He was sure such events could not damage his authority. If anything, he thought the examples he made increased it. It hurt nothing for the men to know their khan would enforce his rule just as ruthlessly as Genghis ever had. The warriors went in fear of him and that was only right. They would not run from an enemy with Guyuk watching them.
He rode west with his army for a hundred miles or more, stopping for two days to practise formations and charges. On the third morning, Guyuk swung the army to the north, riding towards the Russian lands his father had so foolishly granted to an enemy. It was a tainted line, he had realised. Batu’s father had been a traitor and his faults had bred true. There could never be trust between them, even if he had summoned Batu to Karakorum and taken his oath. Such a line would poison the new nation and could only be cut down and burnt to the root. He thought of his mother and Sorhatani, sisters in their manipulation of him. Neither would understand the need to remove his enemies. Leaving Batu in peace was not the act of a great khan, but of a weak one, too frightened to engage. Guyuk smiled to himself. He would make an example that would light the way forward, a demonstration to all those others who sought to test the new khan’s strength. Let them all see! From the princes of Koryo to the Arabs and the nations of the west. Let them hear of Batu’s death and hesitate as they considered resisting the Mongol nation. Batu’s fate would be public and terrible. It would move from mouth to ear across the deserts, the mountains and green plains. Batu could be Guyuk’s bonfire on the mountaintop, his message to all his vassal states. In that, Batu would serve his khan well.
From two miles away, Kublai watched the army passing, a vast, dusty column of men and horses. It was dangerous to come within sight of them, but he knew the scouting patterns as well as anyone alive and he worked around them, shadowing the khan’s force as they rode. It helped that he was not the only man alive on the plains. The movement of so many warriors and horses drove goatherders and poor families from their homes, so that they could often be seen on the outskirts, moving swiftly out of the khan’s path. Kublai himself was dressed in a dirty old deel, his face and hands almost black with grime. He hoped he could pass for one of them if he was discovered.
As he lay in long grass, he ran his hand down the dark muzzle and lips of his horse. It lay completely flat, its cheek touching the ground as it had been trained. Even so, the animal needed his touch to remain in such an unnatural position. The liquid brown eyes watched him and he could not prevent the tail whisking at flies and disturbing the cover. Nothing was completely safe within sight of the tumans and their scouts, but he had to know. The message he had memorised would earn death for many if it ever became known to the khan. Kublai knew he had to be certain it was even needed. If the khan marched his army away from Batu’s lands, Kublai could simply slip away to Karakorum. It would never be mentioned again.
The tumans had swung north that morning. Karakorum was long behind them and Kublai had watched with growing anger, certain that he saw the khan’s true purpose at last. Even then, he had waited, watching to be certain they did not turn back or stop at some lake to water the animals. He had dried milk and meat in his saddlebags and he could cover almost twice the distance they did each day if he had to. At best, the khan’s army made forty miles, hardly starting before noon and riding without haste. Kublai kept his eyes on them, wanting to be wrong until he could not deny the truth any longer. When the last ranks had gone, he tapped his horse on the muzzle, making it jump up. He had rested all day, but he could not race madly through the night. If his horse broke a leg on unseen ground, he would not catch them again and Batu would never get the warning.
The following dawn found him barely sixteen miles north of the army, approaching a small village that lay by a stream in the crook of small hills. Kublai’s water was running low and he made the decision to stop and buy supplies from them. The hills around were clear and he knew he would be riding hard all day.
He brought his horse in slowly, making sure the herdsmen could see he was alone. There were only four small gers, rebuilt with wood to something more permanent. He passed a reeking toilet pit and nodded to himself, seeing that the families there were poor but clean.
His presence made a herd of goats scatter before him, their nervous bleating as good as any watchdog for rousing the inhabitants. It was only moments before two men faced him with drawn bows.
‘I will pay for food and fill a skin with water from your stream,’ he said loudly.
The men glanced at each other and one of them nodded reluctantly. Kublai tapped a small bag of silver coins on his hip, drawing their gaze to the sword he wore there. Both men stared at the weapon and he wondered if they had ever seen a long blade before. Their greed showed in their eyes and he read the looks they gave each other with a sinking feeling. It was likely such men earned a little coin by robbing anyone foolish enough to pass by on the road and they still held the bows while his own remained on his back. He decided not to dismount, where they might rush him.
‘Bring enough for a few days and I will leave you,’ he said.
He reached into the purse and withdrew two silver coins. Both men lowered their bows and one came forward to take the coins while the other watched closely, still suspicious.
Kublai took his feet out of the stirrups as he sat and reached down with the coins. He had half expected it, but it was still a shock when the man grabbed at his long sleeve and tried to pull him out of the saddle. He kicked out sharply, catching the man under the jaw with his boot and sending him reeling, his mouth suddenly bloody from a bitten tongue. The other one gaped and raised his bow, but Kublai kicked his mount forward, drawing the sword and lowering the tip to the man’s throat.
At that moment, Kublai heard a new voice, snapping a question. He dared to glance up from the terrified man he held at sword-point and his heart sank. Two of Guyuk’s scouts had approached the small collection of houses from the other side, walking their horses in while he had been distracted.
Kublai sheathed the sword and dismounted immediately on the far side of his mount, his mind racing. He could not outrun such men. They were more used to long distances than he could ever be and they would run him down before the day was over. He cursed himself for his mistake, then put it aside, finding a perfect calm he had learned at the feet of the khan’s chancellor years before. There was no profit in panic and he made quick decisions as he stood and waited for them to come closer.
The scouts were wary, but they saw only three men in a scuffle, one with blood leaking from his mouth. They trotted their mounts closer and Kublai dropped his shoulders lightly, disguising his height with a stoop as he fussed at his horse. He was as filthy as the other two, his robe as ragged as theirs. Only his sword marked him out and he hoped the scouts would not look too closely at it. The two thieves bowed deeply to the khan’s scouts and he copied them, his manner awed at meeting such important men.
‘Stand still,’ one of the scouts said sharply.
His companion stayed back a few paces, but the first one came among them. Kublai guessed he was the senior of the two, long used to the authority of being the khan’s man.
‘What’s this then?’ the scout asked. He was older than Kublai would have expected, but whip-thin despite his age.
Kublai spoke quickly. ‘Just a disagreement, lord,’ he said, dipping his head. ‘A discussion over some goats I was buying.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the injured herder gape at him. A scout might be tempted to make an example of a thief on the road, even to take them all to the khan for justice. He would have no interest in settling some local dispute. Kublai only hoped the men would keep their mouths shut and let him talk his way out of it.
‘I clip the left ears of my animals, two clips, as you can see there,’ Kublai went on, pointing. The scout didn’t look round, too old a hand to be distracted. ‘My cousins do the same, which I have told them would lead to … um … disagreements like this one, lord. The animals are mine, I’d know them anywhere. You
are a khan’s man, lord. If you could rule on this, I’d be grateful.’ He rambled on and the scout relaxed, turning to grin at his companion.
The herder with the bloody mouth tried to speak and Kublai whirled on him.
‘Shut your mouth, Hakhan, this is all your doing. I know that brown one like it was my own child.’
Both herders stared in amazement at the madman who addressed them in such a way, but the scouts were already losing interest. He kept his gaze down and spoke on, playing the role with everything he had.
‘My lord, if you could just stay while I gather up the ones that are mine, I will send a hundred prayers to the sky father for you. My wife is pregnant again. We don’t have much and I can’t afford to lose some of my best breeders now.’
‘Come on,’ the older scout said to his companion. He had lost interest in the three grubby men who stood and argued in the road. Kublai kept pleading with them as they turned to ride away, but relief washed over him. At last, he was alone once again with the two herders. Both stared at him as they might have at a mad dog. The one with the bloody mouth spat red onto the ground and spoke, though the effort cost him dearly.
‘Who are you?’ he managed.
‘Just a traveller,’ Kublai replied. His muscles had been tensed to attack for too long and his hands shook as he unclenched. ‘In need of food and water, as I said. Now, if you still have an idea of robbing me, I will not be merciful the second time. One shout will bring them back.’
The herders looked instinctively to where the scouts had ridden away and both of them seemed to dislike that thought. There was little justice on the plains. Even the distant presence of the khan’s men was enough to send terror into their hearts.
Rather than turn his back on the pair, Kublai mounted again and trotted the horse behind them as they filled his waterskin and gathered a small package of fresh-cooked lamb and stone-ground bread. It smelled delicious, but he would not break his fast until the khan’s army was far behind him. Batu’s land lay more than a thousand miles to the north, but it was not enough to reach him barely ahead of the khan’s armies. Kublai was grim as he set out again, alert for any sign of the scouts in the distance. To run, Batu would need all the time Kublai could give him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Over three days of hard riding, Kublai ran his horse to complete exhaustion. The animal cropped grass in its sleep, but there was never enough time for it to recover before he had to mount again. He was in pain as he climbed into the saddle on the fourth day. He did not have the calluses of the scouts and great patches of skin had rubbed away on his buttocks and lower back. Each morning was an agony until the scabs broke and settled to a numb ache that would last all day. He did not know exactly how far he had come, only that the khan’s army were far behind him. Batu had kept an entire tuman of warriors and their families when he travelled to his new lands. They would have grown in number and so many could not be hidden easily. Kublai expected to find signs of them, though that was a challenge for another day.
His immediate problem was that his horse had lost weight alarmingly and was sweating and chewing yellow spit at its mouth. It was time to test the yam lines in a plan that had seemed simple back in Karakorum. From his saddlebags, Kublai drew out a set of small bells sewn into cloth. He draped them over his saddle and took his bearings once again, from the hills around him. There was no one in sight, but he had seen a yam station some twenty miles back and aligned himself to the path worn by its riders. He took stock of himself for the last time and winced at his own weariness. No yam rider rode with packs on his mount. Weight was everything. With a grimace, he wrenched the buckles open and let his supplies tumble out. His bow followed and he held his sword for a long moment before placing it on top of the small pile of leather and cloth. In hostile territory, he felt as helpless as a newborn child without it, but there was no alternative. He kept only a small leather bag he could strap to his back, exactly the sort of thing yam riders carried. He had even written an innocuous letter to a false name, ready to be shown if he were stopped and searched, though that was not likely. No one interfered with a yam rider.
On a whim, he sliced the bags into strips, then wrapped the scabbarded sword securely, making a package that he could hide. The blade was valuable and though he doubted he would ever see it again, he could not just leave it in the dust for scavengers or, worse, the khan’s scouts when they came riding behind him.
Kublai drew his horse into some trees and settled down to wait for dusk. There could only be a few miles to go and he wanted to arrive at the yam station at sunset, or even night. It had been Genghis himself who set the distance between yam stations at twenty-five miles. Some of them had been in operation for so long that wide roads stretched between them and families had built homes of brick and clay. He lay back against a tree trunk with the reins looped around his fist.
He awoke to find the trees were dark around him. He had no idea how much time had passed and cursed as he stood up and reached for his saddle. His horse whinnied, stepping away, so that he had to slap its face to get it to stand still.
In moments, he was back on the road, trotting and listening for signs of life. The moon had barely risen and he was thankful the night was still with him. It was not long before he saw lights ahead and forced his mount into a gallop once more. The bells on his saddle jingled at every step, loud in the darkness.
The yam station was a small one, built of flint and limestone in the wilderness, with little more than a few outbuildings and a cobbled yard. Torches had been lit as they heard him approach and Kublai rode in confidently, seeing two men waiting. One carried a fat waterskin and the other a platter of steaming meat scraps, still dripping water from the boil-pot inside. Another horse was already being led out of the stables, made ready as he dismounted.
‘Who are you?’ the man with the platter asked suddenly.
‘I’ve come from Karakorum, with urgent messages,’ Kublai snapped. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sorry,’ the man replied. He still looked suspicious and Kublai saw his gaze fall on the horse he had brought in. Kublai was not the first to think of stealing a yam pony in such a way, but the quality of the mounts they brought in usually gave thieves away. Kublai saw the man nod grudgingly to himself. Even so, he spoke again as Kublai took a double handful of moist lamb shreds and chewed them.
‘If you’re from Karakorum, you’ll know the yam master there.’
‘Teriden?’ Kublai said around his mouthful. ‘Big Christian with a red beard? I know him well.’
It was an easy test for a young man who’d grown up in the city, though his heart thumped in his chest at the thought of being found out. Trying to hide the stiffness of his saddle sores, he mounted the fresh horse, adjusting his small pack on his shoulders as he accepted the skin and knocked back a draught of airag mixed with water. It was cheap and sour, but it warmed him and he gasped as he tossed it back. From that point on, his only sustenance would come from yam stations.
‘I’ll tell him you keep a good house here,’ he said as he took up the reins and trotted the horse to the stone gate. The yam staff were already busy unsaddling his last horse and rubbing it down. The animal steamed in the torchlight and no one bothered to reply. Kublai smiled and dug in his heels, clattering out onto the road north. It had worked and it would work again. It had to if he were to stay ahead of the khan’s army. No message could move faster than those riders. Until he spoke to Batu himself, the man would be completely unaware of the threat against him.
As Kublai left, the yam servant stared thoughtfully after him. He’d never seen yellow eyes like those before. Genghis was said to have had such eyes. The man scratched a flea bite on his cheek, lost in thought. After a time, he shrugged and went back to work.
The four men had watched the trail for three days, hunting in pairs, so that there were always rabbits for the stew each night. There was a huge warren nearby and it was easy enough to set strangling snares over the holes. They had a good v
iew of the road through the mountains and so they spent their time talking, or gambling with knucklebones, or just repairing old kit. They knew they could expect to be relieved in another two days and they were approaching the end of their time. There had been little excitement. Just one family of peddlers had passed through and the men were not interested in the cheap goods they had in their little cart, drawn by an ancient pony with one white eye. With rough laughter and a kick, they had sent them on their way.
‘Someone coming,’ said Parikh, the youngest of them.
The other three shuffled over to the edge of their small camp, looking down at the trail below while being careful not to show their heads. Their bows were well wrapped against damp, lying unsprung so the strings didn’t stretch. Nonetheless, each man had the weapons in easy reach. They could have an arrow ready to fly in moments. They peered down, cursing the morning haze that blurred the air, seeming to come from the rocks themselves before it burned off.
Despite the mist, they could see a single man walking slowly, leading a lame horse. His head was bowed and he looked like any poor warrior, stumbling home after many nights hunting, or searching for a lost animal. Even so, the watchers had been placed on that road as the first line of defence and they were wary of anyone. The oldest, Tarrial, had seen more than his share of ambushes and battles. He alone had scars on his forearms and they looked to him for decisions. Sound carried far in the mountains, and with a silent gesture Tarrial sent Parikh off on his own along the ridge. The lad would scout for anyone else creeping up on them, as well as providing a second shot from hiding if something went wrong. The others waited until Parikh reached a place where he could see half a mile along the back trail. The young man raised a flat palm to them, visible at a distance. Clear.
Tarrial relaxed.
‘Just one man. Stay here and don’t steal my food. I’ll go down to him.’
He made no attempt to hide his progress as he scrambled down the rocky scree. In fact, he made as much noise as possible, rather than make the stranger nervous. Years before, Tarrial had seen his jagun officer killed on patrol in Samarkand. The officer had kept to the shadows while thieves robbed a store. As one of them passed him, he had stepped out and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, hoping to scare the thief half to death. His ploy had worked, but the man jammed a dagger into his ribs in panicked reflex. Tarrial smiled fondly at the memory of the officer’s face.
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