Genghis waited in the moonlight, dark ranks of men at his back. Khasar was with him, but neither brother spoke as they stood ready. The scouts had warned them of the Otrar garrison coming in. Even then, it had been barely in time to beat back the night attack on their camp. Behind him, Genghis had given command to Tsubodai, the most able of his generals. He did not expect to get any sleep before the morning, but that was common enough to the warriors around him and, with meat, cheese and fiery black airag, they were still strong.
Genghis cocked his head at a sound from the gloom. He clicked with his tongue to alert the closest men, but they too had heard. He felt a pang of regret at the deaths of Samuka and Ho Sa, but it passed quickly. Without their sacrifice, he would have lost it all the day before. He turned his head left and right, searching for more sounds.
There. Genghis drew his sword and all along the line the front rank readied lances. They had no arrows with them. Tsubodai had spent much of the night collecting the final shafts into full quivers, but they would need them when dawn came. Genghis could hear walking horses ahead and he rubbed tiredness from his eyes with a free hand. At times, it seemed as if he had been fighting all his life against these dark-skinned madmen.
With Jelme, he had chosen a spot to wait just under a low rise. Even in the moonlight, he would not be seen, but his scouts kept moving, leaving their horses and running in the dark to keep him informed. One of them appeared at his stirrup and Genghis dipped his head to hear the soft words, grunting in surprise and pleasure.
When the scout had gone, Genghis nudged his horse close to Khasar.
‘We outnumber them, brother! Samuka and Ho Sa must have fought like tigers.’
Khasar nodded grimly.
‘It’s about time. I am tired of riding against their vast armies. Are you ready?’
Genghis snorted.
‘I have been waiting for ever for this garrison, brother. Of course I am ready.’
The two men parted in the darkness, then the Mongol line surged forward over the rise. Against them, the remnants of the garrison of Otrar were making their way south to join the shah. They came to a shocked halt as the Mongol lines appeared, but there was no one to save them as the lances came down.
Shah Ala-ud-Din reined in as he heard the sounds of battle echo back from the hills. In the moonlight, he could see distant smudges of fighting men, but he could not guess what was happening. Perhaps the cursed Mongols had attacked again.
With only four hundred surviving riders, he and his sons had abandoned the army and ridden hard. The shah glanced at the east and saw dawn was coming. He tried to fill his mind with plans for the future, numbing it to regrets. It was difficult. He had come to smash an invader and instead seen his best men bleeding out their strength. The Mongols were tireless killers and he had underestimated them. Only the thought of Abbas riding to the Assassins’ stronghold in the mountains gave him satisfaction. The men of shadows never failed and he only wished he could see the face of the khan as he felt their soot-blackened knives plunging into his chest.
Kokchu could smell fear in the camp, thick in the warm night air. It showed in the lamps that hung from posts at every intersection in the maze of gers. The women and children were afraid of the dark, with imagined enemies all around them. For Kokchu, the simmering terror was intoxicating. With the maimed warriors, Genghis’ brother Temuge and Yao Shu, he was one of very few men left among thousands of frightened women. It was hard to hide his arousal at their flushed faces. He saw them prepare as best they could for an attack, stuffing clothes and armour with dried grasses before tying them to spare mounts. Many of them came to him each day, offering whatever they had so that he would pray for their husbands to come back safe. He guarded himself rigidly at those times, forcing himself to remember that the warriors would return and ask their wives about the time alone. As young women knelt and chanted before him in his ger, their pathetic offerings lying in the dust, he sometimes placed his hand on their hair and grew flushed as he led them in their entreaties.
The worst of them was Genghis’ sister, Temulun. She was lithe and long-legged, an echo of her brother’s strength in her frame. She had come three times to ask for his protection over Palchuk, her husband. On the third, the smell of sweat was strong on her. While small voices screamed warnings in his head, he had insisted on placing a charm on her skin, one that would extend to all those she loved. He felt himself grow hard at the memory, despite his misgivings. How she had looked to him with hope in her eyes. How she had believed! Having her in his control had made him reckless. He had told her of a most potent charm, one that would be like iron against enemy swords. He had been subtle in his doubts and in the end she had begged him for its protection. It had been hard to hide his excitement then as he bowed to her need.
She had removed her clothes at his order, standing naked before him as he began the chant. He recalled the way his fingers had shaken as she closed her eyes and let him daub her body in a web of sheep blood.
Kokchu stopped his meandering path and swore to himself. He was a fool. At first, she had stood proud and still, her eyes closed as he drew lines with a finger pressing into her flesh. He had marked her in wavering red until her stomach and legs were criss-crossed with patterns. His lust had been overwhelming and perhaps he had begun to breathe too hard, or she had seen his flushed face. He winced at the thought of her feeling him press against her thigh as he leaned close. Her eyes had snapped open from the trance, looking through incense smoke and suddenly doubting him. He shuddered as he recalled her expression. His hand was lingering over her breasts, marking them in shining blood, the scent of which filled his nostrils.
She had left in a rush then, gathering her clothes even as he protested the charm was unfinished. He had watched her go almost at a run and his stomach had clenched at what he had dared to do. He did not fear her husband, Palchuk. There were few men who would even dare to speak to the shaman and Kokchu did not doubt he could send the man away. Was he not the khan’s own spirit-talker, the one who had brought Genghis victory after victory?
Kokchu bit his lip at the thought. If Temulun told Genghis her suspicions, of a hand too intimately on her thighs and breasts, no protection in the world would save him. He tried to tell himself she would not. In the cold light of day, she would admit she knew nothing of the spirits, or the manner of calling them. Perhaps he should consider daubing one of the maimed men in the same way, so that the news of the ritual would get back to her. He considered it seriously for a moment, then cursed his lust again, knowing that it had put everything in danger.
Kokchu stood at a crossroads, watching two young women lead ponies by the reins. They bowed their heads as they passed and he acknowledged them graciously. His authority was absolute, he told himself, his secrets safe. Many of the women in the camp would not have men coming home to them. He would have his pick of them then, as he consoled them in their grief.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before dawn lit the plain, the remains of ten tumans left the ashes of their fires and assembled. Not one was intact and the worst were reduced to just a few thousand men. Those warriors too injured to fight remained at the makeshift camp, bloodied and bandaged, or simply left to die with their companions. The shamans who might stitch and heal them were all far away. Many of them asked for a clean death and were given it with a single blow from a sword, in all honour.
In the gloom, Genghis listened to a tally of the dead as a fresh breeze across the plain made him shiver. He bowed his head at the names of senior men like Samuka and Ho Sa.
There were too many to recite them all. Twenty-three thousand had been killed, maimed or lost in the battles against the shah. It was the worst tally he had ever known and a terrible blow for the nation. Genghis felt a slow rage building whenever he looked for faces and found them missing in the ranks. His sister’s husband, Palchuk, was among the dead and he knew there would be rivers of grief when he returned at last to the camp.
Genghis l
ooked up and down the lines as they formed. As well as his own tuman of ten thousand, he noted the banners of Khasar and Kachiun, Jebe and Tsubodai, Chagatai, Jelme and Jochi. He had given orders for broken tumans to fill the places of the dead and eight tumans had formed out of the ashes. From the youngest boys of fourteen, they were veterans. He knew they would not fail him.
Genghis reached down to touch his lower leg and grimaced at the sick feeling and wetness he found. He had taken the wound the day before, but he could not remember how it had happened. He could not stand on it, but he had tied the foot into the stirrup so that he could still ride. Some of his warriors had lost part of their armour to arrows or sword blows, suffering gashes that they bound with strips of dirty cloth. Others had taken a fever through the wounds and poured with sweat in a dawn breeze that could not cool them. They sat their horses in grim anger, waiting for dawn and first sight of the enemy. No one had slept the night before and they were all bone-tired, but there was no give in them, no weakness. They had all lost friends or relatives. The days of battle had burned away everything but a cold desire to avenge the fallen dead.
When there was enough light to see, Genghis stared out at the shah’s army. He heard distant horns blow an alarm as the shah’s scouts caught sight of the host waiting for them, but the Arabs were sluggish in their movements. The sight of the Mongol army unnerved them and Genghis could see them mill aimlessly, all order gone.
He gave the command to trot and his tumans moved with him. His entire front rank of two thousand men weighed lances in their hands, feeling the strain on tired, torn muscles. The rest readied swords and the distance closed.
Genghis saw two men running out ahead of the forming lines, holding banners of white cloth. He wondered if they meant to surrender, but it did not matter. The time for mercy was long gone. Many of those who had died had been known to him and he had only one answer to give, only one they would approve of if their spirits still saw the world below. The men with white banners were killed as the Mongol line swept past them and a low moan came from the rest as they saw and tried to brace for the charge.
Forty elephants were brought to the front, but Tsubodai ordered his archers to shoot for the legs and sent them rampaging back into the Arab army, causing more destruction than they ever could have against mounted men.
The great line of lances hit almost as one and Genghis shouted the order for horns. His son Chagatai swept forward on the right, while Jochi matched him on the left. The Mongol warriors began the slaughter as the sun rose over the east. They could not be held. They could not be thrown back.
Chagatai’s tuman pinched in against the right flank, their speed and ferocity carrying them to the very centre of the Arabs. In the chaos and noise, there was no calling him back. Jochi’s wing spilled along the left flank, carving dead men out of living lines. Across the battlefield, he saw Chagatai had plunged too far into the mass of terrified men. He could see him only a few hundred paces away before the Arab ranks seemed to swallow him. Jochi cried out. He dug in his heels and led his men like a spear thrust into the jerking body of the Arab army.
The front ranks were hit so hard by Jebe and Tsubodai that they bowed right back in a bloody cup. No one had taken command and in the chaos, the tumans of Chagatai and Jochi sliced through them until the brothers were separated by just a few struggling, panting men.
The Arabs broke, terrified by the khan’s warriors. Thousands threw down their weapons and tried to run, but none of the generals hesitated. Those who turned their backs were cut down without mercy and by noon the army of the shah was a morass of desperate, flailing groups. The slaughter continued without pause. Some of the shah’s men knelt and prayed aloud in shrieking voices until their heads were taken by galloping men. It was butcher’s work, but the Mongols were willing. Many of them broke their swords in huge swings and had to pick up one of the curved sabres that littered the ground. Lances were snapped in Arabs too dazed to step out of the way.
In the end, just a few hundred remained. They had no weapons and held their arms high to show empty palms. Genghis grunted a final order and a line of lancers accelerated. The Arabs cried out in terror, then were silent as the riders rolled over them and returned, dismounting to hack the dead men into small pieces, until their fury and spite were spent.
The Mongol tumans did not cheer the victory. From the first light, there had been no fight in the Arab army, and though they had taken a savage pleasure in the killing, there was no more glory in it than a circle hunt.
The ground was soft with blood as individual warriors looted the dead, cutting fingers for rings and stripping the bodies of good boots and warm clothing. Flies gathered in great swarms, so that the Mongols had to bat them away from where they landed on lips and eyes. The buzzing insects crawled intimately over the dead, already beginning to corrupt in the heat.
Genghis summoned his generals and they came to him, bruised and battered, but with satisfaction in their eyes.
‘Where is the shah?’ he demanded of each one. They had found camels laden with tents of silk and Jebe’s men had discovered a cache of jewels and already gambled or exchanged half of them.
When Genghis asked Tsubodai, the general shook his head thoughtfully.
‘His horsemen are gone, lord khan,’ he replied. ‘I did not see even one.’
Genghis swore, his weariness vanishing.
‘Get the scouts out looking for tracks. I want him hunted down.’
Those scouts who heard jumped back into their saddles and raced away, while Genghis simmered.
‘If he left last night, he has had almost a day to get away. He must not escape! The Arab merchants talk of armies five times the size of this one, more. Have your men join the scouts. Nothing is more important than this, nothing'
Riders went in all directions and it was not long before two men of Jochi’s tuman came racing back. Genghis listened to the report and paled.
‘Tsubodai! Horses travelling east,’ he said.
Tsubodai stiffened.
‘His cities are in the south,’ he said. ‘He is taking a path around us. May I ride to protect the camp, lord?’
Genghis swore under his breath.
‘No. Take your tuman and get after the shah. If he reaches a city and finds fresh reinforcements, we are all dead.’
Jebe was at the khan’s side when he gave the order. He had seen the shah’s army when it was bright and strong. The thought of facing as many again was sickening. He turned to Tsubodai and raised his head.
‘With my lord khan’s permission, I will come with you,’ he said.
Genghis waved a hand and Tsubodai nodded as he dug in his heels. Tsubodai shouted an order to the closest officer, but did not pause as the man raced to gather Tsubodai’s Young Wolves.
As the news spread, Jochi came riding up to his father. He bowed low in the saddle as he reined in.
‘Is the camp in danger?’ he asked.
Genghis turned his pale gaze on the young general, noting the tiger skin draped across his pony. All of them had family there, but he bristled anyway. It had been his order to leave the camp undefended. There had been no other choice.
‘I have sent Jebe and Tsubodai to hunt the shah,’ Genghis replied at last.
‘They are good men, the best you have,’ Jochi replied. His father’s face was cold, but he went on carelessly, thinking of his mother. ‘May I take my tuman and bring the families back here?’
Genghis considered, grudgingly. The camp was less than a day’s ride east of Otrar. He did not like the thought of Jochi announcing the victory to the women and children. No doubt the young man was already thinking of a hero’s welcome. Genghis felt his stomach twist at the thought.
‘I need you at Otrar,’ he said. ‘Give Chagatai the order.’
For an instant, Genghis saw anger flash in Jochi’s eyes. The khan leaned forward in his saddle, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Even in that, he felt swelling bitterness, as Jochi carried the wolf’s-head
sword on his hip. The lapse was quickly masked and Jochi bowed his head and trotted away to speak to his younger brother.
Chagatai was at the centre of a riotous group of young warriors. He did not see Jochi approach at first and was in the middle of laughing at some comment when he stiffened. The men with Chagatai took their lead from him and Jochi walked his pony through their hostile stares.
Neither brother spoke a greeting. Jochi let his hand drop to the tiger skin at his pommel, his fingers toying with the stiff fur. Chagatai waited for him to speak, raising one eyebrow, so that his companions chuckled.
‘You are to take your tuman back to the camp and bring them to the land around Otrar,’ Jochi said, when he tired of the game. Chagatai frowned. He did not want to nursemaid women and children while Otrar trembled for the first sight of them.
‘Whose order is this?’ he replied. ‘Whose authority?’
Jochi controlled his temper at the insolent tone.
‘Genghis bids you go,’ he said, turning his mount to ride away.
‘So you say, but who listens when a rape-born bastard speaks?’
Chagatai spoke knowing he was surrounded by his own men, all waiting for such a barb that they could repeat with relish at the campfires. Jochi stiffened in the saddle. He should have left the grinning fools, but nothing in the world brought him to anger as easily as his younger brother’s blustering arrogance.
‘Perhaps he feels you are a fitting companion for the women after the way you knelt to me, brother,’ he replied. ‘I cannot know his mind.’
With a tight smile, Jochi held his mount to a walk. Even with armed men at his back, he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him urge his pony to a trot.
He heard the sudden rush of hooves and his hand fell automatically to the wolf’s-head hilt before he snatched it away. He could not draw a blade on Chagatai in front of so many witnesses. It would be the end of him.