Empire of Silver

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘After Ogedai’s son, Guyuk,’ Sorhatani snapped.

  Yao Shu nodded. ‘All being well, of course, but it was not so many years ago that these corridors and rooms were full of armed men contesting just such an event. May it never happen again. The princes are gathering, Sorhatani, with Tsubodai. If you are planning to have your sons reach for the khanate one day, you should be aware of the stakes involved. Guyuk, Batu and Baidur have as strong a claim as your own, don’t you think?’

  She glared at him as if he had raised a hand to her. He smiled and stood, the meeting at an end.

  ‘I will leave you to your tea and fine things, Sorhatani. I have found such luxuries are fleeting, but do enjoy them for the moment.’

  As he left her sitting in thought, he promised himself that he would be there to witness the khan’s wife returning to Karakorum. It was one pleasure he would not deny himself after so many months of strain.

  The soldiers stood and shivered in the shadow of the huge gate. Like the stockade around them, it was made of ancient black logs, lashed together with ropes that became brittle in the winter cold. There were men in the stockade whose daily task was to walk the outer line, stepping carefully along a tiny walkway. With frozen hands, they checked each rope was still like iron in the cold. It took them the best part of the day. The stockade was more like a town than a camp and many thousands were crammed inside.

  The yard in front of the gate was a good place to stand, Pavel thought, a safe place. He was there because he had been among the last to come in the night before. Yet the soldiers who stamped and shoved their hands into their armpits for warmth felt its strength looming over them. They tried not to think of the moments to come when the gate would be heaved open by snorting oxen and they would go out among the wolves.

  Pavel stood back from the men close to the gate. He felt his sword nervously, wanting to draw it again and look at it. His grandfather had told him the importance of keeping it sharp. He had not told him what to do if he was given a blade older than he was himself, with more nicks, cuts and scratches than he could believe. Pavel had seen some of the real soldiers run a whetstone along their swords, but he had not had the courage to ask to borrow one. They did not look like the sort of men who would lend anything to a boy. He had not seen the grand duke yet, though Pavel had craned his neck and stood as tall as he could. That would be something to tell his grandfather when he went home again. His dedushka remembered Krakow and, in his cups, the old man claimed to have seen the king when he was young, though it might have been just a story.

  Pavel longed for a glimpse of the freemen adventurers, the Qasaks the duke had bought for the campaign with a river of gold. He tried not to get his hopes up that his father could be among them. Part of him saw the sadness in his grandfather’s eyes whenever he spoke of the brave young man who had gone to join the horsemen. Pavel had seen his mother weep in the house when she thought he couldn’t hear. He suspected his father had simply abandoned them, as so many did when the winters were too hard. He had always been a wanderer. They had left Krakow looking for land of their own to buy, but farm work had turned out to be one step from starvation and with little more joy. If anything, the Russian farmers were worse off than those they had left behind.

  There were always men who travelled to Kiev or Moscow looking for work. They promised they would send money to their families, but few ever did and fewer still came back. Pavel shook his head. He was not a child, hoping for a little truth in all the lies. He had a sword and he would fight for the duke alongside those fierce, coarse riders. He smiled, amused at himself. He would still look for his father’s face among them, tired and lined with hard work, with the hair cropped close to the skull against lice. He hoped he would be able to recognise him after so long. The Qasaks were somewhere outside the stockade, riding their horses in the snow.

  The cold was biting as the sun came up, the ground rubbed to slush by men and horses. Pavel wrung his hands together and cursed aloud as he was jostled from behind. He enjoyed cursing. The men around him used terms he had never heard before and he growled a good blasphemy at his unseen assailant. His irritation faded as he saw it was just a runner boy carrying dough balls stuffed with meat and herbs. Pavel’s hands were quick and he lifted two of the steaming lumps as the boy struggled to get past him. The boy swore at the theft, but Pavel ignored him, cramming one into his mouth before someone noticed and took it away. The taste was glorious and the juices dribbled down his chin and under the mailed jerkin he had been given just that morning. He had felt like a man then, with a man’s weight to carry. He had thought he would be frightened, but there were thousands of soldiers in the stockade and many more Qasaks outside. They did not seem afraid, though many of the faces were stern and quiet. Pavel did not speak to those who wore beards or heavy moustaches. He was still hoping to grow whiskers of his own, but there was nothing there yet. He thought guiltily of his father’s razor in the barn. For a month or so, he’d gone out there every evening to run it up and down his cheeks. The boys in the village said it made the hair grow faster, but there was precious little sign of it on him, at least so far.

  Horns sounded somewhere distant and men began shouting orders all around him. There was no time to eat the second dough ball, so Pavel shoved it down his jerkin, feeling the heat spread against his skin. He wished his grandfather could have been there to see him. The old man had been away from home, gathering firewood from miles out so that the easy stocks would still be there as winter tightened its grip. His mother had wept, of course, when Pavel brought the duke’s recruiter to the back door. With the man watching, she hadn’t been able to refuse him, just as he’d planned it. He’d walked tall behind the recruiter and he still remembered the combination of excitement and nervousness in the faces of the others on the road. Some of them were older than Pavel and one had a beard that reached almost to his chest. He’d been disappointed not to see any of the other village lads there. No doubt they had run from the recruiters. He’d heard of boys hiding in hay barns and even lying down with cattle to avoid the duke’s call. Their fathers were not Qasaks. Pavel hadn’t looked back at the village as he’d left, or only once at least, to see his mother come to the boundary and hold up her hand to him. He hoped his grandfather would be proud when he heard. Pavel wasn’t sure how the old man would react, but at least he’d miss the beating, if that was the result. He grinned at the thought of the old devil standing in the yard with the chickens, with no one to take his strap to.

  Something was happening, that much was obvious. Pavel saw his sotski march past, the one officer he knew. The man looked tired and though he didn’t notice Pavel, instinct made him fall in behind. If they were going out, his place was in the hundred, as he’d been told. Pavel didn’t know any of the ones walking with him, but that was where he was meant to be and his sotski at least seemed to be marching with purpose. Together, they crossed the gate and the officer finally saw Pavel standing behind him.

  ‘You are one of mine,’ he said, then pointed to a slightly larger group without waiting for an answer.

  Pavel and six more walked over, smiling sheepishly at each other. They looked as ungainly as he felt, standing with their swords and iron jerkins that draped almost to their knees, rubbing their frozen hands as they went red and pale blue in the cold. The sotski had gone off to shepherd in a few more of those in his charge.

  Pavel jumped as horns sounded again, this time from the walls of the stockade. One of the men with him laughed unpleasantly at his reaction, revealing brown and broken teeth. Pavel’s cheeks burned. He had hoped for the sort of brotherhood his grandfather had described, but he couldn’t see it in the frozen yard, with men pissing in the slush, their thin faces pinched with cold. Snow began falling out of the white sky above and many of the men cursed it, knowing it would make the day harder in all ways.

  Pavel watched as steaming brown oxen were driven past him and roped to the gates. Were they going out already? He could not see the sotski any
where. The man seemed to have vanished, just when Pavel needed to ask him all sorts of things. He could see daylight through the gates as they groaned inwards. Those in the yard were forced back by shouting officers, the crowd swaying in like a drawn breath. Some of the men were facing the widening gap, but a new commotion started somewhere far back and heads turned to see what it was. Pavel could hear voices raised in pain and anger. He craned his neck to look behind him and the one who had laughed shook his head.

  ‘The whips are out, boy,’ he said gruffly. ‘They’ll send us into battle like animals being driven. It’s the way of the duke’s fine officers.’

  Pavel did not like the man who spoke, especially as he seemed to be criticising the duke himself. He looked away rather than answer, then shuffled forward as those behind began to press into the open yard. The gate yawned wider and the whiteness was almost blinding after so long in its shadow.

  The air was painful in his lungs and throat, the cold so intense that Batu could hardly breathe. The mounts of his tuman cantered in together, judging the range to the Russian horsemen. They were already sweating from the manoeuvres as the sun came up. All they could do then was keep moving. To stop was to let the sweat freeze and begin to die slowly, unaware of the spreading numbness.

  Shortly after first light, Tsubodai had sent his right wing forward, Batu at the head. They did not fear the levies and conscripts the duke had gathered in his great stockades. Those could be torn apart by arrows. The enemy cavalry were the danger and Batu felt pride at being first against them. They had feinted left at dawn, forcing the Russians to bolster their lines there. As the duke pulled men from his other wing, Batu had waited for Tsubodai’s signal, then gone in fast. He could see huge numbers of horses, and as he rode, he saw the lines accelerate towards his tuman, rippling forward as the orders came. The duke had gathered a massive force to defend Kiev, but none of them had expected to fight in winter. It was a killing cold.

  Batu tested his bowstring, easing and heaving back on the bow as he rode, feeling the action loosen the great muscles in his shoulders. The arrows were thick in the quivers on their backs and he could hear the feathers crackle against each other by his ear.

  The duke had spotted the threat. Batu could see the man and his pretty flags off to one side. Horns blew his orders, but Tsubodai had sent Mongke in on the left, the two wings drawing ahead of the main force. The orlok held the centre with Jebe and Kachiun, his heaviest horsemen armed with lances. Whoever came out of the stockade would be met with a massed black line, ready for them.

  Batu nodded to his bannerman and a great streak of orange silk began to swing back and forth, visible all along the line. The creak of thousands of bows bending sounded, a groan that seemed to hum in the air. Four thousand shafts soared as the first ranks released, reaching behind them for another arrow and fitting it at a canter as they had learned to do as children. They lifted themselves slightly off the saddle, letting their knees balance against the lunge of the horse beneath. There was no great need for accuracy at full range. The arrows flew high, then sank into the Qasak horsemen, blurring the air and leaving it clean and dead in their wake.

  Horses collapsed among the enemy. Those who had bows responded, but they could not match the range of the Mongol weapons and their shafts fell short. Batu slowed the pace, rather than throw away such an advantage. His signal brought the cantering line down to a trot and then a walk, but the arrows continued to fly out, one every six heartbeats, like hammer blows on an anvil.

  The Russian horsemen forced their mounts through the barrage, racing blindly forward as they held shields high and crouched as low as they could on the saddles. The two wings would clash around the stockaded town and Batu eased himself into the front rank. His men expected to see him there since his wild ride against the Russian prince and his blood ran faster and hot when he was facing down the enemy, his tuman around him.

  There was no break, no respite in the arrow waves. From soaring arcs, the Mongol riders adjusted and sent them lower, then began to pick targets. The Russian charge was not clad in steel like the duke’s personal guard. Tsubodai would have to take those on in the centre. The duke’s Qasaks continued to fall, riding into a gale of shafts that seemed to leave no space for man or horse.

  Batu found his quiver empty and he grimaced, tucking his bow on the saddle hook without thought. He drew his sword and that action was copied all along the line. The Russian wing had been battered, hundreds of them left behind the charge. Those who remained were still coming on, but many were wounded, swaying in the saddle, breathing blood from shafts through their lungs. They wheezed defiance still, but the Mongols cut them down as they passed, striking out with armoured fists and forearms, using the swords with neat precision.

  Batu’s tuman swept over the remnants of the wing and on past the stockade walls. He had a glimpse of the great gates opening, but then it was behind him and he was chasing an enemy half-hanging out of his saddle as he tried to get away. The Mongol warriors hooted as they rode, calling out prime targets to each other. Batu could feel their pride and pleasure as they nodded to him. This was the best of times, when the enemy were in disarray and could be hunted like a herd of deer.

  As the gates swung open, Pavel was shoved out into the bright light, the snow making the dawn blinding. He blinked in confusion and fear. There were too many voices shouting. He could not make sense of any of it. He drew his sword and marched forward, but the man in front of him stopped suddenly, the one who had spoken earlier.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Pavel said.

  Already, he was being shoved from behind. The man with the broken teeth hawked and spat as he stared out at the Mongol army riding towards them. The lances came down in a line.

  ‘Jesus Christ save us,’ the man muttered and Pavel did not know if it was a prayer or a curse. He heard the men behind him begin a martial shout, trying to spur each other on, but it was thin on the wind and Pavel felt his hands weaken, his stomach clench.

  The Mongol line grew larger, bringing with them a swelling vibration of the ground beneath their feet. They could all feel it and many of them turned to each other. The officers were shouting, pointing to the Mongols, red in the face and spraying spittle in their urging. The column still moved, unable to stop as those behind pressed them out into the snow. Pavel tried to slow his steps, but he was shoved by men as reluctant as he was.

  ‘For the duke!’ one of the officers shouted. A few took up the cry, but their voices were feeble and they soon fell silent. The Mongol tuman came on, a line of darkness that would sweep them all away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Kachiun heard the laughter before the group was even in sight. He winced as his bad leg throbbed. An old wound had suppurated in the thigh and he had to drain it twice a day, according to Tsubodai’s Moslem healer. It didn’t seem to help. The wound had troubled him for months, flaring up without warning. It made him feel old to approach the young officers limping like a cripple. He was old, of course. Limping or not, they would have made him feel his years.

  He heard Guyuk’s voice rise above the others, telling some story of Batu’s triumphs. Kachiun sighed to himself as he walked past a final ger. The noise stopped for a moment as Guyuk spotted him. The others turned to see what had caught the young man’s attention.

  ‘The tea has just boiled, general,’ Guyuk called cheerfully. ‘You’re welcome to share a cup with us, or something stronger if you prefer.’ The others laughed as if this was a great jest and Kachiun repressed his grimace. He had been young too, once.

  The four of them were sprawled around like young lions and Kachiun grunted as he lowered himself to the mat of felt, easing his leg out carefully. Batu noticed the swollen thigh, of course. That one missed nothing.

  ‘How is the leg, general?’

  ‘Full of pus,’ Kachiun snapped.

  Batu’s face closed at his tone, shuttering his emotions away. Kachiun cursed himself. A little pain and sweating and there he was, snapping
at boys like a bad-tempered old dog. He looked around the little group, nodding to Baidur, who was hard-pressed to contain the sheer excitement he felt at joining the campaign. The young warrior was jittery and bright-eyed to be in such company and be treated as an equal. Kachiun wondered if any of them knew the treacheries of their fathers, or whether they cared if they did.

  Kachiun accepted the bowl of tea in his right hand, and tried to relax as he sipped. The conversation did not resume immediately in his presence. He had known all their fathers and, for that matter, Genghis himself. The years weighed heavily on him at that thought. He could see Tolui in Mongke and the memory saddened him. The promise of Chagatai’s strong features looked out from Baidur’s face in its lines and jutting jaw. Time would tell if he had the man’s stubborn strength as well. Kachiun could see the lad had something to prove yet in this company. He was not among the leaders of the group, by any means.

  That brought Kachiun’s thoughts to Batu, and as he glanced over, he found the young man watching him with something like a smile, as if he could read his thoughts. The others deferred to him, that much was obvious, but Kachiun wondered if their new-found friendship would survive the challenges of the years. When they were rivals for the khanates, they would not be so relaxed in each other’s presence, he thought, sipping.

  Guyuk smiled easily, one who expected to inherit. He had not had Genghis as a father to harden him and make him understand the dangers of easy friendship. Perhaps Ogedai had been too soft on him, or perhaps he was just a normal warrior, without the ruthless quality that set men like Genghis apart.

  ‘And men like me,’ Kachiun thought to himself, considering his own dreams and past glories. Seeing the future in the relaxing cousins was bitter-sweet for him. They showed him respect, but he did not think they understood the debt they owed. The tea tasted sour in his mouth at the thought, though his teeth were rotting at the back and everything tasted bad to him.