The jagun was made up of ten arbans, each commanded by an officer. By Tsubodai’s order, only those ten men wore heavy armor. The rest had only leather tunics under padded deels. Jochi knew Genghis preferred the heavy charge to the light, but Tsubodai’s men seemed to survive. They could hit and gallop faster than the ponderous Russian warriors, and there was no fear in their ranks. Like Tsubodai, they looked hungrily down the slope at the column and waited to be seen.
“You know your father sent a rider to bring me home?” Tsubodai said.
Jochi nodded. “All the men know.”
“I had hoped to go further north than this, but I am your father’s man. He speaks and I obey, do you understand?”
Jochi stared at the young general, forgetting for a moment the knights who rode in the valley below.
“Of course,” he said, his face showing nothing.
Tsubodai glanced back at him, amused. “I hope you do, Jochi. He is a man to follow, your father. I wonder how he will respond when he sees how well you have grown.”
For a moment, anger twisted Jochi’s face before he smoothed his features and took a deep breath. Tsubodai had been more like a father than his own in many ways, but he did not forget the man’s true loyalty. At an order from Genghis, Tsubodai would kill him. As he looked at the young general, he thought there would be some regret, but not enough to hold the blow.
“He will need loyal men, Tsubodai,” Jochi said. “My father would not call us back to build or rest. He will have found some new land to tear to pieces. Like the wolf, he is always hungry, even to the point of bursting his own stomach.”
Tsubodai frowned to hear the khan described in such a way. In three years, he had seen no affection when Jochi spoke of his father, though sometimes there was a wistfulness that showed less and less as the seasons passed. Genghis had sent away a boy, but a man would return to him, Tsubodai had made certain of that. For all his bitterness, Jochi was a cool head in battle and the men looked on him with pride. He would do.
“I have another question for you, Jochi,” Tsubodai said.
Jochi smiled for an instant. “You always have, General,” he replied.
“We have drawn these iron knights after us for hundreds of miles, exhausting their horses. We have captured their scouts and put them to the question, though I do not know of this ‘Jerusalem’ they seek, or who this ‘white Christ’ is.” Tsubodai shrugged. “Perhaps I will meet him one day over the length of my sword, but the world is large and I am but one man.”
As he spoke, he watched the armored knights and the trailing baggage lines behind them, waiting to be seen.
“My question, Jochi, is this. These knights are nothing to me. Your father has called me back and I could ride now, while the ponies are fat with summer grass. Why then are we here, waiting for the challenge?”
Jochi’s eyes were cold as he replied.
“My father would say it is what we do, that there is no better way for a man to spend his years than at war with enemies. He might also say you enjoy it, General, and that is all the reason you need.”
Tsubodai’s gaze did not waver.
“Perhaps he would say that, but you hide behind his words. Why are we here, Jochi? We do not want their big horses, even for meat. Why will I risk the lives of warriors to smash the column you see?”
Jochi shrugged irritably. “If it is not that, I do not know.”
“For you, Jochi,” Tsubodai said seriously. “When you return to your father, you will have seen all forms of battle, in all seasons. You and I have captured towns and raided cities, ridden desert and forests so thick we could hardly cut our way through. Genghis will find no weakness in you.” Tsubodai smiled briefly at Jochi’s stony expression. “I will be proud when men say you learned your skill under Tsubodai the Valiant.”
Jochi had to grin at hearing the nickname from Tsubodai himself. There were no secrets in the camps.
“There it is,” Tsubodai muttered, pointing to a distant messenger racing to the head of the Russian column. “We have an enemy who leads from the front, a very brave man.”
Jochi could imagine the sudden dismay among the knights as they looked into the bowl of hills and saw the Mongol warriors. Tsubodai grunted softly as an entire rank peeled off the column and began trotting up the slopes, the long spears ready. He showed his teeth as the gap began to narrow. They were charging uphill, in their arrogance. He longed to teach them their error.
“Do you have your paitze, Jochi? Show it to me.”
Jochi reached behind him to where his bow holder was strapped to the saddle. He lifted a flap in the stiff leather and pulled out a plaque of solid gold, stamped with a wolf’s head in profile. At twenty ounces, it was heavy, but small enough for him to grip in his hand.
Tsubodai ignored the men rising doggedly up the hill to face the eldest son of Genghis.
“You have that and the right to command a thousand by my hand, Jochi. Those who command a jagun have one of mere silver, like this.” Tsubodai held up a larger block of the whitish metal. “The difference is that the silver paitze is given to a man elected by the officers of each arban below him.”
“I know this,” Jochi said.
Tsubodai glanced back at the knights laboring closer. “The officers of this jagun have asked to have you lead them, Jochi. I had no part in it.” He held out the silver paitze and Jochi took it joyfully, passing back the plaque of gold.
Tsubodai was solemn and deliberately formal, but his eyes were bright. “When you return to your father, Jochi, you will have known all ranks and positions.” The general gestured, cutting the air with his hand. “On the right, the left, and the center.” He looked over the heads of the straining knights cantering up the hill, seeing a flicker of movement on a crag in the distance. Tsubodai nodded sharply.
“It is time. You know what you have to do, Jochi. Command is yours.” Without another word, Tsubodai clapped the younger man on the shoulder and rode back over the ridge, leaving the jagun of riders in the care of one suddenly nervous leader.
Jochi could feel the combined stares of the hundred men on his back as he struggled to hide his pleasure. Each arban of ten elected one man to lead them, then those men elected one of their number to lead the hundred in war. To be so chosen was an honor. A voice in his mind whispered that they only honored his father, but he crushed it, refusing to doubt. He had earned the right and confidence swelled in him.
“Bow lines!” Jochi called. He gripped his reins tightly to hide his tension as the men formed a wider line so that every bow could bear. Jochi glanced over his shoulder, but Tsubodai had truly gone, leaving him alone. The men still watched and he forced the cold face, knowing they would remember his calm. As they raised their bows, he held up a clenched fist, waiting while his heart thumped painfully in his chest.
At four hundred paces, Jochi dropped his arm and the first flight of arrows whipped into the air. It was too far and those that reached the knights splintered on their shields, now held high and forward, so that almost the entire man was protected. The long shields showed their purpose as a second flight struck the ranks without a single rider going down.
The powerful horses were not fast, but still the gap closed and Jochi only watched. At two hundred paces, he raised his fist once more and another hundred arrows waited on creaking strings. At such a distance, he did not know if the knights’ armor would save them. Nothing ever had.
“Shoot like you have never owned a bow,” he shouted. The men around him grinned and the arrows snapped out. Jochi winced instinctively at shafts that went clear over the enemy heads, as if loosed by panicking fools. Only a few struck, and of those, still fewer brought a horse or man down. They could hear the thunder of the charge now and saw the front ranks begin to lower their spears in anticipation.
Facing them, Jochi smothered his fear in a sudden bloom of rage. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and kick his mount down the slope at the enemy. Shaking with frustration, he gave a d
ifferent order.
“Retreat over the ridge,” Jochi shouted. He wrenched at his reins and his horse jerked into a run. His jagun shouted incoherently, turning in chaos after their general. Behind him, he heard guttural voices yelling in triumph and acid rose in his throat, though whether it was from fear or anger, he did not know.
Ilya Majaev blinked sweat out of his eyes when he saw the Mongols turn like the filthy cowards they were. As he had a thousand times before, he took a loose grip on his reins and tapped himself on his chest, praying to Saint Sophia to bring enemies of the faith under his hooves. Beneath the chain mail and padded tunic lay a fragment of her finger-bone in a locket of gold, the most precious thing he possessed. The monks at Novgorod had assured him he would not be killed while he wore it, and he felt strong as his knights hammered over the ridge. His men had left the cathedral city two years before, carrying messages east for the prince before they finally turned south and began the long trek that would take them to Jerusalem. Ilya had pledged his life with the others to defend that holy place from the unbelievers who sought to destroy her monuments.
It should have been a journey of prayer and fasting before they brought their skill in arms against godless men. Instead, they had been stung over and over by the Mongol army raiding the area. Ilya ached to have them close enough to kill, and he leaned forward in the saddle as his mount lunged after the fleeing riders.
“Give them unto me, O Lord, and I will break their bones and trample on their false gods,” he whispered to himself. The Mongols were racing wildly down the far slope, but the Russian horses were powerful and the gap closed steadily. Ilya sensed the mood of the men around him as they snarled and called to each other. They had lost companions to flights of arrows in the darkness. Scouts had vanished without a trace, or worse, been found with wounds to make a man vomit. In a year, Ilya had seen more towns burned than he could remember, the plumes of black smoke drawing him in desperate pursuit. The marauding Mongols were always gone by the time he arrived. He urged his mount to gallop, though the weary animal’s sides were already heaving and clots of white saliva flicked up to strike his arms and chest.
“On, brothers!” Ilya shouted to the rest. He knew they would not tire with the tribesmen at last within reach. The Mongols were an affront to everything Ilya valued, from the peaceful streets of Novgorod to the quiet calm and dignity of the cathedral of his blessed saint.
Ahead, the Mongol warriors raced in disarray through a cloud of their own dust. Ilya snapped orders and his men closed into a solid column, fifty ranks of twenty abreast. They tied their reins to the saddle horns and leaned forward over the horses’ necks with shield and spear, urging the animals on with just their knees. Surely there had never been such a force of men and iron in the history of the world! Ilya showed his teeth in anticipation of first blood.
The route of the fleeing Mongols took them past a hill shrouded in ancient beech and elm trees. As Ilya thundered past it, he saw something move in the green gloom. He barely had time to shout a warning before the air was filled with whining shafts. Even then he did not hesitate. He had seen the arrows break on his men’s shields. He bawled an order to hold formation, knowing they could smash their way through.
A horse screamed and thumped into him from his left, crushing his leg and almost unseating him. Ilya cursed in pain, taking a sharp breath as he saw the rider hanging limp. Flight after flight of arrows came from the dark trees, and in horror, he saw his men falling from their saddles. Arrows passed through chain mail as if it were linen, punching out in a spray of blood. Ilya shouted wildly, kicking his exhausted mount on. Ahead, he saw the Mongols wheel in perfect unison, their commander staring straight at him. The Mongols did not stop to bend their bows. Their ponies lunged forward as one, the warriors loosing shafts as they rode.
Ilya felt an arrow pluck at his arm, then the two forces clashed together and he braced himself. His long spear took a warrior in the chest, wrenching it from his grasp so quickly he thought he had broken his fingers. He drew his sword with a hand almost too numb to grip. Red dust was everywhere, and in the midst, the Mongols rode like devils, calmly sending arrows into the packed ranks of his men.
Ilya raised his shield and was knocked backwards as an arrow struck it, the head showing clearly through the wood. His right foot came out of the stirrup and he swayed, all balance lost. Another shaft hit him in the thigh before he could recover, and he cried out in pain, raising his sword as he rode at the archer.
The Mongol watched him come, his face blank of any emotion. He was little more than a beardless boy, Ilya saw. The Russian swung his blade, but the Mongol ducked under the blow and shoved him as he passed. The world spun in silence for a moment and then Ilya crashed to the ground, stunned.
The nosepiece of his helmet had been jammed in with the impact, breaking his front teeth. Ilya rose, blind with tears and spitting blood and fragments. His left leg buckled and he fell clumsily, desperate to find the sword that had fallen from his hand.
He heard hoofbeats behind just as he saw the weapon lying on the dusty ground. He reached for the relic at his chest and murmured a prayer as the Mongol blade came down on his neck, almost severing his head. He did not live to see the rest of his men slaughtered, too heavy and slow to defend against the warriors of Tsubodai, general to Genghis Khan.
Jochi dismounted to examine the dead, once he had ordered a dozen of his men to sweep the area and report the movement of the main column. The Russian chain mail had not saved them. Many of the sprawling bodies were struck through more than once. Only the helmets had held. Jochi could not find a single man brought down with a shaft to the head. He picked up a helmet and rubbed a finger over a bright slash of metal where an arrow had glanced away. It was a good design.
The ambush had gone just as Tsubodai had planned, Jochi thought wryly. The general seemed to read the minds of their enemies. Jochi breathed deeply, making an effort to control the trembling that beset him after each battle. It would not do for the men to see him shake. He did not know they watched him stride with clenched fists and saw only that he was still hungry, a man never satisfied no matter what he had achieved.
Three other jaguns had taken part in the ambush. Jochi saw the officers ride out of the trees where they had lain in wait all night. After years with Tsubodai, he knew each man like a brother, as Genghis had once told him to do. Mekhali and Altan were solid men, loyal but unimaginative. Jochi nodded to them both as they trotted their ponies to the field of the dead. The last of them, Qara, was a short, sinewy warrior with a scarred face from an old wound. Though he was faultlessly formal, Jochi sensed a dislike he could not understand. Perhaps the glowering man resented him for his father. Jochi had met many suspicious of his rise in the ranks. Tsubodai was not subtle in the way he included Jochi in every plan and stratagem, just as Genghis had once done with the young boy from the Uriankhai who had become his general. Tsubodai looked to the future, while men like Qara imagined they saw only a spoiled young prince, promoted beyond his skill.
As Qara rode up and grunted at the sight of the dead knights, Jochi realized he was no longer the man’s superior. He had accepted the silver with a battle looming and still felt the honor of being trusted with a hundred lives. Yet it meant that for a time at least, Qara no longer had to watch himself around the khan’s son. One glance told Jochi the wiry little warrior had already thought it through.
“Why are we waiting here?” Qara said suddenly. “Tsubodai will be attacking as we smell the grass and stand idle.”
Jochi resented the words, but he spoke lightly as if Qara had merely greeted him. If the man had been a true leader, he would already have begun the ride back to Tsubodai. In a flash of insight, Jochi understood that Qara still looked to him to respond, despite his drop in rank. Glancing at Mekhali and Altan, he found they too were watching him.
Perhaps it was just their habit, but he felt an idea begin to form and knew he would not waste the moment.
“Do you see
their armor, Qara?” he responded. “The first piece hangs from the helmet, covering their faces except for the eyes. The second cloth of iron rings reaches right to their knees.”
“It did not stop our shafts,” Qara said with a shrug. “When they are unhorsed, they move so slowly it is easy to bring them down. We do not need such poor protection, I think.”
Jochi grinned up at the man, enjoying the confusion it brought.
“We do need it, Qara.”
High in the hills above the valley, Tsubodai waited on foot, his pony snuffling among dead pine needles. Almost five thousand men rested around him, waiting for his decision. He waited on the scouts he had sent out. Two hundred had ridden in all directions, their reports allowing the general to form a picture of the area for many miles around.
He knew Jochi’s ambush had been a success almost before it was over. One thousand fewer of the enemy left only ten, but it was still too many. The column of knights moved slowly through the river valley, waiting for the attack group to return victorious. They had not brought bowmen into the wilderness, a mistake that would cost them dearly. Yet they were large men and so strong that Tsubodai could not risk a simple frontal assault. He had seen knights stuck with arrows who had still fought through to kill two or even three of his. They were warriors of great courage, but he thought it would not be enough. Brave men come forward when they are attacked, and Tsubodai planned accordingly. Any army could be routed in the right conditions, he was certain of it. Not his own, of course, but that of any enemy.
Two of the scouts galloped in to mark the latest position of the Russian force. Tsubodai made them dismount and draw on the ground with sticks so he could be sure there was no misunderstanding.
“How many scouts do they have out?” he asked.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 85
