king’s ministers leaned close to the throne to exchange whispered words. It went on long enough for the ranks of courtiers to wilt visibly in their robes and jewels, but at last the minister retreated. Once more the king spoke, his words translated smoothly.
“Honored allies may accept gifts in token of a new friendship, as has been discussed,” the king said. “One hundred thousand sheets of oiled paper have been prepared for you, the labor of many moons.” The assembled crowd of Koryon nobles murmured at the words, though Chagatai could not imagine why paper would be seen as valuable. “Ten thousand silk vests have been sewn and the same weight added in jade and silver. Two hundred thousand kwan of iron and the same in bronze have come from the mines and the guild of metalworkers. From my own stores, sixty tiger skins have been wrapped in silk and made ready to travel with you. Finally, eight hundred cartloads of oak and beech are the gift of the Wang dynasty, in thanks for the victory you have brought to the Koryon people. Go now in peace and honor and count us always as allies.”
Jelme nodded stiffly as the translator finished.
“I accept your tribute, Majesty.” A slight flush had appeared on his neck. Chagatai wondered if the general would ignore the king’s attempt to save face. Tribute was given to conquerors and Jelme stood in silence for a long time as he considered the king’s words. When he spoke again, his voice was firm.
“I ask only that six hundred young men between the ages of twelve and sixteen be added to it. I will train them in the skills of my people, and they will know many battles and great honor.”
Chagatai struggled not to show his approval. Let them choke on that, with their talk of gifts and honored allies. Jelme’s demand had revealed the true balance of power in the room, and the courtiers were visibly distressed. The silence stretched in the hall and Chagatai watched with interest as the king’s minister bowed close once more. He saw the king’s knuckles whiten as his grip on the armrest tightened. Chagatai was tired of their posturing. Even the smooth-limbed women at the king’s feet had lost their allure. He wanted to get out into the cool air and perhaps bathe in the river before the sun lost its heat.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 86