Authors: Conn Iggulden
Tellan showed no expression as he gathered up the precious bow and stood patiently, though his hands ran down the length without conscious thought, searching for cracks or damage. When he was satisfied, he held it out again. Arik-Boke waved it away.
“No more now. I can’t keep my mind clear,” he said.
At his side, the orlok of his armies had been in the process of drawing his own bow. Alandar was faced with a delicate choice. His own heart thumped slowly and his hands and arms were like hardwood.
He could have placed the shaft anywhere he chose, but under the khan’s glare, Alandar decided not to take the shot. He released the tension slowly, feeling muscles twitch uncomfortably across his chest.
Alandar untied the quiver from his shoulder and handed the equipment to the arms master of Karakorum’s training ground. He had thought Arik-Boke might benefit from a morning of sweat and practice, but the khan only seemed to grow in anger with every poor shot.
“Would you prefer to work with swords, my lord khan?” he asked.
Arik-Boke snorted. He wanted to hack someone to death, not go through routines and stances until his muscles ached. He nodded with bad grace.
“Very well,” he said.
“Fetch the khan’s training swords, Tellan.”
As the arms master turned, Arik-Boke raised his head in inspiration.
“Bring the wolf’s-head blade as well,” he muttered. “And fetch the training suit.”
Tellan trotted off with the bows into the buildings around the training square. He returned with two swords in scabbards and an armful of stiff leather. Arik-Boke took the swords and felt the heft of each one.
“Put the suit on, Tellan. I’m in the mood to cut something.”
The arms master was a veteran warrior. He had fought alongside Tsubodai and earned his position at the khan’s court. His brows lowered slightly and his expression grew stern. For one of his trainees, it would have been a sign of gathering storm clouds, but Arik-Boke was oblivious.
“Shall I have one of the boys put it on, my lord khan?” Tellan said.
Arik-Boke barely glanced at him.
“Did I ask you to fetch one of the boys?” he snapped.
“No, my lord.”
“Then do as you are told.”
Tellan began to buckle the leather straps around himself. The
practice suit had begun life as a blacksmith’s apron with long sleeves, the layers of sewn leather so stiff that it would hardly bend at the waist. To that had been added a padded helmet with neck pieces and heavy guards that buckled under the sleeves and onto the shins. Tellan heaved the main part over his head and stood still as Alandar began to fasten the buckles.
Arik-Boke drew a practice sword and swung it through the air. It was heavier than a normal blade, weighted with lead so that a warrior’s wrist and forearms could develop strength. It lacked much of an edge and the point was rounded. He frowned at it and drew his personal blade, recovered from Mongke’s body.
The eyes of both Alandar and Tellan slid over to him as they heard the sound of shining steel being drawn. It was not just that both men were veterans. The sword had been in the khan’s family for generations. The hilt had been cast in the shape of a stylized wolf’s-head and, in its own way, it was one of the most potent symbols of the risen nation. Genghis had carried it, as had his father before him. The sword was polished and viciously sharp, with every chip or dent smoothed out of it. It looked exactly what it was, a length of sharp metal designed to cut flesh. Arik-Boke swished it through the air with a grunt.
Alandar met Tellan’s eyes and smiled wryly at the man’s expression. He liked Tellan and had spent a few evenings drinking with him. The arms master was not one to faint at a little blood or the prospect of a battering, but he did not look happy. Alandar finished the buckles and stepped away.
“Shall I give him a sword?” he asked.
Arik-Boke nodded. “Give him yours.”
All three of them knew it would make little difference. The suit had been designed for multiple attacks, to let a young warrior try to remain calm and focused as half a dozen of his friends worked him over. It would not let Tellan move quickly enough to defend himself.
Alandar handed his blade to the arms master and grinned as he stood for an instant with his back to the khan. Tellan rolled his eyes in answer, but he took the weapon.
As Alandar stepped clear, Arik-Boke stepped in and swung at Tellan’s neck with everything he had. Alandar’s smile vanished as Tellan staggered backward. The headgear for the suit had heavy pieces overlapping the neck area, but the wolf’s-head sword had almost cut through and one of them hung by a few threads.
The arms master blocked the next strike with a huge effort, using all his strength to make the leather arms bend fast enough. Arik-Boke grunted as sweat appeared on his face, but he moved forward, hitting high and low, groin and neck. His sword left bright slashes in the suit and mouths opened in it so that Alandar could see Tellan’s clothing beneath. The orlok considered making a comment, but chose to remain silent. Arik-Boke was khan.
Tellan seemed to realize he was in a fight and when Arik-Boke stepped too close he reversed his backward motion, using the bulk of the suit to throw his hip into the khan and make him stagger. The reply was another flat blow to the neck, tearing the leather free so that it fell. Tellan’s veined throat was exposed and he knew it, feeling the air on his flesh as soon as it happened. He tried to step aside and back, but Arik-Boke pressed him at every step, swinging the sword as if it were a club rather than a blade. More than one of his wild strikes were turned aside on the leather, wrenching his fingers and making him hiss in pain.
It seemed an age before Arik-Boke paused. The leather suit was in tatters, half of it hanging loose and the rest on the ground at Tellan’s feet. Blood dripped down the man’s legs and slowly pooled as Arik-Boke panted, watching him for a sudden move. To the equal horror of the arms master and Alandar, Arik-Boke rested the point of his sword on the ground, putting his weight on it as if it were a simple stick and not the most famous blade in the history of the nation. Sweat poured from the khan and he breathed in great, rasping breaths.
“That will do,” he said, straightening with an effort and tossing the blade to Alandar, who caught it easily. “Have my shaman look at your cuts, Tellan. Alandar, with me.”
Without another word, he strode off the training square. Alandar
collected the scabbard and barely had time to dart a quick look of apology to Tellan before he went after him.
The arms master stood alone and panting in the center of the square. He had not moved for some time when one of the sweeping boys dared to approach him.
“Are you all right, master?” the boy said, peering around the torn remnants of the headgear.
Tellan’s lips were bloody and he showed his teeth to the boy as he tried to take a step.
“Take my arm and help me, boy. I can’t walk back on my own.”
The admission hurt him as much as the wounds he had taken, but his pride wouldn’t let him fall. The boy called a friend and between them they helped Tellan stagger out of the sun.
ARIK-BOKE STRODE QUICKLY DOWN THE CORRIDORS OF THE
palace. The tightness of his rage felt as if it had eased slightly and he rolled his shoulders as he walked. He had been imagining Kublai before him as he had battered the arms master and for a time it had taken the edge off his anger. As he walked, it swelled again within him, a red coil that made him want to strike out.
He came to polished copper doors and shoved them open without acknowledging the Guards who stood there. Alandar followed him into the meeting room, seeing his most senior men rise to their feet as if jerked up by strings. Since the khan had stormed out hours earlier, they had been waiting for him to return, unable to leave without his permission. They showed no sign of impatience as they bowed. Alandar noticed the single jug of wine had been drunk dry, but there was nothing else to indicate Arik-Boke had kept a dozen men waiting for the best part of a morning.
Arik-Boke walked through them to the table and cursed when he saw the jug was empty. He grabbed it and took it to the copper doors, shoving it into the hands of one of his Day Guards.
“Bring more wine,” he said, ignoring the man as he tried to bow and keep hold of the jug at the same time. When he turned to his officers
once more, his eyes glittered with simmering fury and no one would meet his gaze.
“Now, gentlemen,” he grated. “You have had time to think. You know the stakes involved.” He waited for barely a beat before going on. “My scouts find broken yam stations. My orders go unanswered. Supplies have stopped from the north and if my spies have not been turned against me, my brother Kublai has made war on a khanate. My own
blood
has turned his tumans against his lawful ruler.” He paused, his eyes raking them.
“The world has gone quiet as rabbits with a snake in their hole and you have nothing to offer your khan?
Nothing
?” He roared the last word, spraying spit. The men in the room were seasoned warriors, but they pulled back from him. His snuffling breath was loud in the room and the scar that ran across the ruined bridge of his nose had grown red.
“Tell me how it is possible for an army to ride into my khanates without us becoming aware of it before this. Did my grandfather set up the yam lines for nothing? For months, I have been asking my advisers why the letters have stopped coming, why the reports are late. I asked my senior officers what fault there could be that might result in Karakorum being cut off from the rest of the world in such a way. Now you tell
me
how such a thing could happen within a thousand miles of this city and have us know nothing about it.”
His Guard returned with two brimming jugs of wine, erring on the side of caution. Arik-Boke waited while a cup was poured for him and drained it in quick gulps. When he had finished a second, he seemed calmer, though a heavy flush was stealing up his neck, where the veins were clearly visible.
“That is past. When this is over, I will have the heads of those men who told me that the yam lines could never be broken, that they gave me a security and an early warning that no other khan had ever known. I will have the head of Lord Alghu and give his daughter to my bondsmen for their sport.” He took a deep breath, aware that simply ranting at his men would produce no good result.
“I want them rebuilt. Orlok Alandar will come to you for your best
scouts and have them man the lines. I need to know where my brother’s tumans are, so that I can answer their betrayal with the greatest possible force.”
He faced the men in the room, making sure they saw his contempt.
“Alandar, give me a tally of our strength,” he said at last.
“Without the tumans of the Russian khanate, or the Chagatai—” he began.
“Tell me what I have, Orlok, not what I don’t have.”
“Twenty tumans, my lord khan. Leaving only the Guards to keep peace in the city.”
“And my brother?”
Alandar hesitated, knowing it would be at best a guess.
“He may have as many as eighteen tumans, my lord, though he has been at war with the Sung for years and he will have lost many, perhaps six or seven of them.”
“Or more, orlok. My scholar brother could easily have lost half his force while he was reading his Chin books, while he was learning to dress like a Chin whore.”
“As you say, my lord. We cannot know for certain until the yam lines are reestablished.”
“He did not beat the Sung, Orlok Alandar. He merely held his place for five years, waiting for Mongke Khan to ride to his aid. That is the sort of man we face. That is the false khan, my
brother
, who has broken our supply lines and rides the world in careless confidence, while the khan of the nation of Genghis can only react. No more, Alandar! I have had enough of these ragged riders terrified to tell me the khanates are falling apart. We will go out and meet this scholar brother. And I will have him crawling at my feet before we are done.”
“Your will, my lord,” Alandar said, bowing his head.
“We can place the traitor at Samarkand two months ago.” Arik-Boke gestured to one of the twenty generals who waited in nervous tension for their orders. “Bring me my maps, gentlemen. We will see how far he could have run in the time.”
Some of the men exchanged glances, knowing from experience that a fresh Mongol tuman could have covered a thousand miles or
more since then. Alandar chose to speak, knowing that of all of them, he was most immune to Arik-Boke’s anger.
“My lord, he could be almost anywhere. We suspect he sent tumans against Batu in the north, so it is likely he has already split his forces. But we
know
he will come to Karakorum.”
“This is just a city,” Arik-Boke said.
“It is a city with the women and children of his tumans, my lord. Kublai will come for them. What choice does he have?”
Arik-Boke grew still, thinking. At last, he nodded.
“Yes, we have that at least. We know where he will come and we have something precious to him. That will do as a starting place, Orlok. But I do not want to fight a defensive battle. Our strength is in movement, in speed. He will not pin me down. Do you understand? That is the thinking of our enemies. I want to get out of Karakorum and find him while he moves. I want to run him down like a circle hunt, closing slowly on his men until there is nowhere left to run.”
“The closest yam stations are already working, my lord,” Alandar replied. “We are restocking a dozen each day, now that we know what happened to them. We will have warning as soon as they sight his tumans.”
“I was told that before, Alandar. I will not rely on them again.” He took a deep breath. “Send the tumans toward the Chagatai khanate, with scouts running between them. Five battle groups of forty thousand to cover the ground. Keep the scouts out, ready for the first touch. When they sight the enemy …” He paused, savoring the word in relation to his foolish brother. “When they see him, they will not engage until the full force has gathered. We will strike him down, this false khan. And I will be there to see it.”