Conqueror (2011)

by Conn Iggulden

  Arik-Boke shouted for her to ride clear as he saw a flash of dark yellow in the press of animals. Only a Persian leopard could move so swiftly and he felt his heart leap at the glimpse. He lunged forward and almost collided with Aigiarn as her mount danced in front of him, spoiling his shot. The noise of roaring men and screaming animals was all around them and she had not reacted to his shout. As he yelled again, she lowered her lance and leaned into a blow as a flash of gold and black tried to dart under the hooves of her horse. The leopard snarled and yowled, seeming to curl around the long birch spear as it punched into its chest. Algiarn cried out in triumph, her voice as ugly to Arik-Boke’s ear as the rest of her. While he swore, she leapt down, drawing a short sword that resembled a cleaver as much as anything. Even with the lance through its chest, the leopard was still dangerous and Arik-Boke shouted again for her to stand clear for his shot. She either ignored him or didn’t hear and he muttered in anger, easing the bow. He was tempted to send a shaft into the young yak herself for her impudence, but he had travelled a long way to flatter her father and he restrained himself. In disgust, he saw her cut the leopard’s throat as he turned his mount away.

  With the burning sun so high, the circle hunt was almost at an end and there were no great prizes left in the swarming mass of fur and claw all round the riders. Arik-Boke dropped a warthog with a neatly aimed shaft behind its shoulder, cutting into its lungs so the animal sprayed red mist with every breath. Two more deer fell to him, though neither had the spread of horns he wanted. His mood was still sour as a shout went up and children ran in among the warriors, killing hares and finishing off the wounded beasts. Their laughter only served to irritate him further and he passed over his bow to his servants before dismounting and leading his horse out of the bloody ring.

  Lord Alghu had known better than to take the best animals. His servants were already dressing the carcases of deer for the night’s feast, but none of them had a great spread of antlers. The only leopard had fallen to his daughter, Arik-Boke noted. She had waved away the servants and taken a seat on a pile of saddles to begin skinning the animal with her own knife. Arik-Boke paused as he walked past her.

  ‘I thought the shot was mine, for the leopard,’ he said. ‘I called it loud enough.’

  ‘My lord?’ she replied. She was already bloody to the elbows and once again Arik-Boke was struck by the sheer size of her. In build, she reminded him almost of his brother Mongke.

  ‘I didn’t hear you, my lord khan,’ she went on. ‘I haven’t taken a leopard pelt before.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Arik-Boke broke off as her father strode across the bloody grass, looking worried.

  ‘Did you enjoy the hunt, my lord?’ Alghu asked. His eyes flickered to his daughter, clearly nervous that she had managed to offend his guest. Arik-Boke sniffed.

  ‘I did, Lord Alghu. I was just saying to your daughter that she came across my shot as I was lining up on the leopard.’

  Lord Alghu paled slightly, though whether it was anger or fear, Arik-Boke could not tell.

  ‘You must take the pelt, my lord. My daughter can be blind and deaf in a hunt. I’m sure she meant no insult by it.’

  Arik-Boke looked up, realising the man was genuinely afraid he would demand some punishment. Not for the first time, he felt the thrill of his new power. He saw Aigiarn look up in dismay, her mouth opening to reply before her father’s glare made her drop her head.

  ‘That is generous of you, Lord Alghu. It is a particularly fine pelt. Perhaps when your daughter has finished skinning the animal, it could be brought to my quarters.’

  ‘Of course, my lord khan. I will see to it myself.’

  Arik-Boke walked on, satisfied. He too had been one of many princes in the nation, each with their own small khanates. Perhaps he’d had a greater status than most as the brother of the khan, but he had not enjoyed instant obedience then. It was intoxicating. He glanced back to find the daughter glaring at him, then quickly looking away as she realised she had been seen. Arik-Boke smiled to himself. He would have the skin tanned into softness, then make a gift of it to her as he left. He needed her father and the small gift would reap much greater rewards. The man obviously doted on his yak of a daughter and Arik-Boke needed the food his khanate produced.

  He rubbed his hands together, ridding himself of flakes of dried blood. It had been a good day, the end of months touring the small principalities that made up the greater khanate. He had been feted wherever he went and his baggage train groaned under the weight of gifts in gold and silver. Even his brother Hulegu had put aside the strife of his new lands, though General Kitbuqa had been slaughtered there by Islamic soldiers when Hulegu came back to Karakorum for the funeral of Mongke. His brother had carved a difficult khanate for himself, but he had paraded his men for Arik-Boke and given him a suit of armour shaped from precious jade as a gift and token of affection.

  In the company of Lord Alghu’s court, Arik-Boke entered the palace grounds in Samarkand, walking under the shadow of a wide gate. On all sides were carts covered in the heaped carcases of animals they had taken that day. Women came out to greet them from the palace kitchens, laughing and joking as they stropped their knives.

  Arik-Boke nodded and smiled to them, but his thoughts were far away. Kublai had not yet replied to him. His older brother’s absence was like a thorn in his tunic, pricking him with every movement. It was not enough to have men like Alghu bowing to him. Arik-Boke knew the continuing absence of Kublai was being discussed all over the small khanates. He had an army with him that had not sworn allegiance to the new khan. Until they did, Arik-Boke’s position remained uncertain. The yam lines were silent. He considered sending another set of orders to his brother, but then shook his head, dismissing the idea as weakness. He would not plead with Kublai to come home. A khan did not ask. He demanded - and it was done. He wondered if his brother had lost himself in some Chin ruins, oblivious to the concerns of the khanate. It would not have surprised Arik-Boke.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Kublai rode in pouring rain, his horse labouring and snorting as it plunged through thick mud. Whenever they stopped, he would change to a spare horse. The sturdy animals were the secret of his army’s power and he never envied the much larger Arab stallions, or the Russian plough horses with shoulders higher than his head. The Mongol ponies could ride to the horizon, then do it again the next day. He was not so sure about himself. His numb hands shook in the cold and he coughed constantly, sipping airag from a skin to ease his throat and let a trickle of warmth spread down his chest. He did not need to be sober to ride and it was a small comfort.

  Twelve tumans rode with him, including the eight who had fought their way to within reach of Hangzhou. There was no road wide enough for such a horde and they left a trail of churned fields half a mile wide. Far ahead, his scouts rode without armour or equipment, taking over the yam stations and holding the riders there long enough for the tumans to arrive and swallow them up. He was able to judge the distance they travelled each day by the number of them he passed - the regular spacing set by the laws of Genghis himself. Passing two meant he had ridden fifty miles, but on a good day, when the ground was firm and the sun shone, they could pass three.

  This was not that day. The front ranks did better, but by the time the second or third tuman rode over the same ground, it had become deep, churned clods that wearied the mounts and cut the distance they could travel.

  Kublai raised his hand to signal one of his personal bondsmen. The drummer boys on camels could not have kept up the pace of the previous fifteen days of hard riding. No camel alive could run fifty or seventy miles a day over rough terrain. Kublai grinned at the sight of the man. His bondsman was so spattered with mud that his face, legs and chest were almost completely black, his eyes showing as red-rimmed holes. The bondsman saw the gesture and raised a horn to his lips, sounding a low note that was immediately echoed by others down the lines.

  It took time to stop so many, or even for t
hem to hear the order. Kublai waited patiently as the lines ahead and behind began to slow to a walk, and finally he was able to dismount, grunting in discomfort as tired muscles creaked. He had been riding at speed for a morning and if his men felt half as tired as he did, it was time to rest and eat.

  Three hundred thousand horses needed to graze for hours each day to keep up the pace. Kublai always chose stopping points by rivers and good grass, but they had been hard to find as they pushed into the west. Xanadu was over a thousand miles behind him, his half-built city showing clearly what it would become in a few more years. The wide streets had been laid in fine, smooth stone, perfect and ready to be worn down by his people. Great sections were finished and he had brought life to silent streets with his people. The excitement on their faces had pleased him as they claimed empty houses and moved in together, chattering at every new wonder. He smiled as his mind embellished the memories, making parks and avenues where there were still pegs and saplings. Yet it was real and it would grow. If he left nothing else behind, he would have made a city from nothing.

  Since then, the terrain had changed many times, from wet river plains to rough hills with nothing but scrub thorn bushes. They had passed a hundred small towns, with the inhabitants hiding themselves away. That was one thing about riding with twelve tumans - Kublai had nothing to fear from bandits or scavengers. They rode through an empty landscape as every potential enemy vanished at the sight of them.

  Each group of ten warriors had two or three whose job it was to lead thirty horses to water and grass. They carried grain, but problems of weight meant they could take only enough for an emergency supply. Kublai handed over his reins to another and stretched his back with a groan. In the downpour, he hadn’t bothered looking for woodland to provide fuel. It would be a cold meal of stale bread and meat scraps for most of the men. Xanadu had provided enough salted lamb and goat to last a month, an amount that had left the entire population on half-rations behind them until the herds replenished themselves. They were not yet at the point of drinking mare’s blood from the living animals, but it was not far away.

  Kublai sighed, taking pleasure in watching the routines around him, enjoying the lessening of eye strain as he focused on something close instead of miles ahead. He missed his wife, though he had learned not to grow too attached to a baby until he was sure it would survive. His son Zhenjin rode with the bondsmen, white with fatigue by the end of a day, but doggedly determined not to let his father down. He was on the edge of true manhood, but thin and wiry like his father. There were worse ways to grow into a man - and worse companions than the tumans around him.

  As Kublai stretched, Uriang-Khadai walked over to him, shaking clods of mud from his feet as he went. They were all covered in the muck that spattered up from hooves and Kublai had to grin at the sight of the dignified orlok made to look as if he’d rolled down a wet hill. The force of the rain increased suddenly, washing away the worst of it as they stood and stared at each other. It made a dull thunder as it hammered down and somewhere close lightning cracked across the sky, a dim flash behind the heavy clouds. Kublai began to laugh.

  ‘I thought we were going to cross deserts, orlok. A man could drown standing up here.’

  ‘I prefer it to heat, my lord, but I can’t get the maps out in this. We’ve taken two yam stations today. I suggest we let the horses and men rest until tomorrow. I doubt it will last much longer.’

  ‘How far to Samarkand now?’ Kublai asked. He saw the older man raise his eyes to heaven and recalled he’d asked the same question many times.

  ‘Some seven hundred miles, my lord. About fifty less than this morning.’

  Kublai ignored the orlok’s sour tone and worked it out. Twelve more days, maybe ten if he forced the men to the edge of ragged exhaustion and changed mounts more often. He had been careful with his resources to that point, but perhaps it was time to push for their highest possible speed.

  The Chagatai khanate was well established and there would be yam lines running right through it in all directions. Though he took the riders from each one, he still worried that someone would get ahead of him. It would take a superb rider to stay in front of his tumans, but a man without armour on a fresh horse only had to reach one station ahead and then change horses at every point. It could be done and he dreaded the news that someone had already gone racing through.

  Uriang-Khadai had waited patiently while the khan thought, knowing Kublai well.

  ‘What can you tell me about the land to come?’ Kublai asked.

  The orlok shrugged, glancing south. If it had not been for the rain, he would have seen the white-capped mountain peaks that led down into India. They were skirting the edges of the range, taking a path almost straight south-west that would lead them into the heart of the Chagatai khanate and its most prosperous cities.

  ‘The maps show a pass through the final range of mountains. I do not know how high we must go to get over it. Beyond the peaks, the land is flat enough to make up whatever time we lose there.’

  Kublai closed his eyes for a moment. His men could endure the cold far better than heat and he had spare deel robes on the packhorses. The problem was always food, for so many men and animals. They were already on short rations and he did not want to arrive in the Chagatai khanate like refugees from some disaster. They had to come fresh enough to fight and win quickly.

  ‘Fifteen days then. In fifteen, I want to see Samarkand’s walls before me. We’ll stop for the night here, where the grass is good, to let the horses fill their bellies. Tell the men to go out and seek firewood; we have almost nothing left.’

  It had become his practice to carry enough old wood for a fire each night, if he could. Even that was in short supply. Kublai wondered if Tsubodai had faced the same problems as he drove north and west beyond the boundaries of the nation of Genghis.

  He stretched again as his men erected a basic awning held with poles. It would keep the rain off long enough to make a fire from the dry wood they unwrapped. Who would have known what a precious resource a few sticks and logs would become? Kublai’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of hot food. Most of the men would eat the cheese slop they made by mixing the iron-hard blocks with water. A few dried sticks of meat would give them strength, though it was never enough. They would go on. They would endure anything while they rode with their khan.

  General Bayar loved the cold north. From his youth, he had dreamed of what it must have been like to ride with Tsubodai into the white vastness, the land without end. In fact, he had been surprised how green the Russian steppes were in spring, at least the lowlands. His mother had brought him up with stories of Tsubodai’s victories, how he took Moscow and Kiev, how he broke the knights of Christ in their shining armour. To ride in those footsteps was a joy. Bayar knew Christians and Moslems visited holy places as part of their faith. It amused Bayar to think of his journey into Batu’s lands as his own pilgrimage. The rashes and infections that had plagued his men in the humid south slowly vanished, finally able to scar once the pus dried. Even lice and fleas were less active in the cold and many of the men smoked their clothes over open fires to give them relief while they could find it.

  Bayar understood he had to be a stern leader for his men. He knew he faced battle ahead and the warriors of three tumans looked to him for leadership. Yet he wanted to whoop like a little boy as his horse plunged through snow, with white hills all around him.

  At that height, it was always winter, though the steppes stretched into a green and dun horizon far below. It was open land, without the trappings of civilisation he had come to loathe among the Sung. There were no roads to follow there and his tumans cut their own path. The cold made his bones ache and each breath bit into him, but he felt alive, as if the years in Sung lands had been under a blanket of warm moistness that he was only then clearing from his lungs. He had never been fitter and he rose each day with fresh energy, leaping into his saddle and shouting to his officers. Kublai depended on him and B
ayar would not let him down while he lived.

  His tumans had not been with Kublai in the south. All of them were warriors Mongke had been bringing against the Sung. They did not have the lean look of those who had been at war for years, but Bayar was satisfied. They had given their oath to the khan and he did not worry about their loyalty beyond that. Part of him exulted at being in sole command of so many, a force to strike terror into Kublai’s enemies. This was the nation: the raiding force of ruthless warriors, armed with sword, lance and bow.

  Batu’s khanate was part of the history, its story told around fires a thousand times since. His father Jochi had rebelled against Genghis, the only man ever to do so. It had cost him his life, but the man’s khanate remained, given to Batu by the hand of Ogedai Khan. Bayar had to struggle not to grin at the thought of meeting a grandson of Genghis, first-born to first-born. Batu was one among many who could have been khan, with more right than most. Instead, the line had passed to Ogedai, Guyuk and then Mongke, descendants of different sons. Bayar hoped to see some trace of the Genghis bloodline in the man he would meet. He hoped he would not have to destroy him. He had come to declare Kublai’s khanate and demand obedience. If Batu refused, Bayar knew what he would have to do. He would make his own mark in the history of the nation, as a man who ended a noble line from the great khan himself. It was a bitter thought and he did not dwell on it. Kublai was khan, his brother a weak pretender. There was no other way to see it.