Bones Of the Hills c-3

by Conn Iggulden

  Khasar shrugged as the valley opened up in front of them. They had found another entrance to the central plain, but it too had a man on a peak and he stood to raise a banner that could be seen for miles. The river ran on their left as they trotted towards Jelaudin’s camp. The three generals could see that his army had formed on foot in a bow across the land. Sixty thousand standing men made a formidable sight and the Mongols rode with grim concentration, looking to their generals for orders.

  Kachiun felt his bladder fill as he crossed the plain. On a long ride, he would simply have let the liquid run down the horse’s flank. With the enemy so close, he grimaced and held it rather than have the men think he did it from fear.

  When the lines of the enemy were a mile away, Khasar and Jelme rode back across the face of the tumans to their positions. They had attended Kachiun on the ride to and from the river and both men knew what they had to do. In that, at least, Kachiun knew he was well served. He raised his hand and thirty thousand warriors moved into a trot. Ahead of them, Jelaudin’s front rank raised swords and shields, the heavy blades resting on their shoulders and gleaming in the sun as it moved west.

  Kachiun stared ahead at the blocks of stone littering the open ground. He did not know if Jelaudin had dug pits in front of his men and he tortured himself trying to guess where they might be placed. Should he leave the centre open and concentrate on the flanks alone? It was maddening to think that Jelaudin knew their tactics. Surely he would expect horns to form, in which case, Kachiun should send the tumans down the centre. That would leave their own flanks vulnerable and he felt his armpits grow cold with running sweat as he rode. His generals knew his plan, but they were ready for anything and he could change the orders, right to the moment they struck the enemy.

  Jelaudin had seen Genghis fight, Kachiun told himself. One or both of the flanks would have traps in their path. At half a mile, he was suddenly certain of it. This prince thought he had made himself safe in a position where he could not manoeuvre. Kachiun decided to show him the flaw in his thinking.

  ‘Swing wide right!’ he roared, raising his arm and jerking it in a circle. The scouts near him raised red banners on their right side and the tumans flowed. They would attack the right flank alone, sending everything they had against that one part of Jelaudin’s army. Let the rest fret as they stood behind their rocks and spikes.

  It took years of practice to move so many men without fouling each other’s lines. The Mongols managed it as if it was nothing to them, the tumans sliding into a new formation far out on the wing of the enemy. They increased their speed to a canter to match Kachiun and bent their bows. Behind them, a plume of dust rose high enough to cast a shadow across the valley. With the sun behind, they rode with darkness fleeing ahead.

  Kachiun saw the enemy shake their swords in anger as he thundered past the first piles of cut stones on his left. If he had led Jelaudin’s men, he would have already had them coming forward like a door swinging shut on the tumans. Yet they stood, as they had been told to stand.

  At four hundred paces, Kachiun counted aloud as the distance shrank at terrifying speed. He rode in the fifth rank, keeping himself alive to direct the battle. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry as he forced himself to breathe through his nose, snorting each breath. All three tumans raced towards the enemy. They had run so wide that they would strike almost along the line of hills.

  The first ranks hit trenches concealed with river rushes and loose soil. At full gallop, the horses went down hard, sending their riders flying. Some of them had their feet trapped in the stirrups and dislocated their legs as they were brought up short. The army of Jelaudin roared, but the Mongols recovered quickly. More than a hundred had fallen, but those who still lived curled into a ball and used their mounts as shelter as the ranks behind leapt over them. A few more fell as they misjudged the barrier of broken horses, but the line hardly slowed. No other army could have loosed a volley in the strip of land between the trenches and the enemy. The Mongols sent shafts as thick as flies into the enemy, knocking them back. As they reached the lines of swords, some of the warriors threw down their bows, while most took a moment to secure the weapon on a saddle hook, drawing a blade with the other hand. They did not consider the dead men they left behind at the trenches, only that they avenged them.

  The roaring line hit Jelaudin’s soldiers at close to full speed, the weight and power of the horses as dangerous to a standing force as the blades themselves. The Mongols spent their mounts ruthlessly, using them as battering rams to break the lines apart.

  Kachiun could see the curved blades of the Arabs swinging in flashes of sunlight as they resisted. His tumans had struck only a small part of the line and more than half of his men could not bring their weapons to bear. Instead, they sent arrows over their own ranks, the black shafts rising high to fall anywhere in the enemy host. They tore into the Arab force, but as Kachiun had been told, the enemy shields were well made and their discipline held. He saw shields raised high overhead, so that they formed a wall against the dropping shafts while the men sheltered safely underneath.

  Jelaudin’s men fought with fury and discipline as they were forced back a step and then another, over their own dead. The Mongol charge lost its speed against their packed ranks and the curved swords still rose and fell in unison. Warriors were cut from the saddle and, to Kachiun’s horror, he saw his men pushed back as the Arabs surrounded any warrior in their midst, like islands in a sea.

  The rest of Jelaudin’s army began to swing out against him. They had abandoned the safety of their position, but the advance was in order, rather than a mad rush. The far flank moved forward and Kachiun swore to himself. His column had cut into just one part of the enemy and he reached for the horn at his throat to counter this latest threat. When he blew the note, Khasar answered, pulling his men back with just a single order that flowed down the chain of command. Kachiun saw his questioning glance and pointed to the closing door of men that was swinging across the plain. Jelaudin’s men knew where the trenches lay and they stepped across them with barely a pause. In just moments, they would have encircled the Mongol tumans and then the killing would begin in earnest.

  Khasar had ten thousand archers, each with a quiver of thirty arrows on his back. They formed up in the widest line they could make, though the leading edge was quickly sucked into the fighting on the wing. The rest bent their bows at those who marched towards them. Khasar dropped his arm and thousand of shafts bit the air, thumping into armour and men. Another volley followed on the instant and one more.

  Kachiun shouted in frustration as he saw the Arab lines shudder. Hundreds of them fell, but they walked with shields high and merely grunted as they took the shots. Kachiun was exposed and for the first time he truly feared defeat.

  He blew the horn again, a double note repeated that would send his men running. Those who were closest to him responded first, but the order spread like a ripple through the tumans. Khasar cried out in anger, but then he too turned his horse from the enemy and pulled back.

  The Arab forces howled in triumph to see their enemy run. Thousands of them tried to cut down the Mongols riding away from them, racing after them with swords held ready for a vicious blow. Kachiun waited for the rest, making sure he did not ride so quickly that he left them all behind. The false withdrawal would have been easier against mounted men, where each rode alone in a wild frenzy of bloodlust.

  Kachiun took a sharp breath when a new horn signal sounded across the plain. It was not one of his. To his amazement, he saw the running Arab lines stagger to a halt and turn back. Some gaudy prince among their line had blown the note and they gave up the chase on the instant. Kachiun had already been planning the point when he would turn and cut them to pieces, far from the protection of the ground they had prepared.

  Instead, they re-formed where they had first stood and the tumans were left alone on the plain, panting and bloody in their frustration.

  Only a few of the A
rabs were too slow to respond and were cut down by Mongol warriors. The rest stood in solid ranks and bellowed insults, raising their swords and shields as if daring the Mongols to come and take them. Kachiun could see Khasar’s appalled expression as the two brothers met half a mile away from the battlefield.

  ‘Jelaudin,’ Khasar said, gasping for air. ‘That bastard knows us too well.’

  Kachiun nodded grimly. The son of the shah had seen false retreats against his father and he had been ready. The Mongols had been made to look foolish as they ran from the enemy and he struggled to find the calm he needed.

  The sun had moved astonishingly far during the fighting, so that early evening shadows leapt from him as he dismounted and tipped a waterskin to his mouth. There was time for another attack, but Jelaudin had out-thought him at every step and his confidence had been shattered. Khasar sensed his confusion and spoke again, needing his brother to start thinking.

  ‘What about taking up a position outside their lines tonight and sending arrows at them? It might draw them away from the hills at their back.’

  Kachiun shook his head.

  ‘With no other threat, they would just gather under shields. The shafts would be wasted.’

  ‘Then what, brother? Leave them to their victory?’ Khasar asked. His eyes widened in shock as Kachiun did not reply. ‘You would let these dog-raping farmers have the day?’

  ‘Unless you have a better idea,’ Kachiun snapped.

  Khasar gaped at him and both men looked up gratefully as Jelme rode up, covered in dust.

  ‘They are cut off from the river, at least,’ Jelme said. ‘Whatever supplies of water they have must run out eventually. We can wait them out.’

  Khasar looked scornful at the idea.

  ‘I wish Tsubodai were here,’ he said. ‘He would not have us waiting for an enemy to die of thirst or old age.’

  Kachiun grimaced, though he shared the same thought.

  ‘It comes down to this,’ he said. ‘No tricks or manoeuvres. Bows and swords alone against twice as many.’

  ‘That’s all you have?’ Khasar asked incredulously. ‘Genghis will have your thumbs for a plan like that. We’d lose more than half our men.’

  ‘We have never faced another one like this, Khasar, and we must win.’ He thought for a moment while the other two men watched him anxiously. ‘If they will not leave the position, we can approach slowly, clearing the ground as we go.’ He looked up and they saw his confidence return.

  ‘Archers to the front to keep them down and under their shields as we come in. Lancers behind them, ready to charge. Without the pits and stones, they are just an army of foot soldiers. We will cut them down.’ He glanced at the sun approaching the western hills and grimaced. ‘But it will not be today. We must wait for dawn. Have the men rest and eat and bind their wounds. Tomorrow will test us all, but we cannot fail in this place.’

  When Khasar spoke, his voice held none of his usual mockery.

  ‘Brother, you must send men to Genghis. Get him to bring reinforcements.’

  ‘He could not reach us in less than half a month, Khasar.’

  ‘So we wait! We wait and watch those farmers get thirsty while we drink their river.’

  Jelme cleared his throat and both brothers were relieved to have another break the tension between them.

  ‘The losses would be fewer if we had the rest of the tumans. There is that.’

  Kachiun knew it was good advice, though every part of him wanted to resume the battle. He could not remember being forced to such a position before and it rankled. He cursed for a time, in three languages.

  ‘Damn them to hell! Very well, I will send riders to Genghis.’

  Khasar knew the decision had cost his brother in pride and for once he chose not to mock him, merely clapping his hand on Kachiun’s shoulder.

  ‘The point of war is to win, Kachiun. It does not matter how we do it, or how long it takes. By the time Genghis arrives, they will be dry-throated like chickens in the sun. I will enjoy what comes after that.’

  As dawn came the following day, bringing a grey light to the Panjshir valley, the Mongols rose from their camp on the other side of the river, where they could not be attacked in the night. At first, Kachiun could not understand why his sharp-eyed scouts were shouting. The night had been freezing and he had slept with his arms tucked into a deel robe over his armour. He pulled the sleeves back to free his sword hand, reaching for it from instinct as the scouts came running towards him.

  ‘Is it an attack?’ he demanded, still numb from sleep and the cold. The scout looked terrified at having to deliver his news.

  ‘No, general. The enemy have gone in the night. The plain is empty.’

  Kachiun sagged. The valley of Panjshir was a labyrinth of cracks and passes on all sides. Jelaudin’s men would have known them all.

  His mind turned to the scouts he had sent riding to Genghis the evening before. He had not done well in the Panjshir valley and now he would have to send more men to keep Genghis informed. Even worse was the thought he did not voice, that Jelaudin’s men had taken another victory with them to the hills. It was a hard land to track an enemy on the move. The prospect of searching for them among the maze of rocks and valleys that formed this part of the world made him sick with fury. It did not matter that he had most of his forces intact. The enemy had seen them retreat. Kachiun swallowed drily as he realised he had let a spark leave the valley that could set the world alight. Word would spread that the Mongols could be defeated and, whether he liked it or not, Genghis would have to be told.

  ‘Get the trackers out,’ he snapped. ‘We will have to run them down.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The snow swirled all around him, but Tsubodai welcomed the cold. He had been born in such a place and it suited the numbness he had felt ever since he had accepted the orders of the khan. His face was set, with ice from his breath gathering on his upper lip no matter how many times he rubbed it away.

  With ten thousand men at his back, he had not tried to hide his presence. Jochi was no fool and he suspected he knew exactly where the tuman was. Tsubodai thought there was a chance he would find only an abandoned camp and then he would be forced to hunt the khan’s son across the frozen landscape under the sun. He made sure his banners were held high, bright yellow streamers of silk that would be visible for miles ahead. Jochi would know a tuman had come searching for him, but he would also know Tsubodai commanded.

  Tsubodai dipped his head, pulling closer the deel robe that he wore over his armour. His teeth chattered and he bit down. He did not seem to have the strength he remembered as a boy and wondered if the change from heat to cold had robbed him of some of his endurance. The body needed time to grow used to such extremes, even for those born to winter.

  He had wrestled with his orders for the entire trip north, climbing mountains and riding empty valleys, as well as passing sleeping towns in the dark. This was not a journey of conquest and he and his men had ignored ripe settlements. They had taken sheep and goats wherever they found them, but that was only good sense and the need for fresh meat. Ten thousand men had to be fed, no matter where they rode. Their ponies had been born to snow and they seemed to adjust faster than those who rode them, using their hooves to dig through the ice to grass whenever they were allowed to rest.

  The scout who had found Jochi the first time rode just ahead of Tsubodai. For thirty-eight days of hard riding, he had been a near silent companion. Now Tsubodai saw he had become alert, his head turning constantly. They had ridden for more than a thousand miles since leaving Genghis, using the spare mounts carefully. At last they were close and none of them knew how they would be met. The first sign of Jochi could be an empty village or a song of arrows coming out of the whiteness. Still they rode on and the general struggled with himself, making and discarding a dozen different plans each day. At times, he tormented himself with the vision of meeting the young man he had fostered and trained for three years, much o
f it spent almost as far in the north. The memories were strong and he found himself looking forward to seeing Jochi again, just as a father might want to see his son. He ran entire conversations through his head, one after the other, but they did not bring him peace.

  When his scouts brought a stranger back to his tuman, it was almost a relief to be nearing the end of his journey, though Tsubodai felt his stomach clench. He was not ready for what would come, even after so long waiting for it.

  He did not recognise the man, though he wore Mongol armour and a deel over it, much as Tsubodai did. More, he had an air of authority as he rode between two scouts and he did not bow his head as he reached Tsubodai. It had to be a minghaan officer, Tsubodai assumed, staring unblinking as the stranger was disarmed and allowed to come close. The tuman halted and the blinding wind seemed to intensify around them, howling across the land and dragging loose snow around the hooves of their horses.

  ‘General Tsubodai,’ the man said in greeting. ‘We saw your banners.’

  Tsubodai did not reply. The man would have no authority to act on his own and he merely waited to see how Jochi would play it out.

  ‘I am to say that you are not welcome here, general,’ the officer went on. The warriors around Tsubodai raised their heads at the challenge in the words, but the man did not flinch. ‘We have no quarrel with you, of all men, but out of respect, we ask that you turn away and leave this place.’

  Tsubodai pursed his lips, feeling the ice crack as it clung to him.

  ‘Your master said more than that, minghaan,’ he said. The officer blinked and Tsubodai knew he had guessed the rank correctly. ‘What did he tell you to do if I would not leave?’

  The officer cleared his throat, reminded suddenly that he spoke to the most revered man in the nation after Genghis. Despite the strain, he smiled briefly.

  ‘He said you would not, that you would ask me that question, almost word for word.’