Khalifa Al-Nayhan was a worried man as he rode up the hill, his fine gelding already laboring in the heat and dust. He had grown up in those very mountains and knew the ridge he was assaulting. The Shah had given the order and he had formed his men without hesitation, but his stomach felt hollow. After the first shock of seeing Mongol scouts hundreds of miles from where they should have been, Shah Mohammed had settled into a fury Khalifa knew he could maintain for days or weeks. It was not a time to suggest that they wait for better terrain.
Khalifa urged his mount on over the broken ground, looking up at the ridge that seemed far above his head. Perhaps it was no more than a scout’s camp at the top. By the time he arrived, they might well have galloped away, and then at least the Shah would be satisfied. No one knew how these savage Mongols had made a Chin emperor kneel, and the Shah needed quick victories to reassure his chieftains.
Khalifa shook the loose thoughts out of his head as he rode, feeling sweat sting his eyes. The summer had been mild so far, but climbing to the ridge was hard work. He trusted the men around him, many of them from his own tribe of desert warriors. The Shah had spared nothing in outfitting them for war, and though the new armor and shields were heavy, Khalifa felt the confidence they brought. They were picked men: the first into every battle, the breakers of walls and armies. He felt his bow slapping against his thigh, but they could not bring arrows to bear while riding up such a slope. Once more he thought of the Shah watching and shook his head against weak thoughts. They would win or they would be killed. It was all the same to Allah.
At the steepest point of the slope, Khalifa knew they were committed. The horses plunged on, but the ground was even softer than he remembered and progress was painfully slow. Khalifa felt exposed and made his peace with God as he drew the curved shamsher saber that had served him for many years. With his left hand, he raised his shield, and rode only with his feet in the stirrups. Like many of his men, he secretly despised the metal foot-holders that made it hard to dismount quickly. Yet they showed their use on such a slope, when he needed both hands for his weapons. A quick tap on his boot showed him his dagger was still there in the leather sheath, and he leaned forward into the warm breeze that came over the ridge.
In time of peace, civilization had no place for butchers like him, but still they were needed and would always be needed, when the jeweled cities and green parks were threatened. Khalifa had escaped two murder charges by joining the army and assuming a new name. It was what he did best. Sometimes he was paid and other times hunted, depending on how and when he practiced his skills. Riding with his men into the teeth of the enemy was what he loved. The Shah was watching, and if they bloodied their swords, there would be rewards of women and gold for the commanders.
“Hold the line straight, Ali, or I will see you whipped!” Khalifa roared across his men. He saw dust still rising from the ridge and knew the enemy had not run. He could hardly see in the clouds that his own men churned up, but there was only one objective and his horse was still strong.
Above him, Khalifa saw rocks grow in size as they were pushed to the edge. He called out a warning, but he could do nothing. He watched in fear as the boulders came bouncing down, ripping through men and horses in a series of sickening cracks. Khalifa cried out as one came close enough for him to feel the wind of its passage. As it passed, it seemed to leap like something alive, striking the man behind with a great crunch. He could see only six of the huge stones scything through his men, but each one took many lives and left the ground littered with pieces of armor and men. They were riding in close ranks and there was no room to dodge the stones.
As quickly as it had begun, the boulders stopped and a ragged cheer went up from those who still labored on the slope. The ridge was no more than four hundred paces away, and Khalifa kicked his mount on, hungry now to bring vengeance to those who killed his men. He saw a dark line of archers ahead and raised his shield instinctively, ducking his head beneath the rim. He was close enough to hear orders called in a strange language, and he clenched his teeth. The Shah had sent forty thousand men up that slope. No force in the world could do more than thin the ranks before they were among them and killing.
Firing downhill, the Mongol archers could send their shafts further than normal range. Khalifa could only keep his head down as arrows thumped against his shield. The one time he raised his head, it was immediately rocked back by a glancing blow that yanked the turban from his head and left it dangling. Rather than have it snag, he cut it free with part of his long hair and it bounded down the hill behind him.
At first the shields protected his men, but as they reached the last hundred paces, the air was thick with whistling shafts and men died in scores. Khalifa’s shield was of wood, covered in the dried hide of a hippopotamus—the lightest and best of all the Shah’s equipment. It held, though the muscles of his arm were bruised and battered until he could barely hold it. Without warning, he felt his horse shudder and begin to die.
Khalifa would have leapt clear, but his feet snagged in the stirrups and for a breathless moment of panic his right leg was trapped under the dying horse. Another mount crashed into his as it fell, and he jerked free, thanking Allah for his deliverance. He rose on sandy ground, spitting blood and wild with rage.
The entire front rank had been brought down by the archers, fouling those behind. Many of his men were yelling, tugging at shafts through their legs and arms while others lay sprawled and unmoving. Khalifa roared fresh orders and the men behind dismounted to lead their mounts through the broken dead. The gap closed further and Khalifa held his sword high, pointing it at the enemy above. One hundred paces and he was lost in his desire to kill. If anything, he was faster on foot, though every step on loose ground sapped his strength. He scrambled up with his sword ready for the first blow. The Shah was watching and Khalifa could almost feel the old man’s eyes on his back.
The Mongols poured over the ridge, straight down the steep slope. Their ponies slid, with front legs straight and stiff while the back legs bunched to keep them upright. The desert warriors strained to take the first impact, but to Khalifa’s shock, another wave of arrows punched them from their feet before the two forces met. He could not understand how the Mongols could draw and loose while guiding their mounts down such a slope, but the volley devastated his men. Hundreds died on foot or leading their mounts, and this time the shafts were followed by the Mongol front line crashing down on them. Khalifa heard their yelling swell until it seemed to echo back from the hills all around.
The Mongol horsemen came like a breaking wave, smashing anything in their path by sheer weight. Khalifa was standing behind the bodies of two horses and could only watch in astonishment as the charge roared past him, a wedge tipped with lances that struck deep and deeper into the climbing lines below.
He was left alive, but still they came. Khalifa could not climb further. The way was blocked by thousands of Mongol horsemen, guiding their mounts with just their knees while they loosed arrows at anything that moved. A long shaft ripped through his side, parting the steel links of his armor as if they had been made of paper. He fell, shouting incoherently, and it was then that he glimpsed another force cutting across the face of the slope.
Jochi’s men hit the flank of the Arab riders below Jebe’s charge. Their arrows tore a hole in the ranks, and they followed it with lances and swords, cutting men down while they were held in the press. Khalifa stood to see them, fear and bile rising in his throat. Arrows still whirred by his bare head, but he did not flinch. He saw the two forces meet in the center and the combined mass drove his men further down so that they almost reached the valley floor. Bodies covered the ground behind them and riderless horses ran wild, knocking fresh warriors from their saddles in their panic.
The Mongol charge from the ridge had passed him by, and Khalifa saw one horse with its reins trapped under a dead man. He ran to it, ignoring the pain in his side as he mounted, throwing his shield aside with a curse when the arrow shafts snagged. The
air was thick with dust and the cries of dying brothers, but he had a horse and a sword and had never asked for more. Perhaps thirty thousand desert men still lived, struggling below to hold back the twin charge. Khalifa could see the Mongols had gambled their full force in the attack, and he shouted as he rode wildly down the hill toward the ranks. They could be held. They could be broken, he was sure of it.
As he reached his men, he bellowed commands to the closest officers. A solid square began to form, ringed with shields. The Mongols threw themselves at the edges and began to die as they met the swords of his tribe. Khalifa felt the battle like a live thing and knew he could still turn the losses to triumph. He had his men retreat in order back to the flat ground, harried all the way by the Mongol warriors. He drew them away from the slope they had used to such effect, and when the earth was hard under his mount, Khalifa ordered a charge into them, urging his men on with words of the Prophet.
“They shall be slain or crucified or have their hands and feet cut off on alternate sides, or be banished from the land. They shall be held up to shame in this world and sternly punished in the hereafter!”
His men were true Arabs of the blood. They heard and became fierce once more, taking the fight to the enemy. At the same time, the Shah moved at last, sending fresh soldiers racing in squares as the Mongols came within range. The lines met and a roar went up as the Mongols were knocked back, defending desperately as attacks came from more than one direction. Khalifa saw the Shah’s ranks move wide to surround them, marching steadily in.
The Mongol warriors faltered, overwhelmed as Khalifa barged his horse through to the front rank. A young warrior came at him and Khalifa braced and took the man’s head as he swept past. The Shah’s riders advanced, their swords red. Discipline held them and Khalifa was proud. Once more he sensed uncertainty in the attacking horsemen, and suddenly they broke and ran, leaving the foot regiments in their wake as they galloped clear.
Khalifa ordered his lancers forward and was pleased with their formation as they took many of the fleeing men in the backs, hammering them from the saddles.
“For the prophet, brothers!” he roared. “Run these dogs down!”
The Mongol warriors were streaming across the plain on their ponies, riding flat out. Khalifa raised his hand and dropped it and the lines of Arabs dug in their heels to give chase. They would pass along the flank of the Shah’s army, and Khalifa hoped the fierce old man would see and give thanks. As he rode, he glanced back to the slope leading up to the ridge. It was black with the dead and he felt new strength surge in him. These men had dared to enter his land, and they would find only fire and the sword.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER THE INITIAL RACE east along the valley, both the tumans and their pursuers settled into a slow gallop that ate the miles. Before the sun set, Khalifa’s men tried to close the gap three times and were driven back with arrows fired by men turning in the saddle. Unlike the Mongols, the Arab horsemen were not accurate loosing arrows at full speed. Though their mounts were faster over short distances, they were forced to settle in for a long chase. By the time the sun touched the west behind them, they were more than a dozen miles from the Shah’s army. The Mongol warriors rode in grim concentration, knowing that to fall behind was to die.
Jochi and Jebe had come together about halfway through the ranks of their men. They did not know how many of their number had been lost on the slopes under the ridge. The Arabs had fought well at the end, but both generals were pleased with what they had achieved. Genghis would be told of both strength and weaknesses in the enemy, and what they had learned would be vital to the khan in the days to come. Still, they had to survive the dogged pursuit. Both men knew it was easier to chase than to be hunted. As eagles and wolves had eyes to the front of their heads, so did man. Riding after an enemy kept the spirits strong, just as hearing the enemy always at their backs sapped the confidence of the tumans. Yet they did not falter.
“Will they follow us into the darkness, do you think?” Jochi asked.
Jebe looked back over his shoulder at the mass of riders. Perhaps thirty thousand men had come after them, and he could not know their quality. He and Jochi had left so many on the slopes that he thought anger would keep the Arabs on their trail for a long time. They had been thrown back in chaos in the battle, and they would not let them go without a chase. As he stared at the enemy, Jebe could admit that the Arabs were excellent horsemen. They had shown discipline and courage. Against that, the two tumans could only bring the stoic endurance they had learned on the brutal winter plains. They would not fall, if they had to run to the end of the world.
Jebe glanced back at the setting sun, now just a gold line that cast writhing shadows ahead of his men. He realized he had not answered the question and shrugged.
“They look determined enough and they have more speed in short bursts. If I were their commander, I would wait for true darkness and then close the gap when we cannot see to drive them back.”
Jochi rode carefully, conserving his strength. His left arm ached and his legs were stiff, the old scars sending needles of discomfort along his thighs as they stretched. Even so, he struggled not to show his pride at the action on the ridge. His flanking charge had shattered the Arab soldiers, but Jebe had not mentioned it.
“When it is dark, then,” Jochi said, “we should race for a mile and open a gap they cannot cross easily.”
Jebe winced at the thought of pelting full speed across unknown ground. Their greatest fear was that the Arabs knew the valley would come to a sudden end, perhaps in a blocked canyon. The tumans could be riding right to their own destruction.
Jochi strained to see ahead, but the peaks on either side seemed to go on forever. A pang of hunger interrupted his thoughts and he reached into a pocket to pull out a lump of dried mutton. In the last light, he eyed the black twist dubiously, but tore off a piece and chewed before reaching out and offering it to Jebe. The general accepted the gift without speaking, pulling it apart with his fingers before passing the rest back. They had not eaten since the morning and both men were starving.
“When my father fought the Xi Xia kingdom,” Jochi said, chewing, “the king used clusters of iron nails that could bring down a charging line.”
“They would be useful now,” Jebe replied, nodding. “If we had each man carry just a few, we could let these Arabs ride over a trail of them.”
“Next time, my friend,” Jochi said. “If there is one.”
The sun set and a dim gray light crossed the valley, falling through shades to blackness. They had a little time before the new moon rose, its white crescent reversed. Jochi and Jebe gave orders that could barely be heard above the thunder of hooves, and the pace increased slowly. Both leaders depended on the sturdiness of the plains-bred ponies. The scouts were used to riding a hundred miles in a single day, and Jochi and Jebe counted on that to exhaust their enemy. Like the men who rode them, the ponies were as tough as old leather.
Behind them, both generals heard the rhythm of the Arab horses change to the fastest gallop, but they had already widened the gap. Jochi sent an order for the rear ranks to shoot three shafts each into the blackness. The decision was rewarded by crashes and yells that echoed from the hills. Once more the pursuers fell back and the generals settled to a fast canter, ready to gallop at any moment. The Mongol ponies had fought and charged already that day. Many of them were weary and already suffering without water, but there was no way to rest them.
“Did you see the flags of the Shah’s army?” Jochi asked.
Jebe nodded, remembering the host of crescents all along the Arab ranks. The new moon was significant to their enemy, perhaps because it marked the beginning and end of their holy month. Jebe hoped it was not an omen of good fortune for those that rode behind him.
The crescent cast a silvery gloom on the armies that streamed through the valley. Some of the Mongol warriors used the dim light to loose arrows, until Jochi sent an order to conserve their sto
ck. It was too hard to kill a man with a shield in the dark, and they would need every shaft.
Khalifa rode in furious silence at the head of his men. He had never experienced anything like this moonlight chase and could not escape the nagging feeling that he had deprived the Shah of his cavalry wing in territory that had already proved hostile. He had ridden down fleeing armies before, but that was a brief wild moment after an enemy broke, where a warrior could blood his sword joyfully on the necks of fleeing men, or shoot arrows until his quiver was empty. He remembered such times with great fondness, coming as they did after battles where he had ridden close to death.
This was something different and he could not understand the Mongol generals ahead. They rode in good order and every attempt to bring them down before sunset had been repulsed. Had their nerve gone? They did not ride in mindless panic. Instead, they seemed to be guarding the strength of their mounts, keeping only just enough ahead that he could not bring bows to bear against them.
Khalifa gritted his teeth in irritation, his wounded side throbbing. The Shah had chosen this valley as the fastest route west to support Otrar. The crease between mountains was more than a hundred miles long and opened out into a great plain close by the village where Khalifa had been born. Every mile took him further from the main army and made him wonder if the Mongols were not deliberately drawing him away. Yet he could not rein in and let them go. His blood cried out for vengeance for those they had slaughtered.
The moon rose, which brought some respite as he spent hours calculating angles from the red planet Merreikh to the moon and the eastern horizon. He could not decide if the results promised good fortune or not, and the mental game did not satisfy him. Could the Mongols have planned an ambush so far from the main battle site? Surely it was impossible. As the moon crept higher, he strained his eyes in the gloom for some sign that the Mongols were signaling to another force lying in wait.
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 96
