“Damned Mongols!” Bai Bukha sank back in his throne. “Is there no limit to their Khan's ambitions?” He glanced to his right, where his generals sat. “In the sky, there are many stars, and both a sun and moon, but the Mongol would have one Khan in these lands. The Tatars are no more, the Kereits submit to him. When will it be our turn?”
“May that day never come,” Jamukha said. Gurbesu had been displeased when her husband gave him refuge; she did not trust a man whose greatest talent was in shifting his alliances. Yet she had found nothing to hold against him during his time among her people. When the Tayang summoned him, Jamukha came to his ordu; otherwise, he seemed content to be left alone. His handsome face was unmarked by his tribulations, but his dark eyes had the contemplative look of an old man.
“You worry too much over Temujin,” Jamukha continued. “He's spent himself in his wars, and needs time to recover. In the meantime, those under him will chafe at their bonds.”
Bai Bukha scowled. “I say the time to strike is now. Do you think I called you all here only to drink with the Ong-Khan? See how low his people were brought by Genghis Khan.” His eyes narrowed. “Jamukha advises us to wait. I say we must fight.”
“If my father says we are to fight, then we must,” Guchlug said. The young man peered past Ta-ta-tonga at the Tayang. “Our brave generals are always prepared for war.” Gurbesu tensed. Her stepson longed to prove himself in battle; he would not see the risks. They might only bring the Mongols down upon themselves if they moved against them now.
“May I speak, husband and Tayang?” Gurbesu asked. Bai Bukha grunted. “Those Mongols are a barbarous, evil-smelling lot—what would we do with them even if we captured them? Their most noble and beautiful girls would be useless for anything except to milk our cattle and sheep, and even for that they would have to learn to wash their hands.”
The generals laughed. “My wife advises me not to fight?” Bai Bukha asked.
“Leave them to their lands,” she replied. “Eventually they'll fight among themselves again, and that will give you a chance to strike.”
“Women know nothing of fighting,” the Tayang muttered.
“You know little more, my Tayang.” Khori Subechi was speaking. “A strong spear thrown by a weak arm rarely reaches its target.”
Bai Bukha gripped the arms of his throne. “You insult me!”
“I speak only the truth,” Khori Subechi said, “that you haven't been tested in war. But we are sworn to you, and must do as you command.”
Gurbesu looked down. The generals might think her words were wise, but would obey her husband in the end. They would tell themselves that their skill as generals would make up for his lacks as a ruler.
Jamukha leaned forward. “Temujin wounded me,” he said softly. “I desire nothing more than his defeat. But this isn't the time to fight. Temujin thrives on war, and those sworn to him will unite against a Naiman threat.”
“Cowards,” the Tayang said. “I'm surrounded by cowards. Jamukha's so fearful of his anda that he's lost his courage—perhaps he no longer wishes to replace him as the Mongol Khan.”
Gurbesu lifted a hand, then let it fall. A howl outside startled her; the dogs were barking. Another omen, she thought, feeling as though wolves were circling the camp.
“I'll send an envoy to the Ongghuts,” Bai Bukha continued. “They'll be wondering what designs the Mongol jackals have on them. They can be my right wing, and move north across the Gobi to strike at their camps while we advance east. The Mongols will be trapped between us.”
“A good strategy,” Koksegu Sabrak murmured. “That is, if the Ongghuts decide to fight.”
“Will you wait until the Mongols move against us?” Bai Bukha shouted. He jumped to his feet; the firelight from the hearth flickered over the head of the Ong-Khan, making its frozen grimace look like a sneer. The Tayang cried out and pointed at the head with one trembling hand. “Even this dead man mocks me! See how he laughs! I hear him laughing now!” He seized the head and threw it to the floor.
Gurbesu gasped, horrified at the sacrilege. Three of the generals made signs against evil. The lutes of the girls were silent, the barking of the dogs louder.
Koksegu Sabrak slowly stood up. “What have you done?” he asked. “You bring the head of a dead Khan here to be honoured, and then smash it. This is an evil omen, Bai—I hear the dogs speaking of what's to come. You may be our Tayang, but your judgement's always been weak—you're more skilled at hunting and falconry than war.”
“No one will mock me!” Bai Bukha shouted. “Not you, and not this dead man!” He stamped on the head; Gurbesu heard the bones crunch. “There will be no more talk that Inancha's son is only a shadow of his father. You'll take back your words, or none of you will leave this tent alive!”
“Father!” Guchlug leaped up and strode towards the Tayang. “If it's war you want, we'll give you war, but you can't bring down your prey with an empty quiver.”
Bai Bukha was breathing hard. “Heaven is with me,” he whispered. “I see the Mongols scattering before us.”
Gurbesu got up, went to her husband, then knelt. “I beg the Tayang's permission to speak,” she said. “If you are to fight, you cannot turn back. A victory will give you power over the Mongol and Kereit lands, but a defeat will be our ruin. You must hurl your soldiers at the Mongol Khan until his lines are broken. Lose, and he won't give you the chance to withdraw—he'll put an end to us.”
“Your Queen speaks the truth,” Jamukha said. “If Temujin defeats you in the field, he won't let you threaten him again. He'll harry you, whatever it costs him.”
“Don't speak to me of defeat,” the Tayang said. “Genghis Khan is weak now, and his enemies will fight with us.”
Gurbesu looked towards the crushed head of the Ong-Khan and crossed herself. Her husband would not turn back now. She bowed her head, listening to the howls of the dogs outside the tent.
86
Heaven had brought him here. Jamukha stood at the Tayang's side; behind them, the Khangai massif loomed. The Naimans had advanced to the Khangai Mountains; below the Tayang, in the foothills, the army had made camp. Standards belonging to Merkits, Kereits still resisting the Mongols, and Temujin's few surviving Tatar enemies stood near several encampments.
By the time the Tayang had reached the Khangais, his scouts had told him that the Mongols were advancing towards the Orkhon. Bai Bukha had known then that the Ongghuts had decided to warn his enemy instead of fighting with him; the hope of trapping the Mongols further east was gone.
Yet the Tayang had not despaired. The Ongghuts clearly hoped an alliance with the Mongols would be useful against their Kin masters, but they would have to treat with the Naimans when the Tayang had his victory. Perhaps, Jamukha thought, he had misjudged Bai Bukha. With the Naiman ranks swelled by some of Temujin's old enemies, they still had the advantage of numbers.
The Tayang kept Jamukha at his side, so that Jamukha could tell him how the Mongols were likely to fight. He suspected that Bai Bukha also distrusted him, and wanted him near so that Jamukha would not be tempted to desert him.
Jamukha looked back at the rocky massif. On a wide ledge above a shelf of rock, a pavilion stood; Gurbesu and several of the Tayang's concubines had come there to see him fight. In spite of himself, he had a grudging admiration for the Queen. None of his own useless wives would have had such courage; it had been easy to leave them behind when he fled to the Naiman court.
He turned towards the land below. Sandhills and dunes were scattered over the yellow steppe; spring had brought little new grass to the land, and its few bushes were gnarled, twisted growths clinging to the dunes as sand sifted around them.
Always before, on the eve of battle, he had felt most alive, alert to every sight, sound, and smell. His senses were duller now; he could taste neither victory nor defeat. Once, he had anticipated battle, but now he longed only for its end. Even his hatred had become a banked fire that only occasionally flared. An invisible hand he
ld him now, aiming him where it willed, and he was powerless to resist.
A soldier rode up the high hill to the Tayang, bringing word that the Naiman scouts had encountered the enemy's advance guard. A Mongol horse had been captured, so lean its ribs were visible. The Tayang rejoiced; his well-fed horses could easily overwhelm such played-out steeds.
Two nights later, another rider came with news of the Mongols camped on the steppe beyond Mount Nakhu. The plain there was studded with camp-fires as numerous as the stars.
The Tayang brooded when the soldier left him. “It's a ruse,” Jamukha told him. “Temujin wants you to believe his men outnumber ours, and then retreat.”
“A retreat would be to my advantage, not his.” The Tayang looked at the other men seated near the fire. “If we pull back, their horses will get even leaner when they follow us, and then we can fall on them. If all their animals are as thin as the one we found, they won't last through the march.”
“You came here to fight,” Khori Subechi said, “and now you talk of retreat.”
“Be silent,” the Tayang said, then motioned at another man. “I'll give the orders here. Ride to my son below, and tell him to draw back.”
“He won't like it,” Khori Subechi muttered.
“He'll do as I say.”
The man left them to carry the message to Guchlug. The others stretched out against their saddles to rest; the Tayang continued to sit by the fire.
Jamukha's thoughts were clearer now. The Tayang was showing more wisdom than he had expected, but perhaps it was already too late. His generals would see a strategic retreat only as a sign of Bai Bukha's cowardice. He had pushed them into this war, and they were determined to make their stand. If they did not retreat soon, they might not be able to later. The Mongols would force them into the mountain passes or up the precipitous slopes. The Naiman generals would have to hold their ground then to have a chance at victory.
Jamukha was dozing when the rider returned. As the man came towards them, he saw that Guchlug was with him. The Tayang's son halted by the fire, then spat to the side of the flames.
“My father talks like a woman,” Guchlug said. The resting soldiers stirred, then sat up. “When my men heard this messenger say you wanted us to pull back, I felt shame that your seed gave me life. I should have known you wouldn't have the spirit for war when you've hardly left your camp except to piss.”
“You fool!” Bai Bukha shouted. “It's easy for you to show courage now. I wonder if you'll be as brave when death shadows you, when you see the enemy massed against you.”
“My father is afraid.”
“I'm telling you we can have victory if—”
“In his tent, Bai Bukha speaks brave words.” Khori Subechi stood up. “Now that the battle's nearly upon us, he wants to scurry with the rabbits for cover. Inancha never showed his horses' hindquarters to his enemies.”
The others were muttering; the general shook his fist. “I have never retreated,” Khori Subechi went on. “Wasn't it Queen Gurbesu who said you would have to stand and fight if you took the field? We should have given her the command—she would make a better general than you.”
The Tayang went for his knife; another man grabbed Bai Bukha's arm. The Tayang snarled. Khori Subechi picked up his saddle and walked away. Guchlug and the other men were still. Jamukha waited, knowing what the Tayang would have to say.
“Very well,” Bai Bukha murmured. “If you say this is the time to fight, then we'll fight. All men must die, and perhaps this is the time to carry the Mongols' deaths to them. Give the order—we will attack the Mongol encampment.”
The Naimans left the foothills, slipped along the Tamir River, then crossed the Orkhon River. On the other side, Naiman scouts met the Mongol advance troops, and were pushed back. Below Mount Nakhu, the Naimans took up positions in the grassy foothills. The Mongols were in sight, tiny black figures near the horizon under the darkening sky.
At dawn, the Naiman army advanced across the steppe. Bai Bukha, surrounded by his rearguard, watched from a hill below the mountain as the men rode out. Gurbesu's pavilion was a bright white spot against Mount Nakhu's black rocks.
The Tayang leaned forward in his saddle; Jamukha glanced at him, then looked below. The Mongols were moving out in close rank, as tightly together as thick grass. As he watched, the advancing light cavalry of the Naimans swept towards them. For a while, as the wing began to close, Jamukha believed that the Naimans might overcome the enemy; arrows flew as the Naiman heavy cavalry in the centre held its ground behind the archers. Bai Bukha, he thought, should now bring his rearguard forward, to be ready when the Mongols were pushed back. Then, suddenly, the Naiman archers on the left were drawing back, firing from their saddles at the Mongols pursuing them.
The Tayang rose in his stirrups. “Who are those men who harry our advance guard like wolves?” he cried out.
Jamukha saw the fear in Bai Bukha's face then, and nearly despaired. “I know those men,” he heard himself say. “They are led by those Temujin calls his four dogs. Their names are Jebe and Kubilay, Jelme and Subotai, and it's said they crave human flesh on the day of battle. You can't run from them, Bai Bukha. Bring out your rearguard and force them back.”
The Tayang's mouth worked. “How can I advance when we're already being pushed back?” He shouted to another man; a signal flag dipped.
The Tayang was soon retreating towards the mountain. Jamukha stayed on the hill as long as he dared; when the Mongols started to fan out around the Naiman army, he ordered his men to follow the Tayang. The Mongols spread out in the lake formation, a sea of men and horses flowing over the steppe, swallowing the Naimans trapped in the flood.
Bai Bukha was in the mountain's shadow when Jamukha caught up with him. The Naimans at the army's centre were still holding their ground, but the Mongol left and right wings swept towards the sides, just behind the forces of his anda's four dogs. From here, unable to hear the cries of wounded and fallen men, the whistling of arrows, and the clash of weapons, it seemed that the men on the battleground were engaged in only a game.
The Tayang pointed. “Who are those men,” he said, “who gambol about as they fight, whose horses leap like foals at play?”
“Those,” Jamukha replied, “are the Uruguds and Mangguds. They once rode with me, and they hunt their enemies without mercy, cut their throats, and seize all their weapons and clothing as part of their spoils, leaving nothing but the bodies behind. Are you brave enough to face such men?”
He had hoped this might fire the Tayang's courage. Instead, the flags signalled another retreat. Jamukha followed, not looking back until they were high on a rocky ridge above Gurbesu's pavilion. The Naimans in the rear were falling back to follow the Tayang. Gurbesu was still hidden under the white roof of her pavilion; apparently she did not intend to flee. The centre of the Mongol army was a blade stabbing through the Naiman ranks and he spotted the nine-tailed standard of his anda.
“Who leads those troops there,” the Tayang shouted, “the ones who are cutting through our ranks like a sword?”
“They're led by my anda Temujin,” Jamukha answered. “He swoops towards us now like a hungry falcon. Hold your ground, Bai Bukha—you must throw them back before they reach the mountain. More are behind him—those led by his brother Khasar, whose arrows can strike from great distances and skewer several men on one shaft. And there are the men under Temuge Odchigin's command. He's called the lazy one, but he's never late to battle.”
The sky was darkening. The signal flags dipped once more; the Tayang and his royal guard moved up the mountain until they were hidden by the trees. Retreating Naimans fled up the slopes to Jamukha's left and right; with the enemy fanning out around them, and Temujin's troops driving through the centre, there was no other place to retreat. The wings of the Mongol army closed like pincers, steadily pushing the Naimans towards the mountain; the fallen men and horses looked like a child's discarded dolls. Through a break in the Mongol lines, some of the Mer
kits led by Toghtoga Beki streamed north, abandoning their allies. The Mongols would force the Naimans up the slope, then surround the mountain.
The will of Heaven was clear. Jamukha thought of the day he had danced with Temujin under the great tree, when they had sworn never to part from each other. Every weapon he had thrown at Temujin since then had been turned against him; he had only increased his anda's strength and power with each blow. The Tayang would be yet another weapon that would fail him.
He sat on his horse amid his men, not moving, not speaking as darkness came, listening to the war-cries of the living and the screams of the dying as more men fled up the slopes behind him.
“This battle is lost,” Jamukha said at last. “If we are to escape, we must do so under cover of night. The enemy will have Mount Nakhu surrounded before dawn.”
“So we're to flee once more,” one man muttered. “And where do we run to now?”
Jamukha held up his hand. “I have failed you,” he said. No one denied it. “I free you from the oaths you swore to me. If you stay to surrender, remember that Temujin has often forgiven those who were loyal to their leaders, so it's likely he'll show you mercy. There would be little for me if I fell into his hands.”
His horse carried him slowly down the ridge; a few men followed him. He did not look back at the others. His mount halted; he beckoned to Ogin.
“I wish you to carry a message,” Jamukha said. “When the battle ceases for the night, you'll ride to Temujin - that is, if you're willing to do this for me.”
The other man struck his chest. “I am still yours to command, my Gur-Khan.”
Jamukha winced at the sound of that empty title. “You'll say this. I, Jamukha, have put fear into the Tayang's heart with my words. He hides on the mountain, too frightened to face you, and my words were the arrows that wounded him. Take care, my friend, and the victory will be yours. I must leave the Naimans now. This battle is over for me.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 49
