Empire of Silver (31 page)

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.

Day 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 Sajo 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 tumans to cross the Sajo 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 manoeuvres. 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.

Tsubodai glanced at him. ‘The river is the key. We have run and run. They will not expect an attack, not now. They will press us when they see we are beginning to cross, but we will hold
them with arrows. By nightfall, I want them on this side and our tumans on the other. It is no more than this king would expect from such easily driven enemies.’

Tsubodai smiled to himself. ‘Once we are across the Sajo, I will need the last minghaan to hold that bridge. It is the only weak spot in my preparations, Batu. If that thousand is quickly overwhelmed, they will be on us and the choke-point of the river bridge will have been wasted.’

Batu thought about the bridge, which he had seen on the first crossing, when the tumans came trotting towards Buda and Pest. It was a main road of stone, wide enough for a dozen horses to ride abreast. He could hold it for days against knights, but the Magyar archers would simply use the banks to send shafts in tens of thousands. Even with shields, whoever stood on that bridge would fall eventually. He sighed to himself.

‘Is that your task for me, orlok? Another suicidal stand that I should not survive? I just want to be sure I understand your orders.’

To his surprise, Tsubodai chuckled. ‘No, not you. I need you tomorrow before dawn. I will leave it up to you whom you send for the task. They cannot retreat under attack, Batu. Be sure they understand that. The Hungarian king must believe we intend to run clear, that we cannot face his host in the field. Holding that bridge will convince him.’

Batu tried to hide his relief as he nodded. In the distance, Jebe’s tuman was already on the move, riding as fast as they could through the narrow structure that spanned the river. A seasoned officer, Jebe allowed no delays and Batu could see a growing stain of men and horses on the other side. He heard trumpets behind him and bit his lip as the Hungarian Magyars continued to close the distance.

‘This will be bloody, Tsubodai,’ he said quietly.

The orlok looked at him, judging his worth with cold eyes.

‘We will pay them back for our losses. You have my word.
Now go and choose your men. Make sure they have torches to light the bridge at sunset. I don’t want any mistakes, Batu. We have a busy night ahead.’

Temuge paced the corridor outside the healer’s rooms. He was pale at the muffled cries he heard, but he could not go back in. The first cut into Khasar’s shoulder had released a white liquid that stank so terribly it had been all he could do to keep from vomiting. Khasar had remained silent then, but he had shuddered as the knife sliced deeper into his back, gouging him. The black paste was still thick on his tongue and Temuge thought his brother was hallucinating when he began to call for Genghis. Temuge had left at that point, with his sleeve pressed over his mouth and nose.

The sunlight had darkened in the corridor as he paced, though the city was never quiet now, not even in the palace rooms. Servants trotted past in groups, bearing anything from food to building supplies. Temuge had to stand back when one group came with a huge beam of oak, for what purpose he did not know. His nephew’s woman, Sorhatani, had begun preparations for siege almost on the day Ogedai had fallen. Temuge sneered at the thought, wishing for a moment that Genghis could return to slap some sense back into her. The city could not be held, any fool could see that. The best they could hope for was to send an emissary to Chagatai to begin negotiations. The only living son of Genghis was not so powerful that words were useless, Temuge told himself. He had volunteered to begin negotiations, but Sorhatani had only smiled and thanked him for his suggestion before he was dismissed. Temuge seethed afresh at the thought. At the very moment when the nation needed his expertise, he had to deal with a woman who understood nothing. He resumed his pacing, wincing as Khasar cried out, worse than before.

The city needed a strong regent, not Ogedai’s widow, who was still so stunned with grief that she looked to Sorhatani for guidance. Temuge thought again of forcing the issue. How many times had he come close to ruling the nation? The spirits had been against him before, but now it felt as if the bones had been thrown into the air. The city was terrified, he could feel it. Surely this was a time when a strong man, a brother to Genghis himself, could seize the reins? He cursed under his breath at the memory of the senior officer, Alkhun. Temuge had tried to sound him out, to gauge his feelings about the two women running Karakorum. The man had known his purpose, Temuge was almost sure. Alkhun had shaken his head. Before Temuge could do more than broach the subject gently, the man had dismissed himself with extraordinary abruptness, almost rudeness. Temuge had been left in a corridor, staring after him.

His thoughts were interrupted as the healer came out, wiping blood and the white filth from his hands. Temuge looked up, but the Chin man shook his head in silence.

‘I am sorry. The growths were too deep and there were too many. The general would not have lived much longer. He lost a great deal of blood. I could not hold him here.’

Temuge clenched his fists, suddenly angry. ‘What? What are you saying?’ he demanded. ‘He’s
dead
?’

The healer looked at him sadly. ‘He knew there were many risks, my lord. I am sorry.’

Temuge shoved past him and went into the room, almost gagging at the stench of sickness there. He jammed his sleeve into his mouth once again as he saw Khasar staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy. The exposed chest was a mass of scars, white rope lines of a thousand battles, reaching down to his arms which were thick with them, so that it barely looked like flesh. He saw again how thin Khasar had become, the bones showing clearly under tight skin. It was a relief that the healer
had laid him face up. Temuge had no wish to see those purple wounds again, not while the odour filled his lungs. He gagged as he approached his brother’s body, but he managed to reach out and close the eyes, pressing hard so that they remained shut.

‘Who will look after me now?’ Temuge muttered. ‘I am the last of us, brother. What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?’ To his astonishment, he began to weep, the tears feeling hot against his cheeks.

‘Get up, you fool,’ he said to the body. ‘Just get up and tell me I am weak and pitiful for weeping. Get up, please.’ He sensed the healer’s presence at the door and spun round.

‘My lord, do you want…’ the man began.

‘Get out!’ Temuge roared. ‘This is not your business!’

The healer vanished from the door, closing it softly behind him.

Temuge turned back to the figure lying on the bed. Somehow the smell had ceased to bother him.

‘I am the last of us, Khasar. Bekter and Temujin and Kachiun, Temulun and now you. You are all gone now. I have no one left.’ The realisation brought fresh tears and he slumped into a seat. ‘I am alone in a city that waits to be destroyed,’ he whispered.

For an instant, his eyes brightened with bitter rage.
He
had the right to inherit his brother’s line, not some bastard son who had been nothing but a trial to his father. If Temuge had commanded a loyal tuman, he knew Chagatai would not live to take Karakorum. Chagatai would burn all the books in Karakorum’s library, without understanding for a moment what treasures lay within. Temuge swallowed his grief and began to think and weigh his options. Sorhatani did not understand the stakes involved. Perhaps the city could be held if it had a man who understood its value, not a woman who had merely inherited her power through no talent of her own.
Tsubodai would hear soon, and he despised Chagatai. The entire army would come east like a storm to defend the capital city. Temuge concentrated harder, weighing his decisions and choices. If the city survived, Guyuk would be grateful.

It felt as if his life had been preparing him for this point, this decision. His family were no more and without them he felt a strange freedom. With the last witnesses gone, his old failures were just ashes, forgotten.

There would be some who chafed under Sorhatani’s rule. Yao Shu was certainly one and Temuge thought the chancellor would know of others. It could be done before Chagatai arrived. Sometimes, power could change hands as quickly as a knife thrust. Temuge stood up and looked down at Khasar’s body for the last time.

‘He will burn the books, brother. Why should I allow that? I was there in the beginning, when death was just a breath away. I promise I will not be afraid now, with your spirit watching me. I was born to power, brother. It is the way the world should be, not the way it has become. I am the last of us, Khasar. This is
my
time now.’

King Bela watched as the camp was set around him, beginning with his own tent. It was a magnificent affair of oiled struts and sturdy canvas against the wind. He could already smell the meal his servants were preparing. Standing at the centre of it all, he felt a surging pride. His army had not needed the Cuman nomads to drive the Mongols back, day after day. Good Magyar steel and courage had been all that was required. It amused him to think he had herded the Mongol shepherds like one of their own flocks. He could regret that he had not driven them harder against the banks of the Sajo river, but they had not checked in their headlong retreat, barely pausing at the bridge before flowing across it. When he shaded his eyes
against the setting sun, he could see the enemy tents, strange circular things that dotted the landscape across the river. They had none of the order and quiet efficiency he saw around him, and he relished the thought of the pursuit still to come. He had the blood of kings in his veins and he felt his ancestors crying out to see the invader thrown back, broken and bloody on the mountains they had come from.

He turned as one of Von Thuringen’s knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.