As Kublai left, the yam servant stared thoughtfully after him. He’d never seen yellow eyes like those before. Genghis was said to have had such eyes. The man scratched a flea bite on his cheek, lost in thought. After a time, he shrugged and went back to work.
THE FOUR MEN HAD WATCHED THE TRAIL FOR THREE DAYS, hunting in pairs, so that there were always rabbits for the stew each night. There was a huge warren nearby and it was easy enough to set strangling snares over the holes. They had a good view of the road through the mountains and so they spent their time talking, or gambling with knucklebones, or just repairing old kit. They knew they could expect to be relieved in another two days and they were approaching the end of their time. There had been little excitement. Just one family of peddlers had passed through and the men were not interested in the cheap goods they had in their little cart, drawn by an ancient pony with one white eye. With rough laughter and a kick, they had sent them on their way.
“Someone coming,” said Parikh, the youngest of them.
The other three shuffled over to the edge of their small camp, looking down at the trail below while being careful not to show their heads. Their bows were well wrapped against damp, lying unsprung so the strings didn’t stretch. Nonetheless, each man had the weapons in easy reach. They could have an arrow ready to fly in moments. They peered down, cursing the morning haze that blurred the air, seeming to come from the rocks themselves before it burned off.
Despite the mist, they could see a single man walking slowly, leading a lame horse. His head was bowed and he looked like any poor warrior, stumbling home after many nights hunting, or searching for a lost animal. Even so, the watchers had been placed on that road as the first line of defense and they were wary of anyone. The oldest, Tarrial, had seen more than his share of ambushes and battles. He alone had scars on his forearms and they looked to him for decisions. Sound carried far in the mountains, and with a silent gesture Tarrial sent Parikh off on his own along the ridge. The lad would scout for anyone else creeping up on them, as well as providing a second shot from hiding if something went wrong. The others waited until Parikh reached a place where he could see half a mile along the back trail. The young man raised a flat palm to them, visible at a distance. Clear.
Tarrial relaxed.
“Just one man. Stay here and don’t steal my food. I’ll go down to him.”
He made no attempt to hide his progress as he scrambled down the rocky scree. In fact, he made as much noise as possible, rather than make the stranger nervous. Years before, Tarrial had seen his jagun officer killed on patrol in Samarkand. The officer had kept to the shadows while thieves robbed a store. As one of them passed him, he had stepped out and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, hoping to scare the thief half to death. His ploy had worked, but the man jammed a dagger into his ribs in panicked reflex. Tarrial smiled fondly at the memory of the officer’s face.
By the time he reached the trail, the stranger was close enough for Tarrial to make out his features. He was tall, unusually so. The stranger looked exhausted, his feet barely lifting with each stride. The pony was as dust-covered as he was and favored its right foreleg.
Kublai sensed Tarrial’s gaze and jerked his head up. His hand dropped to his hip, but there was no sword there and, with a grimace, he raised his free hand to show he was unarmed.
“Yam rider?” Tarrial called.
“Yes,” Kublai replied. He was furious with himself for walking so blindly into the hills. He had lost track of the days, even of the horses he’d exchanged at yam stations along the way. Now, everything he had achieved could be undone by a few thieves. Not for the first time, he regretted leaving his weapons behind.
“Who is the message for?” Tarrial asked. There was something about the man that had his instincts twitching, though he couldn’t say what it was. Through all the grime that layered him, pale yellow eyes glared at Tarrial and more than once the rider’s hand dropped to his hip, as if he was used to carrying a sword. Odd, for a simple yam rider who always went unarmed.
“No one stops the yam,” Kublai said sternly. “The message isn’t for you, whoever you are.”
Tarrial grinned. The man couldn’t be much older than Parikh, but he spoke like one used to authority. Again, that was a strange thing for a yam rider. He couldn’t resist prodding a little further, just to get a reaction.
“Seems to me a spy would say the same thing, though,” Tarrial said.
Kublai raised his eyes to the sky for a moment. “A spy on a yam horse, with a leather bag? With nothing at all of value on him, I might add.”
“Oh, we’re not thieves, lad. We’re soldiers. There’s a difference. Not always, I admit, but usually.”
To his surprise, Kublai straightened subtly, his gaze sharpening.
“Who is your minghaan officer?” he said curtly.
“He’s about a hundred miles away, lad, so I don’t think I’ll be bothering him with you, not today.”
“His name,” Kublai snapped. There were only ten minghaans to every tuman. He knew the name of almost every man who held that rank in the nation.
Tarrial bristled at the tone, even as he wondered at it. Alone, unarmed, hundreds of miles from anywhere and the man still had an air about him that made Tarrial reconsider his first words.
“You’re not like the yam riders I’ve seen before,” he said warily.
“I don’t have time for this,” Kublai replied, losing patience. “Tell me his name, or get out of my way.” Before Tarrial could reply, he tugged on his reins and began walking again, taking a path straight at the warrior.
Tarrial hesitated. He was tempted to knock the rider on his backside. No one would blame him, but some instinct for survival stayed his fists. Everything had been wrong about the meeting from the first words.
“His name is Khuyildar,” he said. If the rider tried to barge past him, Tarrial was confident he could put him down. Instead, the man stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, nodding.
“Then the message is for his master, Batu of the Borjigin. For his ears alone and urgent. You had better take me to him.”
“You only had to say, lad,” Tarrial replied, still frowning.
“Now.”
EIGHT
THERE WASN’T MUCH CONVERSATION AS TARRIAL AND PARIKH led Kublai through the mountains. They had left only one man behind to watch the road, while the last of the four rode back to inform their officer. Kublai’s lame horse rested with the other mounts, while he had been given the smallest of the scouts’ ponies, an irritable animal that tried to bite whenever it saw a finger.
Parikh shared his waterskin with the strange yam rider, but neither Kublai nor Tarrial seemed to be in a mood to talk and his first efforts were ignored. With Tarrial in the lead, they followed a wide path that wound its way upward into the hills. Kublai could see mountains in the distance, but he had only the vaguest idea where he was, even with the maps he had in his head. The air was clean and cold and he could see for miles as they walked or trotted their mounts.
“I’ve already lost a day with that lame horse,” Kublai said after a time. “We need to go faster.”
“Why’s that, then?” Tarrial asked immediately. He glowered at the mysterious rider who ordered men about as if they were his personal servants. Tarrial could hardly believe the way Parikh almost came to attention every time the stranger looked at him. No yam rider was that used to authority. Tarrial knew he had to be some sort of officer, perhaps on his own business and using the yam lines without permission.
He thought Kublai wasn’t going to reply—until he did, grudgingly.
“There is an army behind me. A week, maybe ten days, and they’ll be here. Your lord will want every moment of warning I can give him.”
Parikh gaped and Tarrial lost his frown, suddenly worried.
“How big an army?” he said.
In answer, Kublai dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, kicking it on.
“Find out when I give my message to
your lord,” he called over his shoulder.
Tarrial and Parikh looked at each other for a moment, then both men broke into a canter to reach and overtake him.
As Kublai rode, he tried to assess the defensive qualities of the land around him. It looked as if Batu had made himself a camp in the valleys of the range of hills, unless the scouts were lying to him about distances. He thought back to the accounts he had read in the library of Karakorum. Under Genghis, the tumans had once destroyed an Assassin fortress, taking it down, stone by stone. No stronghold Batu could have built would stand for longer than that one. Kublai brought the worst possible news, that Batu had to move his people away. With the khan’s army coming, Batu had to run and keep running, with only a small chance he would not be caught and slaughtered.
At a better pace, the scouts led him over a series of ridges and the valleys beyond. Most of them were thick with trees. There were small animal paths and they followed those, but the forests would slow Guyuk’s army and force them into single file. They would expect ambushes and traps and lose days as a result. Kublai shook his head as he trotted his mount through the gloom, the canopy of branches blocking the sun. He lost track of time and distance, but the sun was setting as they reached an inner ring of scout camps and Tarrial halted to refill his waterskin, empty his bladder, and change horses. Kublai dismounted to do the same, his bones creaking. He could feel the hostile stares of Batu’s warriors as they nodded to Tarrial and Parikh. Perhaps a dozen or so men lived in that damp place, rotated on constant watch. Kublai doubted anyone could approach Batu without his hearing of it, but it would not help him.
Wearily, Kublai mounted his new pony and followed Tarrial and Parrikh, leaving the inner scout camp behind. Darkness came quickly after that and he was completely lost. If Tarrial hadn’t been leading, Kublai knew he’d never have been able to find his way through. The forest seemed endless and he became suspicious that Tarrial was deliberately leading him in a twisting path, so he could not find his way back, or lead anyone else in.
They rode all night, until Kublai was dozing as his horse walked, his head nodding in time to its steps. He had never been so tired. The last paths had vanished and Kublai began to wonder if Tarrial was as lost as he was. They could not see the stars to guide them and it seemed a waking dream as their horses clambered over unseen obstacles and pushed their way through bushes with sharp commands from the three men to drive them on. Branches and thorns scratched them as they forced their way in deeper.
Dawn came slowly, the gray light returning the forest to reality. Kublai was drenched in sour sweat and he could hardly raise his head. His back ached terribly and he straightened and slumped at intervals, trying to ease the stabs of pain. Tarrial watched him with barely hidden scorn, but then the scout had not ridden hard for a month before that, burning through his reserves and eating little until the bones of his skull showed. Kublai had reached a point where he resented Batu bitterly, without reason. He knew the man would never appreciate what he had gone through to bring him the news ahead of Guyuk’s army and his temper grew with the light. At times, it was all that sustained him.
As the sun rose, Kublai had a sense that the trees were thinning from the impossible tangle of the night before. Already that was becoming a strange memory, in incoherent flashes. He raised his face to the sun when it grew warmer, opening his bloodshot eyes to see they had passed out of the trees at last.
A gentle valley lay beyond the forest. Kublai strained his eyes into the distance and saw the wall of trees begin again. It was not a natural meadow, but the work of years and thousands of men, clearing land where Batu’s families could settle in peace. Around them, the forest stretched for many miles in all directions. For the first time, Kublai wondered how Guyuk would find such a place. Among the oaks and beeches, Kublai had not even smelled the smoke of their fires.
Their arrival had not gone unmarked. No sooner had the three men walked their mounts out of the trees than there were shouts and cries, echoing far. From among the clustered homes and gers, warriors gathered and rode toward them. Kublai shook the weariness away, knowing he had to remain alert for the meeting to come. He took his waterskin and squeezed a jet of warm water onto his face, rubbing hard at the bristles on his lip and chin. He could only imagine how bedraggled and dirty he looked. His disguise as a poor yam rider had become the reality.
The warriors cantered in on fresh mounts, looking disgustingly alert. Kublai massaged his eye sockets as they approached, easing a headache. He knew he would need food soon, or he’d be likely to pass out sometime that afternoon.
As the jagun officer opened his mouth, Kublai raised his hand.
“My name is Kublai of the Borjigin, cousin to Batu and prince of the nation.” He was aware of Tarrial and Parikh jerking around in their saddles. He had not told them his name.
“Take me to your master immediately. He will want to hear what I have to say.”
The officer shut his mouth with a click of teeth, trying to reconcile the idea of a prince with the filthy beggar he saw before him. The yellow eyes glared through the dirt and the officer recalled the descriptions of Genghis he had heard. He nodded.
“Come with me,” he said, wheeling his mount.
“And food,” Kublai muttered, too late. “I would like food and perhaps a little airag or wine.”
The warriors didn’t answer and he rode after them. Tarrial and Parikh watched him go with wide eyes. They felt responsible for the man and they were reluctant to leave and go back to their lonely post in the hills.
After a time, Tarrial sighed irritably. “Might be an idea to stay here and find out what’s happening. We should wet our throats before reporting in, at least.”
As Kublai entered the encampment proper, he saw there were wide dirt roads running past the homes. Some of them were gers in the style he knew, but many more had been built of wood, perhaps even from the great trunks they had cut to make the clearing in the first place. There were thousands of them. Batu’s original ten thousand families had raised children in the years in the wilderness. He had expected a lonely camp, but what he saw was a fledgling nation. Lumber was plentiful and the buildings were tall and strong. He looked with interest at the ones with two stories and wondered how the occupants would escape in a fire. Stone was rare there and the whole camp smelled of pine and oak. He realized his weary thoughts had been drifting as the officer halted before a large home somewhere near the center of the camp. With shattering relief, Kublai saw Batu standing in front of the oak door, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed lightly over his chest. Two big dogs poked their heads out to see the stranger and one of them growled before Batu reached down and fondled his ears.
“You were barely a boy when I last saw you, Kublai,” Batu said, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “You are welcome in my home. I grant you guest rights here.”
Kublai almost fell as he dismounted, his legs buckling. Strong arms held him up and he mumbled thanks to some stranger.
“Bring him in before he drops,” he heard Batu say.
BATU’S HOME WAS LARGER THAN IT LOOKED FROM THE OUTSIDE, perhaps because there were very few partitions. Most of it was an open space, with a wooden ladder leading to a sleeping platform at one end, almost like a hayloft above their heads. The floor was cluttered with couches, tables, and chairs, all haphazard. Kublai entered in front of two of the warriors, pausing on the threshold to let the dogs smell his hand. They seemed to accept his presence, though one of them watched him as closely as the two men at his back. He stood patiently while they searched him for weapons, knowing they would find nothing. As he waited, he saw the heads of children peeping down at him from the second level. He smiled up at them and they vanished.
“You look exhausted,” Batu said, when the warriors were satisfied.
He wore a long knife on his hip and Kublai noted how he had been ready to draw the blade at the first sign of a struggle. Batu had never been a fool and there was a legend in the nat
ion that Genghis had once killed a man with a sharp scale of armor, when everyone thought him disarmed. There wasn’t much threat in a deel robe that stank of old urine and sweat.
“It’s not important,” Kublai said. “I have brought a message from Karakorum. From my mother to you.” It was a relief to be able to say the words he had hidden for so long. “May I sit?” he said.
Batu flushed slightly. “Of course. Over here.”
He gave orders for tea and food and one of the warriors went running to fetch them. The other was a small, wiry man with Chin features and a blind white eye. He took a place at the door and Kublai saw how the man winked his dead eye at the children above them before he stared ahead.
“Thank you,” Kublai said. “It has been a long trip. I only wish the news was better. My mother told me to warn you that Guyuk is coming. He has taken the army away from the city. I followed them for some days until I was sure they were coming north. I’ve stayed ahead of them, but they can’t be more than a week behind me, if that. I’m sorry.”
“How many tumans does he have?” Batu said.
“Ten, with two or three spare mounts to a man.”
“Catapults? Cannon?”
“No. They rode like raiders on a grand scale. All the supplies were on the spare horses, at least those I saw. Cousin, my mother has risked a great deal in sending me. If it became known …”
“It won’t come from me, you have my oath,” Batu replied. His eyes were distant, as he thought through what he had been told. Under the silent pressure of Kublai’s gaze, he came back and focused.
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 177
