Authors: Conn Iggulden
When Kublai had ridden in at last, the sight of his people had not been inspiring. They had rallied around as the tumans came in and he made a point of praising them for their survival, even as he seethed at how badly they had done without him. It was possible to count the ribs on the precious oxen and he wondered how many would have the strength to pull carts when the time came to move. His son and pregnant wife had been given barely enough meat to survive and Kublai wanted to lash out in rage at the rest of them. He would have done so if they hadn’t been just as thin and pale as Chabi.
“We have to move the camp,” Chabi said softly. “I don’t want to think what would have happened if you’d stayed out much longer.”
“I can’t take you out. They just keep coming,” he said. “You’ve never seen anything like it, Chabi. There isn’t any end to them.”
Her mouth firmed as he spoke.
“Even so, we can’t stay here. There isn’t a rabbit for twenty miles
and when the last of the flocks are gone, we’ll starve. Some of the men were saying they’d strike out on their own if you didn’t come back soon.”
“Who?” he demanded.
Chabi shook her head. “Men with families of their own. Can you blame them? We knew we were in trouble, Kublai.”
“I’ll drive herds back from the Sung hills and villages. I’ll get new animals to pull the carts.”
He swore under his breath, knowing it wouldn’t work. Even if he could drive a herd toward the forest, the marks of their passing would be there for any Sung scout to read. He had already endangered the position by bringing his tumans back to the camp. To do it again would leave a wide road through the forest. He pushed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, easing away some of the tiredness. The camp supported the warriors with everything from arrow shafts to shelter and hot food, but he had reached an impossible position.
“I can send out the tumans to gather food and draft beasts to be butchered, or replace the weakest of our stock …” He swore under his breath. “I can’t be thinking of this, Chabi! I have made tracks into the Sung, but I need to keep going, or everything I’ve done will have been wasted.”
“Is it so terrible to rest up for the winter? You’ll be here when the child is born, Kublai. Send out your men to bring back anything that lives, raid the local towns and you’ll be ready to go out again in the spring.”
Kublai groaned at the thought. Part of him ached at the idea of simply stopping to rest. He had never felt so tired.
“I’ve cleared a route as far as Shaoyang and beyond, Chabi. If I can keep moving, I’ll be able to reach their capital by spring or summer. If I stop now, I’ll see another dozen armies coming out against me, fresh and strong.”
“And you will lose the camp if you go on,” she snapped. “You will lose the fletchers, the tanners and saddlers, the hardworking wives and men who keep you in the field. Will the tumans still fight well while their families starve behind them?”
“You will not starve,” Kublai said.
“Saying it does not make it so. It was getting ugly before your scouts found us, husband. Some of the men were talking about taking the last food stocks for themselves and letting the weakest ones die from hunger.”
Kublai grew still, his eyes hard.
“This time you
will
tell me their names, Chabi. I’ll hang them from the branches.”
“That is a distraction! It doesn’t matter now. Find a way to solve the problem, husband. I know the pressure on you, or I think I do. I know you will work it out.”
He walked a few paces away from her, staring into the green undergrowth all around.
“This land is rich, Chabi,” he said after a time. “I can take a month to raid new flocks. We can drive them back here, but then I’m sending half the camp home to Karakorum.” He held up a hand to forestall her as she opened her mouth. “These aren’t the battles Genghis knew, where he could take the entire nation and raid with tumans from the center. The Sung are like ants in their numbers, army after army. I need to think like a raider, with the bare minimum of supplies. The women and children can go home, with enough warriors to keep them safe. You and Zhenjin will leave with them. There. You asked for a decision and that’s it. I can take a month, I think.”
“You can, but I am not going. I won’t lose another child on a hard journey home, Kublai. I’m staying with the camp until the birth.”
He saw the resolution in her face and sighed.
“I’m too tired to argue with you, woman.”
“Good,” she said.
KUBLAI BEGRUDGED EVERY DAY LOST AS HIS TUMANS SCOURED
the land for herds for a hundred miles and more. In the winter, it took longer than he hoped and he saw the full moon twice before he brought the families out of the forest. The dark months were colder than the previous year. Ice crackled in the boughs of the forest, beautiful
and dead at the same time. There was always wood for the stoves and the gers were surrounded by firewood piled higher than a man’s head.
The ground was still frozen when they began to pack up and leave the forest depths. Behind them, they left the usual marks, from black circles of ground under dismantled gers, to the graves of those who had died. Most were wounded men the shamans could not save, but there were many smaller graves as well, of children who had not lived through their first year. There were no mountains to lay them out for sky burial, where the carrion birds would feast. Cremation fires were too likely to spread or be seen by an enemy, so the frozen ground was broken just deep enough to cover them.
Kublai gathered the camp on an open plain. Hundreds of oxen had been yoked and they were better fed than when he had come upon them. Grain from Sung towns had been brought back with the herds and the massive animals were glossy with care, their muzzles wet and pink. He had ordered two hundred thousand of his people home, mostly the wives and children. Ten thousand men would go with them, those who had been wounded, or maimed in some old war. They could still fight if they had to.
His men griped out of habit at the order, but they too had seen the Sung armies and there was relief amidst the final embraces. The families would go fast to the Chin border, crossing in the spring to safer lands. From there, Kublai had sent scouts to his own estates. They would be safe on their journey north. He had kept only the most skillful craftsmen and herders, the metalsmiths, rope-makers, and leather-workers. Most of the gers would go, so the tumans would sleep uncovered in the rain and frost.
Kublai had to keep some carts for the forges and equipment supplies—his silver would go with him into the east. He knew the camp would be less cheerful from that point. It was no longer a moving nation but a war camp, with every man there dedicated to the tumans they supported.
The two massive groups slowly drew apart, with many shouting last words. The mounted tumans watched grimly as their families grew smaller in the distance. Chabi and Zhenjin remained with her
servants, but no one dared object to the decisions of the khan’s own brother. They had scouted to the Chin border and there were no armies in that direction. The danger lay only in the east and every man in the tumans knew the work was not finished. It was hard to be cheerful on such a day.
It was still a host that trundled deeper into Sung lands, but there was already a sense of having cut away the fat. They kept a good pace and if there was no singing in the camps at night, at least the men were quietly determined. Without the individual wives, the warriors were fed from communal pots, filled to the brim with a thick broth each night.
As the days began to lengthen, Kublai passed sites of his own battles. He rode in sick horror through fields of rotting corpses. Foxes, wolves, and birds had feasted and flesh sloughed off the bones, enemies and friends sliding into one another as they were made soft in sun and rain. His tumans rode through with utter indifference, making Kublai wonder how they could keep their food in their stomachs. His imagination forced him to consider his own death, left in a foreign field. He did not know whether such concerns troubled men like Uriang-Khadai, or whether they would admit the truth if he asked.
His scouts reported contact with a force of cavalry forty miles shy of Shaoyang, but whoever it was retreated at speed before the tumans, staying out of range and riding as if all hell was on their heels. Without an order being given, Kublai’s warriors began to increase their pace each day. The carts in the reduced camp fell back to the maximum range of twenty miles, within reach of a sudden assault if they came under attack. During the cold days, the men drank warm blood from the mares, sharing the slight wounds between three or four spare mounts so that none of the animals grew too weak. They were in their own battle trail and there were no fresh supplies to be had until they passed Shaoyang. Kublai wondered how the prefect there would react when he saw them return. He would survive their passing for a second time, something few men could say.
Kublai had understood at last that he had too few warriors to smash their heads against Sung walls. Eventually, the swarming enemy would grind his tumans into dust. He had made his decision and
wondered if he was even the same man who had entered Sung lands with such youthful confidence. He could not have gambled it all back then. Now, he would drive them on to the heart of the empire in one great push. He would not stop for Shaoyang. He would not stop for anything.
His tumans could see men on the roofs of the sprawling city as they rode past. Kublai raised a hand to them, in greeting or farewell, he did not know. He would cut the heart out of the Sung dragon in one strike. The other cities had nothing to fear from him.
Past Shaoyang, the land had not been stripped of everything that might feed a hungry soldier. The first small towns were looted for food, though Kublai forbade their destruction. Back in the forest camp, his men had seen the great store of silver he had taken, handed down from a thousand horses, the bars passing from man to man and then placed in piles on the wet leaves. Though the tumans had not been paid in months, they knew at least that it existed and did not grumble too loudly or too often.
He did not expect yam riders, so far to the south. The lines of way stations had ended in Chin lands and when he saw not one but two of the men, they barely resembled the fast-moving endurance riders he knew. His scouts brought the pair in together and Kublai drew to a halt on a wide plain as he heard the jingle of bells from their saddlecloths. He nodded to Uriang-Khadai and the orlok bellowed orders to dismount and rest.
“They look half dead,” Bayar murmured to Kublai as the men rode up with his scouts on either side.
It was true enough and Kublai wondered how the men had been finding food without the yam stations to feed them or give them fresh mounts. Both were unkempt and one of them moved with obvious pain, grunting at every step of his horse. They came to a halt and Bayar told them to dismount. The first one slid from the saddle, staggering slightly as he landed. While he was searched, Bayar looked up into the gray face of his companion.
“I have an arrow somewhere in my back,” the yam rider said weakly. “It’s broken off, but I don’t think I can get down.” Bayar saw how his
right hand hung limp, flopping in the reins that were wrapped around it. He called one of his men and together they pulled the rider clear of his saddle. He tried not to cry out, but the strangled sound of agony he made was worse.
On the ground, Bayar lowered the man to his knees and looked at the arrow stump sticking out high on his shoulders. Every breath would have hurt and Bayar whistled softly. He reached down and prodded the stub, making the rider jerk away with a stifled curse.
“It’s rotting the flesh,” Bayar said. “I can smell it from here. I’ll have a shaman cut it out and seal it with fire. You’ve done well.”
“Did anyone else reach you?” the man said. He leaned forward on his locked arms, panting like a dog. Bayar shook his head and the yam rider swore and spat. “There were twelve of us. I’ve been searching and riding for a long time.” The eyes were angry and Bayar bristled in response.
“We were enjoying ourselves, seeing a bit of the local country. You found us in the end. Now would you like to deliver your message, or shall I have that arrow cut out first?”
The second rider had been searched and allowed to approach Kublai, opening his leather bag and handing over a folded sheet sealed with Mongke’s mark in wax. Bayar and the wounded man watched in silence as Kublai broke the seal and read.
“No need now. He already knows.”
The wounded yam rider sagged and Bayar took him under the arms, ignoring the stink of sweat and urine. He could feel heat radiating from the flesh, a sure sign of fever. Even then, Bayar was surprised at the lack of weight. The young man had almost starved to bring the message and he wondered what could have been so important as to send twelve riders with the same message. Bayar knew enough to suspect no good news ever arrived in that way. He called one of his officers over.
“Fetch a shaman. If he’s to live, the arrowhead will have to be dug out and the wound cleaned. Take him from me.” He passed the dazed rider over and stood, unconsciously wiping his hands down his leggings.
Kublai had grown pale as he read. The sheet with its broken seal hung forgotten from his hand. He stared into the distance, his eyes like dull glass. Bayar’s mood sank further as he walked across to him.
“As bad as that?” the general said quietly.
“As bad as that,” Kublai confirmed, his voice hoarse with grief.
XUAN FELT ALIVE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS AS HE RODE
west. The old skills were still there, long dormant, like seeds beneath the autumn leaves. He could see his men felt the same. They had grown old in captivity, their best years wasted and thrown away, but with every mile they rode from Hangzhou, the past was further behind. More important than that was the news that had come as they left the city. Mongol scouts had been captured as they came south. Each carried an identical message written in the script of their homeland.
Xuan had seen one of the originals, still stained with the blood of its owner. Only a suspicious mind could have seen the benefits of announcing the khan’s death as he rode south. Xuan had that mind, made so by years of captivity. Even so, he longed for the news to be true. He knew the traditions the Mongols followed so slavishly. If they returned home, it would be an answer to his prayers, indeed the prayers of the Sung nation.