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

by Conn Iggulden

  “Genghis cared nothing for this sort of politics,” Guyuk replied.

  “Your father did. He understood far better than Genghis how to rule a nation. Genghis could only win an empire. He could never have been the safe hand it needed once it was formed. I have been that hand, Guyuk. Do not dismiss so easily what I tell you.”

  Her son looked at her in surprise. Torogene had ruled the nation for more than five years, ever since the death of his father. For two of those, she had been almost on her own with Sorhatani, the army in distant lands. He had not given much thought to her struggle.

  “I am listening,” he said. “I assume you promised again that I would respect the territory Batu was given, or was it to offer him the position of orlok in the army?”

  “I offered both, but he refused the second. I knew then that he would not be khan. He does not burn with ambition, my son, which is why he is no threat to us. I do not know whether it is from weakness or cowardice, but it does not matter. When you have his oath, you can send him back with costly gifts. We will not hear from him again.”

  “He is the only one I fear,” Guyuk said, almost to himself. It was a moment of rare honesty and his mother gripped his shoulder.

  “He is the direct line of Genghis, firstborn to firstborn. You are right to fear him, but no longer, do you understand? When the last of them come in, you will summon the princes and generals to your tent on the plain, Batu among them. You will take their oath and for the following week you will visit each camp and let them all kneel to you. There are half a million people who will see you then. Too many to bring into the city. That is what I have given you, my son. That is what you have earned with your patience.”

  SORHATANI LET HERSELF DOWN CAREFULLY FROM THE SADDLE behind her eldest son. Mongke stretched down his arm to help her and she smiled up at him. It was good to see Karakorum again. Her home in the Altai mountains was far from the seat of power, but that did not mean she had not followed every twist and turn as Torogene and Guyuk bargained for power. When she looked at Mongke, she could wish he had not given his oath so early, but that river had run its course. Her eldest son had seen his father, Tolui, keep his word, even at the point of death. Mongke could not be an oath-breaker after that; it was not in him. She watched as he dismounted with dignity, seeing again the traditional Mongol warrior in everything he did. Mongke looked the part, with his wide face and heavy shoulders. He dressed in simple armor and he was already known as a man who had no patience for Chin things. There would be no rich foods in the gers that night, Sorhatani thought ruefully. Her son made a fetish of simplicity, seeing a nobility in it that she could not understand. The irony was that there were many in the nation who would have followed such a son, especially the older generals. Some of them whispered that Guyuk was not a man amongst men, that he acted the woman in his father’s palace. Still more spoke with distaste of the way Guyuk continued his father’s practice of surrounding himself with perfumed Chin scholars and their incomprehensible scribblings. If Mongke had lifted a hand, he could have had half the nation under his banners before Guyuk even knew he was threatened. Yet her son’s word was iron and his oath had been given years before. He would not even discuss the issue with his mother any longer.

  Sorhatani turned at a joyous shout and held out her arms as her other sons came riding toward her. Kublai reached her first and she laughed as he jumped down from his pony and embraced her, swinging her around. It was strange to see her boys as grown men, though Hulegu and Arik-Boke were still young warriors.

  She caught a delicate scent of apples from Kublai as he put her down and stood back to let her hug his brothers. It was yet another sign of Chin influence on him and the contrast with Mongke could not have been greater. Kublai was taller and wiry of build, though his shoulders had broadened over the previous few months. He wore his hair in the Chin style, with a long queue down his back and the rest scraped tight to his scalp. It flicked back and forth as he moved, like the tail of an angry cat. He wore a simple deel robe at least, but no one looking at Kublai and Mongke would pair them as brothers.

  Sorhatani stood back, pride swelling in her at the sight of the four young men, each beloved in different ways. She saw how Kublai nodded to Mongke and that her eldest barely acknowledged the gesture. Mongke did not approve of Kublai’s manners, though that was probably true for all brothers close in age. In turn, Kublai resented Mongke’s assumption that, as eldest, he had authority over the other three. She sighed to herself, her good mood evaporating in the sun.

  “There is a ger ready for you, mother,” Mongke said, raising an arm to guide her to it.

  Sorhatani grinned at him. “Later, Mongke. I’ve come a long way to see this oath-taking, but I’m not tired yet. Tell me how things are in the camps.”

  Mongke paused before speaking, weighing his words. As he did so, Kublai replied.

  “Baidur is here, all stiffness and careful formality. The gossip is that he will give his oath to Guyuk. Most of the princes are close-mouthed about their intentions, but the feeling is that Guyuk and Torogene have done enough. When Batu and the others get here, I think we will have a new khan.”

  Mongke glared at his brother for speaking first, but Kublai seemed oblivious.

  “And you, Kublai,” his mother said. “You will give your oath to him?”

  Kublai pursed his mouth in distaste.

  “As you have ordered, mother. Not because I feel it is right, but because I do not wish to stand alone against him. I will follow your wishes.”

  “You must,” Sorhatani said shortly, all lightness gone from her tone. “A khan will not forget those who stood with him—or against him. He has your brother. If Batu and Baidur kneel to him, I will give my own oath as well, for your father’s lands. You must not be a lone voice. That would be … dangerous. If what you say is true, I suspect there will be no serious challenger. The nation will unite in its choice.”

  “What a shame Mongke swore to follow him on the Great Trek,” Kublai said, glancing at his brother. “That was the first stone of a landslide.” He saw Mongke glowering at him. “Come, brother. You can’t be pleased with your man! You jumped early, as soon as you heard the old khan was dead. We all understand it. Be honest, though: Is he the one you would choose, if you were free?”

  “He is the khan’s son,” Mongke said. He looked away stiffly, as if the matter was finished.

  “A khan who did not even name his son as heir in his will,” Kublai said instantly. “That says a great deal, don’t you think? I swear, Mongke, you are the one who brought us all here today. You gave your oath rashly, before any of us knew anything. Guyuk began this race a step ahead because of you. I hope you are satisfied. However Guyuk acts as khan, it will be your responsibility.”

  Mongke struggled with his dignity, trying to decide if it was beneath him to argue the point. As always, Kublai could needle him into it.

  “Perhaps if you had ever commanded in battle, little brother, you would know the importance of authority and rank. Guyuk is Ogedai’s firstborn son. He is the heir to the khanate. I do not need one of your Chin documents to tell me that.”

  It was a sore point between them and Mongke could not resist the barbs. While he had fought alongside Tsubodai, Batu, Guyuk, and the rest, Kublai had been learning diplomacy and languages in the city. They were very different men and Mongke scorned the skills of his brother.

  “And was his father also the firstborn, that important position?” Kublai responded. “No, Mongke, he was third in line. You will give an oath for something the rest of us do not even recognize. Why, because you are firstborn in this family? Do you think that makes you a father to the rest of us?”

  Mongke flushed. “If I must be, yes. You were not there when our father gave his life.”

  They were facing each other by then, both growing in anger.

  “And did our father tell you to lead our little family, Mongke? Did he say to you: ‘Take your brothers in hand, my son’? You have not mentioned
this before.”

  “He gave his other wives to me,” Mongke replied stiffly. “I think it is clear …”

  “It is not clear, you fool,” Kublai snapped. “Nothing is as simple as you are.”

  Mongke might have struck him then. His hand twitched to the sword at his waist and Kublai tensed, his eyes bright with challenge. They had fought a thousand times as boys, but the years had changed both of them. If it came to blows yet again, there was a chance it would mean more than bruises.

  “Stop it, now,” Sorhatani said. “Would you brawl in front of the eyes of the nation? You would shame your father, your name? Stand back! Both of you.”

  There was a moment of stillness, then Mongke leapt in, raising his right arm to knock Kublai down. Kublai measured his distance and kicked his brother in the groin as hard as he could. There was no armor there and Mongke collapsed without a sound, hitting the ground hard. It had been a solid hit and silence fell around them. As Sorhatani turned to him in fury, Kublai’s eyes widened. Mongke grunted and began to rise. The pain must have been extraordinary, but his brother’s rage was roaring through him. His legs twitched in agony as he lurched to his feet. Kublai swallowed nervously as Mongke staggered a step toward him, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.

  Sorhatani stepped between them, placing her bare hands on Mongke’s armored chest. For an instant, he almost shoved her aside. His large left hand rose to her collar and gathered the cloth, but he could not fling her away from him even in his pain. Panting, Mongke glared over her head at Kublai, his eyes bloodshot and watering.

  “I said stop,” Sorhatani said softly. “Will you knock me down to get at your brother? Do you not listen to your mother any longer?”

  Mongke’s eyes began to clear and he looked down at her and then back at Kublai, who stood ready to be attacked. Mongke’s mouth curled in disdain as he recognized the Chin fighting stance taught to the boys by the khan’s old chancellor. His hand fell from her collar as Sorhatani put her hand to his cheek, demanding his attention.

  “You will not fight, Mongke. You are all my sons. What sort of an example will this set to Hulegu and Arik-Boke? See how they watch you now.”

  Mongke’s hard gaze slid over to his brothers, standing with their mouths open. He grunted again and stood back, mastering himself.

  “Guyuk will be khan,” Mongke said. His voice was hoarse, but it carried. “His father ruled well and his mother has kept the nation together. No one else can say the same. You are the fool, Kublai, at least if you think someone else should rule.”

  Kublai chose not to reply. His brother was like a mad bull in his strength. He did not want to set him off again. Instead, he shrugged and walked away. As soon as he had gone, Mongke slumped, almost falling. He tried to stand straight, but the pain spread in waves from his groin into his stomach, making him want to vomit. Only the presence of his mother stopped him cupping himself like a child.

  “Sometimes I despair,” Sorhatani said sadly. “Do you think I will live forever? There will be a time when your brothers are all you have left, Mongke. They will be the only men you can trust without reservation.”

  “He acts and dresses like a Chin whore,” Mongke spat. “How can I trust a man like that?”

  “Kublai is your brother, your own blood. Your father is in him, Mongke, just as he is in you.”

  “He goads me whenever he can. I am not a fool, mother, just because I do not know the twenty-seven steps of his pointless Chin rituals.”

  “Of course you’re not a fool! You know each other well enough to hurt deeply when you are angry, that is all. You and he will eat together tonight and share a cup of airag. For your mother, you will be friends again.”

  Mongke winced, but he did not reply, so she went on.

  “Because it hurts me to think of my sons so angry with each other. I will think I have failed as a mother. Make it up with him, Mongke, if you care about me at all.”

  “Of course I do,” he replied. He knew very well that she was manipulating him, but he gave way even so. “All right, but you can tell him—”

  “No threats or bluster, Mongke. If you love me, you will make peace with him. In a few days or weeks, you will have the khan you want. Kublai can only bow to that necessity. Be dignified in your victory.”

  Mongke’s expression eased as he thought it through. He could be magnanimous.

  “He blames me for Guyuk’s rise,” he muttered.

  “And other men will honor you. When Guyuk is khan, no doubt he will reward you as the first to come to his banners. Think of that the next time you and Kublai bicker like a couple of boys.”

  Mongke smiled, shuddering slightly as the pain in his groin settled to a sick ache.

  “All right, mother. You will have your way, as always.”

  “Good. Perhaps you should show me where my ger is. I find I am tired after all.”

  THE YAM RIDER WAS HEAVY WITH DUST. AS HE FOLLOWED A servant through the corridors of the palace, he could feel the weight of it in every crack and seam of his clothes, even his skin. He stumbled slightly as they turned a corner, his strength vanishing in weariness. He had ridden hard all day and his lower back was aching. He wondered if he would be allowed to wash himself in one of the palace bathing rooms. For a few steps, he indulged himself in the fantasy of hot water and servant girls rubbing him dry, but it would remain a fantasy. The riders from the yam lines were given entry wherever they went. If they said they had a personal message for the khan himself, they would be let through to him even in the middle of a battle. Yet the rider was certain he would be washing in the river that evening, before settling down to a spartan camp and a small fire of his own making. Yam riders carried no tents or simple gers, or any weight that might slow them. He would lie on his back under the stars and pull his arms inside the wide sleeves of his deel robe. In twenty years or so, the older riders had told him, his joints would be sore on wet days. Privately he thought it would not happen to him. He was young and supremely fit, his life stretching ahead of him. In the course of his travels, he had seen enough of trade among the people to know which items they craved. In just a few years, he thought he would have saved enough to buy a load on one of the trading caravans to Bukhara. There would be no sore joints for him. He would make his fortune. He shivered slightly as he walked, glancing up at the arching ceiling over his head. He did not dream of owning a palace. Perhaps a house in the city would be to his taste, with a wife to cook for him, a few children, and a stable of good horses to train his sons for the yam. It was not a bad life.

  The servant drew to a halt in front of shining copper doors. Two Day Guards from the old khan’s regiment stood there impassively in their armor of red and black, like colored insects.

  “Yam message for the regent,” the servant announced.

  One of the Guards broke his perfect stillness, turning his head to stare at the dusty young rider, still reeking of horses and old sweat. They searched him roughly, removing his tinderbox and a small knife. When they tried to take the package of papers, he jerked it away with a muttered curse. The message within was not for their eyes.

  “I want the rest back when I come out,” he said.

  The Guard only looked at him, tucking the items away as the servant knocked on the door and opened it, letting a flood of light out into the gloomy corridor.

  Inside, there were rooms within rooms. The yam rider had been to the palace before, but never so deep within it. He noted that each outer room had its attendants, one of whom rose at his entry and took him on to the next. It was not long before he saw a stout woman surrounded by advisers and scribes busy writing her words. She looked up as he entered. He bowed deeply, leaving his latest guide behind to approach. To his surprise, he saw two men in the group that he recognized, yam riders like himself. They met his eyes and nodded briefly to him.

  Another servant of some kind held out his hand for the package of papers.

  “This is for the regent’s own hand,” the rider said, rep
eating his instruction.

  The servant pursed his mouth as if he tasted something bitter, but he stood back. No one impeded a yam rider.

  Torogene had resumed her conversation, but she stopped at his words and accepted the bundle from him. It was a slim package, folded in leather. She undid the ties quickly and pulled out a single folded sheet. The rider watched as her eyes darted back and forth as she read. He could have left immediately, but he was curious. It was the curse of his trade that he carried interesting news, but almost never learned what it was.

  To his dismay, he saw Torogene’s face drain of color. She looked up, suddenly irritated to see the young man standing there expectantly, as if she might share the news with him.

  “That is enough for today,” she said to the group. “Leave me, all of you. Send my son to me. Wake him if you have to.” She tapped the fingers of one hand on the other and crumpled the paper he had brought to her.

  FOUR

  THE MOON WAS OUT, THE NIGHT CLOUDLESS, SO THAT ITS light fell on the vast host before Karakorum. There was already a buzz of interest in the gers; rumors flying, voices calling and whispering like a breeze. The city gates opened in the dark, a troop of riders coming out fast down the western road. They held torches, so that they moved in a pool of light through a flickering landscape, catching glimpses of staring faces and grubby gers by the thousand as they navigated their way through. Guyuk rode at the center in ornate armor, a shining figure with a wolf’s-head sword on his hip. More surprising to those who glimpsed them was the sight of Torogene riding at his side. She rode like a man, stiff-backed, with her long hair bound into a thick tail. The torch-lit eye of gold covered a mile at a canter before Torogene signaled to the Guards. They swung left off the main road, plunging across the grassy plain between the gers. To ride at night was always dangerous and flocks scattered in panic as they cantered through them. More than a few bleating animals were crushed beneath hooves or sent tumbling. Voices shouted in alarm and torches sprang up all over the hills around them, pinpoints of light as more and more of the nation rolled out of their beds with swords in hand.