They pressed on, heedless of the lakes that shimmered on the horizon, illusions sent by desert spirits to tempt them. When at last they caught sight of a true lake, it took them three days to reach it. Beyond the sand and swampland around the lake, the ramparts of a city could be seen, looming over siege towers, catapults, and the dark mass of the army.
The city was burning. Subotai and his advance forces had assaulted Etzina, battering its walls with rocks; flames arched over the ramparts and fell. Temujin watched the destruction from his horse, gazing over the gravel-strewn land and the massed army at the dying city, and Yisui saw the pain leave his eyes. Etzina was a fire that would warm him, and restore his strength to him.
Yisui had sworn to be his shadow, so when the gates opened, and the people came out to surrender, she stayed with the Khan as his men ordered the Tibetan defenders of Etzina to bind themselves, and then beheaded them. There was rhythm and order to the executions; the enemy officers and soldiers knelt, the swords slashed down, the bodies were stripped and cast aside. Hills of heads rose around the Mongol soldiers; their coats, tunics, and armour were spattered with blood.
The enemy soldiers had known what their fate would be. But others were also led before Temujin, women clutching the hands of children, boys and girls too terrified to weep, old men in yellow robes, babies who wailed as they were torn from the arms of their mothers.
Yisui knew Temujin would demand their deaths; he had sworn to wipe the Tanguts from the earth. Their King had brought this upon them as surely as her father had led his Tatar people to their doom. Odd, she thought, that she should remember that. She had believed it behind her, forgotten, a cruel fate she had been powerless to prevent.
It came to her that Temujin knew he was dying, that he would not survive this war. This slaughter was not just the Khan ridding himself of enemies, but a funeral offering. This was what Heaven willed for her, to serve her husband in his last war. She had been plucked from the ashes of her own people. Now she would hear their forgotten cries once more in the throats of dying Tanguts.
The fields around Etzina provided fodder for their horses, and the cattle of the Tanguts were added to their train. Along the banks of the Etzingol, the wutung trees were growing green, narrow leaves sprouting on their lower branches, while the broad-leafed branches above made high arches overhead. In the dark green light of the arched alleyways created by the trees, the spongy growths covering their trunks glistened like tears.
The Mongols came to stretches of sand, where tamarisks were half-buried by the mounds. The army wound its way among the maze of tall hills and tangled branches until they came to willows and tended fields. Ahead lay grazing lands and the sweet waters of the widening river; behind, the Mongols left a trail of burned towns, ravaged fields, and monuments of heads.
When the animals were fatter, and they had reached a fork in the river, the army divided into three. Subotai crossed the Etzingol and drove east towards Kan Chou; another wing moved west towards the city of Su Chou. By the time the Khan and the centre of the army came to the stretch of land called Kansu, the Etzingol was a torrent filled with loosened boulders and rocks, its whirlpools and currents too treacherous to ford.
The Khan's army had skirted the wall to the north of Kansu; its ramparts and watchtowers were useless to the enemy now. The ruts of the trade routes that scarred the yellow land were empty of caravans and the fields outside the levelled towns of the oases were sown with bodies and bones. Horses grazed under rows of poplars and willows; the advance forces had begun their work here.
The heat of the summer was upon them; wind raised the sands of Kansu and darkened the sky. The high snow-covered peaks of the Nan Shan Mountains beckoned in the south, a refuge where the Khan could make his headquarters. He moved on, and as he moved, his soldiers cut down bands of fugitives trying to escape.
Above black granite escarpments and yellow cliffs of loess, the Khan found shelter in a wide mountain meadow. Tents rose along the sides of a rapid stream; the animals grazed on clover and grass dotted with blue flowers.
The Khan no longer wore a silk bandage around his middle, but Yisui saw him grimace when he moved and heard his moans at night. She was always at his side. Men came often to his tent to inform the Khan of the war's progress, and Temujin insisted on hearing all the reports.
Listening to messages, making changes in tactics, and deciding on the signals to be passed along to the armies took most of Temujin's waking moments. His pains troubled him too much to allow him the diversion of a hunt; he summoned none of his women and ignored the Tangut girls he might have claimed. Only Yisui knew that he no longer held her in his arms; that pleasure had been taken from him, too.
She urged him to rest, to let the cooler air revive him, but he was driven by this war. His oath had set him on this course; the arrow had flown from his bow and would impale itself in his enemy's heart. His men were to do as they liked with the Tanguts, destroy every wall that hid them, level every house where they might find shelter. If his spirit was to fly from him, he would not let the Tanguts survive him.
With her women, Yisui tended the yurt, cooked, gathered dung and dry tamarisk branches for fuel, butchered game, and cleaned hides. Even as she nursed her husband, she pitied the Tanguts. Temujin's men would rejoice at the chance to do as they liked with their victims; only the Khan could hold them back. She prayed for swift victories, even knowing the suffering they would bring, because the triumphs might soften Temujin's heart.
But news of victories only hardened the Khan's resolve. Su Chou fell that summer, all its people slain for refusing to surrender. Kan Chou was taken by the general Chaghan, who settled for killing only the officers who had urged the town to resist. Temujin allowed that act of mercy because word had come to him of the death of the Tangut King; Le Te Wang's brother Li Hsien had succeeded him to the throne.
Temujin might have sent envoys to the new King demanding surrender, but did not. Early that autumn, when the meadow was grazed bare, he and those with him left the mountains.
The gorges and canyons gave way to a band of burning desert. To the east of the sands lay the Yellow River, which flowed past the earthen battlements of a wall; its defenders had fallen or fled. The advance force moved along the river's fertile bank, laying waste to the tiny villages in their path. The wind coated the invaders with sand and soil until they were as yellow as the loess, a golden army moving towards the heart of Hsi-Hsia.
The western trade routes now lay in the Mongols' hands, cutting off the cities on the Yellow River. Ying-li was the first large town in the path of the invaders. The Tanguts there, knowing that surrender would only leave the cities of Ling Chou and Ning-hsia open to attack, held out against the assaults of siege engines and the waves of men storming the walls until winter came and snow swirled around the battlements.
When Ying-li finally fell, the Tanguts sent a great army to meet the Mongols in the field and to strike at the Mongol force besieging Ling Chou. The Khan, after learning of this from his scouts, ordered a retreat to the west of the Alashan Mountains. The Tangut army followed, meeting no resistance in the mountain passes. The Mongols lured them on, fell upon them in the desert beyond the mountains, and crushed the army of Hsi-Hsia. The Khan was rewarded with the head of Asha Gambu, taken during the slaughter.
The irrigation canals around Ling Chou were frozen over when the Mongols renewed their siege, and the river that had blocked their approach before now aided them, for they could cross its solid surface. Ling Chou was doomed, yet surrendered only after most of its defenders were dead and the Mongols were pouring through its gates.
Part of the army moved north to surround the Tangut capital of Ning-hsia; the Khan himself moved west to take the town of Yen-chuan Chou. There, from his headquarters overlooking the town, Temujin, with Yisui at his side, watched as distant plumes of smoke rose towards the grey winter sky.
Winter had weakened the Khan. His fever flared again after the fall of Yen-chuan Chou; Yisui su
mmoned a guard and told him to fetch Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai.
The sky was still light, but the camp was quieter than it had been for days. She no longer heard the cries of the survivors who had been dragged there, to be raped and butchered or crushed under planks by dancing men. Most of the Mongol women had been left behind near Ying-li; they had been spared those sights and sounds. Yisui, sworn to be the Khan's shadow, had endured them.
He was a dying man, whose pain fuelled his rage; that was how she explained it to herself. It was he who had ordered the extermination of the Tanguts, but his generals sought even more destruction. For days now, they had sent petitions to the Khan complaining of poor forage during the campaign, suggesting that the Uighurs who dwelled in Tangut towns, the Han who tilled the land, and the other subject peoples be killed as well. Such men were useless as soldiers, and the land could become pasture.
Yisui had even more reason to preserve her husband's life. Only Temujin could give the commands that would keep his men from such a course. How strange it was to have such pity for people she did not know. She had thought she had overcome such weaknesses long ago.
She went inside the yurt. Temujin was sitting up on his bed of cushions, but his breathing sounded laboured. “I've sent for your Khitan chancellor,” she said. “His medicines may ease you more than a shaman's spells.”
“He's returned to this camp?”
“You know he has,” she said. “He arrived several days ago, and sent one of his men to ask if he might come to you. You've forgotten.” His fever might have blotted out the memory, but she doubted it. He knew what Ch'u-ts'ai was likely to say about his generals' demands for pasture; perhaps that was why he had not summoned the Khitan.
If Ch'u-ts'ai pleaded for mercy, the Khan might listen. She would let the Khitan tell Temujin what she could not.
Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai arrived with two young men. “I welcome you, friend and brother,” Temujin muttered. “My wife thinks you may be able to relieve my suffering.”
The Khitan glanced at Yisui with his large dark eyes. Temujin would have given him a far greater share of plunder, yet Ch'u-ts'ai was content with the writings, herbs, and odd devices he had salvaged from conquered cities—a piece of glass that turned a ray of light into bands of colour, a bronze magic mirror through which light could pass and cast a pattern on a wall, a metal needle that pointed south when attached to a cork floating in a bowl of water. He had often made her feel uneasy with herself, as if all she possessed were nothing to him.
“I am sorry I could not come before,” Ch'u-ts'ai said. “I had to tend many of our soldiers at Ling Chou when disease broke out among the ranks.”
“So I was told.”
“And when you didn't summon me, I hoped you were resting, which is often the best cure for ailments. I've been most anxious to speak to you, my Khan.”
Temujin grunted. “As everyone is.”
“I've brought you ma-hwang,” the Khitan said, “to ease your breathing. I made the mortar from the twigs myself, and mixed it with lime.” One of the young men handed a small pouch to Temujin. The chancellor was silent as the Khan chewed on the remedy, then continued, “I've seen an omen in the heavens. I also know what your generals wish to do in these lands.”
Temujin scowled. “What does one have to do with the other?”
“Heaven, Great Khan, has revealed what you must decide.”
“I know what to do. I said those people are to die. They're useless to us.”
“How can you say they're useless? Leave them to their labours, and they would yield much for your troops. You'd gain more that way than by turning the land into pasture.”
“My wishes are known,” Temujin said, “and the demands of my generals are in accord with them.”
“And Heaven itself protests them.” The Khitan leaned forward. “Great Conqueror, I've watched the skies, and seen the five planets drawing closer to one another. They are now in conjunction. When the sun sets, look to the south-west, and you'll see them, a beacon warning you against such a decree.”
“My shamans see the same stars.” Temujin wiped his mouth. “They say the Five Wanderers have come together to hail my triumphs.”
“They hail you, my Khan, but they also warn you. I've read the writings of men who have seen such signs in the past, and they are always a warning to turn aside from slaughter and cruel deeds.” He had said what Yisui hoped he would say, and this omen gave his words more power.
“I haven't known for some time what Heaven wills,” Temujin said softly. “My shamans tell me of omens, but I no longer know if they're speaking of the will of the spirits or only saying what they think I wish to hear.”
“I have always told you what I know to be true,” the Khitan said. “When you march against the Kin, your men will need supplies. The peasants here can pay you for their land, and the merchants can offer tariffs on their goods. The taxes you might collect would give you silver, silk, and grain, all of which you can use. To wipe these people from the earth will give you only a few poor pastures.”
“I'll admit something to you, Learned Brother,” Temujin murmured. “In the lands I took, I found many wise men. Some have served me well, but often I wonder if I can truly rule them.” His voice was slurred, but his breathing easier; the ma-hwang was having an effect. “And if I ignore your advice?”
“It isn't mine alone, but that of the stars. I would mourn to see you reject this warning.”
“Whether I do or not, my end will be the same.” Temujin turned his head towards Yisui. “Wife, what do you say? I would hear your thoughts.”
She shrugged, trying to show no pity. “If you allow more of those wretches to live, I'll have more slaves. It's also wise to obey the signs of Heaven, is it not?”
“It's wise to know good sense when one hears it,” he said, “however unwelcome. Very well, my Khitan brother—I'll tell my generals to limit their killing to the troops who oppose us, and to restrain their men from pillaging. You'll draw up plans for getting what we require from these people. All my chief officers in this camp will be summoned to hear my decree.”
Yisui heard resignation and despair in his soft voice. It came to her that his rage at his approaching death was past, that he was accepting it now. His anger had kept death at bay; his desire for revenge had preserved his life. Now he was thinking of what would come after he was gone. The Tanguts would be granted some mercy, but Temujin's death would find him sooner.
To save Ning-hsia, the Tangut King sent the rest of his field forces against the Mongols. Once again, the Mongols retreated behind the Alashans, fell upon the army, and defeated the enemy. The siege of Ning-hsia resumed, while Ogedei and Subotai rode south to the Wei River to take the valley and move against the Kin. The Khan went west to secure Kansu and to take the few towns that remained.
Some whispered that the Khan, with his final triumph nearing, would quickly regain his strength. Others looked at the aged, stooped figure amid his guards, and feared this victory would be his last.
Yisui bought prayers from the shamans, welcomed officers to Temujin's tent, and rallied those who cast worried looks at the Khan. When he was among his men, listening to reports of their successes, she could almost believe that the evil spirit might leave him. But at night, when they were alone, she listened to his whispers as he slept, and wondered what dreams the spirits were sending to him. The shadows inside the tent seemed an army of ghosts. A morning might soon come when he would not rise from his bed, when those ghosts would finally claim him.
122
Temujin opened his eyes. An invisible falcon clawed at his chest, gripping his heart in its talons. He could not recall how it felt to be whole, without the pain.
The sky above the smoke-hole was light. Yisui and her women were outside the doorway, murmuring softly as they worked at their sewing. He remembered that they had moved his headquarters to the Ling-pan-shan Mountains days ago to escape the summer heat of the lowlands. He had lain in a cart during the journey, but h
ad managed to ride to his great pavilion to greet Subotai and to meet with his officers. The kumiss he had drunk during the meeting had robbed him of any memory of what was said. The potions of Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai, the spells of the shamans, and Yisui's solicitude no longer helped him. Only drink could ease his pain, and never for long.
Subotai, he recalled then, had brought him a gift of five thousand horses and a report of victories in the Wei River valley. Ogedei was advancing along the river, pushing closer to K'ai-feng; the Kin Emperor had sent two delegations that spring to plead for peace. Other envoys were in this camp now, begging for an audience with him. Temujin wondered if he would have the strength to leave his bed and meet with them.
His mind was as clouded as an old man's vision. Once, every report brought to him, every signal passed along by flags and lanterns, had added more images to those he held in his mind. He had seen the movements of his troops as a bird might—a wave of men thrusting against a city's walls, another force feigning retreat, tiny horsemen wheeling in their saddles to shoot volleys of arrows at an enemy as another wing of cavalry swept down on the foe from hills.
But he had also seen what no bird could see, the moves an enemy might make, and how they could be countered. His scouts gave him a picture of the lands in which he had to fight, and his spies a grasp of an enemy's weaknesses. He had held his conquests inside himself before his armies seized them.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 73
