Conqueror (2011)

by Conn Iggulden

  It seemed an age before Arik-Boke paused. The leather suit was in tatters, half of it hanging loose and the rest on the ground at Tellan’s feet. Blood dripped down the man’s legs and slowly pooled as Arik-Boke panted, watching him for a sudden move. To the equal horror of the arms master and Alandar, Arik-Boke rested the point of his sword on the ground, putting his weight on it as if it were a simple stick and not the most famous blade in the history of the nation. Sweat poured from the khan and he breathed in great, rasping breaths.

  ‘That will do,’ he said, straightening with an effort and tossing the blade to Alandar, who caught it easily. ‘Have my shaman look at your cuts, Tellan. Alandar, with me.’

  Without another word, he strode off the training square. Alandar collected the scabbard and barely had time to dart a quick look of apology to Tellan before he went after him.

  The arms master stood alone and panting in the centre of the square. He had not moved for some time when one of the sweeping boys dared to approach him.

  ‘Are you all right, master?’ the boy said, peering round the torn remnants of the headgear.

  Tellan’s lips were bloody and he showed his teeth to the boy as he tried to take a step.

  ‘Take my arm and help me, boy. I can’t walk back on my own.’

  The admission hurt him as much as the wounds he had taken, but his pride wouldn’t let him fall. The boy called a friend and between them they helped Tellan stagger out of the sun.

  Arik-Boke strode quickly down the corridors of the palace. The tightness of his rage felt as if it had eased slightly and he rolled his shoulders as he walked. He had been imagining Kublai before him as he had battered the arms master and for a time it had taken the edge off his anger. As he walked, it swelled again within him, a red coil that made him want to strike out.

  He came to polished copper doors and shoved them open without acknowledging the guards who stood there. Alandar followed him into the meeting room, seeing his most senior men rise to their feet as if jerked up by strings. Since the khan had stormed out hours earlier, they had been waiting for him to return, unable to leave without his permission. They showed no sign of impatience as they bowed. Alandar noticed the single jug of wine had been drunk dry, but there was nothing else to indicate Arik-Boke had kept a dozen men waiting for the best part of a morning.

  Arik-Boke walked through them to the table and cursed when he saw the jug was empty. He grabbed it and took it to the copper doors, shoving it into the hands of one of his Day Guards.

  ‘Bring more wine,’ he said, ignoring the man as he tried to bow and keep hold of the jug at the same time. When he turned to his officers once more, his eyes glittered with simmering fury and no one would meet his gaze.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he grated. ‘You have had time to think. You know the stakes involved.’ He waited for barely a beat before going on. ‘My scouts find broken yam stations. My orders go unanswered. Supplies have stopped from the north and if my spies have not been turned against me, my brother Kublai has made war on a khanate. My own blood has turned his tumans against his lawful ruler.’ He paused, his eyes raking them.

  ‘The world has gone quiet as rabbits with a snake in their hole and you have nothing to offer your khan? Nothing?‘ He roared the last word, spraying spit. The men in the room were seasoned warriors, but they pulled back from him. His snuffling breath was loud in the room and the scar that ran across the ruined bridge of his nose had grown red.

  ‘Tell me how it is possible for an army to ride into my khanates without us becoming aware of it before this. Did my grandfather set up the yam lines for nothing? For months, I have been asking my advisers why the letters have stopped coming, why the reports are late. I asked my senior officers what fault there could be that might result in Karakorum being cut off from the rest of the world in such a way. Now you tell me how such a thing could happen within a thousand miles of this city and have us know nothing about it.’

  His guard returned with two brimming jugs of wine, erring on the side of caution. Arik-Boke waited while a cup was poured for him and drained it in quick gulps. When he had finished a second, he seemed calmer, though a heavy flush was stealing up his neck, where the veins were clearly visible.

  ‘That is past. When this is over, I will have the heads of those men who told me that the yam lines could never be broken, that they gave me a security and an early warning that no other khan had ever known. I will have the head of Lord Alghu and give his daughter to my bondsmen for their sport.’ He took a deep breath, aware that simply ranting at his men would produce no good result.

  ‘I want them rebuilt. Orlok Alandar will come to you for your best scouts and have them man the lines. I need to know where my brother’s tumans are, so that I can answer their betrayal with the greatest possible force.’

  He faced the men in the room, making sure they saw his contempt.

  ‘Alandar, give me a tally of our strength,’ he said at last.

  ‘Without the tumans of the Russian khanate, or the Chagatai …’ he began.

  ‘Tell me what I have, orlok, not what I don’t have.’

  ‘Twenty tumans, my lord khan. Leaving only the Guards to keep peace in the city.’

  ‘And my brother?’

  Alandar hesitated, knowing it would be at best a guess.

  ‘He may have as many as eighteen tumans, my lord, though he has been at war with the Sung for years and he will have lost many, perhaps six or seven of them.’

  ‘Or more, orlok. My scholar brother could easily have lost half his force while he was reading his Chin books, while he was learning to dress like a Chin whore.’

  ‘As you say, my lord. We cannot know for certain until the yam lines are re-established.’

  ‘He did not beat the Sung, Orlok Alandar. He merely held his place for five years, waiting for Mongke Khan to ride to his aid. That is the sort of man we face. That is the false khan, my brother, who has broken our supply lines and rides the world in careless confidence, while the khan of the nation of Genghis can only react. No more, Alandar! I have had enough of these ragged riders terrified to tell me the khanates are falling apart. We will go out and meet this scholar brother. And I will have him crawling at my feet before we are done.’

  ‘Your will, my lord,’ Alandar said, bowing his head.

  ‘We can place the traitor at Samarkand two months ago.’ Arik-Boke gestured to one of the twenty generals who waited in nervous tension for their orders. ‘Bring me my maps, gentlemen. We will see how far he could have run in the time.’

  Some of the men exchanged glances, knowing from experience that a fresh Mongol tuman could have covered a thousand miles or more since then. Alandar chose to speak, knowing that of all of them, he was most immune to Arik-Boke’s anger.

  ‘My lord, he could be almost anywhere. We suspect he sent tumans against Batu in the north, so it is likely he has already split his forces. But we know he will come to Karakorum.’

  ‘This is just a city,’ Arik-Boke said.

  ‘It is a city with the women and children of his tumans, my lord. Kublai will come for them. What choice does he have?’

  Arik-Boke grew still, thinking. At last, he nodded.

  ‘Yes, we have that at least. We know where he will come and we have something precious to him. That will do as a starting place, orlok. But I do not want to fight a defensive battle. Our strength is in movement, in speed. He will not pin me down. Do you understand? That is the thinking of our enemies. I want to get out of Karakorum and find him while he moves. I want to run him down like a circle hunt, closing slowly on his men until there is nowhere left to run.’

  ‘The closest yam stations are already working, my lord,’ Alandar replied. ‘We are restocking a dozen each day, now that we know what happened to them. We will have warning as soon as they sight his tumans.’

  ‘I was told that before, Alandar. I will not rely on them again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Send the tumans towards the Chagatai khanate, with scouts
running between them. Five battle groups of forty thousand to cover the ground. Keep the scouts out, ready for the first touch. When they sight the enemy …’ He paused, savouring the word in relation to his foolish brother. ‘When they see him, they will not engage until the full force has gathered. We will strike him down, this false khan. And I will be there to see it.’

  ‘Your will, my lord. I will leave a thousand men to patrol the camps and Karakorum and establish the yam stations first between the city and the Chagatai lines.’ It was an interpretation of the orders he had been given and Arik-Boke bristled immediately.

  ‘This is just a city, orlok. I have said it. I am khan of the nation. One city means nothing to me.’

  Alandar hesitated. The khan was in no mood to hear an argument, but he had to speak. His position demanded it, to temper the khan’s righteous anger with tactical sense.

  ‘My lord, if your brother sent tumans into the north, they would be behind us as we move against his main force. Karakorum could be destroyed …’

  ‘I have hostages to keep them peaceful, Alandar. I will have knives at the throats of their women and children if they touch the first stone of Karakorum. Does that satisfy you? What general of my brother’s would give that order? They will not move against the city for fear of the slaughter that will follow.’

  Alandar swallowed uncomfortably. He was not certain that Arik-Boke would go through with the threat and he knew better than to press him on it. No khan had ever considered butchering his own people, but then there had never been a war amongst their own, not since Jochi had betrayed Genghis. That was nothing compared to what Arik-Boke faced and the orlok voiced none of his misgivings, choosing to remain silent.

  Arik-Boke nodded as if he had received assent.

  ‘I will leave enough men to carry out my orders, orlok, sworn men who understand the meaning of their oath. That is enough now. My blood cries out to answer these insults. Send messengers to Hulegu. Tell him I call his oath. And gather my tumans on the plain. I will ride to find my brother Kublai and I will choose the manner of his death when we have him.’

  Alandar bowed his head. He could not shake the sense that the khan was underestimating the enemy tumans. They were as fast as his own men and, for all Arik-Boke’s bluster, he could not make himself believe they were led by a fool, a scholar. A fool would not have cut the supplies into Karakorum before the attack. A scholar would not have removed the most powerful lords from Arik-Boke’s side before the true fighting even began. Even so, he had learned obedience from a young age.

  ‘Your will, my lord khan,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hulegu cursed his general’s memory as he galloped along the fighting line. Kitbuqa had been killed years before, but his legacy lived on in the Moslems who had vowed never to accept his khanate. Holding Christian Mass in mosques had turned out to be a terrible idea when it came to pacifying the region, though it was true that many of the tribes also screamed the name of Baghdad as he caught and punished them.

  He had never known such a cauldron of trouble as the khanate he had chosen. From the destruction of the city on, men had drifted in from thousands of miles away to fight for the land he had taken. He grinned as he rode. His grandfather had said there was no better way to spend a life and the khanate was never still, never peaceful, as it vomited up new enemies each year. It was good for the tumans he commanded. His men kept themselves sharp against the dark-skinned madmen who died screaming the name of a city or their god.

  Hulegu ducked as an arrow whirred somewhere close. The line of enemy horsemen blurred as he ran down its flank. He had only heartbeats before they began to react to his sudden manoeuvre. He could hear their roaring voices and the air was thick with dust and sweat and the taint of garlic under a battering sun.

  Hulegu barely gestured and his galloping line angled into the enemy flank, raising lances at the last moment. They plunged through horses and men, spearing a hundred paces into the crush as if they were a knife sinking into flesh. The Persians crumpled before them and Hulegu cut down on his left and right, each blow aimed to break and blind, to leave falling men behind him.

  He heard the snap of crossbow bolts and something struck him high in the chest, piercing his armour and thumping his collarbone. He groaned, hoping it had not broken again. As he punched through the lines, he felt only numbness from the area, but the pain would come. His tumans were outnumbered, but they were still fresh and strong and the day had barely begun. His charge had sliced away a great section of their lines and he signalled to his minghaan officers to enclose and cut it free. It was shepherd’s work, separating young rams from a flock and cutting them down. The main force of horsemen and foot soldiers moved on to face the Mongol shafts ahead and there was space for a time.

  Hulegu wiped sweat from his face with a damp hand, blinking as his eyes stung with salt. He was thirsty, but as he looked around, there was no sign of his camel boys with waterskins.

  Movement drew his attention and Hulegu stared as a dark mass of soldiers came jogging over the crest of a hill. They moved quickly and lightly despite the heat and he could see they were armed with bows and swords. Hulegu trotted out from the main battle for twenty or thirty paces, judging the best response. All his tumans were engaged by then and he had no separate reserves. He began to frown as the Persian soldiers kept coming, as if there were no end to them. They gleamed in the sun, wearing armour of brass and iron. As he watched, horsemen appeared on their flanks, overtaking the walking men.

  He had missed an army, hiding in the hills. Whichever local leader had brought them in and hidden them had chosen his moment with care. Hulegu wet his dry lips with his tongue, looking around him and trying to keep a sense of the battle. He would have to detach a full tuman to meet and prevent them from joining up with their brothers.

  Sweat ran into his eyes as the men around him finished butchering the hundreds they had cut out from the main force. It was work they knew well and his warriors were confident in their power, well used to battle after years spent fighting.

  The flow of men over the hill-crest kept coming, like a spread of oil. Hulegu looked for a tuman he could disengage, but they were all in the thick of the fighting. The Afghans and Persians raised their heads as they saw the reinforcements and fought with more energy, knowing they could waste their strength and fall gasping because the Mongols would have to answer the threat. One of the tumans was pushed back by yelling thousands, forcing them to break free and gain space around them for another charge.

  Hulegu cursed. He would have to take the opportunity, but he saw the danger if he pulled them out. The men they had been killing would surge after them and in doing so flank the tuman next in line. For an instant, he pictured the threat.

  ‘God’s blood,’ he muttered. Kitbuqa’s old habit of blaspheming had rubbed off on him. Hulegu knew he could have done with his friend on the field that day. It had been poor fortune that Kitbuqa had faced a huge army while Hulegu was in Karakorum to see his brother made khan. At least the tribes had paid a harsh price for the life of a Mongol general. He had seen to that in massive organised reprisals.

  Hulegu signalled to his bannerman and watched the result as the tuman flag went up and was swung in a great circle, flapping. The tuman answered its personal flag in moments, halting almost as they began to charge back in. Hulegu could see the faces turned towards his position and he tried to ignore the feeling of panic as the enemy began to surge forward.

  ‘Second flag. Engage enemy,’ he snapped to his bannerman. There were too few signals and he had nothing to point to the new force coming over the hills. Yet his men were experienced and they would know he wouldn’t stop them only to order them back in.

  They whirled their horses and began cantering up the rising ground. Hulegu grunted in relief, then his breath caught as he saw the enemy were still coming. Thousands more of them had appeared and he cursed the labyrinth of valleys all around that could hide so many from his scouts.<
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  The Persian lines below ran forward, howling in glee as they appeared to chase the tuman from the field. Their momentum took them along a wing of his personal tuman as he had feared. Hulegu took a deep breath to shout new orders to the single minghaan of a thousand who had come with him.

  ‘Back in support!’ he bellowed. ‘To the Brass tuman line, in support!’ He repeated the order as he dug in his heels. There were too many of the enemy, but he was not ready to retreat, not from those. The battle could yet turn and they could break. He would wait for the moment, pray for it. The Brass tuman was under pressure at the front and side, close to being overwhelmed. For the first time that day, Hulegu felt a worm of doubt in his stomach. He had never lost a fixed battle against the wild tribesmen, though they challenged him each year with increasing numbers, crying ‘Baghdad’ and ‘Allahu Akbar’ as they came. He showed his teeth as he rode to support his tuman. His men would not break against dog-raping farmers. They could be defeated, but never made to run.

  The thousand with him stretched out to a full gallop. Many of them had lost their lances and emptied their quivers in the fighting, but they drew swords and struck into the enemy, seeking to cut through the chaos, roaring their battle cries. Hulegu laid on around him with all his strength, smashing his sword down on helmets as shields were raised against him. From horseback, he could still see the fresh soldiers meet his tuman on the rising ground. The tuman had slid into a wide charging line with lowered lances, but even as Hulegu watched, it began to falter against the sheer numbers. Like a broken fishing net, the charging line was sundered in a dozen places. They could not hold and the screaming Persians were flowing around and through them, losing hundreds of men to reach the main battle.

  Hulegu swore, turning his anger into a quick chopping blow that cracked the skull of a bearded man as he showed his red mouth in a wild yell. It was his task to keep a feel for the battle and never to lose himself in the pain and fury. The ranks on the hill were still coming and Hulegu felt a cold chill, despite the heat. The shahs had caught him neatly, making him commit his forces and then springing the ambush with everything they had.