Bones Of the Hills c-3

by Conn Iggulden

  When the merchant arrived, he was almost in tears to see the village intact, having feared its destruction for days of travel. He found his sister’s house quickly and tried to calm her terror of the Mongols strolling outside. She watched open-mouthed as warriors dumped bags of gold coins on her step, but the sight did not calm her. Instead, she paled further and further as the pile grew. As the warriors stood back, she slapped her brother hard across the face and tried to bar the door to him.

  ‘You have killed me, you fool!’ she screeched as he struggled with her in the doorway. He fell back a step, astonished at her rage, and as he did so, the door slammed shut and all the men could hear her weeping inside.

  ‘That was touching,’ Genghis murmured to Tsubodai.

  Tsubodai did not smile. The village was surrounded by rocky heights and he was certain they were being watched. The crying woman had certainly thought so. Tsubodai had seen her eyes dart up to the surrounding peaks for an instant before she closed the door in her brother’s face. Tsubodai raised his head and scanned every high point, but nothing moved.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ Tsubodai said. ‘This village exists to serve the Assassins, I’m certain of it. Why else would it be so far from anywhere else in the mountains? How do they even pay for supplies brought by cart?’ At the thought, he eased his horse nearer to Genghis, feeling the narrow street close in on him. A single lucky arrow could end it all, if the villagers were foolish or desperate enough.

  ‘I do not think we should stop here, my lord khan,’ he said. ‘There are two paths further into the mountains and only one back. Let me send scouts along them both and find the way in.’

  Genghis nodded and at that moment a bell rang, the sound muffled but echoing. The Mongols had bows and swords drawn before the notes died away, jerking in shock as the street doors thumped open and armed men and women rushed out.

  In just heartbeats, the village went from being silent and deserted to a bloody attack. Tsubodai’s horse kicked out at a woman behind him, knocking her flying. They were converging on Genghis, who was swinging his sword in a great arc to take a screaming young man across the neck.

  To Tsubodai’s surprise, the villagers were determined and desperate. His men were experienced in dealing with rioting crowds, but the violence could not be quelled with the shock of sudden blood-letting. He saw one of his warriors dragged off his horse by a man with an arrow in his chest, dying as he yanked with failing strength. Some of them screamed all the time they fought, the noise almost painful as it came from a hundred different throats and echoed back from the hills all around. Yet they were not warriors. Tsubodai took a blow from a long knife on his forearm bracer, turning the block into a short punch that cracked into his attacker’s jaw. The villagers had no defence against armoured men and only their ferocity made them hard to stop. Tsubodai fought with manic concentration, risking his own life to protect Genghis. They were alone for just moments as more of the khan’s tuman struggled to reach him and face outwards with their swords and bows. Arrows hissed through the throats of anyone who moved after that and the iron circle fought its way through them, moving with Genghis at the centre.

  The sun had not moved above the hills by the time the streets were covered in the dead. The merchant’s sister lay among them, one of the first to be cut down. Her brother had survived and he knelt by her gashed body, weeping openly. When one of the warriors dismounted to pull her clothing aside, the man struggled briefly in tearful rage before he was cuffed onto his back. Tsubodai’s men found no one with the mark of serenity at their throats.

  Tsubodai leant over his saddle, panting with exertion and relief at having survived. He truly hated the enclosure of hills, and the feeling of eyes on him was even stronger than before.

  ‘If they are not Assassins, why would they attack us so wildly?’ he demanded of one of his minghaan officers. The man could not reply to such a question, so merely bowed his head and looked away.

  Genghis trotted his pony to Tsubodai as the general stared around him, still shocked by what had happened.

  ‘I imagine they were ordered to get in our way,’ Genghis said lightly. He was maddeningly calm and not even breathing heavily. ‘Against thieves, or a raiding band, they would have done very well. It would take a determined army to get through this village to the stronghold of our enemies.’ He grinned. ‘Fortunately, I have such an army. Send out your scouts, Tsubodai. Find me the way through.’

  Under the yellow gaze of his khan, Tsubodai gathered himself quickly and sent two arbans of ten men racing deeper into the mountains. Both routes turned sharply after only a short distance, so that the warriors quickly vanished from view. He ordered others to search every house, making certain there were no more surprises hidden in them.

  ‘I hope this means the Assassins have not abandoned their home,’ he said.

  Genghis brightened still further at the thought.

  By sunset, Tsubodai’s men had piled the dead at one edge of the village, by the icy waterfall. There was a pool there, before the water found its way further down the cliffs. Tsubodai organised the watering of the horses, a task which was maddeningly slow and laborious, but vital. For those too far back to come in, he used buckets from the village and had his warriors walk miles to them. Many would be forced to sleep on the narrow trail, just a few feet from a drop to their death. There was no grumbling from them, at least none that reached the ears of the general. They accepted their lot as they had always done.

  Only one group of Tsubodai’s scouts came back as the hills were lit with gold and the sun sank. The other had vanished and Tsubodai nodded to Genghis as the road remained empty. A single scout might have fallen, or broken a leg. For ten young warriors to disappear in the mountains, another force had to exist, ruthless and patient.

  The Mongols had found the path to the Assassins and they slept where they stood, half-frozen and with just a few mouth-fuls of dried meat and water to keep them alive as they waited for dawn.

  Tsubodai was up before first light, in part to be certain he could put a rank of men onto the narrow path before Genghis tried to lead them. The general was convinced the first ones in would die and he chose well-armoured archers from his own tuman, giving them the best chance he could. He did not want Genghis to risk himself against an unseen enemy in such a place. The rock walls that lined the path were too easy to defend. As Tsubodai stared into the lightening gloom, he guessed they would face stones and arrows at the very least. He hoped the Assassins did not have stocks of fire oil, but he was not confident. There was no point regretting past decisions, but the Assassins had been given a long time to prepare the way. If they had chosen to fight, it would be a hard path to walk and many of his men would not return from the mountains.

  The sun could not be seen for much of the morning in that place of peaks and stone, so that Tsubodai wondered at the half-lit existence of the villagers. Even in high summer, their homes would have been cold for most of the day. Only when the sun was overhead would light and warmth reach the street below. By then, he did not doubt that the villagers were all servants of the ones he had come to root out from their stronghold. Nothing else explained why they would choose such a life.

  Tsubodai rode in the second rank and looked back only once as the army began to move, a vast slow tail that stretched back almost to the first village he had found destroyed. Some of them still had no idea what had happened the day before, but they followed in his steps and wound their way deeper into the hostile terrain.

  The path narrowed still further as he left the village behind, forcing his men to ride two across. It was almost a crack in the mountain, the air cold from constant gloom and shadows. Tsubodai kept his weapons ready, straining his eyes ahead for some sign of the arban he had sent. Only hoofprints remained and Tsubodai’s men followed them slowly, wary of an ambush, but still going on.

  The sense of enclosure became stifling as the slope began to rise. To Tsubodai’s discomfort, the trail narrowed again
, so that only one man at a time could squeeze his horse through. Still the hoofprints led them. Tsubodai had never felt so helpless in his life and he had to struggle with swelling panic. If they were attacked, the first ones killed would block the path of those behind, leaving them easy targets. He did not think he could even turn his mount in such a narrow pass and winced every time his legs brushed the mossy rock on either side.

  Tsubodai jerked his head up as one of his men gave a low whistle and the horses came to a sudden stop. He cursed under his breath as he realised he could not even ride to the front to see what they had found. The finest army in the world had been reduced to a single line of nervous men. No wonder the Assassins had not abandoned their fortress. Tsubodai squinted upwards at the strip of bright sky above his head. All it would take was a few men with stones up there and the mountains would become a tomb for all their hopes and ambitions. He took a sharp breath when a pebble dropped from somewhere above, but nothing followed it.

  One of his men came back on foot, ducking under the legs of the horses and making them shy nervously. They too felt hemmed in by the rock on all sides and Tsubodai was worried one of them might panic. In such a small space, it would be chaos.

  ‘There’s a wall built across the path ahead, general,’ the warrior said. ‘It has a gate, but it’s made of iron. If you have hammers sent up, we can knock out the hinges, but it won’t be quick.’

  Tsubodai nodded, though the thought of sending orders back along a line of stationary horses would have been farcical if it hadn’t been for the constant threat of an attack. Despite himself, he glanced up again with a wince.

  ‘You’ll have to go yourself. Have the hammers brought from man to man and have an officer break out the mantlets from the closest cart that has them.’ The portable wooden barricades would be useful, at least. Genghis had insisted on having dozens of the things made in Samarkand to protect his archers, a decision that was only now bearing fruit.

  Tsubodai waited impatiently as the runner clambered along the line. The carts of siege supplies were far behind and time passed slowly as the men talked amongst themselves and waited. Only Genghis seemed cheerful, as Tsubodai looked back at him. The khan was sharpening his sword with a whetstone from his saddlebags, raising the blade at intervals to inspect the edge. He caught Tsubodai staring and chuckled, the sound echoing as he continued with the task.

  In the stillness, some instinct made Tsubodai look up for a third time. He saw the strip of blue sky speckled in dark objects. His jaw dropped and he shouted to those around him to duck, raising his armoured forearms above his own head just before the first stone hit him.

  The stones fell in waves, causing the Mongols to grunt and snarl in pain. Those who had shields heaved them up, but they were only a few. Their horses suffered the barrage without helmets or armour, bucking and kicking in fear and pain. More than a few were stunned, slumping and scrabbling as their legs gave way. Tsubodai clenched his fists over his head as he saw some of them would not rise again, their skulls broken. He saw men with their arms hanging loose, the bones broken despite the armour, and still the stones fell into the confined space. The one thing Tsubodai could be thankful for was that the stones were small. Rocks capable of snapping a man’s spine either wedged in the pass above their heads, or bounced and shattered into smaller pieces. Even as he took note of that, one of the large stones survived the fall and struck the forehead of a horse only feet away from him, killing the animal instantly. A memory came back to the general of the first fort he had taken with Genghis. Men had stood above him then in a killing hole, driving shafts almost straight down. They had been saved by wooden barriers, held above their heads. Tsubodai felt his heart thump painfully as he realised he had forgotten about the carts behind him. They could not be drawn into the narrowing path and he had a vision of the whole army being blocked, unable to reverse as the sides of rock closed on them. His men reeled under the barrage of stones, crying out in pain and frustration.

  ‘Where are those mantlets!’ Tsubodai roared. ‘We need mantlets here!’ His voice carried far down the lines, snapping back and forth from the walls. As the trail turned, he saw men gesture urgently to those behind them, passing on his order. How far back were the carts? He waited, wincing at the crack of stones as he crouched over his saddle with his arms protecting his head.

  He thought he had been listening to screams and his own breath for ever when he heard a shout. Tsubodai risked looking out over his shoulder. Stones still rattled off his armour, rocking him. Even the small ones hurt. He breathed in relief to see the heavy wooden shields being passed from rider to rider overhead. They could not come fast enough.

  The trail of wooden barriers halted as those under the falling stones held on to them instead of passing them down the line. Tsubodai shouted furious orders at them. More were coming, he could see. Already the stones could be heard thumping off the wood, hard enough to hurt the ears. Tsubodai grabbed the first mantlet to reach him, seeing that Genghis was already safe. He did not think the khan would be giving his up and it took a wrench of will to pass his on to those ahead. They could move them only by tilting them up. When the mantlets were turned like shells to protect the men, they often wedged in the walls and hardly needed holding.

  Bareheaded once more, Tsubodai looked to Genghis and saw the khan had lost his calm. Genghis grimaced as he saw his general unprotected and then shrugged as if it was nothing. He heaved his mantlet off where it had stuck and reached back for another. Tsubodai saw stones falling around the khan. One rocked his head back when it struck Genghis’ helmet, but another mantlet was dragged forward and the general breathed in relief to see him secure once more.

  The rain of stones dwindled and then stopped, leaving battered and dying men beneath the heavy boards. Without armour, they would have been destroyed. Whether the Assassins had seen the wooden barriers, or simply run out of missiles, Tsubodai did not know. He did know he would move sky and earth to pay them back for the agony of being helpless.

  Hammers came forward under the shell of mantlets, handed from man to man until heavy blows began to ring out from somewhere ahead. Maddeningly, Tsubodai could not see the front ranks. The wall they tried to break was twelve horse lengths in front of him and he could only wait and sweat.

  Tsubodai thought he could have the dead horses butchered and sent back in pieces along the line. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had struck him. They needed to get out of the chimney of rock and gutting horses would take too long, even if they had room to swing the axes.

  Instead, Tsubodai saw the mantlets could be used to cover dead men and horses, allowing the rest to walk over them. It would be a grisly business, but without a way forward, it didn’t matter if the iron gate could be battered out or not.

  The echoing crash of the gate falling could be heard far back along the line, bringing a ragged cheer from the warriors. Tsubodai saw the men ahead lunge forward and then cry out as they were struck by something unseen. Tsubodai squinted, but there was little light in that place and the mantlets reduced it almost to nothing in their shadow. Just ahead of him lay the horse he had seen struck. Its rider had been pinned against the wall as the animal slumped. Blood had come from his nose and he was pale and still. Tsubodai did not know if he lived, but he gave orders without hesitation.

  He passed his own mantlet forward to cover the battered pair. With Tsubodai urging him on, the closest warrior dug in his heels, forcing his mount up and onto the unstable platform.

  It lurched under the weight and the terrified pony resisted, but Tsubodai and the rider yelled at it. The warrior belted its flanks with his sword scabbard until the animal lurched over, whinnying in distress. Tsubodai grimaced and followed, trying not to hear the sound of breaking bones under his weight. He told himself the man beneath was surely dead.

  Tsubodai’s horse almost bolted free at the sight of an empty path ahead. He reined in desperately, knowing that whatever had silenced his men was still waiting. Only one wa
rrior rode ahead of him and that man raced forward madly, calling a war cry and brandishing his sword.

  Tsubodai passed through the rubble of the gate and sunlight struck his eyes, almost blinding him. Beyond, he caught a glimpse of a wide spot in the path. His horse was running for it, desperate to get away from the fear and stench of blood in the pass. Tsubodai yanked the reins savagely, turning his mount left as arrows whirred past him. The other warrior had ridden straight in and arrows appeared in his chest. Tsubodai saw him stagger, but his armour held and he had time to kill a bowman before another shaft took him under the chin at close range.

  The general gasped for breath, blinking as more warriors clattered out of the pass to join him. Those who had broken arms and collarbones were unable to use their weapons, but they ran into the arrows to clear the pass behind them.

  The archers facing them were dressed in white robes, pulled open by the action of drawing their bows. Tsubodai could see they wore the mark of serenity and fury swept over him. He kicked his mount at the massed lines of men. There was nowhere to run or manoeuvre. His warriors would either break the line or die in twos and threes as they came out.

  It helped that the horses ran mad with terror. The Mongol warriors hardly tried to stop them as they charged. Tsubodai’s horse went straight at an archer fumbling another arrow onto the string. The shot went buzzing past the general and he swung his sword as he plunged past, his horse kicking the next man down. Tsubodai showed his teeth in cruel pleasure as his warriors began to cut further into the lines. Each man’s chest bristled with arrows, but the armour was good and the archers poor. The Assassins were not warriors, for all the fear they created. They had not trained every day from the moment they could walk. They could not crush fear and pain to make one last cut into an enemy. The warriors of the khan could and did.