Khan: Empire of Silver

by Conn Iggulden

  At two hundred paces, the man turned his heavy mount, which reared and flattened its ears. He dug in his heels and the animal lunged forward, the thick legs thumping the ground. Batu saw how dropping the horse’s head brought the armour of chest and skull together, forming an impenetrable shell. The lance lowered, the point cutting the air in circles as it centred on Tsubodai’s chest.

  Batu found he was holding his breath and he let it go, annoyed with himself for falling under Tsubodai’s spell. He watched coldly as the warrior hit full gallop, his lance a deadly weapon. The hooves thundered and Batu had a sudden vision of a line of such men sweeping across a battlefield. He swallowed at the thought.

  Tsubodai moved quickly, darting to one side with his pony. They saw the armoured warrior try to correct, but he could not turn at full speed and swept past.

  Tsubodai raised and drew his bow in a fluid motion, aiming casually. The front of the horse was as well armoured as its rider. There was even a crest of armour running along the line of the mane, but below that the great neck was open and bare.

  Tsubodai’s arrow punched into the flesh and the horse screamed, spattering bright blood from its nostrils.

  ‘From the sides, to a good bowman, they are unprotected,’ Tsubodai shouted over the noise. He spoke without pride: any one of the men watching could have made the shot. They smiled at the thought of such powerful enemies brought down by speed and arrows.

  They could all hear the tortured snorting of the horse as it wrenched its head back and forth in pain. Slowly, it sank to its knees and the warrior stepped clear. He dropped his lance and drew a long sword, advancing on Tsubodai.

  ‘To defeat such armoured men, we must first kill the horses,’ Tsubodai went on. ‘Their armour is designed to deflect arrows shot from the front. Everything is made for the charge, but on foot, they are like turtles, slow and ponderous.’

  To make his point, he selected a thick arrow with a long steel tip. It was a wicked-looking thing, smooth and polished, with no barbs to slow its speed.

  The approaching warrior saw the action and hesitated. He did not know how far Tsubodai was willing to go to make his point, but the general would be equally ruthless with a man whose nerve failed. The moment of indecision passed and the warrior clumped forward, straining to pump his heavy legs and arms quickly so that he could bring his sword to bear.

  From the saddle, Tsubodai guided his mount with his knees, sending the pony dancing back out of sword range. He drew again, feeling the immense power of the bow as he pulled the three-foot shaft right back to his ear. With the warrior just a few paces away, Tsubodai loosed and watched closely as the shaft passed straight through the side plates.

  The warrior went down hard with a crash of metal. The arrow was lodged in his armour, the feathers showing clearly as he toppled. Tsubodai grinned.

  ‘They have just one strength – in a line, facing forward. If we allow them to use that strength, they will sweep us away like wheat to a scythe. If we scatter and ambush them, stage false retreats and flank them, they will be as children to us.’

  Batu watched as Tsubodai’s serving men carried the dying warrior away between them, sweating and struggling under the massive burden. At a distance, they stripped the armour, revealing a mailed body spitted through by the shaft. They had to break the arrow to get the plate free and bring it back to Tsubodai.

  ‘According to those boastful Christians who wished to frighten us, these knights have had no equal on the battlefield for a hundred years.’ He held up the metal plate and everyone there could see the sunlight gleam through the neat hole. ‘We cannot leave a major force or city behind us or on our flanks, but if this is the best they have, we will surprise them, I think.’

  They raised their own bows and swords then, cheering Tsubodai’s name. Batu joined them, careful not to be the only one who remained outside the group. He saw Tsubodai’s gaze flicker over him. A look of satisfaction crossed the general’s face at seeing Batu shout with the others. Batu smiled at the thought of holding Tsubodai’s head up in just such a way. It was only a fantasy. The army was strong, but he knew they needed Tsubodai to lead them west against the great armies of horsemen and further to these men of iron. For Batu, men like Tsubodai were old and approaching the end of their time. His chance would come naturally; he did not need to force its progress.

  Chagatai had built a summer palace on the banks of the Amu Darya river, the western edge of his empire that led as far south as Kabul. For the site, he had chosen a high ridge over the river where there was always a cool breeze, even in the hottest months. The sun of his khanate had baked him lean and dark, as if all the moisture had been boiled out, leaving him as hard as ancient birch. He ruled the cities of Bukhara, Samarkand and Kabul, with all their wealth. The citizens there had learned to deal with the summer heat, sipping cool drinks and sleeping through the afternoon before rising again. Chagatai had chosen almost a hundred new wives from those cities alone and many of them had already given birth to sons and daughters. He had taken Ogedai’s order to breed a new army literally and he enjoyed the sound of the squalling children in the infant rooms of his seraglio. He had even learned the new word for his collection of beautiful women, as there was nothing like it in his own tongue.

  Yet there were times when he missed the frozen plains of his homeland. Winter was a passing thing in his new lands, always with the promise of a return to green life. Though their nights could be bitter, the people of his new khanate had no concept of the endless, crushing cold that had shaped the Mongol people, the desolate high plains that had to be fought for every meal, with life and sudden death as the stakes. His heartland had groves of figs and fruit, rolling hills and rivers that flooded every few years and had not run dry in living memory.

  His summer palace had been built to the same specification and measurements as Ogedai’s in Karakorum – then carefully reduced in all dimensions. Chagatai was nowhere near the fool some believed him to be. No great khan would enjoy hearing of a building to rival his own and Chagatai was careful to remain a support rather than any kind of threat.

  He heard his servant approaching along the marble corridor that led to the audience room over the river. Suntai’s sole concession to the climate was wearing open sandals with iron studs that clacked and echoed long before he could be seen. Chagatai stood on the balcony, enjoying the sight of the ducks sweeping in to settle in the reed beds along the banks. Above them, a lone white-tailed eagle hung in perfect stillness, silent and deadly.

  As Suntai entered, Chagatai turned and gestured to a bottle of arack on the table. Both men had developed a taste for the aniseed drink so popular among the Persian citizens. Chagatai turned back to the river as Suntai clinked the cups together and poured, adding a dash of water so that it whitened like mare’s milk.

  Chagatai accepted the cup without taking his eyes off the eagle over the river. He squinted against the setting sun as it stooped, dropping suddenly to the waters and rising again with a squirming fish in its claws. The ducks rose in mindless panic and Chagatai smiled. When the air cooled in the evenings, he found he had grown affectionate towards his new home. It was a fitting land for those who would come after him. Ogedai had been generous.

  ‘You have heard the news,’ Chagatai said. It was a statement rather than a question. Any message that reached his summer palace would have passed through Suntai’s hands at some point.

  Suntai nodded, content to wait to hear his master’s mind. To those who did not know him, he looked like any other warrior, though one who had marked his cheeks and chin with heavy lines of knife scars as some did, removing the need to shave on campaign. Suntai was always grubby and his hair was thick with ancient, rancid oil. He scorned the Persian habits of bathing and he suffered worse than most with boils and spreading rashes. With his dark eyes and lean frame, he looked like a rough killer. In fact, the mind behind the carefully created image was sharper than the knives he carried hidden against his skin.

  ‘
I did not expect to lose another brother so soon,’ Chagatai said softly. He emptied the cup down his throat and belched. ‘Two are gone. Just two of us remain.’

  ‘Master, we should not stand at a window to discuss such things. There are always ears to hear.’

  Chagatai shrugged and gestured with his empty cup. Suntai walked with him, deftly snatching up the jug of arack as he passed the table. They sat facing each other at an ornate table of gold-inlaid black wood, once the property of a Persian king. It was not symbolism that placed it at the very centre of the room. Suntai knew they could not be overheard by the keenest listener with his ears pressed to the outer walls. He suspected Ogedai would have spies in the new summer palace, just as Suntai had placed them with Tsubodai and Ogedai, Khasar and Kachiun, all the senior men he could reach. Loyalty was a difficult game, but he loved it.

  ‘I have reports of the fit suffered by the khan,’ Suntai said. ‘I cannot say how close he was to death without interviewing the shaman who tended him. He is not one of mine, unfortunately.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must be ready to move at the first messenger to come galloping in.’ Despite the placing of the table, Chagatai was unable to resist glancing around to be sure no one could hear him and he leaned forward, his voice very low.

  ‘It took forty-nine days for me to hear this, Suntai. It is not good enough. If I am to take the great khanate as my own, I must have better news and faster. The next time Ogedai falls, I want to be there before he is cold, do you understand?’

  Suntai touched his forehead, mouth and heart with his fingertips in the Arab gesture of respect and obedience.

  ‘Your will commands me, my lord. One of my closest servants was gored in a boar hunt. It has taken time to replace him in the great khan’s retinue. However, I have two others ready for promotion to his personal staff. In just a few months, they will be part of his innermost councils.’

  ‘Make it so, Suntai. There will be only one chance to take the reins. I do not want his weakling son gathering the tribes before I can act. Serve me well in this and you will rise with me. The nation of my father is too strong for a man who cannot command even his own body.’

  Suntai smiled tightly, rubbing the ugly ridged skin of his cheeks. The instinct of years prevented him from agreeing with the treason, or even to nod his head. He had spent too long with spies and informants and he never spoke without carefully weighing the words. Chagatai was used to his silences and merely refilled the cups, adding the splash of water that took the edge off the bitterness.

  ‘Let us drink to my brother Tolui,’ Chagatai said.

  Suntai looked closely at him, but there was real grief in his eyes. The khan’s spymaster raised his cup and dipped his gaze.

  ‘He would have made my father proud with such a sacrifice,’ Chagatai went on. ‘It was insane, but by the sky father, it was a glorious insanity.’

  Suntai drank, aware that his lord had been drinking most of the day already. It showed in his bloodshot eyes and clumsy movements. In comparison, Suntai only sipped from his cup. He almost choked when Chagatai slapped him on the shoulder and laughed, spilling the white liquid across the lacquer.

  ‘Family is everything, Suntai, never think that I forget that…’ He trailed off, staring into memories for a time. ‘But I was my father’s choice to succeed him. There was a time when my destiny was written in stone and carved deep. Now, I must make it for myself, but it is nothing more than fulfilling the old man’s dreams.’

  ‘I understand, my lord,’ Suntai said, refilling Chagatai’s cup. ‘It is a worthy aim.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The rain could not last, Tsubodai was almost certain. The sheer force of it was astonishing, drumming across his tumans. The sky was a wall of black cloud and lightning flashed at irregular intervals, revealing the battlefield in stark images. Tsubodai would never have fought on such a day if the enemy had not moved into position in the darkness. It was a bold move, even for mounted horsemen armed much as his own warriors.

  The Volga river was behind them. It had taken another year to secure the lands beyond the river, the second since leaving Karakorum. He had chosen to be thorough, to sting the great men, attacking their walled towns and cities on a wide front until they were forced to unite against him. In that way, his tumans could destroy them all, rather than spend many years hunting down each duke and minor noble, whatever they called themselves. For months, Tsubodai had seen strangers watching his columns from hilltops, but they vanished when challenged, disappearing back into the damp forests. It seemed their masters knew no loyalty to each other and for a time he had been forced to pick them off one by one. It was not enough. To cover the sort of ground he intended, he dared not leave a major army or city untouched. It was a complex web of terrain and information and it grew harder to manage with each passing month. His spearhead was widening further and further, his resources stretched. He needed more men.

  His scouts had ridden out as usual in a constant relay. A few days before, without warning, some had not come back. As soon as the first ones were missed, Tsubodai prepared for attack, almost two full days before an enemy was in sight.

  Still in darkness, with a cold drizzle soaking them all to the skin, horn warnings sounded, relayed from man to man. The Mongol columns had come together from miles apart, forming a single mass of horses and warriors. There was no separate camp for those who could not fight. From children to old women on carts, Tsubodai preferred them to move in the safety of the main army. His light cavalry took positions on the outskirts, each man covering his bow and dreading the moment when he would have to shoot arrows in the rain. They all carried spare bowstrings, but rain ruined them quickly, stretching the skin strips and robbing the shafts of force.

  The ground was already soft as the grey morning lightened almost imperceptibly. It would bog down the carts. Tsubodai began to arrange a corral for them behind the battlefield. All the time, he continued to gather information. Many of his scouts had been ridden down, but others struggled through to bring him news. Some of them were wounded and one had an arrow lodged in his back, near the shoulder blades. Before Tsubodai could even see the horizon, he had estimates of the enemy numbers. They were moving quickly towards him, risking life and mounts to surprise the Mongol columns, to catch them out of formation.

  He smiled at the thought. He was no wild tribesman, to be surprised at dawn. His men could not be routed with a sudden charge. The Russian noblemen were reacting like ants to repulse an invader, without a pause for thought.

  The tumans moved smoothly in formation, each jagun of a hundred following the next in the darkness, calling back and forth to keep position. The five generals spoke to Tsubodai in turn and he gave them their orders without hesitation. They split apart at a gallop to pass them down the line of command.

  It was Tsubodai’s practice to interrogate prisoners, if gold would not buy what he needed. Moscow lay ahead, a centre of power in the region. The prisoners had known its location on the Moskva river. Now Tsubodai knew as well. The Russians had a record of arrogance, considering themselves masters of the central plains. Tsubodai smiled again to himself.

  The downpour had begun after the enemy horsemen had begun the attack, but they had not called it off. The soft ground would hamper them as much as his own warriors. His tumans were outnumbered, but they always were. The auxiliary forces Batu had poured scorn on were good enough to hold the flanks and prevent encirclement. Tsubodai had his best men among them, training them constantly and setting up chains of command. They were already more than just a rabble of peasants and he would not throw them away without good reason. To his experienced eye, their formations of foot soldiers were ragged compared with the discipline of his tumans, but they were still many, standing in the mud with axes, sword and shields.

  Tsubodai had given his orders and the rest was up to the individuals who led. His men knew the plans could change in an instant, if some new factor showed itself. The ripple of orders would run ag
ain and the formations would change faster than an enemy could possibly react.

  The light did not brighten under the cloud. The rain became suddenly heavier, though the thunder fell silent for a time. By then, Tsubodai could make out horsemen moving across the hills like a stain. He rode alongside his own tumans, checking every detail as messengers raced across the field. If it had not been for the rain, he would have split his force and sent Batu to one side to flank or encircle the enemy. As it was, he had chosen to appear slow and clumsy, a single mass of warriors riding blindly at the enemy. It was what the Russians would expect from armoured knights.

  Tsubodai looked across to where Batu rode with his tuman. The younger man’s position was marked in the third rank by a host of banners, though Tsubodai knew he was not there. That too was an innovation. Armies concentrated their arrows on officers and kings. Tsubodai’s orders had been to reveal those spots with flags, but have the generals in the ranks to one side. The bannermen carried heavy shields and their morale was high at the thought of fooling an enemy in such a way.

  A clot of cold mud flung from a hoof touched Tsubodai’s cheek and he wiped it away. The Russians were no more than a mile off and his mind clicked through calculations as the armies closed. What else could he have done? He grimaced at the thought. Much of the plan depended on Batu following his orders, but if the younger general failed or disobeyed, Tsubodai was ready. He would not give Batu another chance, no matter who his father and grandfather had been.

  The rain died away without warning, the morning suddenly filled with the sounds of horses and men, orders suddenly clear where they had been muffled. The Russian prince had widened the line when he saw their numbers, preparing to encircle. One of the Russian flanks was struggling to keep up with the rest over boggy ground, their horses plunging and rising. It was a weakness and Tsubodai sent scouts to his generals to make sure they had noted it.