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 (161 page)

The small group dismounted at the foot of the red hill, and Sorhatani cried out in pleasure as she saw the circling specks of eagles high above. Part of her had thought the rumor of their presence was just a herdsman’s boasting, a way of honoring the story of Genghis. Yet they were there and their nest would be somewhere in the crags.

Her husband’s bondsmen came up and bowed deeply before her, waiting patiently for her orders.

“My sons are going to climb for the nest,” she said, as excited as a girl. She did not need to explain. Both of the warriors had squinted up at the circling birds. “Scout the area for water, but do not go too far.”

In moments, the men had leapt back into the saddle and were cantering away. They had learned that Sorhatani expected the same sort of instant obedience as her husband. She had grown up around men of power and had married into the great khan’s family at a very young age. She knew that men prefer to follow, that it takes an effort of will to lead. She had that will.

Kublai and Hulegu were already at the base of the red hill, shading their eyes against the sun for the location of the nest. It was later in the year than the ideal. If there were chicks there, they would already be strong, perhaps even able to leave the nest and fly on their own. Sorhatani did not know if her sons would be disappointed, but it did not matter. She had made them part of a tale from Genghis’s life, and they would never forget the climb, whether they brought
down a chick or not. She had given them a memory they would tell to their own children one day.

The boys removed their weapons and began to scramble up the easy section as Sorhatani pulled a bag of soft curds from under her saddle. She had hammered the chips of hard cheese herself, breaking them small enough so that they would not gall the mare’s skin as they softened in water. The thick yellow paste was bitter and refreshing, a particular favorite of hers. She licked her lips as she dipped her hand inside, then sucked her fingers clean.

It did not take long to fetch water from the packhorses and water the animals with a leather bucket. When the chore was done, Sorhatani rummaged further in her saddlebags until she found some sweet dried dates. She looked guiltily at the hill as she nibbled one, knowing that her sons loved the rare delicacy. Still, they were not there. She could see them rising higher, climbing easily on strong, thin legs. It would be sunset by the time they returned, and for once she was on her own. She hobbled the pony with a length of rope so it would not wander far, then sat on the dry grass, spreading a saddle blanket for herself.

Sorhatani dozed through the afternoon, enjoying the peaceful solitude. At times, she took up a deel robe she was embroidering in gold thread for Kublai. It would be very fine when it was finished, and she worked with bowed head over the stitches, cutting lengths of thread with strong white teeth. In the sun’s warmth, it was easy to nod over the cloth. When she came awake again, it was to find the afternoon had faded to coolness. She rose and stretched, yawning. This was a good land and she felt at home here. She had dreamed of Genghis as a young man, and her face was flushed with perspiration. It had not been a dream to share with her sons.

In the distance, the movement of a rider caught her eye. It was an instinctive talent, born of generations for whom spotting an enemy was the key to survival. She frowned and shaded her eyes, then made her hands into a tube to focus her sight further. Even with the old scout’s trick, the dark figure was just a speck.

Her husband’s bondsmen had not slept in the afternoon, and already they were galloping to intercept the lone rider. Sorhatani felt
her sense of peace dwindle and fade as they reached the man and the single point became a larger knot.

“Who
are
you?” she muttered to herself.

It was hard not to feel a twinge of worry. A single rider could only be one of the yam messengers who crisscrossed thousands of miles for the khan and his generals. With fresh horses, they could ride a hundred miles in a day, sometimes even farther if it was a matter of life and death. The khan’s forces in Chin territory were only ten days away by the reckoning of such men. She saw the three riders begin to approach the red hill together, and her womb clenched in sudden premonition.

Behind her she heard the sound of her sons back from their climb. Their voices were light and cheerful, but there were no calls of triumph. The fledgling eagles had left the nest, or flown from their grasping hands. Sorhatani began to pack away her supplies, folding her precious needles and spools of thread back into their roll and tying the knots with unconscious expertise. She did it rather than stand helplessly waiting, and she took her time with the saddlebags, stowing the waterskins carefully.

When she turned back, her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized the lone rider flanked by the bondsmen. They were still some way off and she almost cried out to them to go faster. As they drew nearer she saw how Mongke swayed in the saddle, close to utter exhaustion.

He was coated in dust and the sides of his horse heaved with caked muck from where he had emptied his bladder without dismounting. She knew the scouts did that only when the news had to be brought home with all speed, and her heart skipped with dread. She did not speak as her eldest son dismounted and staggered, almost falling as his legs betrayed him. He clung to the saddle horn, using his strong right hand to rub out the cramps. At last their eyes met and he did not have to speak.

Sorhatani did not weep then. Though some part of her knew her husband was gone, she stood tall, her mind racing. There were so many things she had to do.

“You are welcome in my camp, my son,” she said at last.

Almost in a trance, she turned to the bondsmen and told them to make a fire and salt tea. Her other sons stood in silent confusion at the sight of the small group.

“Sit with me, Mongke,” she said softly.

Her son nodded, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness and grief. He took his place on the grass beside her and nodded to Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke as they made a tight circle around their mother. When the salt tea was ready, Mongke drained the first bowl in a few gulps to cut the dust in his throat. The words still had to be spoken. Sorhatani almost cried out to stop him, her emotions in turmoil. If Mongke did not speak, it would not be completely true. Once the words were out, her life, her son’s lives, would all change and she would have lost her beloved.

“My father is dead,” Mongke said.

His mother closed her eyes for a moment. Her last hope was torn away. She took a long breath.

“He was a good husband,” she whispered, choking. “He was a warrior who commanded ten thousand for the khan. I loved him more than you will ever know.” Tears made her eyes large and her voice roughened as her throat closed on grief. “Tell me how it happened, Mongke. Leave nothing out.”

T
subodai reined in at the edge of a cliff, leaning out of his saddle to peer down on the valley below. It had taken him a day of following goat trails to reach the place, but from such a height he could see for twenty miles, his gaze encompassing hills and villages, rivers and towns. The wide Volga River ran to the west, but it was not a serious obstacle. He had already sent men wading across its sandbars to scout islands and the banks beyond. He had raided these lands years before. He smiled as he remembered taking his men across the frozen rivers. The Russians had not believed anyone could withstand their winter. They had been mistaken. Only Genghis could have called him back then. When the great khan had ordered him home, Tsubodai had returned, but it would not happen again. Ogedai had given him a free hand. The Chin borders were secure to the east. If he could crush the lands of the west, the nation would hold the central plains from sea to sea, an empire so vast it beggared the imagination. Tsubodai hungered to see the lands beyond the Russian forests, all the way to the legendary cold seas and the ghostly white peoples there who never saw the sun.

With such a view, it was easy to imagine the threads of his influence stretching back to him. Tsubodai stood at the center of a web of messengers and spies. For hundreds of miles around the spot where he stood, he had men and women in every market, village, town, and fortress. Some of them had no idea the coins they were
paid came from the Mongol armies. A few of his scouts and informants were from the Turkic tribes, who lacked the eye folds that marked his warriors. Others came from those Tsubodai and Batu had already recruited or taken by force. They staggered out of the ashes of every town, homeless and desperate, ready to accept whatever their conquerors asked in exchange for their lives. The khan’s silver flowed like a river through Tsubodai’s hands, and he bought information as much as meat and salt—and valued it more.

The general turned his head as Batu came around the last turn and brought his pony onto the ridge crest before dismounting. Batu stared at the valleys below with an expression of bored resentment. Tsubodai frowned to himself. He could not change the past, any more than he could challenge Ogedai Khan’s right to raise a sullen young man to command ten thousand. A green adolescent with an army could do a great deal of damage. The strange thing was that Tsubodai persisted in training him to be the most efficient destroyer he could be. Time alone would give him perspective and wisdom, all the things Batu currently lacked.

They sat for a long time in silence before Batu’s patience frayed as Tsubodai had known it would. There was no calm at the center of the angry young warrior, no internal peace. Instead, he simmered with constant rage and all those around him sensed it.

“I have come, Tsubodai
Bahadur.
” Batu pronounced the general’s nickname with a sneer, making “the Valiant” sound like mockery. “What is it that only your eyes can see?”

Tsubodai replied as if it were nothing, his voice as infuriatingly relaxed as he could make it.

“When we move on, your men will not be able to see the terrain, Batu. They might become lost, or be stopped by some obstacle. You see those low hills, there?”

Batu peered where Tsubodai pointed.

“From here, you can see how they run almost together, leaving a central ground free for … a mile, perhaps two. Four or five
li
, as the Chin measure distance. We could hide two minghaans on either side in ambush. If we bring the Russians to battle a few miles farther on,
a false retreat will drag them back to those hills and they will not get out.”

“This is nothing new,” Batu said. “I know about the feigned retreat. I thought you would have something more interesting to make it worth dragging my horse up here.”

Tsubodai kept his cold eyes on the younger man for a moment, but Batu held his gaze with insolent confidence.

“Yes, Orlok Tsubodai?” he asked. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

“It is important to choose the ground, then scout it well for hidden obstacles,” Tsubodai replied.

Batu chuckled and stared down again. For all his bluster and arrogance, Tsubodai saw he was taking in every detail of the land, his eyes flickering back and forth as he memorized it. He was an unpleasant student, but his mind was as sharp as anyone Tsubodai had known. It was hard not to think of his father at times, the memories robbing the general of his irritation.

“Tell me what you see in our tumans,” Tsubodai went on.

Batu shrugged. Down below he could see five columns moving slowly across the land. It took just a glance for him to read them.

“We march apart and attack together. Five fingers covering as much ground as possible. The messengers keep them in contact for quick response to any show of force. I believe my grandfather began the practice. It has worked well enough since then.”

He grinned without looking at Tsubodai. Batu knew the general was responsible for the formation that allowed a small army to sweep across huge areas, clearing towns and villages before them so that they left a smoking landscape behind. They came together only when the enemy appeared in strength, when the arrow messengers would bring the tumans racing, a fist to smash the resistance before they moved on.

“Your eyes are strong, Batu. Tell me what else you see.”

Tsubodai’s voice was maddeningly calm and Batu rose to the bait, determined to show the older man that he needed no lessons from him. He spoke quickly and used his hand to chop the air.

“For each column, there are scouts at the front in groups of ten. They ride up to eighty miles out, looking for the enemy. The center is the families, the baggage, gers, oxen, camels, drummers, and collapsed gers by the thousand. There are mobile forges on carts with spoked wheels, iron-reinforced. I believe you are responsible for those, General. Boys and foot warriors march there, our final defense if the warriors are ever overrun. Around them are the herds of sheep, goats, and of course remounts, three to a man or more.” He spoke faster, enjoying the chance to show his knowledge: “Beyond
those
are the heavy tuman cavalry in minghaan ranks. Farther still, we have the light cavalry screen, the first to meet any attack with arrows. Finally, we have the rearguard, who plod along and wish they were closer to the front instead of riding through everyone else’s shit. Shall I begin naming the officers? You are the orlok, in overall command, I am told. You have no bloodline worth mentioning, so I am the prince whose name appears on the orders, the grandson of Genghis Khan. It is an odd arrangement, but we will discuss it another time. I lead a tuman, as do Generals Kachiun, Jebe, Chulgetei, and Guyuk. The minghaan officers, in order of seniority, are—”