Bones Of the Hills c-3
Page 38
He looked over to his grandsons, seeing Sorhatani comb their hair as they writhed and struggled to get away from her. Her own hair was long and black and he toyed with the idea of getting himself another young wife like her to warm his bed. It would invigorate him, he was certain.
‘Brother,’ he said, ‘we can live our lives at peace, so that our sons and grandsons can live their lives at peace, but what is the point? If we all live to eighty in a green field, without ever holding a bow or sword, we will have wasted the good years. You should know the truth of that. Will our grandsons thank us for a peaceful life? Only if they are too afraid to take up arms. I would not wish a quiet life on my enemies, Kachiun, never mind my own family. Even cities only prosper when there are rough men on the walls, willing to stand and die so that others can sleep in peace. With us, we all fight, from the first yell to the last breath. It is the only way to take pride in who we are.’
‘I do take pride!’ Kachiun snapped. ‘But that does not mean…’
Genghis raised a hand.
‘There is no “but”, brother. This Jelaudin will sweep north with his men and we could run before them. We could let him take back every city we have won and call himself shah in his father’s place. He might think twice before provoking me again when I send envoys to him. But I came to these lands because, when a man threatens me and I look away, he has taken something important from me. If I fight and die, all he can take is my life. My courage, my dignity remains. Shall I do less for the nation I have made? Shall I allow them less honour than I claim for myself?’
‘I understand,’ Kachiun murmured.
‘Be sure you do, brother, because you will be riding with me against this host. We will win or die, one or the other. But I will not look away when they come. I will not bow down and let them trample me.’ He paused and barked a laugh. ‘You know, I was going to add that no one will ever say I ran from a battle, but Arslan reminded me of something in Samarkand. It does not matter what others think of how I lived my life. It does not matter if we go down in Temuge’s histories as tyrants or even cowards. All that matters is what we do now. We are our only judges, Kachiun. Remember that. Those who come after will have other trials, other battles to worry about.’
He saw Kachiun had listened and at least tried to understand. Genghis clapped him on the shoulder.
‘We have come such a long way, Kachiun. I still remember the first days, when it was just us and we were starving. I remember killing Bekter and I sometimes wish he could be here to see what we went on to make. Perhaps you and I have fashioned something that will last a thousand generations, or disappear with us. I do not know. I do not even care, brother. I have grown strong to defeat powerful enemies. I welcome this horde from the south to grow stronger still.’
‘You are a strange man,’ Kachiun said. ‘There is no one else like you, do you know that?’ He expected Genghis to smile, but his brother shook his head.
‘Be careful of raising me too high, brother. I have no special strength, unless it is in choosing good men to follow me. The great lie of cities is that we are all too weak to stand against those who oppress us. All I have done is see through that lie. I always fight, Kachiun. Kings and shahs depend on people remaining sheep, too afraid to rise up. All I ever did was realise I can be a wolf to them.’
Kachiun nodded, his worries lifting away under his brother’s pale eyes. He led his horse at Genghis’ side as the two men walked back to the gers to eat and rest. As they drew close, Kachiun recalled the arrival of the scouts.
‘And Jochi? Have you made a decision?’
Genghis tightened his mouth at the mention of the name.
‘He took seven thousand men from me, Kachiun. I cannot forgive him for that. If he had gone on his own, perhaps I would have left him to find his own path. As it is, he has stolen a tenth of my army and I want them back.’
‘You would take them? Honestly?’ Kachiun said, surprised.
‘I thought at first that I would have them killed, but I have had time to think while I waited for word, Kachiun. They left their wives and children and followed him, just as others followed me and gave up everything they knew and loved. Of all men, I know what a leader can do. They allowed themselves to be led, but I need them now, if Jelaudin is gathering a storm. Send scouts out to bring Tsubodai in. Jochi admired him more than any man. He will let him speak.’
Tsubodai came, though his heart was heavy. The great camp was buzzing with the news that Jochi had been found and he had hoped Genghis would not ask for him. He found Genghis with Ogedai, watching his son train his young men. The khan gestured for him to follow and they rode away from the gathering tumans, walking their horses together like old friends.
Tsubodai’s heart beat hard as he listened. He had revered Genghis since he had first met the man who had forged a nation from warring tribes. He had been there when they took their first fortress in Xi Xia, then the region itself. Tsubodai had no false modesty. He knew he had played a vital part in the khan’s success. Genghis treated him with respect and Tsubodai returned it as he did with no other man alive. Even so, what he was being asked caused him bitterness and pain. He took a shuddering breath as Genghis looked at him, waiting for a reply.
‘My lord khan, I do not want to do this. Ask me for anything else and I will ride, anything.’
Genghis reined in, turning his horse so that he faced his general. The man was brilliant, more gifted at war than anyone else Genghis knew, but he demanded obedience first and only the khan’s surprise held back a sharp reply.
‘If I send Khasar, or Kachiun, I think Jochi will resist. His men have broken oaths to follow him. They will not baulk at fighting to prevent him being taken. You are the only man he will let speak, Tsubodai. You are the only one who can get close.’
Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, overcome. Genghis must have understood how Jochi looked to him or he would not have chosen Tsubodai for the task.
‘My lord, I have never refused an order from you, ever. Remember that when you ask me for this.’
‘You trained him when he was just an angry boy, but I warned you then that his blood was bad, that he could turn against us at any moment. I was right then, was I not? I trusted him with warriors and authority and he took them and ran. As my general, tell me how I should deal with such a man!’
Tsubodai clenched his fists on the reins. He did not say that Genghis had brought it on himself, that the pride he showed in Chagatai had eaten at Jochi until there was nothing left but hatred. None of that would matter to the khan who sat before him. He tried a different tack, desperately.
‘At least let it wait until we have ridden against the shah’s son, lord. My men are vital there. If you send me away now, I will be gone for six months or more. If they attack us before then, I will be useless to you.’
Genghis lowered his brows, growing angry that his general was still struggling.
‘This prince has just sixty thousand, Tsubodai. I could send two or three tumans and gut him where he stands. This concerns me more. You are the only man Jochi will allow to speak. He respects you.’
‘I know it,’ Tsubodai said softly. He felt ill, torn between obedience to the khan and his friendship with Jochi. It did not help that his tactical mind saw the truth in Genghis’ words. Tsubodai knew he could get close to Jochi as no one else could. He sat in despair on the lake shore. Genghis seemed to sense his utter misery and his face and voice softened slightly.
‘Did you think all your orders would be easy, Tsubodai? That I would never ask for something hard? Tell me when a man is tested. Is it when his khan orders him into battle, with warriors of proven skill and courage? Or is it now, when he is given work he does not want? You have the finest mind of any of my generals, Tsubodai. I will grant you this. If you can see another way, tell me now and I will try it.’
Tsubodai had already considered and discarded a dozen plans, but none of them were worth his spit. In desperation, he tried one more time.
‘It took me more than a year to find him the first time, Tsubodai. If my scouts were seen, he will already have left. You can follow his trail, but could you find it another year from now? This is the time to take him quietly. You are my general, but I will begin this war without you if they come. Join me when you return or give back the marks of rank I gave to you!'
His anger surfaced at the last and Tsubodai almost flinched from it. The khan’s arguments were weak and both of them knew it. Genghis was obsessed with punishing Jochi. That was the truth that whispered behind the words. The khan could not be reached with reasoning when his heart was filled with bitterness. Tsubodai bowed his head, defeated.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will ride fast and far, lord. If the prince brings his army from the south, look for me in the hills.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Mongol scout sensed something. He had followed two men into the mountains for three full days, staying well back as he watched their progress. They had led him deep into the maze of canyons and high mountains around the Panjshir valley and the Afghan town of Parwan, with its ancient fortress. It was hard country, but the scout was experienced and knew every twist of the land. In the gathering dark, he could not follow the tracks any longer and he looked for a safe place to spend the night. It bothered him that he had lost the men. Something about them had aroused his curiosity from the first sighting. From a distance, they had looked like one of the Afghan hill tribes, swathed in cloth to protect their faces from the sun and wind. Still, there was something odd about them and he had been drawn in. In the canyon, he felt an itch, as if someone was watching. Could they have prepared an ambush? It was possible. The hill tribes knew the land even better than he did. They moved like ghosts when they wanted to and the scout was tempted to pull back and find the tracks again when the sun came up. He hesitated, sitting very still and listening for any noise over the moaning wind that wound its way through the hills.
He heard the snap of a bow, but he was not fast enough to throw himself down. The shaft struck him hard in the chest, where there was no armour to protect him. The scout grunted, rocking back in the saddle. His hands held the wooden saddle horn between his legs, keeping him upright as his horse whinnied in distress. He sucked air, spitting blood as he yanked at the reins. His eyes had filled with tears of pain and he was blind as he turned his mare, trusting her to find the way out.
Another arrow buzzed out of the gloom and struck him in the back, piercing his heart. He fell with the impact, sliding over the horse’s head. She would have bolted, but men came running towards her, grabbing the reins.
‘He’s down,’ the archer said to the man with him.
Jelaudin dropped a hand to his shoulder.
‘That was good work in this light.’
The archer shrugged and removed the string from his bow, folding it neatly into a pouch at his waist. He knew he was a fine shot, perhaps the best that the prince of Peshawar could offer. His master had given his service to Jelaudin, but the archer’s loyalty was only to the prince, not this ragged holy man. Still, Jelaudin clearly knew the enemy. He had been able to predict the movement of the scout, tempting him just enough to bring him in for the shot.
Jelaudin seemed to sense the way the archer’s thoughts were running, despite the gloom of the canyon.
‘Take away their eyes and these Mongols are not half so fearsome,’ he said softly. ‘God guided your arrow, my friend.’
The archer bowed his head out of respect, though he was a craftsman and took pride in his skills.
‘Will we be able to relieve the fortress at Parwan, master? I have an old friend who lives in the town. I would like to think we could bring him out alive.’
Jelaudin smiled in the darkness.
‘Never doubt it, my friend. By morning, the Mongols will be blind, their scouts dead. We will come out of the hills and fall on them like a landslide.’
As dawn came, the sun revealed the dusty lands around Parwan and the fortress that stood at its back. Four Mongol ming-haans surrounded the high tower of its castle, left over from the days when raiding parties roamed the region from the hills. The people of the town had abandoned their possessions to rush inside its walls, safe for a time.
The Mongol warriors had surrounded the fortress completely, knowing there could be little water inside. A deep river ran through the valley and they could water their horses freely while those in the fortress felt only dust in their throats. Some of the Mongols roamed the deserted town while they waited. Others had built a bridge across the river so they could hunt in the wooded hills beyond. They were in no hurry. The fortress would fall and another place would accept a new ruler, or be utterly destroyed. The officers were pleasantly idle as they watched the sunlight stretch shadows across the dusty ground. They did not need the town, or anything in it, but it lay across a route to the west and Genghis had ordered the way made clear.
In the two years since Genghis and Tsubodai had ridden against the Assassins, this work had become commonplace. They always had maimed men or old ones to man forts in the road. Tribute came in the form of gold, slaves or horses and every season brought a tighter grip on the Afghan lands. There were always some who refused to bow their heads to their new rulers, but if they fought, they were killed to the last man. The ancient stone tower at Parwan suited the Mongol needs and the townspeople had lost all hope as the days passed and the only small well ran dry. They knew nothing of the great wars going on around them, only that a grim force of merciless warriors waited just outside the wall.
Jelaudin came out of the mountains as the sun rose, the words of the dawn prayer still fresh on his lips. His best trackers knew this region better than any Mongol scout alive and they had hunted them in the valleys and canyons, until the last scout fell with Jelaudin watching. The Mongol force had no warning of the attack. Jelaudin exulted as his men poured down into the valley of Panjshir, its river shining in the sun. The Mongols barely had time to run to their horses before his army was in formation. He had called his men in faith and they had answered, walking or riding to him from thousands of miles away. Turkoman nomads had come, some of them as good with a bow as the Mongols themselves. Berber warriors rode on his left, who shared the faith if not the Arab blood that ran in Jelaudin’s veins. True Arabs, Bedouins, Persians, even Turks: he had bound them all to the men of Peshawar and their prince. Around that core, Jelaudin had trained his army.
The Mongols met them with whirring arrows, but Jelaudin knew his enemy and all his men carried long shields of layered wood and cured leather. With the prince’s gold behind him, he had found a design that did well against the Mongol bows and few of his men fell in the first vicious volleys. As the distance closed, Jelaudin rode with wild courage, shouting aloud as the Mongols changed their aim to his precious horses. They too wore the best armour Peshawar could produce, fish scales of metal overlapping on their long muzzles and chests. It slowed them in the charge, but arrows could not easily bring them down.
They hit the Mongol lines that formed before them out of chaos, crashing with stunning force against men who did not give way. The last volley of arrows had ripped through his men and even their armour and shields could not protect them at just a few paces. Jelaudin saw them fall, but then he was among the enemy, his sword swinging. He misjudged his first blow in his hunger for vengeance, so that it cracked across the helmet of a Mongol warrior. His speed gave the blow power and the man went flying backwards, trampled instantly under hooves. Jelaudin’s army had survived the first contact and the Mongol centre fell back in confusion.
Jelaudin saw horns form on the wings and the prince of Peshawar was there to send his men around the outside, trapping the horns almost before they could begin the manoeuvre. The Mongols had n
ever fought men who knew their tricks and tactics as well as Jelaudin. He shouted, manic with rage and joy as the Mongols fell back, their scout horns blowing retreat.
Even then they fought and the carnage was terrible when the Arabs pressed them too closely. The warriors kept tight formation, withdrawing in groups while the closest lines covered their backs with arrows and swords. Jelaudin raised his hand and bows bent along his front rank. As the gap opened, they sent a volley into the Mongols, each man aiming at the enemy archers, who carried no shields. Dozens of them were killed and the army of Jelaudin pressed on, step by step, forcing them back from the fortress while the citizens of Parwan cheered on the walls.
The river by the town was less than a mile away when the Mongols gave up the running fight and raced for the bridge. Jelaudin galloped after them with his men, intent on their deaths. He had seen them ride in triumph too many times not to take pleasure from the sight. He rode lightly, the breeze cool on his face.
The Mongols did not stop at the bridge. The surviving warriors galloped across without slowing down, risking their lives in the crush of men. It was well done and Jelaudin’s men did not hesitate to follow them.
Jelaudin saw Mongol warriors leap from their horses and take axes to the ropes and timbers of the bridge, ignoring those who rode them down. Perhaps a hundred of his mounted men had crossed and, with terrible clarity, Jelaudin saw that the Mongols intended to cut the force in half, leaving those on the fortress side helpless while they turned on the rest like mad dogs. The sight of such calm thinking broke through his frenzy and he reined in. He could direct his men to kill those who hacked at the bridge supports. If it held, he would destroy the Mongol forces to the last man, but if it fell, many of his men would die. He had done enough, he thought. He had wounded and bloodied an enemy who had not known defeat before. He took a horn from his waist, where it hung on a strap. It had once belonged to a Mongol scout, but his men were ready for the blaring note.