With his wealth, he would be welcomed by his cousin. With an army, he would have the Sung emperor’s respect. He would have a place at the table of nobles as they planned a campaign to take back his ancestral lands.
Xuan winced at the thought. There was little love for his bloodline in the Sung court. The emperor, Lizong, was a man of his father’s generation who viewed Chin territory as his own, claiming a mere error of history that it was not already his by right. There was a chance that Xuan was putting his hand into a rat hole by placing himself in Sung power. There was no other choice. Mongol goatherders strode his lands as if they owned them, peering into every storehouse, tallying the wealth of every village for taxes they would never know how to spend. The shame of it should have been overwhelming, but Xuan had never known peace. He had grown used to the humiliation of losing his kingdom piece by piece to an army of locusts and seeing his father’s capital burn. Surely his Sung cousin would not underestimate the threat. Yet there had been conquerors before, tribal leaders who raised an army and then died. Their empires always fell apart, broken by the arrogance and weakness of lesser men. Xuan knew Emperor Lizong would be tempted to ignore them and simply wait for a century or two. He wiped sweat from his eyes, blinking at the sting of salt. Time cured so many ills in the world, but not these cursed tribesmen. The Mongols had lost their great conqueror at the height of his power and simply carried on, as if one man did not matter. Xuan did not know if it made them more civilized, or just a pack of wolves, with another taking the lead.
He clenched his fist in pleasure as he heard the rippling snaps of his gunners. He had so few, but they were wonderful, fearsome weapons. That too was something he took to the Sung: vital knowledge of the enemy as well as ways to destroy him. A wolf would not stand against a man with a burning brand. Xuan knew he could be that weapon, if he had the time and space to plan.
He was jerked from his reverie by the shouting of his officers. They were pointing to the south and he shaded his eyes from the setting sun to look into the distance.
An army was approaching the border, barely two miles away. He could see huge fast-moving square formations pouring over the hills. Like wasps, the Sung regiments were reacting to the threat, he thought. Or answering the arrogance of a khan who had dared to enter their lands. As Xuan watched, concentrating, he began to realize that it was no minor force, no regional governor. The emperor himself would never leave his capital for the filthy business of warfare. It had to be one of his sons, perhaps even his heir. No one else could command so many. The squares layered the ground like a cloth pattern, each at least five thousand fresh men, well trained and supplied. Xuan tried to count them, but it was impossible with the dust and distance. The men around him were already jubilant, but he narrowed his eyes to think, staring around him at the Mongol forces who still growled at his heels.
If his cousin closed the border, he would not survive. Xuan scratched irritably at a line of sweat on his face, leaving a red mark from his fingernails. Surely they would not stand by and watch him killed? He did not know. He could not know. The tension made bile rise in his stomach as his horse brought him closer and closer, the calm center of a whirling storm.
Taking a deep breath, Xuan summoned his generals and began to bark orders to them. The commands rippled out and the edges of his army hardened. Men carrying heavy shields raced into position, setting up a strong defense that would hold the Mongols long enough to reach the border. It was his last-ditch plan, just to survive, but at that point, it might also serve to keep as many soldiers alive as possible. He had fought a defensive battle for days. If the border was closed, he would have to turn at bay and strike down the khan. He had the numbers still and his men were hungry to give back the blows they had taken.
The thought was intoxicating and Xuan wondered if he should attack even if the border army opened to let him through. All he had wanted was to find safety with enough men to make him a powerful voice in the councils that would follow. Yet the Mongol khan remained outnumbered. The grubby Mongol shepherd would be dumbstruck and unnerved at the sight of so many pristine regiments.
The first Sung ranks had reached the border and halted, perfect lines of colored armor and Sung banners streaming. As Xuan stared at them, he saw a puff of smoke in the line and heard a crack as a rock ball came flying over the grass. It hit no one, but the message was not for him. The Sung prince had brought cannon to the field, huge metal tubes on wheels that could smear a line of horses and men with a single shot. Let the khan digest that little detail.
Xuan’s army marched on, his heart beating like a bird’s as they approached the dark lines.
ELEVEN
Khasar could hardly believe the size of the army that had raced to the Sung border, stretching back over the land. The southern nation had not had its battle of the Badger’s Mouth, as the north had. Their emperor had not sent out armies and seen them battered, destroyed, routed. His soldiers had never run in terror from Mongol riders. Khasar hated them for their splendor and he wished again that Genghis were there, if only to see his brother’s anger kindle at the sight.
The Sung lines stretched for miles, dwarfing the marching squares of their Chin cousins as they drifted in. Khasar saw that the pace to the border had slowed. He wondered if the Chin emperor knew whether he would be allowed to escape or be turned away. That thought gave some hope, the only small comfort to be weighed against Khasar’s fury and indignation. He had won the battle! The Chin regiments had fought to keep him away for days, but not once had they sallied out. They had only attacked when his men pierced their ranks. His tuman had soaked the ground in their blood, suffered explosions and storms of hot metal. His men had been burned and broken, cut and maimed. They had earned the victory, and now it was to be snatched from them.
His reserve of two thousand was still fresh. Khasar sent up a flag signal to the camel riders keeping pace with him. The boys on the beasts rode with the naccara drums strapped on either side. All along the lines, they began a thunder, striking left and right with both hands. The armored horses leapt forward at the signal, and the warriors brought their heavy lances down slowly, balancing them in a casual display of strength and skill. The wall of riders matched the drums with a screaming roar from their throats that terrified their enemies.
Khasar’s two thousand hit their full speed just twenty paces from the shaken Chin. The general had time to see some of them jam their long shields into the earth, but only a solid shield wall could have stopped his charge. Good officers would have halted them, mingled shields and pikemen together in an unbroken barrier. The emperor’s men had to march, terrified.
The Mongol ponies had lightly armored cloth covering their faces and chests. The warriors themselves wore layered scale armor and helmets, and carried lances and swords as well as saddlebags full of supplies. They crashed into the Chin lines like a mountain falling.
Khasar saw the closest ranks collapse, the men broken by lances and hooves. Some of the horses refused and whinnied in wild-eyed distress as their riders sawed at their mouths, shouting angrily as they brought them round again. Others plunged straight through the Chin, their lances snapping with the force of the strike. They tossed aside the broken hilts and followed with swords, using the muscles from twenty years of bow work to lay about them tirelessly, cutting down, always down, onto the snarling faces.
Khasar was spattered with warm red drops as his horse was killed and he jumped clear. He tasted someone’s blood on his lips and he spat in disgust, ignoring the outstretched arm of one of his bondsmen as the man tried to grab him up into a saddle. His fury at the emperor’s looming escape blurred his judgment. On foot, he stalked the enemy soldiers, his sword held low until they attacked. His counters were vicious and accurate, and as he strode forward with his men, the Chin backed away rather than engage him.
He could feel the sullen gaze of the emperor’s soldiers, watching in silence as they marched away from him. Khasar grunted as he trapped his sword in a
shield, leaving it and backhanding a soldier before snatching another one from the ground. Only then did he mount behind a warrior, to see what was happening.
In the distance, the front ranks of the Chin army had reached the Sung lines.
“Find me a horse,” Khasar shouted into the ear of the bondsman.
The man wheeled and rode out of the cup they had cut for themselves. It closed behind them, the battered shields rising once again.
Khasar looked for Ogedai, his blood cooling as he considered the threat. A child could have seen the position was hopeless. Faced with such an army, all the tumans could do was get clear. If the Sung regiments attacked, the Mongols would be forced away, routed on the border. The only choice was between a dignified retreat and running as if there were wolves after them. Khasar ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. There was no help for it.
His back straight, Xuan trotted his horse toward the Sung line, flanked by three generals in ornate armor and cloaks. They were all dusty and tired, but Xuan rode as if there were no possibility of being turned away. He knew he had to be the first one there. Of course the Sung would refuse common soldiers the right to enter their realm. Only Xuan could shape the rules around him, as the reigning emperor. He was the Son of Heaven. It was a title without a nation, an emperor without cities, yet he kept his dignity as he reached the first line of soldiers.
They did not move and Xuan reached down to brush a speck of dust from his gloves. He showed no discomfort as he stared over the heads of the Sung army. He could hear the Mongols ripping at his own men, but he did not move or acknowledge it. There was a chance that his cousin Lizong would allow his army to be destroyed while they all waited. Xuan seethed at the thought, but there was nothing he could do. He had come as a supplicant to the Sung lands. If the emperor chose to remove his strength in such a way, Xuan knew he could not react. It was a bold stroke and he could almost applaud it. Let the damaged Chin emperor enter, but let him see his army withered to just a few men first. Let him come on his knees, begging for favor.
All Xuan’s choices, all his plans and stratagems, had been reduced to one course of action. He had ridden up to the lines. If they opened to let him in, he could pass to safety with whoever remained alive in his army. Xuan tried not to think what might happen if his poisonous Sung cousins had decided to remove him from the balance. It was not beyond them to have maneuvered him to exactly this position, waiting, waiting, waiting. He could sit his horse in front of them until the Mongols had finished slaughtering his army and came for him. There was a chance Lizong would not lift a hand to save him even then.
Xuan’s face was utterly without emotion as he studied the Sung soldiers. Whatever happened was his fate and not to be denied. Some hidden spark of him was white with fury, but nothing showed. As casually as he could, he turned to one of his generals and asked about the cannon the Sung had used.
The general was sweating visibly, but he replied as if they were at a military inspection.
“It is a fieldpiece, Imperial Majesty, similar to the ones we have used on city walls. Bronze is poured into a mold and then filed and polished. Black powder burns with great fierceness, sending a ball leaping out to cause terror in the enemy.”
Xuan nodded as if he were fascinated. By the spirits of his ancestors, how long must he wait?
“Such a large cannon would be very heavy,” he said stiffly. “It must be difficult to move over rough terrain.”
The general nodded, pleased that his master had engaged him in conversation, though he knew the stakes as well as anyone.
“It sits on a wooden cart, Imperial Majesty. It is wheeled, but yes, it takes many men and oxen to drag it into position. More are needed to carry the stone balls, the powder bags, the swabs and fuses. Perhaps you will have the chance to inspect one more closely when we enter Sung territory.”
Xuan looked at the general in reproof for his lack of subtlety. “Perhaps, General. Tell me now about the Sung regiments. I do not know all these banners.”
The man began to recite the names and histories, an expert in his field, as Xuan knew very well. He cocked his head to listen to the droning voice, but all the time, Xuan watched the Sung lines. The Son of Heaven glanced up as an officer rode a magnificent stallion through to the borderline. He tried not to show how his heart leapt.
It was hard to allow his general to finish the litany of names, but Xuan forced himself to listen, making the Sung officer wait for both of them. His precious army was being butchered as he nodded at tedious detail, but Xuan’s face was calm and interested.
At last his general had the sense to subside, and Xuan thanked him, appearing to notice the Sung officer for the first time. The man dismounted as soon as their eyes met. He came forward and prostrated himself on the dusty ground before touching his forehead to the general’s stirrup. He did not look at Xuan as he spoke.
“I bear a message for the Son of Heaven.”
“Speak your message to me, soldier. I will tell him,” the general replied.
The man prostrated himself again, then rose. “His Imperial Majesty bids you welcome in his lands, Son of Heaven. May you live ten thousand years.”
Xuan would not lower himself to reply to a mere soldier. The message should have been delivered by someone of noble rank, and he wondered what to make of the subtle insult. He barely listened as his general completed the formalities. Xuan did not glance behind him as he walked his mount forward. Sweat trickled down his back and from his armpits under his armor. He knew his under-tunic would be sopping wet.
The Sung lines stood apart as he moved, a rippling motion that spread along them for half a mile. In this way, the last Chin army could walk between the ranks and the border was still held against their mutual enemy. Xuan and his generals crossed the invisible line, showing no emotion to those who watched them. The Chin ranks began to follow them, like a blister collapsing into skin.
• • •
Ogedai watched in furious disbelief. He saw pavilions rise amidst the Sung ranks, great squares of peach-colored silk. Banners floated on the wind, marking out regiments of bowmen, pikemen, lancers. It was the sight of the fresh cavalry that broke through his battle madness. Regiments of horsemen stared out onto the broken plain with its trail of dead. Would the Sung be able to resist a sudden charge, as soon as the Chin emperor was safe? Only the setting sun would stay their hand and perhaps not even then. The Mongol ponies had ridden for days. They were as weary as their riders, and for once, the khan himself was in the field, vastly outnumbered and with every advantage taken away. Ogedai shook his head. He had seen the puff of smoke that revealed the presence of heavy guns. It was a thought for another day, but he did not see how he could ever bring such weapons to a battlefield. They were too slow, too heavy for an army whose chief strength had always been in its speed and maneuvers. In the distance, he saw a small group of horses move through the Sung lines. Perhaps ten thousand still marched to follow them, but the Chin emperor had passed through the net.
Ogedai felt a wave of weariness replace the thrilling energy of the fighting. He could hardly believe he had walked without fear. He had faced his enemies and survived unmarked. For just an instant, a heartbeat, pride swelled in him.
Even so, he had failed. The band across his head returned, tightening. He imagined mockery in every concerned face. He could almost hear the whispered voices among his warriors. Genghis would not have failed. His father would somehow have plucked victory from disaster.
Ogedai gave fresh orders and the three tumans pulled back from the retreating Chin ranks. The men had been expecting the command, and the minghaans moved quickly and easily into squares of horse, facing the Sung border.
The sudden silence was like a pressure, and Ogedai rode slowly along the lines of his own men, his face flushed and sweating. If the Sung generals wanted him badly enough, they would not even wait for the rest of the Chin to come across. Half the Sung army could launch an attack at that moment. Ogedai swallowed, worki
ng his tongue around a mouth so dry he thought he would choke. He gestured to a messenger and the man brought him a skin of red wine. It moistened his lips and he gulped at it, sucking desperately on the leather teat. The pain in his head was growing all the time, and he realized his vision was blurred. He thought at first it was just sweat in his eyes, but it remained no matter how roughly he rubbed at them.
As the Mongol tumans came to order, hundreds were still panting or binding gashes. Ogedai saw Tolui trotting a mare across the broken ground toward him. The two brothers met with a quick glance of resignation, and Tolui turned his mount to watch the Chin emperor escape them once again.
“He has a lot of luck, that man,” Tolui said softly. “But we have his land and his cities. We have taken away his armies except for that rabble of survivors.”
“Enough,” Ogedai snapped, rubbing his temples. “You do not need to add honey. I must bring an army into Sung lands now. They have given sanctuary to my enemies, and they know I must respond.” He winced and sucked again on the wineskin. “There will be other days to avenge the dead. Form the men up to go back to the north, with haste, but not too visible, do you understand?”
Tolui smiled. No commander liked to be seen retreating, but the men would understand far better than Ogedai realized. They could see the wall of Sung soldiers as well as anyone. None of the Mongol warriors were clamoring to be first against that solid border.
As Tolui turned away, a single crack sounded in the distance. He jerked back and saw the puff of smoke rising above the row of Sung cannon. Only one had fired and both men saw a tumbling object rise only a short way and bounce across the ground.
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 143
