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 (248 page)

“Your will, my lord. I will leave a thousand men to patrol the camps and Karakorum and establish the yam stations first between the city and the Chagatai lines.” It was an interpretation of the orders he had been given and Arik-Boke bristled immediately.

“This is just a city, Orlok. I have said it. I am khan of the nation. One city means nothing to me.”

Alandar hesitated. The khan was in no mood to hear an argument,
but he had to speak. His position demanded it, to temper the khan’s righteous anger with tactical sense.

“My lord, if your brother sent tumans into the north, they would be behind us as we move against his main force. Karakorum could be destroyed …”

“I have hostages to keep them peaceful, Alandar. I will have knives at the throats of their women and children if they touch the first stone of Karakorum. Does that satisfy you? What general of my brother’s would give
that
order? They will not move against the city for fear of the slaughter that will follow.”

Alandar swallowed uncomfortably. He was not certain that Arik-Boke would go through with the threat and he knew better than to press him on it. No khan had ever considered butchering his own people, but then there had never been a war amongst their own, not since Jochi had betrayed Genghis. That was nothing compared to what Arik-Boke faced and the orlok voiced none of his misgivings, choosing to remain silent.

Arik-Boke nodded as if he had received assent.

“I will leave enough men to carry out my orders, Orlok, sworn men who understand the meaning of their oath. That is enough now. My blood cries out to answer these insults. Send messengers to Hulegu. Tell him I call his oath. And gather my tumans on the plain. I will ride to find my brother Kublai and I will choose the manner of his death when we have him.”

Alandar bowed his head. He could not shake the sense that the khan was underestimating the enemy tumans. They were as fast as his own men and, for all Arik-Boke’s bluster, he could not make himself believe they were led by a fool, a scholar. A fool would not have cut the supplies into Karakorum before the attack. A scholar would not have removed the most powerful lords from Arik-Boke’s side before the true fighting even began. Even so, he had learned obedience from a young age.

“Your will, my lord khan,” he said.

HULEGU CURSED HIS GENERAL’S MEMORY AS HE GALLOPED
along the fighting line. Kitbuqa had been killed years before, but his legacy lived on in the Moslems who had vowed never to accept his khanate. Holding Christian Mass in mosques had turned out to be a terrible idea when it came to pacifying the region, though it was true that many of the tribes also screamed the name of Baghdad as he caught and punished them.

He had never known such a cauldron of trouble as the khanate he had chosen. From the destruction of the city on, men had drifted in from thousands of miles away to fight for the land he had taken. He grinned as he rode. His grandfather had said there was no better way to spend a life and the khanate was never still, never peaceful, as it vomited up new enemies each year. It was good for the tumans he commanded. His men kept themselves sharp against the dark-skinned madmen who died screaming the name of a city or their god.

Hulegu ducked as an arrow whirred somewhere close, picking his moment carefully. The line of enemy horsemen blurred as he ran down its flank. He had only heartbeats before they began to react to his sudden maneuver. He could hear their roaring voices and the air was thick with dust and sweat and the taint of garlic under a battering sun.

Hulegu barely gestured and his galloping line angled into the enemy flank, raising lances at the last moment. They plunged through horses and men, spearing a hundred paces into the crush as if they were a knife sinking into flesh. The Persians crumpled before them and Hulegu cut down on his left and right, each blow aimed to break and blind, to leave falling men behind him.

He heard the snap of crossbow bolts and something struck him high in the chest, piercing his armor and thumping his collarbone. He groaned, hoping it had not broken again. As he punched through the lines, he felt only numbness from the area, but the pain would come. His tumans were outnumbered, but they were still fresh and strong and the day had barely begun. His charge had sliced away a great section of their lines and he signaled to his minghaan officers to enclose and cut it free. It was shepherd’s work, separating young rams from a flock and cutting them down. The main force of horsemen and foot soldiers moved on to face the Mongol shafts ahead and there was space for a time.

Hulegu wiped sweat from his face with a damp hand, blinking as his eyes stung with salt. He was thirsty, but as he looked around, there was no sign of his camel boys with waterskins.

Movement drew his attention and Hulegu stared as a dark mass of soldiers came jogging over the crest of a hill. They moved quickly and lightly despite the heat and he could see they were armed with bows and swords. Hulegu trotted out from the main battle for twenty or thirty paces, judging the best response. All his tumans were engaged by then and he had no separate reserves. He began to frown as the Persian soldiers kept coming, as if there were no end to them. They gleamed in the sun, wearing armor of brass and iron. As he watched, horsemen appeared on their flanks, overtaking the walking men.

He had missed an army, hiding in the hills. Whichever local leader had brought them in and hidden them had chosen his moment with care. Hulegu wet his dry lips with his tongue, looking around him and trying to keep a sense of the battle. He would have to detach a full tuman to meet and prevent them from joining up with their brothers.

Sweat ran into his eyes as the men around him finished butchering the hundreds they had cut out from the main force. It was work they knew well and his warriors were confident in their power, well used to battle after years spent fighting.

The flow of men over the hillcrest kept coming, like a spread of oil. Hulegu looked for a tuman he could disengage, but they were all in the thick of the fighting. The Afghans and Persians raised their heads as they saw the reinforcements and fought with more energy, knowing they could waste their strength and fall gasping because the Mongols would have to answer the threat. One of the tumans was pushed back by yelling thousands, forcing them to break free and gain space around them for another charge.

Hulegu cursed. He would have to take the opportunity, but he saw the danger if he pulled them out. The men they had been killing would surge after them and in doing so flank the tuman next in line. For an instant, he pictured the threat.

“God’s blood,” he muttered. Kitbuqa’s old habit of blaspheming had rubbed off on him. Hulegu knew he could have done with his friend on the field that day. It had been poor fortune that Kitbuqa had faced a huge army while Hulegu was in Karakorum to see his brother made khan. At least the tribes had paid a harsh price for the life of a Mongol general. He had seen to that in massive organized reprisals.

Hulegu signaled to his bannerman and watched the result as the tuman flag went up and was swung in a great circle, flapping. The tuman answered its personal flag in moments, halting almost as they began to charge back in. Hulegu could see the faces turned toward his position and he tried to ignore the feeling of panic as the enemy began to surge forward.

“Second flag. Engage enemy,” he snapped to his bannerman. There were too few signals and he had nothing to point to the new force coming over the hills. Yet his men were experienced and they would know he wouldn’t stop them only to order them back in.

They whirled their horses and began cantering up the rising ground. Hulegu grunted in relief, then his breath caught as he saw
the enemy were still coming. Thousands more of them had appeared and he cursed the labyrinth of valleys all around that could hide so many from his scouts.

The Persian lines below ran forward, howling in glee as they appeared to chase the tuman from the field. Their momentum took them along a wing of his personal tuman as he had feared. Hulegu took a deep breath to shout new orders to the single minghaan of a thousand who had come with him.

“Back in support!” he bellowed. “To the Brass tuman line, in support!” He repeated the order as he dug in his heels. There were too many of the enemy, but he was not ready to retreat, not from those. The battle could yet turn and they could break. He would wait for the moment, pray for it. The Brass tuman was under pressure at the front and side, close to being overwhelmed. For the first time that day, Hulegu felt a worm of doubt in his stomach. He had never lost a fixed battle against the wild tribesmen, though they challenged him each year with increasing numbers, crying “Baghdad” and “Allahu Akbar” as they came. He showed his teeth as he rode to support his tuman. His men would not break against dog-raping farmers. They could be defeated, but never made to run.

The thousand with him stretched out to a full gallop. Many of them had lost their lances and emptied their quivers in the fighting, but they drew swords and struck into the enemy, seeking to cut through the chaos, roaring their battle cries. Hulegu laid on around him with all his strength, smashing his sword down on helmets as shields were raised against him. From horseback, he could still see the fresh soldiers meet his tuman on the rising ground. The tuman had slid into a wide charging line with lowered lances, but even as Hulegu watched, it began to falter against the sheer numbers. Like a broken fishing net, the charging line was sundered in a dozen places. They could not hold and the screaming Persians were flowing around and through them, losing hundreds of men to reach the main battle.

Hulegu swore, turning his anger into a quick chopping blow that cracked the skull of a bearded man as he showed his red mouth in a wild yell. It was his task to keep a feel for the battle and never to lose himself in the pain and fury. The ranks on the hill were still coming
and Hulegu felt a cold chill, despite the heat. The shahs had caught him neatly, making him commit his forces and then springing the ambush with everything they had.

Hulegu had cut himself a space and he was gathering the minghaan back to him for another charge at a weak point when he saw his scouts racing over the bloody grass. They were already pointing into a shadowed valley on his right hand and Hulegu groaned to himself. If there was another army there, he was done.

Even as he formed the thought, the first ranks came out of the shadowed hills, not far from the heels of the scouts they followed. Hulegu rubbed sweat from his eyes, gaping. What he saw was impossible, but he felt his heart lift even so. Solid ranks of Mongol warriors came surging out, lances standing upright like a forest of thorns. He knew them from their banners and he shook his head in a sort of wonder before turning back to see the enemy. Slowly, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. It was not a smile.

The tumans in the hills had been riding close, pressed in by the narrow valleys all around. As they hit the open space, they fanned out and Hulegu shouted in joy to see maneuvers he knew as well as his own body. Two entire tumans jerked into a new path, heading for the force sliding over the hillcrest. Two more increased their speed on the flat ground and came at his position like a hammer swinging down on the Persian ranks.

Hulegu saw arrows soar out from them, bows thrumming their deep note over and over, shafts by the tens of thousands filling the air as the forces closed. The Persian ranks crumpled under the new assault, their battered shields saving only a few. Hulegu stood in his stirrups to see the lances come down. A rank five hundred wide struck his enemies and went over them, crushing and cutting. He bellowed in excitement and snapped new orders to his officers. He had the Persians on two sides, as neat a trap as if he had planned it. One last glance up the hill let him see the new tumans were butchering the Persian reserve, taking on their cavalry and sweeping across their face with black arrows, again and again.

The battle was over, but the slaughter had barely begun. Many of the Persians threw down their weapons and tried to run, or simply
held bare hands up to the sky and prayed their last. They were cut down as the tumans rode around them, accepting no surrender and sending arrows in to pick them off at close range.

Hulegu’s tumans lifted their heads, putting aside the weariness they felt as their pride forced them to stand tall in the presence of their own people. They had been hard-pressed and they were merciless as the enemy fell back. The killing went on and on as the sun began to set and the enemy were herded into smaller groups. Wounded men stood among the dead and Hulegu used a broken lance as a club as he rode past one man, snapping his neck with the force of the blow and sending him tumbling.

The single minghaans rode the battlefield like stinging ants, lunging across to find new targets until the last of the enemy were running in terror, hoping only for darkness to hide them. The heat of the sun began to wane and Hulegu removed his helmet, rubbing his wet scalp. It had been a good day. A warm breeze picked up, carrying the smell of blood. Hulegu closed his eyes in relief, turning into it. He thanked the sky father for his deliverance and then on a whim thanked the Christian God as well. Kitbuqa would have enjoyed the scene around him and Hulegu was only sorry he had not lived to see it.