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 (184 page)

When he came, Chagatai would not have it all his own way, she had made sure of that. The city would belch fire at him, and perhaps a tongue of righteous flame would end the threat before he broke the walls and entered the city.

Almost from habit, Sorhatani counted the days since the khan’s death. Twelve. She had closed the yam station in the city as soon as her own message had gone out to Guyuk, but the system was flawed. Another chain of way stations stretched west from Karakorum to Chagatai’s khanate, fifteen hundred miles or more. A rider from the city had to reach only one link in the chain and the resources of the precious yam could be used to send Chagatai word of the khan’s death. She thought over the distances again in her head. At the best speed, he would not hear for another six days. She had gone over the figures with Yao Shu as they began to fortify the city. Even if Chagatai set out immediately, if he ran to his horse and had his tumans standing by, he could not bring his tumans back for another month after that, more likely two. He would have to follow the yam route around the edge of the Taklamakan Desert.

At the best guess, Chagatai Khan would arrive in midsummer. Sorhatani shaded her eyes to look at the progress of the workers on
the walls, their faces and hands gray with wet lime. By summer Karakorum would bristle with cannon, on walls wide enough to hold them.

Sorhatani reached down and crumbled a piece of chalky stone in her hands, rubbing it to dust and then slapping her palms together. There was a great deal still to do before then. She and Torogene were holding the empire together with little more than spit and confidence. Until Guyuk brought the tumans home and assumed his father’s titles, until the nation gathered to swear an oath to him as khan, Karakorum was vulnerable. They would have to hold the walls for two months, even three. Sorhatani dreaded the thought of seeing a red or black tent raised before Karakorum.

In a strange way, it was Ogedai’s triumph that the city had assumed such importance. Genghis might have called the nation to him, somewhere out of sight of the white walls. Sorhatani froze for a moment as she considered it. No, Chagatai did not have his father’s imagination, and truly Karakorum had become the symbol of the people’s ascendancy. Whoever would be khan had to control the city. She nodded to herself, ordering her thoughts. Chagatai would come. He had to.

She stepped lightly down steps set into the inside of the wall, noting the wide crest that would allow archers to gather and shoot down into an attacking force. At intervals, new wooden roofs sheltered spaces on the wall that would house quivers, water for the men, even fire-pots of iron and clay, filled with black powder. The city Guards were stockpiling food as fast as they could, riding out for hundreds of miles in all directions to commandeer the produce of farms. The markets and livestock pens had been stripped of their animals, the owners left with just Temuge’s tokens to be redeemed at a later date. The mood in the city was already one of fear, and none of them had dared to protest. Sorhatani knew there were refugees on the roads east, slow trails of families hoping to escape the destruction they saw coming. In her darker moments, she agreed with their conclusions. Yenking had held out against the great khan for a year, but its walls had been massive, the product of generations. Karakorum had never been designed to withstand an attack. That had not
been Ogedai’s vision of a white city in the wilderness, with the river running by.

She saw Torogene standing with Yao Shu and Alkhun, all of them looking expectantly at her. Nothing went on in the city without passing through their hands. Her heart sank at the thought of another hundred problems and difficulties, yet there was a part that reveled in her new authority. This was how it felt! This was what her husband had known, to have others look to you, and
only
to you. She chuckled at the sudden image of Genghis hearing that his fledgling nation was ruled by two women. She remembered his words, that in the future his people would wear fine clothes and eat spiced meat and forget what they owed to him. She kept her expression serious as she reached Yao Shu and Torogene. She had not yet forgotten that fierce old devil with the yellow eyes, but there were other concerns and Karakorum was in peril. She did not think her right to the ancestral lands would last long once Chagatai became the khan of khans. Her sons would be killed as the new ruler made a clean sweep and put his own people in charge of the nation’s armies.

The future depended on stalling Chagatai long enough for Guyuk to come home. There was no other hope, no other plan. Sorhatani smiled at those who waited for her, seeing her own worries etched in their faces. The morning breeze lifted her hair, so that she smoothed it back with one hand.

“To work then,” she said cheerfully. “What do we have this morning?”

Kisruth cursed the sky father as he galloped, using one hand to feel the graze on his neck. He had never known the road thieves to be so bold before. He was still sweating with the shock of seeing a man step out into the road from behind a tree and grab at the satchel on his shoulders. Kisruth wrenched his neck back and forth, assessing the stiffness there. They had nearly had him. Well, he would tell old Gurban and let them see what happened then! No one threatened the yam riders.

He could see the ger that marked twenty-five miles of the run,
and, as he always did, he tried to imagine one of the grand yam stations in Karakorum. He had heard tales from riders passing through, though he sometimes thought they exaggerated, knowing he hung on every word. Their own kitchen, just for the riders. Lamps at all hours and stables of polished oak, with row upon row of horses ready to race across the plains. One day he would see it and be honored among them, he told himself. It was a common dream as he rode back and forth between two stations so small and poor that they were barely more than a few gers and a corral. The city riders seemed to bring the glamour of Karakorum with them.

There was nothing like that at his home post. Gurban and a couple of crippled warriors managed it with their wives, and they seemed happy enough with so little. Kisruth had dreamed of taking important messages, and his heart still thumped at the words he had been given by an exhausted rider. “Kill horses and men if you have to, but reach Guyuk, the heir. His hands alone.” Kisruth did not know what he carried, but it could only be something important. He looked forward to handing it over formally to his brother and repeating the words to him.

He was irritated to see no one waiting as he came charging across the last stretch. No doubt Gurban was sleeping off the batch of airag his wife had brewed the week before. It was just typical of the old sot that the most important message of their lives should find him sleeping. Kisruth gave the bells a last flick with his hands as he dismounted, but the gers were peaceful apart from the line of smoke from one. Stiffly he strode across the open yard, yelling for his brother or any of them. Surely they could not all have gone fishing for the day? He had left them only three days before, taking a sheaf of minor messages down the line.

He kicked at the door of the ger and stood in the yard rather than go inside, his letter giving him confidence.

“What is it?” his brother said peevishly from inside. “Kisruth? Is that you?”

“Am I the one who has been shouting your name? Yes!” Kisruth snapped. “I have a letter from Karakorum, to go fast. And where do I find you?”

The door opened and his brother came out, rubbing his eyes. There were creases on his face from where he had been sleeping, and Kisruth struggled with his temper.

“Well? I’m here, aren’t I?” his brother said.

Kisruth shook his head. “You know what? I’ll take it on myself. Tell Gurban there is a family of thieves on the road east. They nearly had me off my horse.”

His brother’s eyes cleared at the news, as well they might. No one attacked the yam riders.

“I’ll tell him, don’t worry. Do you want me to ride on with that bag?” he said. “I’ll go now if it’s important.”

Kisruth had already made up his mind, and in truth, he was reluctant to see his part in the excitement end. It had not been hard to decide to go on.

“You go back to your sleep. I’ll take it to the next post.” He jerked back as his brother reached for his reins, wheeling the pony in the yard before his brother’s temper woke them all. Suddenly Kisruth just wanted to be gone.

“Tell Gurban about the thieves,” he called over his shoulder, kicking his mount into a gallop. It would be almost dark by the time he rode the next section, but they had good men there and they would be ready when they heard his saddle bells. His brother shouted incoherently behind him, but Kisruth was riding once again.

D
ay after day, the tumans of Tsubodai stayed just out of reach of the Hungarian riders. Batu had lost count of the Hungarian king’s attempts to bring them to battle. The foot soldiers on both sides slowed them down, but on the first day away from the Danube River, King Bela had sent twenty thousand horsemen out on the charge. Tsubodai had watched dispassionately as they closed on his rear lines until, with what Batu considered to be infuriating calmness, he ordered volleys of arrows, while the ragged conscripts grabbed saddle horns and let themselves be taken over a fast three miles, opening the gap once more. When the Magyar horsemen pressed too hard, they were met with swarms of dark arrows, shot with terrifying accuracy. The Mongol minghaans had a discipline their adversaries had never seen, able to take position in the teeth of a charge, shoot two volleys, and then turn to rejoin the main tumans.

The first day had been the hardest, with repeated lunges and attacks that had to be beaten back. Tsubodai had worked in a frenzy to keep the two armies separate as they marched, until Buda and Pest were lost to view. As the sun set that first night, he had smiled to see the huge walled camp Bela’s army built, almost a town in itself. The Magyar host lined sandbags to the height of a man in a vast square on the grasslands. They had carried the weight of them all the way from the Danube. In its way, it explained why they could not
run the Mongols down. It confirmed Tsubodai’s impression of the king that only he and his most senior officers rested behind the security of the sandbag walls. The rest of his army camped in the open, as unregarded as any of his servants.

The Hungarian king might have expected to eat and sleep well in his command tent, but each night Tsubodai sent men with horns and Chin firecrackers to keep the Hungarian army awake. He wanted the king exhausted and nervous, while Tsubodai himself slept and snored, making his personal guards smile as they watched over his ger.

The following few days were less frantic. King Bela seemed to have accepted he could not make them turn and fight his host. The charges continued, but it was almost as if they were for show and dash, with knights pulling up with brandished swords and insults before triumphantly trotting back to their own lines.

The tumans rode on, retreating mile after slow mile. On broken ground, some of the horses went lame and were quickly killed, though there was never time to butcher them for meat. The foot soldiers running by their saddles were hardened, but even so a few of them picked up injuries. Tsubodai gave orders that anyone who fell behind was to be left with just a sword, but his tumans had worked and fought with the ragged conscripts for a long time. He turned a blind eye as they were heaved up behind warriors, or tied to a saddle on one of the spare mounts.

By the afternoon of the fifth day, they had covered the best part of two hundred miles, and Tsubodai had learned everything he needed to know about the enemy he faced. The Sajó River was in front of him, and he spent most of the morning giving orders about crossing the sole bridge. His tumans could not risk being trapped against the river, and it was no surprise that the Magyar riders began to press more closely over the morning. They knew the local land as well as anyone.

Tsubodai summoned Batu, Jebe, and Chulgetei to him as the sun passed the highest point in the sky.

“Jebe, I want your tuman to cross the Sajó River without delay,” he said.

The general frowned. “If I were the Hungarian king, I’d hit us now, with the river preventing us from maneuvers. He must know there is only one bridge.”

Tsubodai turned in the saddle, staring out over the thread of the river, just a few miles away. Already, Chulgetei’s tuman was being compressed on the banks. They could not stay there, up against the deep river.

“This king has driven us in triumph now for five days. His officers will be congratulating themselves and him. As far as he knows, we will run right to the mountains and be pushed back over them again. I think he will let us go, but if he does not, I will still have twenty thousand ready to show him his error. Go quickly.”

“Your will, Orlok,” Jebe said. He dipped his head and rode clear to pass on the order to his tuman.

Batu cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable in Tsubodai’s presence.

“Is it time to reveal your plans to lowly generals, Orlok?” he said. He smiled as he spoke, to take out the sting.