Bones of the Hills (47 page)

It was a tedious business arranging supplies through the crack in the mountain, but Tsubodai organized torches and food as he relieved his men and fresh warriors took up the task of smashing in the door columns. The archers on the walls had an easier task during the night.
They could see the Mongols working, though the mantlets were still held over their heads. Those warriors who passed close to the torchlight risked a sudden arrow humming down at them. As dawn came, seven of Tsubodai’s men had been struck and one holding an iron bar had slipped and had his wrist broken with a hammer. Only three died. The others were dragged back beneath the steps, where they nursed and bound their wounds, waiting for daylight.

As the door held through the morning, Genghis gave orders to level the village of stone behind him. His minghaan officers went back with instructions to knock the stone houses apart and drop them down the cliffs so that more men could use the open space as a staging ground. Almost twenty thousand men waited impotently, unable to reach an enemy, while just a few sweated at the wall. Tsubodai seemed confident his men would break in, but as the second day wore on, Genghis had to force the cold face to conceal his impatience.

The Old Man of the Mountains stared down at the armored soldiers working in the sunlight. He could hardly contain the fury that swept over him. Over the course of his life, he had been honored by princes and shahs, from the Punjab in India to the Caspian Sea. He demanded respect, even deference, from the few men who knew who he was, without regard for their wealth and blood. His fortress had never been attacked since his ancestor first found the crack in the mountains and formed the clan that would become the most feared force in Arab lands.

The Old Man gripped the stone sill of an open window as he stared out at the ants working to get to him. He cursed the Shah of Khwarezm, who had tried to buy the death of this khan, as well as his own fate for taking the man’s note. He had not known then that the Shah’s cities would fall to the invader, the stocks of gold with them. He had sent his chosen men to bring down just one, but somehow it had stirred the khan to this desecration. The Old Man had known within days of the failure in Samarkand. His followers had become overconfident, seduced by having the enemy within easy reach. They had died well enough, but in doing so, brought these mindless attackers to his sanctuary.

The Mongols did not seem to care how many lives they lost. The Old Man could almost admire them for that, if he did not consider them less than men. It seemed it was his fate to be brought down by
godless wolves, after all he had achieved. The khan was a relentless, driven enemy and the old ways were falling in pieces around him. It would take a generation to rebuild the clan after this day, at least. He swore to himself that his assassins would eventually repay this blood debt, but at the same time, he was afraid, close to terrified of the man who had thrown himself so hard against the fortress stones. No Arab would have done it. They would have known that to fail was to invite destruction down to three generations of everyone they held dear. Even the great Saladin ceased to trouble the assassins after they had found him in his own command tent.

The Old Man heard footsteps behind him and turned reluctantly from the window arch. His son stood in the cool chamber, dressed for travel. At forty years of age, the younger man knew all the secrets of the clan. He would need them all to start again. With him went the last of the Old Man’s hopes. They shared a gaze of grief and anger before his son touched his forehead, lips, and heart and bowed in respect.

“You will not come with me?” his son asked one last time. The Old Man shook his head.

“I will see this out to the end. I was born in this fortress. I will not be driven from it.” He thought of the garden of paradise to the rear of the stronghold. The women were already dead at his order, poisoned wine allowing them to drift into sleep. With the last of his men on the wall, there was no one to remove the bodies and the garden was heavy with the smell of corrupting flesh. Still, it was a better fate for them than to fall into the hands of the invaders. The Old Man thought he might spend a little time there while he waited for the khan. The garden had always brought calm to the turbulence in his soul.

“Remember me and rebuild, my son. If I know that you will reach out and snatch this khan from the world, or his sons, I can die in peace.”

His son’s eyes burned into him before he bowed again.

“I will not forget,” he said. The Old Man watched him stride away, his steps sure and strong. There was a hidden path behind the fortress that his son would take, leaving behind only destruction. Two men would travel with him, experienced assassins well versed in all the forms of death. Even they had needed his own order to send them away. They saw no shame in dying to defend their home. Just thirty more waited for the Mongols to break the wall. They knew they would be killed and enter paradise, and they were full of joy.

Alone once more, the Old Man of the Mountains turned from the
setting sun. He made his way down marble steps to the garden for the last time, breathing in the air with pleasure as it became thick with the scent of flowers and the dead.

The right-hand column of the door shattered into two pieces at noon the following day, leaning out under the weight of stones above it. The khan stepped forward, hungry to see what lay within. The door yawned open without its support and Tsubodai’s men put their hooked poles into the gap and heaved at it, the leading edge cutting a furrow in the dusty ground.

Genghis was in full armor and carried sword and shield ready in his hands as he waited for the gap to open. Tsubodai saw his intent to be first into the fortress, and the general joined his men at the gate, taking a grip on the edge with his bare hands so that he would be closer. He did not know if Genghis guessed his thoughts, but Tsubodai was the first man through to the courtyard beyond. He heard the rattle of shafts breaking on the stones and ducked to one side as he surveyed the fortress they had worked so hard to win. There were still men on the walls, but when Genghis came through, he took their shafts on his shield, seeming to pluck them out of the air so that they vibrated in the surface.

Tsubodai’s archers followed, walking backwards into the courtyard and loosing shafts up at anything that moved. The assassins had no protection inside the walls. The black-garbed figures were outlined against the lighter stone and they fell quickly. Genghis watched them strike the courtyard with no expression on his face, then nodded, satisfied, as silence came again. The hammer men walked with him, still red-faced and sweating as the general and the khan made their way deeper into the fortress. Others climbed stone stairs to the walls, determined to root out every possible survivor as well as checking the dead. Tsubodai did not look back as he heard a struggle on the wall before someone fell with a cry. He knew his men would sweep the courtyard and the rooms beyond. He did not have to watch over them;
could not
while his khan walked so carelessly into the nest of the assassins.

Beyond the courtyard, a pillared cloister supported the main building. Genghis found a door there, but it was just wood and his hammer men smashed it open in just a few blows. There was no one waiting for them, though Tsubodai held his breath as Genghis walked into shadow as if he strolled among his gers. The khan seemed determined to meet
his fear head-on, and Tsubodai knew better than to try and hold him back while they searched the stronghold.

The home of the assassins was a maze of rooms and corridors. Tsubodai passed halls set with weapons and iron weights, open ground with bows set in racks, even a dry fountain, with water gathered in a pool where golden fish still swam. They found single rooms set with beds of fine linen as well as dormitories where rough wooden bunks lined the walls. It was a strange place and Tsubodai had the sense that it was freshly abandoned, that at any moment, the occupants would return and fill the echoing halls with noise and life. Behind him, he could hear his men calling to each other, their voices muffled as more and more spilled into the fortress and began looking for anything worth carrying away. In one place with barred windows, Tsubodai and Genghis found an overturned cup with the wine barely dried. Genghis walked on, taking it all in, but never pausing to rest.

At the end of a hall hung with silk banners, another heavy door blocked their path. Tsubodai summoned the hammer men, but when he lifted the iron locking bar, it moved easily and the door swung open to reveal steps. Genghis hardly slowed, so Tsubodai darted in ahead and went up as quickly as he could, his sword ready. The air was thick with strange scents, but even then he was not prepared for what he found and came to a sudden stop.

The garden lay at the rear of the fortress, overlooking mountains stretching into the blue distance. Flowers were everywhere, but they did not hide the smell of death. Tsubodai found a woman of surpassing beauty lying beside a bank of blue flowers. Her lips were dark with red wine that had stained her cheek and throat as she fell. He nudged her body with his foot, forgetting for a moment that Genghis was just behind him.

The khan did not look down as he passed. He strode over the perfectly tended paths as if they did not exist, moving further in. There were other women lying in that place, all beautiful and all wearing very little to cover the perfect musculature of their bodies. It was sickening even for one used to death, and Tsubodai found himself raising his head and gulping for clean air. Genghis did not seem to notice, his gaze on the mountains in the distance, snowcapped and clean.

Tsubodai didn’t see the man sitting on a wooden bench at first. The robed figure sat so still he could have been another ornament in that extraordinary setting. Genghis was almost abreast of him when Tsubodai jerked and called out a warning.

The khan stopped and raised his sword to strike with some of his old speed. He saw no threat from the man and lowered the blade as Tsubodai caught up.

“Why did you not run?” Genghis said to the man. He spoke in the Chin language and the man raised his head and smiled wearily, before answering in the same tongue.

“This is my home, Temujin.”

Genghis stiffened to hear his childhood name from a stranger. The sword jerked in his hand from instinct, but the man on the bench raised empty palms slowly before letting them fall.

“I will take it down, you know,” Genghis told him. “I will tip the stones off the cliffs so that no one will even remember there was once a fortress in these mountains.”

The Old Man shrugged. “Of course you will. Destruction is all you know.”

Tsubodai stood very close, looming over the man on the bench and ready to kill at the first sharp movement. He did not seem a threat, but his eyes were dark under heavy brows and his shoulders looked massive despite the lines of age on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genghis sheathe his sword and Tsubodai did not dare turn away as the khan sat on the bench, blowing air from his lips in relief.

“Still, I am surprised you did not run,” Genghis said.

The Old Man chuckled. “When you have given your life to building something, perhaps then you will understand; I do not know.” His voice took on a bitter tinge as he went on. “No, you would not understand, even then.”

Genghis smiled, then roared with laughter until he had to wipe his eyes. The Old Man watched him, his face twisting into a mask of hatred.

“Ah, I needed to laugh,” Genghis said. “I needed to sit in a garden surrounded by dead women and have an assassin tell me I have built nothing in my life.” He chuckled again and even Tsubodai smiled though his blade remained ready.

The Old Man of the Mountains had intended to pour scorn on the khan before going to his death with dignity intact. To have the man guffaw in his face made him flush, his sense of cool superiority torn apart.

“You think you have achieved something with your life?” the Old Man hissed. “You think you will be remembered?”

Genghis shook his head as amusement threatened to overwhelm him again. He was still chuckling as he stood up once more.

“Kill this old fool for me, would you, Tsubodai? He is nothing but a bag of wind.”

The assassin spluttered in rage as he tried to reply, but Tsubodai chopped down, leaving him gurgling in his own blood. Genghis had already dismissed the man from his mind.

“They left me a warning, with the village they destroyed, Tsubodai. I can do no less for them, if any still survive. I want them to remember the cost of attacking me. Have the men start on the roof and pitch the tiles and stones off the cliffs. I want nothing left here to show they ever had a home.”

Tsubodai nodded, bowing his head. “Your will, my lord khan,” he said.

Jelaudin lit a cone of incense to his father, thinking of him on the anniversary of his passing. His brothers saw tears in his eyes as he straightened and spoke soft words on the morning breeze.

“Who will give life to bones when they are dust? He will give them life who made them first.” He paused and lowered himself, touching his forehead to the ground as he honored the Shah who, in death, had become the light of his son’s followers.

Jelaudin knew he had changed in the year since his despair on the tiny island of the Caspian. He had found his calling and many of the men who had come to defend the faith regarded him as a holy man. They had grown in numbers, traveling for hundreds of miles to join his war against the invading khan. He sighed as he failed to keep his mind clear for prayer on this day of all days. His brothers had become his staff officers, though they too seemed to regard him almost with reverence. Yet for all the faith, someone had to provide food and tents and weapons for those who had none. It was for those things that he had answered an invitation to meet a prince of Peshawar. They had met only once as boys in Bukhara, when both were spoiled and fat with sweetmeats. Jelaudin had only a hazy memory of the boy and no knowledge of the man he had become. Still, the prince ruled a region where the fields were rich with grain, and Jelaudin had come further south than he had ever known. He had walked until his sandals fell apart, then further, until the soles of his feet were as leathery as his shoes had once been. Rains had quenched his thirst and the hot sun had burned him thin, making his eyes fierce over a beard which had grown thick and black.