Khan: Empire of Silver

by Conn Iggulden

  Some of the tumans had supplied teams of riders. Batu hoped Zan alone would be enough to make a difference. If he had learned anything from his father’s fate, it was to win, no matter how you did it. It was not important if someone else was hurt, or killed. If you won, you would be forgiven anything. You could be taken from a stinking ger and forced through the ranks until a thousand men followed your orders as if they came from the khan himself. Blood and talent. The nation was built on both.

  As the judge stepped up to the mark, another rider crossed Batu’s line, as if struggling with his mount. Batu kicked forward instantly, using his strength to shove the boy away. It was Settan of the Uriankhai, of course. Tsubodai’s old tribe had been a thorn in his side ever since their valiant general returned to Genghis with Batu’s father’s head in a sack. He had met their silent dislike a hundred times since Ogedai had raised him. Not that they were open in their disdain or their transparent loyalty to their own blood. Genghis had outlawed the ties of tribe for his new nation, but Batu could smile at the thought of his grandfather’s arrogance. As if anything mattered but blood. Perhaps that was what his father Jochi had forgotten when he rebelled and stole away Batu’s birthright.

  It was ironic that the Uriankhai still chose to visit the sins of the father on his son. Jochi had not known that his tumble with a virgin produced a boy. As an unmarried girl, Batu’s mother had no claim on Jochi. She had been scorned by her own family, forced to live on the edges. She had rejoiced when Jochi became an outcast, the traitor general, to be hunted down and killed. Then she had heard that the great khan had decreed all bastard children were to be legitimate. Batu still remembered the night she realised all she had lost, drinking herself into a stupor, then gashing weakly at her wrists with a cooking knife. He had washed and bound the wounds himself.

  No one in the world hated the memory of Jochi like his son. In comparison to that seething white flame, the Uriankhai were simply moths that would be burnt by it.

  Batu watched out of the corner of his eye as the judge began to unfurl a long flag of yellow silk. His father’s men had all left wives and children behind in the camp of Genghis. Zan was one of those abandoned children. Some had returned with Tsubodai, but Zan’s father had died somewhere far away, his body lost on strange ground. It was one more thing for which Batu could not forgive his father’s memory. He nodded to himself. It was a good thing he had enemies in the group of riders. He fed on their dislike, adding to it so that he could suck strength from their jibes and taunts, their sly blows and tricks. He thought once again of the human shit he had found in his feedbags that dawn and it was like a draught of black airag in his blood. That was why he would win the race. He rode with hatred and it gave him a power they could only imagine.

  The judge raised the flag. Batu felt his pony’s haunches bunch as he rocked back, ready to explode forward. The flag whipped down, a streamer of gold in the morning sun. Batu kicked and in a heartbeat he was galloping. He did not take the lead, though he was almost sure he could have made them watch his back all the way round the city. Instead, he settled down to a steady pace midway down the group. Six times around Karakorum was forty-eight miles: no sprint, but a test of stamina. The horses had been bred for it and they could last the distance. The skill would come in the manoeuvres of the boys and men on their backs. Batu felt his confidence swell. He was a minghaan officer. He was seventeen years old and he could ride all day.

  One thousand and twenty-four men of the nation raised their right arms to the crowd as they prepared for the first, massive round of wrestling. The first day would weed out the injured and the older men, or simply the ones who were unlucky. There were no second chances and with ten rounds to survive, the final two days would depend in part on those who came through the first with the fewest injuries.

  The warriors had their favourites and for days there had been a stream of them strolling by the training fields, assessing the strengths and weaknesses, looking for those worth a bet and those who would not last through the gruelling trial.

  None of the generals had entered for this part of the festival. They were too dignified to allow themselves to be thrown and broken by younger men. Even so, the first wrestling bout had been delayed so that Khasar and Jebe could take part in the archery competition. Khasar was a huge fan of the wrestling and sponsored the man no warrior wanted to meet in the first rounds. Baabgai, the Bear, was of Chin stock, though he had the compact build of a Mongol wrestler. He beamed toothlessly at the crowd and they cheered his name. Herds of the best ponies had been wagered on him, but ten rounds or an injury could wear him down. Even a stone could be cracked with enough blows.

  Khasar and Jebe both went through their first round, then jogged with their teams across the summer grass to where the wrestlers waited patiently in the sun. The air tasted like metal and smelled of oil and sweat. The clashes and bloodshed of the night before were deliberately forgotten.

  The archers knelt on mats of white felt, laying their precious bows carefully beside them, already unstrung and wrapped in wool and leather.

  ‘Ho, Baabgai!’ Khasar called, grinning at the bulky man he had found and trained. Baabgai had the mindless strength of an ox and seemed to feel no pain. In all his previous bouts, he had never shown the slightest discomfort and it was that stolid quality that most intimidated his opponents. They could not see a way to hurt the fool. Khasar knew some of the wrestlers called him the ‘empty one’ for his low intelligence, but Baabgai took no offence at anything. He just smiled and threw them over the horizon.

  Khasar waited patiently through a song of beginning. The rough voices of the wrestlers swelled as they vowed to stand firm in the earth and to remain friends whether they were victor or vanquished. There would be other songs, in later rounds. Khasar preferred those and he barely listened as he looked across the plains.

  Ogedai was in Karakorum, no doubt being washed, oiled and preened. The nation was already drinking hard and if Khasar hadn’t been taking part in the archery rounds, he would have joined them.

  He watched as Baabgai took his first hold. The big man was not blisteringly fast, but once an opponent came within reach of his hands, once he found a grip, that was it. Baabgai’s fingers were short and fleshy, his hands always looking as if they had swollen badly, but Khasar had felt their strength and wagered heavily on him.

  Baabgai’s first bout ended as he wrenched his opponent’s shoulder, grabbing the wrist and then throwing his weight onto the arm. The crowd cheered and beat drums and gongs in appreciation. Baabgai smiled at them, toothless as a huge baby. Khasar could not help chuckling at the simple pleasure in the wrestler. It would be a fine day.

  Batu did not cry out as a whip lashed him across the cheek. He could feel the welt rise and his skin became as hot and angry as he was himself. The race had begun well enough and he had moved into the first six by the second lap of the city. The ground was harder and drier than he expected, which favoured some horses more than others. As they took the same path for the third lap, dust whitened their skin and dried the spit in their mouths to a gritty paste. Thirst grew steadily in the sun until the weaker ones gasped like birds.

  Batu ducked as the whip came again, a strip of oiled leather. It was one of the Uriankhai, he saw, to his right. A dusty boy, small and light, on the back of a powerful stallion. Through gritty eyes, Batu saw the animal was strong and the boy full of malevolent enjoyment as he drew back his arm to lash him once more. Even over the close-packed thunder of hooves, Batu heard one of the others laugh and felt fury engulf him. They did not command men, as he did. What did he care for the blood of the Uriankhai, except to see it splashed in the dust? He looked to Zan, who raced close by. His friend was ready to aid him, but Batu shook his head, watching the Uriankhai boy all the time.

  When the whip came again, Batu simply raised his arm, so the thong wrapped around his wrist. He closed his hand on a length of it. The boy gaped, but it was too late. Batu yanked hard, using all his weight and str
ength and heaving his own mount away in the same moment.

  The stirrups almost saved the boy. For an instant, one leg flailed, but then he went down under the hooves and his mount whinnied and bucked, almost unseating another rider, who shouted angrily. Batu did not look back. He hoped the fall had killed the little bastard. They had stopped laughing at the front, he noticed.

  Five Uriankhai riders had entered the race for two-year-olds. Though they came from two tumans, they rode instinctively as a group. Batu had brought them together somehow with his challenge, with his dislike. Settan of the Uriankhai led them. He was tall and lithe, with soft eyes that watered in the wind and a tail of hair that hung down his back. He and his friends exchanged glances as they passed the western gate of Karakorum for a fourth time. Sixteen miles to go and the horses’ mouths were white with foam, their skins dark and rimed with sweat. Batu and Zan moved up to challenge for the lead.

  He could see the Uriankhai riders looking back at him. He made sure he showed only the cold face as he drew closer and closer. Behind the leading group, thirty other ponies stretched out like a long tail, already falling behind.

  Khasar was still smiling as he walked back to the archery wall, where the judges and crowds waited impatiently for him. He ignored their stares as he strode to the line and strung his bow. As a brother to Genghis and one of the founders of the nation, he really couldn’t care less if he annoyed the senior men, or spoiled Temuge’s beautiful organisation.

  Jebe’s ten had already taken their shots for the second round and the general stood relaxed, revealing his confidence. Khasar frowned at the younger man, though this seemed to make Jebe chuckle. Khasar steadied himself, knowing he would pass his mood to his own group of archers. No one in the archery rounds was weak or a poor shot. Not a single man there doubted he could win on the right day. There was always an element of luck, if the breeze shifted just as you loosed or a muscle cramped, but the main test was of nerves. Khasar had seen it many times. Men who could stand against a line of screaming Arabs without a qualm found their hands sweating as they walked up to the line in silence. Somehow, they could not take a full breath, as if their chest had swelled to block their throats.

  Knowing that was part of the secret of conquering it. Khasar took long, slow breaths, ignoring the crowd and letting his own men settle themselves and grow calm. The forty targets on the wall even seemed to grow a fraction, an illusion he had seen before. He looked over his men and found them tense but steady.

  ‘Remember, lads,’ he murmured. ‘Every one is a virgin, sweet and willing.’

  Some of his men chuckled, rolling their heads on their shoulders to ease the last tension that might spoil their aim.

  Khasar grinned to himself. Weary or not, old or not, he was going to give Jebe a good run, he could feel it.

  ‘Ready,’ he called to the judges. He looked at the high banner on the archery wall. The wind had risen to a steady blow from the north-east. He adjusted his stance slightly. One hundred paces. A shot he had made a thousand times, a hundred thousand. One more long, slow breath.

  ‘Begin,’ the judge said curtly.

  Khasar notched his first shaft to the string and sent it soaring to the line of shields he had marked as his own. He waited until he was sure it had struck home, then he turned and glanced at Jebe, raising his eyebrows. Jebe laughed at the challenge and turned away.

  The line of pounding, sweating ponies had lengthened like beads on a cord, stretching a mile around the walls of Karakorum. Three of the Uriankhai still led the field, with two stocky boys almost herding Settan towards the finish. Batu and Zan were within reach of them and the group of five had opened a gap on the rest of the riders. It would be decided between them, and their mounts were snorting to clear their mouths and nostrils, spraying mucus and foaming sweat. The walls were lined with watching warriors as well as thousands of Chin workers. For them, the day was also a celebration, the end of two years of labour, with their purses full of coins.

  Batu was blind to the watchers, to everything except Settan and his two companions. The dry ground rose as a cloud of dust, so that it would be hard to see what he was about to do. He felt in his pockets and removed two smooth stones, river pebbles that felt right in his hand. He and Zan had discussed knives or barbing his whip, but such wounds would be public. Some of the judges would not approve. Even so, Zan had offered to gash Settan’s neck. He hated the taller Uriankhai boy who took such pride in Tsubodai’s achievements. Batu had refused the offer, so that he would not lose his friend to vengeance. A stone could always have been thrown up from the hooves as they raced. Even if Settan saw what he and Zan were doing, he would not dare to complain. It would seem like whingeing and the warriors would laugh at him.

  As they began the last lap, Batu fondled the stones. Past the racing horses, he could see wrestlers like brightly coloured birds against the grass; beyond them was the archery wall. His people were out on the plains and he was among them, riding hard. It was a good feeling.

  He squeezed with his knees and his mount responded, though it was heaving for breath. Batu moved up and Zan followed closely. The Uriankhai were not sleeping and they moved to block him from Settan’s horse. Batu smiled at the closest boy and moved his mouth as if he was shouting something. All the while, he brought his mount closer.

  The boy stared at him and Batu grinned, pointing vigorously at something ahead. He watched in delight as the boy finally leaned closer to hear whatever it was Batu was shouting into the wind. Batu swung the stone hard and connected with the side of his head. The boy vanished almost instantly under the hooves, just a rolling, dusty strip behind them.

  Batu took his place as the riderless horse ran ahead. Settan looked back and stared to see him so close. They were caked in dust, their hair and skin a dirty white, but Settan’s gaze was bright with fear. Batu held his eyes, drinking in strength.

  The other Uriankhai boy swerved his mount between them, crashing his leg into Batu so that he was almost unseated. For thumping heartbeats, Batu had to cling on to the mane as his feet lost the stirrups and he endured blows with a whip that came in a wild frenzy, striking his mount as often as himself. Batu kicked out instinctively and connected with the boy’s chest. It gave him a moment to regain his seat. He had dropped one stone, but he had another. As the Uriankhai boy turned back to face him, Batu threw it hard and yelled to see the stone crack into his nose, rocking him and sending bright red blood over the pale dust, like a river bursting. The boy fell back, and Batu and Zan were alone with Settan, with two miles still to ride.

  As soon as he saw what was happening, Settan went all out to open a gap. It was his only chance. All the horses were at the end of their endurance, and with a cry of rage, Zan began to drift back. There was nothing he could do, though he threw his stones with furious strength, managing to hit Settan’s mount on the haunches with one, while the other disappeared in the dust.

  Batu cursed under his breath. He could not let Settan leave him behind. He kicked and whipped his horse until they drew level and then Batu went half a length ahead. He felt strong, though his lungs were full of dust that he would cough up for days to come.

  The final corner was in sight and Batu knew he could win. Yet he had known from the beginning that winning would not be enough for him. Tsubodai would be on the walls, Batu was certain. With one of his Uriankhai so close to the finishing line, the general would no doubt be cheering him on. Batu wiped his eyes, clearing them of gritty dust. He had no love for his father’s memory. It did not change his hatred for the general who had cut Jochi’s throat. Perhaps Ogedai would be there too, watching the young man he had raised.

  Batu allowed Settan to cut inside him as they rushed towards the corner. The edge of the wall was marked by a marble post, decorated with a stone wolf. Judging it all finely, Batu let Settan come up beside him, almost head to head for the finish line. He saw Settan grin as he scented a chance to go through.

  As they reached the corner, Batu wrenche
d his reins to the right and slammed Settan against the post. The impact was colossal. Both horse and rider stopped almost dead as the Uriankhai boy’s leg shattered and he screamed.

  Batu rode on, smiling. He did not look back as the high sound faded behind him.

  As he crossed the line, he wished his father could have lived to see it, to take pride in him. His eyes were wet with tears and he scrubbed at them, blinking furiously and telling himself it was just the wind and the dust.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As the sun sank towards the horizon, Ogedai breathed out slowly. There had been times when he thought he would not live to stand in his city on this day. His hair was oiled and tied into a club on his neck. His deel was simple and dark blue, without ornament or pretension. He wore it belted, over leggings and herders’ soft boots of sheepskin, tied with thongs. He touched his father’s sword at his waist, taking comfort from it.

  At the same time, he felt a spasm of irritation at the choices his father had left him. If Jochi had become khan, it would have established a line of the first born. Instead, the great khan had made Ogedai his heir, the third of four sons. In the shadow of that man, Ogedai’s own line might wither. He could not expect the nation simply to accept his eldest son Guyuk as khan after him. More than twenty others had a blood claim from Genghis, and Chagatai was just one of the more dangerous. Ogedai feared for his son in such a tangle of thorns and teeth. Yet Guyuk had survived so far and perhaps that showed the sky father’s approval of him. Ogedai took a slow breath.