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 (255 page)

Arik-Boke would not just want to win the battle. The losses of his orlok had humiliated him. If Kublai still knew him at all, he would be half blind in wounded pride and rage, aiming his archers at that point. The bannermen would soak up the shafts. It was not a pleasant thought as memories of their youth flashed into his mind, but Kublai would use anything, any weakness on that day. In silence, he sent a prayer of apology to his mother and father, hoping they could not see the battle he would fight that day.

Kublai looked right and left along the ranks of silent men. He wore no sign of his authority and his bondsmen were watching him with expressions of quiet pride. They were ready. He sent another prayer to the spirits of his ancestors that Bayar would come.

He saw Uriang-Khadai raise a hand and Kublai matched the gesture. It was time. He looked ahead to the vast army coming at them as his orlok gave the order. Horns began to sound across the ranks, a single, droning note that made Kublai’s hands tremble before he gripped the reins hard. A hundred thousand warriors dug in their heels and began to trot forward to meet the enemy, his younger brother.

ARIK-BOKE CRANED FORWARD IN HIS SADDLE, PEERING THROUGH
the dust to where his brother waited for him. The scouts had reported Kublai’s position long before, but he still waited for his own eyes to confirm it. Though the walls of Karakorum were painted white, he could see only a hint of paleness behind the darker lines of Kublai’s tumans, like a reflection off metal. He nodded to himself, clenching his fist on his sword hilt.

His twelve generals were riding on either side of him, already looking back to their tumans and wanting his permission to ride with their men. Arik-Boke kept silent. His orlok had failed him and he had not appointed another, just to see him fail in turn. He was khan and he would command the battle. He could sense the unease of the senior men, as if the fools thought he would keep them in line with him right up to the first shafts in the air.

His tumans had ridden fifty miles that day without stopping. They were weary, but the sight of the enemy standing to face them would cast that weariness away. Arik-Boke did not feel it himself. Anger and excitement coursed through him as the range closed to two miles, less. He could see the formations of Kublai by then, still standing as if they had grown roots waiting for him. He struggled with colossal
rage at the thought of them barring the way to his own city, standing in the khan’s rightful path. His brother would answer for his arrogance, he promised himself.

His tumans matched his speed, though they were not idle. Spare horses were brought up from the rear in their thousands, pulled alongside, so that his warriors could jump across without slowing down. The ones they had ridden all morning fell back quickly without heels and whips to keep them going. Arik-Boke was close enough to see the bright yellow flags of his brother’s position, standing tall on spears like bristling spines. At such a distance, he could not make out the symbol on them, but he had his first sight of the false khan’s position. He could imagine Kublai looking out and a shudder went through him as if their gazes had locked over the empty plain.

“There is your target,” he called to his generals. “I will give a province to the man who brings me his head. Which one of you will be a khan after today?”

He saw the stunned expressions as they understood and he was satisfied. They would drive their men ruthlessly for such a reward, falling on Kublai like a mountain dropping from the blue sky. It was a good thought.

He sent them back to their tumans and felt the change in just a short time as they began to roar orders. The speed grew and all the tumans matched the racing lines, each one subtly trying to maneuver to be in the best position to hit that small group of banner flags.

Arik-Boke grinned into the breeze. The armies were less than a mile apart and he had set bloody meat before the wolves. He had more men and they fought for the great khan of the nation. To ride to such a battle was the closest thing to joy he had ever known.

THE SCOUT WAS EXHAUSTED, DROOPING IN THE SADDLE AS
his horse reached the final yam station in the heart of Karakorum. It had not been an easy run to get around Kublai’s tumans. He’d had to swing wide, beyond the scout lines, and then ride on through the darkness whenever he found a path or a road. He hadn’t slept for
three days, hadn’t been able to with enemy scouts checking every trail and path. He’d spent some of the previous night with a dagger cutting into his biceps, using the pain to keep him awake as he peered out from a thicket and waited for a group of warriors to move on. He scratched at the bandage as he guided his exhausted mount down the city road to the yam station. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him hear whispers and see strange colors he could not name whenever he forced his eyes open. He had no idea what had happened to his companion. Perhaps he hadn’t had luck with him and had taken an arrow as he rode.

The scout was eighteen years old and he had once thought of his strength as limitless, until the ride showed him the truth. Everything hurt and his mind felt like a solid lump in his skull, stupid and slow to react. Perhaps that was why he felt so little triumph as he almost fell from the saddle into the waiting arms of the yam riders. They did not laugh at the state and stench of him, the saddle still damp under his legs from the times he had urinated without stopping. With an army taking position outside the city, they were visibly worried. One of them took a wet cloth from a bucket and rubbed it over the scout’s face roughly, waking him up a little as well as clearing the caked dust and filth.

“No message bag,” one of them said, with a twist to his mouth. None of them expected good news from the sort of message that could not be written down. He slapped the scout lightly on the face.

“Wake up, lad. You’re here, you’ve arrived. Who were you sent to speak to?”

The scout brought his hands up irritably at the rough treatment, pushing them away as he stood on his own.

“From the khan. Captain of the Guards,” he croaked at them. One of the men handed over a skin of clean water and he gulped gratefully, spitting onto the floor to clear his gummed mouth. His words did a reasonable job of waking them all up to their usual efficiency.

“You walk him in, Lev,” the yam master said. “I’ll deal with the horse.”

The animal was blown, ruined, and in much the same state as its rider. The master took the reins with a grim expression to lead it out into the yard. He didn’t want blood on the floor inside.

“I’ll be expecting a few choice cuts for tonight,” one of the others called after him.

The yam master ignored the comment and the scout was led stumbling away with a man’s hand on his shoulder.

The yam rider knew better than anyone not to question the scout and they walked in silence through the streets toward the khan’s palace. It could be seen from a long way off, with its gold-capped tower. The scout looked up at it gratefully, hobbling along with each step sending sharp pains up his legs.

The palace gates were manned by Day Guards in polished armor. They nodded to the yam rider and looked askance at his filthy companion.

“Khan’s orders. Captain of the Guard, urgent,” the yam rider said, enjoying the chance to make them move quickly for once. One of the Guards whistled and another one inside went running off at full sprint, his boots clattering on the stone corridors so that they could hear his progress for some time.

“Any news of that army?” the Guard asked.

The scout shrugged, his voice still rough.

“They were turning to face the khan, last I saw. It’ll be over today.”

The Guard looked as if he wanted to ask more, but they could all hear the running steps returning, with another alongside. The captain had not bothered about his dignity, not with a message from the khan and a hostile army outside Karakorum. He arrived at a flat sprint, skidding to a stop and putting an arm out to the gatepost to steady himself.

“Do you need to tell me in private?” he asked, panting.

“I wasn’t told that. The khan told me to say ‘It’s time.’ ”

To the scout’s surprise, the captain paled and took a deep, slow breath as he settled himself.

“Nothing else?”

“That’s it, sir. ‘It’s time.’ ”

The captain nodded and walked away without another word, leaving four men staring after him.

“That doesn’t sound good for someone,” one of the yam men muttered.

KUBLAI SNAPPED HIS GAZE BACK AND FORTH, BETWEEN THE
tumans riding toward him and his own. Both sides moved fluidly, shifting and overlapping as they came together, searching out weaknesses in the other and forcing them to react. To an outsider, it might have looked as if two great armies swept mindlessly toward each other, but the truth was a constant, darting struggle. Arik-Boke’s generals would shore up one wing and Kublai or Uriang-Khadai would react to it. They would bring a new tuman swinging over to bolster another position, drawing the enemy back into line rather than risk a massed attack on a weak part of their formations. It happened at a canter and then a gallop, with each officer seeking the slightest advantage as they came within bow range.

At three hundred paces, the first shafts were sent flying up from both sides. The maximum range and the closing speeds meant they would hit overhead in the ranks further back. Kublai saw them soaring thickly to where his bannermen rode and he roared a final order to the closest general. They had only moments to react, but they drifted left, shoring up his own ranks and weakening the false position.

It was too late for Arik-Boke to react again. Kublai and Uriang-Khadai had been reading his formations, seeing the build of strength on his left wing. It was well hidden, with thousands of men screening the main shift, but Arik-Boke had taken the bait. He would hit the false position, where he believed Kublai to be waiting for him.

Kublai barely noticed the volleys thrumming out from both sides, one every six heartbeats, launching terrible death and destruction. He had eyes only for the enemy movements. They were throwing their strength into one side to reach where they thought he was, skewing their formations to bring the maximum numbers against that point of his lines and smash through.

In the last heartbeats, arrows buzzed between the armies by the
tens of thousands, crossing each other in the air. Horses and men went down hard and Kublai had to wrench his mount out of the way of one fallen rider, then kick in to make a half-stumbling leap over another. He found himself in the second rank as the lances came down on both sides. He drew his sword.

On his right, Arik-Boke’s tumans had brought lances to bear early, soaking up the arrow storm as they tried to punch right through to the yellow flags. Kublai could read his brother’s rage in their formations and he shouted without words, a roar of sound that was swallowed in the screams and crashes all around him.

A lance came at him, aimed squarely at his chest. At first it seemed to be slow, then his mind adjusted and it struck at him like a darting bird, drawn in at the speed of two horses galloping head-on. He turned the tip of it with a grunt, forcing it wide so the lancer went past him on his right. Kublai slashed across the man’s face as he went and felt a single spot of blood touch his cheek.

His own lance warriors took advantage of the weaker lines against them. Arik-Boke had committed his main strength to one wing, so that his tumans formed almost a spear on the land in the last moments. Kublai showed his teeth in the wind. He could not save the men who carried his banners, but he could hit the suddenly vulnerable flank they had helped to expose.

In just a few heartbeats, the two armies had slid past each other like dancers. It was a level of maneuver and formation only possible by the elite horsemen of the nation and yet Arik-Boke had made a mistake. As his tumans crashed deeper and deeper, throwing down lances as they broke, their flank was exposed to Kublai’s main strength. Uriang-Khadai bellowed new orders at the exact moment Kublai did, sending fresh volleys of arrows into the streaming mass as they passed, punching hundreds of men from their mounts.

It took time to turn his tumans and every moment was agony as more and more of the flank poured past him. Kublai reined in savagely, using his strength to drag the animal into a tight turn. It stumbled again on a body, but came upright, snorting in fear. He pointed his sword at the tumans of his brother and his men dug in their heels, roaring “Chuh!” to their mounts in a great burst of sound.

They struck at barely more than a canter in the space they’d had to leap forward, but Arik-Boke’s tumans were focused forward and the swordsmen cut deep into them, hacking and slashing with the huge strength of men trained to the bow.

Kublai went with them, through the first rank galloping past him, then further as the lines crumpled. His minghaans kept his attacking line wide so that no single point could get ahead of the rest and find itself flanked in turn. With men dying on all sides, his officers kept calm and gave out a stream of orders. The khan’s command had dropped to them and they were veterans, stolid and serious about their work.