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 (186 page)

He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.

“It is time, Suntai,” Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. “The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.”

His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider, and after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.

“Your will, my lord khan.”

G
uyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela’s call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.

Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn
sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.

As he rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to one another, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains, and he smiled at the man’s expression, lifted by his simple joy.

When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu’s closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu’s flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.

At the edge of the forest, there were rocky outcrops, and Guyuk picked his way past the broken ground as it merged with grassland. He could already see Mongke’s tuman forming up, as well as his own men coming in from all directions and taking their positions. Guyuk kicked his mount into a canter and rode across.

Even from a distance, Guyuk heard the jingle of bells that meant a yam rider had reached them. His pulse raced with excitement at getting news of any kind. It was too easy to feel isolated away from the main army, as if his battles and raids were the whole world. Guyuk forced himself to relax as he rode. Tsubodai would be calling them back for the final push to the west. Truly the sky father had blessed their enterprise, and he had never once regretted coming so far from the plains of home. Guyuk was young, but he could imagine the years ahead, when all those who had ridden in the great trek would share a special bond. He felt it already, a sense of shared danger, even of brotherhood. Whatever else Tsubodai had intended, the trek had forged bonds between the generals who had ridden with him.

As he rode up to Mongke, Guyuk saw that his friend was flushed and angry. Guyuk raised his eyebrows in unspoken question, and Mongke shrugged.

“He says he will speak only to you,” he said stiffly.

Guyuk looked in surprise at the young yam rider. He was travel-stained, though that was normal enough. Guyuk saw great patches of sweat on the rider’s silk tunic. He wore no armor, but carried a leather satchel on his back that he had to struggle to remove.

“My instructions are to give the message only into the hands of Guyuk, my lord. I meant no offense.” The last comment was directed at Mongke, who glowered at him.

“No doubt Orlok Tsubodai has his reasons,” Guyuk said, accepting the satchel and opening it.

The weary rider looked uncomfortable in the presence of such senior men, but he shook his head.

“My lord, I have not seen Orlok Tsubodai. This message came down the line from Karakorum.”

Guyuk froze in the process of pulling out a single folded parchment. The men watching saw him grow pale as he examined the seal. With a quick snap, he broke the wax and opened the message that had traveled almost five thousand miles to reach his hand.

He bit his lip as he read, his eyes traveling back to the beginning over and over as he tried to take it in. Mongke could not bear the strained silence.

“What is it, Guyuk?” he said.

Guyuk shook his head. “My father is dead,” he replied, dazed. “The khan is dead.”

Mongke sat still on his horse for only a moment, then dismounted and knelt on the grass with his head bowed. The men around him followed suit, word spreading among their number until both tumans were kneeling. Guyuk looked over their heads in confusion, still unable to take it in.

“Stand up, General,” he said. “I will not forget this, but I must return home now. I must go back to Karakorum.”

Mongke rose, showing no emotion. Before Guyuk could stop him, he pressed his forehead against Guyuk’s boot in the stirrup.

“Let me take the oath to you,” Mongke said. “Allow me that honor.”

Guyuk stared at the man looking up at him with such fierce pride in his eyes.

“Very well, General,” he said softly.

“The khan is dead. I offer you salt, milk, horses, gers, and blood,” Mongke replied. “I will follow you, my lord khan. I give you my word and my word is iron.”

Guyuk shuddered slightly as the words were echoed by the kneeling men around them, until they had been said by all. The silence held and Guyuk looked over them, beyond the horizon to a city only he could see.

“It is done, my lord,” Mongke said. “We are bound to you alone.” He mounted in one leap and began snapping orders to the closest minghaan officers.

Guyuk still held the yellow parchment as if it would burn him. He heard Mongke ordering the tumans north, to join Tsubodai.

“No, General. I must leave tonight,” Guyuk said. His eyes were glassy, his skin like wax in the sunlight. He barely noticed Mongke bring his horse alongside, or felt the grip as Mongke reached out to touch his shoulder.

“You will need the other tumans now, my friend,” Mongke said. “You will need all of them.”

Tsubodai crouched in the darkness. He could hear the river running close by. The air was filled with the odor of men and horses: damp cloth, sweat, spiced mutton, and manure, all mingling in the night air. He was in a grim mood, having watched a minghaan of warriors slowly cut to pieces as they tried to hold the river bridge on his orders. They had completed their task, so that darkness came without the main Magyar army crossing. King Bela had forced just a thousand heavy horse across in a bridgehead, establishing his position for the morning. They would not sleep, with Mongol campfires all around them. The sacrifice had been worthwhile, Tsubodai thought.
King Bela was forced to wait for the morning before he could flood across the bridge and continue his dogged pursuit of the Mongol army.

Wearily, Tsubodai cracked his neck, loosening tired joints. He did not need to motivate his men with a speech or fresh orders. They too had watched the last stand of the minghaan. They had heard the cries of pain and seen the splashes as dying men tumbled into the waters. The Sajó River was running full and fast, and they drowned swiftly in their armor, unable to rise to the surface.

The moon was half full, casting its light over the landscape. The river shone like a silver rope, blurred into darkness as the tumans splashed through the shallow ford. This was the key to Tsubodai’s plan, the fording place he had scouted on the first crossing out of the mountains. Everything Bela had seen made him believe the Mongols were running. The way they had held the bridge showed its importance to them. Since then, Tsubodai had used the dark hours as the moon rose above the grasslands around the river. It was a gamble, a risk, but he was as tired of running as his men.

Only his ragged conscripts now held the land beyond the river. They sat around a thousand fires in the moonlight, moving from one to another and making it look as if a vast camp had been set. Instead, Tsubodai had led the tumans three miles to the north. On foot, they led their horses across the fording point, out of sight and sound of the enemy. He had left not a single tuman in reserve. If the plan failed now, the Hungarian king would storm across the river at dawn and the ragged levy would be annihilated.

Tsubodai sent whispered orders to hurry the pace. It took hours to get so many men across, especially as they tried to keep quiet. Again and again, he jerked his gaze up to the moon, watching its passage and estimating the time he had left before dawn. King Bela’s army was huge. Tsubodai would need the entire day to avenge his losses in full.

The tumans gathered on the other side of the river. The horses were snorting and whinnying to one another, their nostrils blocked by the grubby hands of warriors to muffle the sounds. The men
whispered and laughed with each other in the darkness, relishing the shock that would ripple through the army chasing them. For five days they had run. Finally it was time to stop and hit back.

In the gloom, Tsubodai could see that Batu was grinning as he trotted up for orders. He kept his own face stern.

“Your tuman is to hit the vanguard of their camp, Batu, where their king rests. Catch them asleep and destroy them. If you can reach the sandbag walls, tear them down. Approach as quietly as you can, then let your arrows and swords shout for you.”

“Your will, Orlok,” Batu replied. For once, there was no mockery as he spoke the title.

“I will ride with the tumans of Jebe and Chulgetei, to strike against their rear at the same moment. They are certain of our position and they will not expect us tonight. Their walls are worse than useless, for they feel safe within them. I want them in panic, Batu. Everything depends on routing them quickly. Do not forget that they outnumber us still. If they are well led, they could rally and reform. We will be forced to fight to the last man, and the losses will be huge. Do
not
throw away my army, Batu. Do you understand?”

“I will treat them as if they were my own sons,” Batu said.

Tsubodai snorted. “Ride then. Dawn is close and you must be in position.”

Tsubodai watched as Batu vanished silently into the darkness. There were no signal horns or naccara drums, not with the enemy so close and unsuspecting. Batu’s tuman formed up without fuss, setting off at a trot toward the Hungarian camp. The Mongol carts and gers and wounded had remained behind with the conscripts, left to fend for themselves. The tumans were unencumbered, able to ride fast and strike hard, as they preferred.

Tsubodai nodded sharply to himself. He had farther to ride than Batu’s tuman, and time was short. He mounted quickly, feeling his heart beat stronger in his chest. It was rare for him to feel excitement, and he showed nothing in his face as he led the last two tumans into the west.

•   •   •

King Bela came awake, starting in his sleep at a crash of sound. He was covered in sweat and rubbed the last wisps of a nightmare from his eyes as he stood. In his blurred thoughts, he could hear the clash and screams of battle, and he blinked, becoming aware that the sounds were real. In sudden fear, he stuck his head outside the command tent. It was still dark, but he saw Conrad von Thuringen on his horse, already in full armor. The marshal of the Teutonic Knights did not see the king as he trotted past, shouting orders Bela could not make out over the tumult. Men were running in all directions, and out beyond the sandbags, he heard battle horns sound in the distance. Bela swallowed drily as he recognized a distant rumble that was growing louder and clearer with every passing moment.

He cursed and turned back to his tent, fumbling for clothes in the darkness. His servants were nowhere to be found, and he stumbled over a chair, hissing with pain as he rose. He pulled a pair of heavy trousers from the fallen chair back and yanked them on. It all took precious time. He grabbed the embroidered jacket of his rank, pulling it over his shoulders as he raced out into the night. His horse had been brought and he mounted, needing the height to see.