Empire of Silver (17 page)

‘This is how they are used,’ Tsubodai said. ‘Like our own heavy horse, they ride head-on against an enemy. In a charge, they have no flaw or hole in their armour.’

He nodded to Tangut and they all watched as the warrior trotted away, his ungainly metal carapace jingling with every step.

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.’

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 again 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.

Eight hundred paces and he kept the columns together. It was too far for arrows, and cannon would have been left behind
on such a slog over soft ground. Tsubodai saw that the Russian warriors carried spears and bows. He could not see the huge horses ridden by knights in iron. This Russian noble seemed to favour light armour, speed over power, much as Tsubodai did himself. If the enemy truly understood those qualities, Tsubodai knew they would be hard to pin down, but they showed no sign of such an understanding. They had seen his smaller force, lumbering along in a single block. Whoever led them had chosen a simple hammerhead formation to crush mere tribesmen and sheepherders.

At four hundred paces, the first shafts were sent high, shot by young fools on both sides who should have known better. None reached his men from the Russian side and most of his own warriors guarded their bowstrings, keeping them covered until the last moment. Men who had fashioned a bow themselves would not risk it being destroyed by a snapping string. The weapons were precious, sometimes the only thing of value they owned apart from a pony and saddle.

Tsubodai saw the Russian prince who led the force. Like Batu’s false position, he was surrounded by flags and guards, but there was no mistaking the enormous horse at the centre of the army, its rider sitting in armour that shone like silver in the rain. The man’s head was bare and at two hundred paces, his eyes still sharp over distance, Tsubodai could see a blond beard. He sent another rider to Batu to be sure he had marked his man, but it was unnecessary. As soon as the messenger had hared away, Tsubodai saw Batu point and exchange commands with his minghaans.

Thunder grumbled again above their heads and for an instant Tsubodai saw thousands of lighter faces among the enemy as men looked up. Many were bearded, he realised. Compared to the Mongol face, where little hair grew, they were like great lumbering bears. Arrows followed as his light cavalry released thousands of shafts, sending them high. For the first shots,
every tenth man used a whistling head, carved and fluted to scream in the air. They did less damage than the steel-head shafts, but the sound was unearthly and terrifying. In the past, armies had broken and run from that first volley. Tsubodai grinned to hear the naccara drums hammer out their own thunder, answering the storm as it dwindled to the east.

The arrows curved upwards, dropping hard. Tsubodai noted the way the Russians protected the blond leader with shields, ignoring their own safety. Some of the man’s guards fell, but then the steady approach seemed to go faster and the distance between them dwindled rapidly. The Mongol light horsemen released another storm of arrows before falling back at the last moment and letting the lancers through. It was Batu’s moment of madness, exactly as Tsubodai had ordered. The grandson of Genghis would challenge the blond leader personally. A knight of iron would expect just such a challenge.

The naccara drums roared, the strikes blurring as the camel boys hit the great kettles at their sides. As Batu’s minghaans cantered into a spear formation, lunging ahead of the tumans, the warriors screamed, an ululating bellow to send men white.

Arrows rained down from the Russian horsemen. They fell most heavily on the bannermen in the third rank of the main formation, surrounded by the snapping flags. They raised their shields above their heads and endured. Ahead of them, Batu took three thousand in a charge for the very centre of the Russian force.

Tsubodai watched coldly, satisfied that the younger man’s nerve was up to the task. The spearhead was to serve one purpose. Tsubodai watched as they punched a hole with arrows in the Russian lines, then rode lances at it, crashing deeper in. The blond leader was pointing at them, shouting to his men as Batu’s minghaans threw down broken lances and drew the lightly curved swords of good steel. Horses and men went down, but they pushed on. Before he was lost to sight in the
mass, Tsubodai saw Batu at the bloody tip of the spear, pushing his mount on and on.

Batu seethed as he chopped down on a roaring face, dragging his blade across a man’s mouth so that his jaw hung slack. His sword arm ached, but his blood was on fire and he felt as if he could fight all day. He knew Tsubodai would be watching: the ruthless tactician, the Orlok Bahadur who threw warriors away as if they were nothing to him. Well, let the old men see how it was done.

Batu’s strike minghaans crashed on into the Russians, aiming at the prince and his long flags. There were moments when Batu could see the blond warrior in his shining armour. He knew they were coming for him, risking it all on a single blow to his throat. It was the sort of attack a Russian army might have made.

Batu knew the true plan. Tsubodai had given him that much before sending him out. He was to hit hard until his men began to be overwhelmed. Only then could he fight his way out again. He smiled bitterly to himself. It would not be hard to feign panic at that point. The false retreat would collapse the Mongol centre, quickly turning into a rout as the tumans withdrew. The enemy horsemen would be drawn through the wings of foot soldiers, further and further, stretched thin over the ground. Then the jaws would close. If any of them made it through the trap, Kachiun’s reserve would hit from both sides, hidden two miles back in heavy forest. It was a good plan, if the auxiliaries could hold the flanks, if Batu survived it. As he backhanded his sword across a horse’s cheek, tearing a great flap, he recalled the challenge in the general’s eyes as he had given him the order. Batu had shown him none of the roiling fury that filled him. Of course Tsubodai had chosen him. Who else had been a thorn in his side for so many months? His
minghaan officers had exchanged resigned glances when they heard, but they had still volunteered. Not one of them had stood back rather than ride with the grandson of Genghis.

Fresh fury filled Batu at the thought of their wasted loyalty. How far had he come? Two hundred paces, three, more, into the enemy? They milled around him, their blades flickering, their shields taking his blows. Arrows whipped past his face. They wore leather armour and his blade was sharp enough to pierce it with a thrust, or even gash it as he went past, leaving them gasping over bloody ribs. He had no idea how long he had been pressing forward in the mass of horses, further and further away from safety and the tumans. All he knew was that he had to choose the moment well. Too soon and the Russians would sense a trap and simply close ranks behind him. Too late and there would not be enough battered warriors left to stage the false retreat. His men had chosen to follow into the mouth of the beast. Not because of Tsubodai, but because of him.

He felt his charge slowing as the Mongol warriors were hemmed in. Every step brought more Russian warriors against their flanks, stretching their force thinner and thinner, like a needle into flesh that gripped it tight. Batu felt fear rise in his throat like acid. He grabbed a shield of leather and wood and yanked it towards him with his left hand, stabbing down over the edge into the man behind it. He thrust the blade with all his fury and then punched with the hilt, so that the enemy fell away, his face a mass of blood.

Three warriors stayed in line with him as he forced his mount another four steps forward, killing a man to make space. Without warning, one of his companions was gone, taken by an arrow in the throat and falling backwards out of the saddle so that the horse snorted and lashed out with its hooves, its own panic growing. It was time. It was surely time. Batu looked around him. Had he done enough? The agony of the choice
ate at him. He could not come back too early and face Tsubodai’s stern expression. Better to die than have that man consider he had lost his nerve.