Authors: Conn Iggulden
As Genghis listened to Yusuf, he grew more irritable.
“Ask him if that is all he knows. It is not enough.”
The Arab paled still further and shook his head. “She told me two young men of the village followed the carts once, three, perhaps four
years ago. They did not come back, master. They were found dead when their families went to search for them, each with his throat cut.”
Genghis stared as he heard the last part of the translation. It was not confirmation, but it was the most promising of all the wild tales that had come in.
“It is possible, Tsubodai. You were right to bring him to me. Give him a cart of gold with two oxen to pull it.” He thought for a moment. “You and I are going north, Tsubodai. He will accompany us as far as this village of his sister. If we find what we need, he can take the gold. If not, his life is forfeit.”
The little man listened to Yusuf and fell to his knees in relief.
“Thank you, master,” he called as Genghis left the ger.
GENGHIS FORCED HIMSELF
to be patient as he prepared to fight an enemy unlike any other he had faced. He moved the families back to the shelter around Samarkand, leaving Jelme and Kachiun with them for protection. Jelme came to thank him personally for the posting, which left Genghis blinking in surprise, quickly masked. It had not occurred to him that the general would prefer to spend time with his father in the city rather than hunting the assassins who threatened them.
For that task, he took his own tuman, as well as Tsubodai’s. The best part of twenty thousand men were still a force that awed him when he remembered his first raiding bands of a few dozen. With them, he could bring mountains down if he had to. Even so many could cross sixty to eighty miles a day if they traveled light, but Genghis had no idea what lay ahead of them. The artisans of Samarkand were there to be used and he had them construct siege equipment and new carts, piling on just about anything he thought they might need and tying it down with canvas and rope. The khan was a whirlwind of energy as he planned for the attack, and none of his men were left in doubt as to how seriously he took the threat. Of all men in the tribes, Genghis understood the danger of assassins, and he looked forward to the assault to come.
The new carts had the stronger spoked wheels Tsubodai had
brought back from Russia, but they groaned and creaked as the two tumans moved off at last. Even after a month of preparation, Jochi had not returned to the camp. It was possible he still sought out information on the assassins, but events had moved on. Genghis sent two warriors riding east after him, then two more after Khasar, freeing their hands. The region was still fat with wealthy cities, and while he sought out the assassins, Genghis knew Khasar and Jochi would enjoy taking them at their leisure.
Chagatai had asked to assist his father in the search for the mountain stronghold, but Genghis had refused him. Nothing he knew of the assassins spoke of large numbers. Their strength lay in secrecy, and once that was broken, Genghis expected to dig them out like sticking a knife into a crack. Chagatai was still under a cloud with his father, and Genghis could hardly look at him without feeling anger and dashed hopes surface. He had not made the decision to raise Ogedai lightly. Thoughts of his legacy had been troubling the khan for many months, but he had planned for Chagatai to inherit for far longer. It was not that he regretted it, at all. The decision was made. Genghis knew his own temper well, however. He knew that if Chagatai showed the slightest resentment, there was a chance he would kill him.
Instead, Genghis sent him south with Jebe to raze the land in his name. All his generals were warned not to let Arabs too close to them, even those they knew and trusted as interpreters. Genghis left all but a few of his behind the walls of Samarkand, forbidding them from going anywhere near the camp. Arslan would be merciless to any who disobeyed the order, and Genghis felt he had secured his people in all ways as he rode north.
With the laden carts, they made barely thirty miles a day, starting at dawn and riding at walking pace for all the hours of daylight. They left behind the green fields around Samarkand, taking the carts across a shallow fording point of the northern river before crossing into lands of dust and scrub grass, hills and valleys.
By the fourth day, Genghis was chafing at the pace. He rode up and down the lines of carts, urging the drivers to make their best speed. What had seemed good sense and restraint in Samarkand now ate at his confidence. The assassins surely knew he was coming. He worried that they would simply abandon their position in the mountains and leave it empty for him to find.
Tsubodai shared the opinion, though he said nothing, knowing that a good general does not criticize a khan, even to those he trusts.
Yet Tsubodai was convinced Genghis had handled it badly. The only thing that might work was a massive strike, surprising the assassins where they were strongest before they even knew enemies were in the area. This slow-moving caravan of carts was almost exactly the opposite of what Tsubodai wanted. Riding with barely more than blood dust and mare’s milk, he and his men had raced from the mountains to Genghis in twelve days. Now, as the moon waxed and waned for almost a full turn, Tsubodai eyed it with more and more misgiving. He was already planning what to do if the assassins had vanished as they came to the village Tsubodai had sacked. This time Genghis did not stop, though ash-marked figures ducked and scrabbled in the wreckage, searching for anything they might salvage. The Mongol tumans rode past without a thought for those who hid from them.
The mountains could be seen for days before they reached the foothills. In response to his own nervous energy, Tsubodai gained Genghis’s permission to ride out with the scouts, searching for new information. He found the second village when the carts were still forty miles and more than a day’s ride behind him. It was there that Tsubodai had met the village council and the man he had brought to Genghis.
No one lived there any longer. Tsubodai’s heart sank as he walked his horse through the gutted shells of homes. It was not the work of his men, and in this dead place, there were not even urchins to sift the ruins for food or coins. If Tsubodai had needed any final confirmation of the assassins’ presence, he found it in the bodies that lay everywhere, gashed and burned where they had fallen. Only flies, birds, and wild dogs lived in the village, and the buzz and flutter of wings sounded all around him, rising in choking clouds as his horse walked through.
Genghis came up when Tsubodai’s riders told him the news. He kept the cold face as he rode through to his general, jerking sharply only once when a fly landed on his lips.
“This is a warning,” Tsubodai said.
Genghis shrugged. “A warning or a punishment. Someone saw you talking to the merchant.” He chuckled at the thought of the man’s oblivious approach with a cart full of gold. His sudden wealth would be worth nothing in that place.
“We could find the same in this village further into hills that he spoke of, his sister’s home.”
Genghis nodded. He did not care particularly that villages had been destroyed. If the burned houses
were
meant as a warning, there were
few men in the world that could have taken it as lightly as he did. He had seen much worse in his years as khan.
That thought reminded Genghis of something his mother used to say when he was a boy and he smiled.
“I was born with a clot of blood in my right hand, Tsubodai. I have always walked with death. If they know me at all, they know that. This destruction is not a warning for me, but for anyone else who might consider dealing with me.” He frowned to himself then and drummed his fingers on his saddle. “It is the sort of thing I might do if I were leaving the area.”
Tsubodai nodded, knowing the khan did not need to hear his agreement.
“Still, we must push on to see where they hid themselves,” Genghis said, his mood souring, “even if they have abandoned it.”
Tsubodai merely bowed his head and whistled for the scouts to ride with him into the mountains. The sister’s village was a day’s trek for a fast-moving warrior, perhaps three for the carts. The trails needed to be checked at all points for ambushes, and Tsubodai had to resist the urge to race ahead and see if the assassins had left anyone behind. The mountains were steep beyond that point, with only a narrow path leading the scouts through to the deep valleys and peaks. It was a hard land to assault and worryingly easy to defend. Even sound was muffled in such a place, swallowed by the steep slopes on either side, so that a horse’s hooves could be heard as echoes, while the rest of the world receded. Tsubodai rode warily, his hand always near his bow and sword.
Jochi halted his tuman when he heard a warning note from his scout horns. He had ridden hard for more than a month, covering a vast distance into the east, so far that he was convinced the plains of his home lay a thousand miles north. Beyond them the world was endless, unmapped even by Tsubodai.
Jochi had known his father would send men after him eventually. Part of him had considered turning north before this point, though it would hardly have mattered. All the scouts could track a single rider, never mind the seven thousand who formed his tuman. The trail they left could have been followed by a blind man. If rains had come, their hoofprints would have been washed away, but to Jochi’s frustration, the sky had stayed cold and blue all the way, with barely a wisp of clouds.
His warriors allowed their ponies to crop the dry grass at their feet as they waited for new orders. Until they came, they were content and relaxed, giving no more thought to the future than a pack of wild dogs. Jochi did not know if they guessed at his internal struggle. At times, he thought they
must
know. Their eyes seemed aware, but he knew that was probably an illusion. As the khan’s scouts came closer, Jochi summoned his officers, from those who commanded a thousand down to those who led just ten. They had all stood in the palace at Samarkand and taken an oath to honor Ogedai as khan, the words still fresh in their minds. He did not know what they would do.
More than seven hundred came at his order, walking their mounts apart from those they led. Each had been promoted by Jochi himself, given honor with the trust of other lives in their hands. He felt their questioning gazes on him as he waited for his father’s scouts. His hands shook slightly and he stilled them with a tight grip on his reins.
The scouts were two young men from Genghis’s own tuman. They wore light deels, made dark and greasy by sweat and constant use. They rode in together and dismounted to bow to Genghis’s general. Jochi sat his horse in stillness, a great calm sweeping over him. He had believed he was prepared for this, but he had not been. Now the moment was finally upon him, he felt his stomach churn.
“Deliver your message,” Jochi said, looking at the closest man. The scout bowed again, still relaxed and easy after a long ride.
“The Great Khan has moved against the assassins, General. He has good information as to where they have their stronghold. You are free once more to subdue the cities and widen the lands under his control.”
“You have ridden far today,” Jochi said. “You are welcome in my camp and you must stay to eat and rest.”
The scouts exchanged a quick glance before the first one replied.
“My lord, we are not tired. We can ride again.”
“I will not hear of it,” Jochi snapped. “Stay. Eat. I will speak to you again at sunset.”
It was a clear order and the scouts could only obey. Both men dipped their heads before remounting and trotting to the bulk of the tuman, away from the gathering of officers. Rough cooking fires were already alight there and they were made welcome by those who cared for the freshest news.
Jochi raised his hand for his officers to follow him, angling his mount down a hill away from his warriors. A river ran along the bottom of it, shaded in old and twisted trees that overhung the water.
Jochi dismounted at the bottom and let his horse drink before reaching down and taking mouthfuls of the water in his cupped hands.
“Sit with me,” he said softly. His men did not understand, but they tied their horses to the trees and gathered around him on the dusty ground until half the slope was filled with them. The rest of the tuman could be seen in the distance, too far to hear his words. Jochi swallowed nervously, his throat dry despite the water he had drunk. He knew the name of each of the senior men in that glade by the river. They had ridden with him against the Arab horses, the Shah’s army, cities and garrisons all. They had come to his aid when he was lost and alone amidst his brother’s warriors. They were bound to him with more than oaths, but he did not know if it would be enough. He took a deep breath.
“I am not going back,” he said. To a man, the officers became still, some of them freezing in the act of chewing on meat or reaching for a skin of airag from their saddlebags.
For Jochi, saying the words was like a dam breaking. He sucked air in again as if he had been running. He could feel his heart pounding and his throat was tight.
“This is not a new decision. I have thought this day might come for years, ever since I fought the tiger and we began our journey to these lands. I have been loyal to my father, the khan, in every action. I have given him my life’s blood and those of the men who followed me. I have given him enough.”
He looked around at the silent faces of his officers, judging how they received his words.
“I will turn north after this. I have no desire to cross into the southern Chin lands, or go anywhere near Xi Xia in the east. I will see home again and be refreshed in streams that have given us life for ten thousand years. Then I will ride so far and fast that even my father’s hunting dogs will never find me. There are hundreds of lands still unknown to us. I saw some of them with General Tsubodai. I know him well and even he will not be able to find me. I will ride until the end of the world and make a home there, a kingdom of my own. There will be no tracks where I go. By the time my father even knows I am not returning, I will be lost to him.”