The Mongol ponies had lightly armoured cloth covering their faces and chests. The warriors themselves wore layered scale armour and helmets, and carried lances and swords as well as saddlebags full of supplies. They crashed into the Chin lines like a mountain falling.
Khasar saw the closest ranks collapse, the men broken by lances and hooves. Some of the horses refused and whinnied in wild-eyed distress as their riders sawed at their mouths, shouting angrily as they brought them round again. Others plunged straight through the Chin, their lances snapping with the force of the strike. They tossed aside the broken hilts and followed with swords, using the muscles from twenty years of bow work to lay about them tirelessly, cutting down, always down, onto the snarling faces.
Khasar was spattered with warm red drops as his horse was killed and he jumped clear. He tasted someone’s blood on his lips and he spat in disgust, ignoring the outstretched arm of one of his bondsmen as the man tried to grab him up into a saddle. His fury at the emperor’s looming escape blurred his judgement. On foot, he stalked the enemy soldiers, his sword held low until they attacked. His counters were vicious and accurate, and as he strode forward with his men, the Chin backed away rather than engage him.
He could feel the sullen gaze of the emperor’s soldiers, watching in silence as they marched away from him. Khasar grunted as he trapped his sword in a shield, leaving it and backhanding a soldier before snatching another one from the ground. Only then did he mount behind a warrior, to see what was happening.
In the distance, the front ranks of the Chin army had reached the Sung lines.
‘Find me a horse,’ Khasar shouted into the ear of the bondsman.
The man wheeled and rode out of the cup they had cut for themselves. It closed behind them, the battered shields rising once again.
Khasar looked for Ogedai, his blood cooling as he considered the threat. A child could have seen the position was hopeless. Faced with such an army, all the tumans could do was get clear. If the Sung regiments attacked, the Mongols would be forced away, routed on the border. The only choice was between a dignified retreat and running as if there were wolves after them. Khasar ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. There was no help for it.
His back straight, Xuan trotted his horse towards the Sung line, flanked by three generals in ornate armour and cloaks. They were all dusty and tired, but Xuan rode as if there were no possibility of being turned away. He knew he had to be the first one there. Of course the Sung would refuse common soldiers the right to enter their realm. Only Xuan could shape the rules around him, as the reigning emperor. He was the Son of Heaven. It was a title without a nation, an emperor without cities, yet he kept his dignity as he reached the first line of soldiers.
They did not move and Xuan reached down to brush a speck of dust from his gloves. He showed no discomfort as he stared over the heads of the Sung army. He could hear the Mongols ripping at his own men, but he did not move or acknowledge it. There was a chance that his cousin Lizong would allow his army to be destroyed while they all waited. Xuan seethed at the thought, but there was nothing he could do. He had come as a supplicant to the Sung lands. If the emperor chose to remove his strength in such a way, Xuan knew he could not react. It was a bold stroke and he could almost applaud it. Let the damaged Chin emperor enter, but let him see his army withered to just a few men first. Let him come on his knees, begging for favour.
All Xuan’s choices, all his plans and stratagems, had been reduced to one course of action. He had ridden up to the lines. If they opened to let him in, he could pass to safety with whoever remained alive in his army. Xuan tried not to think what might happen if his poisonous Sung cousins had decided to remove him from the balance. It was not beyond them to have manoeuvred him to exactly this position, waiting, waiting, waiting. He could sit his horse in front of them until the Mongols had finished slaughtering his army and came for him. There was a chance Lizong would not lift a hand to save him even then.
Xuan’s face was utterly without emotion as he studied the Sung soldiers. Whatever happened was his fate and not to be denied. Some hidden spark of him was white with fury, but nothing showed. As casually as he could, he turned to one of his generals and asked about the cannon the Sung had used.
The general was sweating visibly, but he replied as if they were at a military inspection.
‘It is a field-piece, imperial majesty, similar to the ones we have used on city walls. Bronze is poured into a mould and then filed and polished. Black powder burns with great fierceness, sending a ball leaping out to cause terror in the enemy.’
Xuan nodded as if he was fascinated. By the spirits of his ancestors, how long must he wait?
‘Such a large cannon would be very heavy,’ he said stiffly. ‘It must be difficult to move over rough terrain.’
The general nodded, pleased that his master had engaged him in conversation, though he knew the stakes as well as anyone.
‘It sits on a wooden cart, imperial majesty. It is wheeled, but yes, it takes many men and oxen to drag it into position. More are needed to carry the stone balls, the powder bags, the swabs and fuses. Perhaps you will have the chance to inspect one more closely when we enter Sung territory.’
Xuan looked at the general in reproof for his lack of subtlety.
‘Perhaps, general. Tell me now about the Sung regiments. I do not know all these banners.’
The man began to recite the names and histories, an expert in his field, as Xuan knew very well. He cocked his head to listen to the droning voice, but all the time, Xuan watched the Sung lines. The Son of Heaven glanced up as an officer rode a magnificent stallion through to the borderline. He tried not to show how his heart leapt.
It was hard to allow his general to finish the litany of names, but Xuan forced himself to listen, making the Sung officer wait for both of them. His precious army was being butchered as he nodded at tedious detail, but Xuan’s face was calm and interested.
At last, his general had the sense to subside and Xuan thanked him, appearing to notice the Sung officer for the first time. The man dismounted as soon as their eyes met. He came forward and prostrated himself on the dusty ground before touching his forehead to the general’s stirrup. He did not look at Xuan as he spoke.
‘I bear a message for the Son of Heaven.’
‘Speak your message to me, soldier. I will tell him,’ the general replied.
The man prostrated himself again, then rose. ‘His imperial majesty bids you welcome in his lands, Son of Heaven. May you live ten thousand years.’
Xuan would not lower himself to reply to a mere soldier. The message should have been delivered by someone of noble rank and he wondered what to make of the subtle insult. He barely listened as his general completed the formalities. Xuan did not glance behind him as he walked his mount forward. Sweat trickled down his back and from his armpits under his armour. He knew his undertunic would be sopping wet.
The Sung lines stood apart as he moved, a rippling motion that spread along them for half a mile. In this way the last Chin army could walk between the ranks and the border was still held against their mutual enemy. Xuan and his generals crossed the invisible line, showing no emotion to those who watched them. The Chin ranks began to follow them, like a blister collapsing into skin.
Ogedai watched in furious disbelief. He saw pavilions rise amidst the Sung ranks, great squares of peach-coloured silk. Banners floated on the wind, marking out regiments of bowmen, pikemen, lancers. It was the sight of the fresh cavalry that broke through his battle madness. Regiments of horsemen stared out onto the broken plain with its trail of dead. Would the Sung be able to resist a sudden charge, as soon as the Chin emperor was safe? Only the setting sun would stay their hand and perhaps not even then. The Mongol ponies had ridden for days. They were as weary as their riders and, for once, the khan himself was in the field, vastly outnumbered and with every advantage taken away. Ogedai shook his head. He had seen the puff of smoke that revealed the presence of
heavy guns. It was a thought for another day, but he did not see how he could ever bring such weapons to a battlefield. They were too slow, too heavy for an army whose chief strength had always been in its speed and manoeuvres. In the distance, he saw a small group of horses move through the Sung lines. Perhaps ten thousand still marched to follow them, but the Chin emperor had passed through the net.
Ogedai felt a wave of weariness replace the thrilling energy of the fighting. He could hardly believe he had walked without fear. He had faced his enemies and survived unmarked. For just an instant, a heartbeat, pride swelled in him.
Even so, he had failed. The band across his head returned, tightening. He imagined mockery in every concerned face. He could almost hear the whispered voices among his warriors. Genghis would not have failed. His father would somehow have plucked victory from disaster.
Ogedai gave fresh orders and the three tumans pulled back from the retreating Chin ranks. The men had been expecting the command and the minghaans moved quickly and easily into squares of horse, facing the Sung border.
The sudden silence was like a pressure and Ogedai rode slowly along the lines of his own men, his face flushed and sweating. If the Sung generals wanted him badly enough, they would not even wait for the rest of the Chin to come across. Half the Sung army could launch an attack at that moment. Ogedai swallowed, working his tongue around a mouth so dry he thought he would choke. He gestured to a messenger and the man brought him a skin of red wine. It moistened his lips and he gulped at it, sucking desperately on the leather teat. The pain in his head was growing all the time and he realised his vision was blurred. He thought at first it was just sweat in his eyes, but it remained no matter how roughly he rubbed at them.
As the Mongol tumans came to order, hundreds were still panting or binding gashes. Ogedai saw Tolui trotting a mare across the broken ground towards him. The two brothers met with a quick glance of resignation and Tolui turned his mount to watch the Chin emperor escape them once again.
‘He has a lot of luck, that man,’ Tolui said softly. ‘But we have his land and his cities. We have taken away his armies except for that rabble of survivors.’
‘Enough,’ Ogedai snapped, rubbing his temples. ‘You do not need to add honey. I must bring an army into Sung lands now. They have given sanctuary to my enemies and they know I must respond.’ He winced and sucked again on the wine-skin. ‘There will be other days to avenge the dead. Form the men up to go back to the north, with haste, but not too visible, do you understand?’
Tolui smiled. No commander liked to be seen retreating, but the men would understand far better than Ogedai realised. They could see the wall of Sung soldiers as well as anyone. None of the Mongol warriors were clamouring to be first against that solid border.
As Tolui turned away, a single crack sounded in the distance. He jerked back and saw the puff of smoke rising above the row of Sung cannon. Only one had fired and both men saw a tumbling object rise only a short way and bounce across the ground.
It came to rest just a few hundred paces from the khan and his brother. For a moment, no one moved, then Tolui shrugged and rode over to it. He kept his back straight as he went, knowing he was watched by more men than at the festival in Karakorum.
By the time he returned to Ogedai carrying a cloth bundle, Khasar had ridden across the tumans to see what was happening. He nodded to his nephews and reached for the cloth bag. Tolui shook his head a fraction before he held it out to Ogedai.
The khan kept blinking at it, his vision doubling. Tolui waited for an order, but when none came, he cut the rope around the bag himself and snorted in disgust as he pulled out a mottled head by its hair, its eyes upturned.
Khasar and Tolui both looked blank as it dangled, spinning slowly. Ogedai squinted, frowning as he recognised the administrator from his morning ride. Had it been that very same day? It seemed impossible. There had been no army in Sung lands then, though they must have been marching almost in his wake. The message was as clear as the silent ranks who stood and moved not a foot from the border. He was not to enter Sung lands for any purpose.
Ogedai opened his mouth to speak and a sudden pain flared in his head, worse than anything he had ever known. He made a soft sound in his throat, helplessly. Tolui saw his distress and dropped the bloody object, moving his mount to take his brother by the arm.
‘Are you unwell?’ Tolui hissed at him.
His brother swayed in the saddle and Tolui feared he might fall in front of the tumans. The khan would never recover from such an omen, not in sight of the enemy. Tolui jammed his horse up against his brother’s mount and kept his hand on Ogedai’s shoulder to steady him. Khasar fell in on the other side, awkward with worry. Step by painful step, they forced the pony into the Mongol lines, then dismounted as soon as they were surrounded by staring warriors.
Ogedai had been holding on, his hands gripping the saddle horn like death. His face had twisted somehow, his left eye weeping in a constant stream. His other eye was wide and clear with agony, but he did not let go until Tolui began to prise his fingers away. Then he slumped and slid into his brother’s arms, his body as limp as a sleeping child.
Tolui stood aghast, staring down at the pale face of his brother. He looked up at Khasar suddenly, seeing his own expression mirrored.
‘I have a good shaman in the camp,’ Tolui said. ‘Send yours to me also, with any Chin or Moslem healers, the best you know.’
For once, Khasar did not argue. His gaze kept drifting to his nephew, aware but helpless. It was a fate that made Khasar shudder.
‘Very well, general,’ he said. ‘But we must put some distance between that army and ours before they decide to test our strength.’
‘Command the tumans, uncle. I will take my brother.’
Tolui gestured and Khasar helped him heave Ogedai onto Tolui’s pony, making the animal snort at the double weight. Tolui gripped his brother around the chest, holding him in place. Ogedai’s legs dangled loosely and his head lolled as Tolui broke into a trot.
As the sun set, the warriors of the khan were still moving slowly towards their camp, more than a hundred miles north across the plain. Behind them, the Sung soldiers lit torches all along the line, making a false horizon they could see for many miles as they retreated.
Chagatai reined in at the top of a hill, reaching down to pat his mare and rub her ears. Two tumans halted behind him, his sons and wives waiting patiently with them. He had chosen the high place deliberately, wanting a view of the khanate Genghis had won and Ogedai had granted to him. Chagatai could see for many miles and his breath caught in his throat at the sheer vastness of the land he now owned. It was the only true wealth.
Many years had passed since the armies of Genghis had stormed through the region. The marks of that violent passage would take generations to vanish. He smiled at the thought. His father had been a thorough man. Some of the cities would remain ruins for ever, dust-blown and empty of all but ghosts. Yet Ogedai’s gift was not a false one. The citizens of Samarkand and Bukhara had rebuilt their walls and markets. Of all peoples, they knew the khan’s shadow was long, his vengeance unforgiving. Under that protective wing, they had grown and gambled on peace.
Chagatai squinted into the setting sun and saw black lines in the far distance, caravans of carts, oxen and camels stretching to the east and west. They were heading for Samarkand, a blur of white on the horizon. Chagatai cared little for traders, but he knew the roads kept cities alive, made them strong. Ogedai had given him a land of good earth, of rivers and fine herds. The vista before him was enough to make him wonder at his own ambition. Was it not enough to rule such a land, with water and good grass? He smiled. For the son and heir of Genghis, no, it was not enough.
A hot wind blew across the hill as the sun set and he closed his eyes and faced it, enjoying the breeze as it tugged at his long, black hair. He would build a palace on the river. He would hunt with arrows and falcons along the hills. He would make a home in his new lands,
but he would not sleep or dream. He had spies and informants with Ogedai, Tsubodai, all the men of power in the nation. There would come a time when he would put aside the khanate of milk and honey and reach once again for what he had been promised. It was in his blood to be khan, but he was no longer a foolish young man. With such a dominion, he could wait for the call.
He thought of the women such cities produced, soft of flesh and fragrant. Their beauty and youth was not worked out of them in the life of the plains. Perhaps that was the purpose of cities, to keep women soft and fat instead of hard. It was a good enough reason to let them exist. As he prepared to ride on, he chuckled at the thought of the wolf entering the sheepfold. He would not ride with fire and destruction. The shepherd did not frighten his own pretty lambs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The ger stank of something unpleasant, the air thick. Tolui and Khasar sat on low beds in the corner, watching uncomfortably as Ogedai’s shaman manipulated the khan’s limbs. Mohrol was a man of powerful build, short and stocky with a thick grey tuft of beard at the point of his chin. Khasar had tried not to stare at his right hand, which had marked him from birth as one who would never hunt or fish. A sixth finger, brown and twisted against the others, had made Mohrol a shaman.
The status of his craft had suffered hugely since the betrayal of Genghis years before by one whose name was no longer spoken. Yet Mohrol had conferred only briefly with robed healers and other shamans before sending them away. The khan’s own shaman still had some power to command, at least among those of his own craft.
Mohrol seemed unaware of the two men watching him. He straightened and bent each of Ogedai’s limbs, letting them fall limp while he worked his thumbs into the joints and murmured to himself. He took particular care with the head and neck. As the generals waited, Mohrol sat on the bed with his legs crossed and pulled Ogedai’s head and shoulders into his lap, so that the khan stared sightlessly upward. The shaman’s thin fingers tested and pressed the bones of his skull, clasping the dome of Ogedai’s head while Mohrol looked into the middle distance. Khasar and Tolui could make nothing of it as Mohrol nodded and tutted to himself.