Hope of Earth (55 page)

N
ED, RANGING OUT AHEAD TO
scout the way, heard a distant clamor. That could be trouble. He rode up on a bluff overlooking the Syr Darya and peered forward.

To the north, across the river, the remnant of a battle was proceeding. He could see the colors of Timur, and those of the White Horde. The standards of the Turks were in disarray, while those of the Mongols were organized.

“Oh, no,” he breathed. “Toqtamish lost again.”

He was about to ride back to carry the word to his commander, when he saw a special eddy current in the larger swirl of the battle. A lone horseman was fleeing a group of riders. He had evidently gotten isolated from his troop and was about to be killed.

But why would they pursue an ordinary cavalryman? Where could he go? He was caught between the enemy and the river, evidently unarmed, no longer a threat to the Mongols. They would do better to mop up the remaining pockets of organized resistance. Unless—

Could it be? Yes, that Would explain it. It could be Toqtamish himself, the one the White Horde was after. The pretender to their throne. They would not let
him
go!

Fascinated by the distant interplay, Ned strained to see it unfold. He remembered how rival royal factions among the White Horde had vied for power, and Urus Khan had risen to dominance five years before. Opposed by his cousin Tuli Khoja, he had acted forthrightly: he had attacked and killed his rival. Khoja’s son Toqtamish had had to flee for his life. He had gone to the one power capable of reversing his ill fortunes: Timur of Transoxiana.

Ned, as an apprentice strategist in Timur’s court, had studied the activities of the White Horde, because Timur’s generals were keeping a wary eye on the rise of a potentially dangerous power to the north. Urus clearly had large ambitions, which included reuniting the White and Golden Hordes under his own leadership, and possibly Persia too. Since Persia was Timur’s sphere of endeavor, this bore watching. Ned was one of a number of strategists assigned to watch and advise about such developments, so that Timur would not be caught unprepared. What use to conquer Persia, if the White Horde then swept down on his flank? So the appeal of a legitimate pretender to the Mongol throne was of considerable interest.

He remembered the fanfare with which Timur’s General Uzbeg had escorted Toqtamish to Samarkand. Timur himself had hastened back from the front to meet him, greeting him as his son. There were lavish gifts of gold, gems, robes, silks, furniture, camels, horses, tents, drums, banners, and slaves.

He had installed Toqtamish as ruler of the borderlands between Transoxiana and the White Horde, and given him fresh troops with which to defend his territory.

Of course Timur’s generosity was calculated. A genuine and loyal Mongol prince was a fine buffer to have on that perilous border. It solved the problem of the ambitions of the khan of the White Horde. For now.

But as soon as Toqtamish settled in, Urus Khan sent an army commanded by his son Qutlugh-buka to rout him out. Toqtamish was forced to flee, but the victorious Qutlugh-buka was severely wounded in the battle, and died the next day. This surely did not please the khan.

Ned had watched with wonder as Timur greeted the Mongol prince with even greater honors than before, and supplied him with a fresh army. Toqtamish had set out to reclaim his lost domains. But spies had brought news to Samarkand of another Mongol army moving south, this one commanded by Urus Khan’s eldest son, Tokhta-qiya, who was determined to avenge the death of his brother. So Timur had sent the ranking official Idiku Berlas to counsel Toqtamish and assist him in ruling his limited kingdom, so that he would not be ousted again. Ned was part of that party.

But now it was apparent that they were too late. Tokhta-qiya, perhaps spurred on by his grief, had not waited for Toqtamish to enter Sabrán. He had intercepted Toqtamish on the way, and probably caught him by surprise, and routed him. Now Toqtamish was fleeing for his life, and his prospects looked bleak indeed.

The lone rider reached the river just ahead of the pursuit and drove his horse into the water. But the animal might have balked—Ned couldn’t tell from this distance—and the man had to shed armor and swim. The troops of the White Horde drew up at the water, not caring to try to ford it in their armor, and took deliberate aim with their bows. Several arrows missed, for it was a fleeting target; the man was holding his breath and swimming under the surface as much as possible. Also, the river’s current was bearing him along, further confusing his irregular appearances. But then there was a cry, and Ned saw the faint discoloration of blood in the water. The fugitive had been struck!

But the man made it to the far bank. He staggered from the water, entered the forest, and threw himself into the underbrush, evidently exhausted. The archers were running down the river, trying to get into better position for loosing their arrows more accurately, but their target had disappeared.

Now Ned turned his horse and galloped back to report to Idiku Berlas, as he should have done before. But he had wanted to see whether the fugitive escaped, because if it was Toqtamish, and if the prince died, then their mission would have become pointless. Now he knew that there was still a chance. But he had to hurry, because he had to reach Idiku and return with aid before the Mongols could reach a fordable spot in the river, cross, and locate their prey.

Soon he reached Idiku. “There is a battle beyond the river!” he cried. “Mongol, Turk. The Mongols won. I think I saw Toqtamish escape!”

“Where?”

“By the river woods. I marked the place.”

“Lead the way.”

Idiku and his troop followed Ned to the region he had seen. They plunged into the woods flanking the river, forging on through.

“He could be anywhere along here,” Ned said. “And the Mongols could be crossing the river in pursuit.”

Idiku signaled, and the men spread out to approach the river in a line. They reached it, and saw Mongols carefully fording it with roped horses. But the moment the Mongols spied them, they retreated. The river was no place to defend against arrows from the land.

Meanwhile Idiku and Ned ranged through the brush.

“Prince!” Ned called. “We are friends!”

There was a groan nearby. Ned went there, and saw the fugitive lying under a bush. He dismounted and ran to him. It was indeed Prince Toqtamish. “Here!” he called to Idiku as he kneeled beside the fallen man.

In a moment Idiku was there. “He is wounded in the hand,” he said. “Nonlethal injury.”

Ned bound the hand, and they helped Toqtamish to a horse. He was too weary to ride competently on his own, so Ned rode with him, keeping him from slumping out of the saddle as the horse walked.

“We’ll take him directly to Timur, at Bukhara,” Idiku said.

They camped for the night, posting guards. Toqtamish began to revive, eating bread and drinking wine. He inquired about the identity of his rescuers, and Idiku introduced himself and Ned. “Ned spied you crossing the river, and led us to the place,” he said.

“What is it he wears?”

“A cross,” Ned said. “I am a Christian.”

Toqtamish nodded, evidently losing interest. “I will remember.” Then he found a place to urinate, and retired to the tent to sleep.

In the morning, rested, the Mongol prince was able to ride on his own, and they made better time.

Timur welcomed the prince again, and gave him more riches and honors. Ned marveled at this extreme generosity to one who had proved to be of questionable competence, but of course did not speak. He was just an incidental functionary, beneath the notice of royalty. He stayed close to Idiku, his immediate superior, and tried to remain part of the background. It was the first time he had been allowed into even the incidental presence of Timur, and he felt the thrill of the honor. He saw that Timur walked with a slight limp, and he, too, had an injury in the hand. Stories abounded about how he had received the wounds to his right appendages, varying with the regard in which the tellers held him. Supporters told of his ferocious appetite for combat, in which he had been injured during pitched battles with enemies who greatly outnumbered him; detractors spoke darkly of botched cattle raids or even single combat with his own father. But all conceded his legendary prowess on horseback and personal valor in battle. Certainly his lameness did not slow him in those pursuits.

This time the Mongol khan did not simply let the fugitive go. Within days word came that Urus was marching south with a larger army to punish Toqtamish. Soon two envoys arrived bearing his ultimatum: “Toqtamish has killed my son, and has since sought refuge with you. I demand the surrender of my enemy. If you refuse, we must choose a battlefield.”

“Oooh,” Idiku murmured for Ned’s ears only. “That is the wrong tone to take to Timur.”

Indeed it was. Timur glowered at the envoys. “If the khan’s son had stayed where he belonged, instead of infringing on my territory, he would be alive today. Return to Urus Khan and tell him that I not only accept his challenge, but also that I am ready, and my soldiers are like lions, who do not live in the forest but have their den in the battlefield. If he is smart, he will hasten out of my territory before his own life is forfeit.”

Then, when the envoys had departed, he turned to Idiku. “Follow them by secret patrols. I want to know exactly where the khan is camped.”

Idiku turned to Ned, his mouth quirking. “Christian, get your horse. You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.” As Ned turned to obey, he saw Toqtamish smile. They all knew what was happening. The khan’s arrogant message had made the matter personal for Timur.

Ned was one of several who trailed the envoys, staying always out of their sight. It was easy to track the prints of their horses, or to lie hidden near their likely trails and see them pass. When he was sure of their trail, he marked it so that Timur’s scouts could follow it.

Timur himself marched soon after. Now Ned became a scout, leading the troops along the trail he had helped mark. The khan was in for an ugly surprise, for he would find himself surprised before he was organized for battle.

The White Horde force was camped near the city of Signakhi, one of those from which it had displaced Toqtamish. Timur brought his own army to the plains of Otrar, twenty-four leagues away.

But the weather interfered. There was a terrible rainstorm, followed by such intense cold that lasted so long that it prevented any action though that winter. Timur chafed at the forced inaction, but would not act until he was sure he could do so effectively. The men were given rotating leave to visit the city, but remained always on ready alert. That meant that Ned could not visit his home city of Sabrán, or attend the Nestorian church there, though it was only a few leagues away. In any event, it was uncertain under whose control the city was at the moment. He hoped his family was not suffering unduly.

Food became so scarce that Timur commanded his generals and lesser officers, on pain of death, to see to it that no one in the army should bake bread for himself. All the food was redistributed, the generals and princes getting precisely the same rations as the private soldiers and servants. No one was allowed to eat anything more than thin gruel. One bag of flour, together with a few herbs, supplied sixty dishes: one dish of broth for each soldier, each day. The soldiers searched for eggs of waterbirds, for animals, for edible plants—anything to supplement the ration of gruel.

Finally, after three months, the weather eased. Timur sent a detachment of 500 men out under two commanders to attack the enemy in the night.

But the Mongols had spies too. They were met by a force of three thousand commanded by the khan’s third son, Malik. The fighting was fierce, and one of Timur’s commanders was killed, but Malik was wounded in the leg and had to retreat. The victory went to the Turks.

Then Urus Khan sent out a scouting force of 200 men. This force stumbled on a smaller force of Turks that was returning from Otrar after provisioning troops there. The Turks fled. When the Mongols got spread out in their pursuit, the Turks whirled around on them and cut them to pieces. The Mongols had fallen for the oldest trick in the Mongol book, the mock retreat.