Authors: Conn Iggulden
When they were ready, the shaman of the Olkhun’ut rode to the front on a mare of pure white. He was thin and ancient, his hair turned the color of his mount. Every eye was on him as he chanted, raising his hands to the sky father. He held the fire-cracked shoulder blade of a sheep, and he gestured with it as if it were a weapon. Temujin smiled to himself. The shaman of the Kerait had not been as thirsty for war, and Temujin had chosen the right man for the ritual.
As they watched, the shaman dismounted and pressed himself on the earth, embracing the mother who ruled them all. The chant was thin on the breeze, but the ranks of warriors sat in perfect stillness, waiting for the word. At last, the old man peered at the black lines on the bone, reading them as he ran his gnarled fingers along the fissures.
“The mother rejoices,” he called. “She yearns for the Tartar blood we will release into her. The sky father calls us on in his name.” He broke the shoulder blade in his hands, showing surprising strength.
Temujin filled his lungs and bellowed along the line. “The land knows only one people, my brothers,” he shouted. “She remembers the weight of our steps. Fight well today and they will run before us.”
They raised their bows in a great roar, and Temujin felt his pulses beat faster. The shaman mounted his mare and passed back through the ranks. Out of superstitious fear, none of the warriors would meet the eye of the old man, but Temujin nodded to him, bowing his head.
On the edges of the lines, riders carried small drums and they began to beat them, the noise matching his thumping heart. Temujin raised his arm and then dropped it to the right. He caught Khasar’s eye as his brother trotted clear with a hundred of the best Olkhun’ut warriors. Every one of them wore the armored panels. At the charge, Temujin hoped they would be unstoppable. They rode away from the main force, and as he watched them Temujin prayed they would meet again.
When the line was silent and Khasar’s hundred were almost a mile away, Temujin dug in his heels and the Kerait, Wolves, and Olkhun’ut went forward together, leaving the women and children, leaving the safety of the camp behind.
CHAPTER 33
T
HOUGH THEY HAD ALL KNOWN
the enemy they faced, it was still a shock to see the vast expanse of the Tartar force. They moved like a slow stain across the land, a dark mass of riders, carts, and gers. Temujin and his brothers had scouted them five hundred miles to the north and still it was disturbing. Yet they did not falter. The men who rode with the sons of Yesugei knew they were ready for the battle. If there was fear in the ranks, it did not show as they kept the cold face. Only the constant checking of arrows revealed the strain as they heard the Tartar warning horns sound in the distance.
Temujin rode through a green valley, his mare made strong on good spring grass. Again and again, he bellowed orders to check the more impetuous of his leaders. Eeluk was the worst of them and his left wing crept ahead and had to be reined in until Temujin half believed it was a deliberate flouting of his orders. Ahead, they saw the Tartars boil around the gers, their thin shouts lost in the distance. The sun was bright and Temujin could feel the warmth on his back like a blessing. He checked his own arrows yet again, finding them ready in the quiver as they had been before. He wanted to hit the Tartars at full gallop, and knew he must leave the acceleration until the last possible instant. The Tartars had been coming south for at least three moons, riding every day. He hoped they would not be as fresh as his own warriors, nor as hungry to kill.
At a mile away, he eased his weight forward, raising the beat of the hooves below him to a canter. His men followed perfectly, though once more Eeluk was straining to be first into the killing. Temujin blew on the signal horn and caught Eeluk’s furious glance at him as they eased back into line. The noise of hooves filled his ears and Temujin could hear the excited cries of his warriors around him, their eyes tight against the increasing pressure of the wind. He fitted the first arrow to his string, knowing that the air would soon be full of them. Perhaps one would find his throat and send him dying to the ground below in a last embrace. His heart pounded and he lost his fear in the concentration. The first arrows came whining in from the Tartars, but he did not give the signal to gallop. It had to be perfect. As the armies grew closer, he chose his moment.
Temujin dug in his heels, calling “Chuh!” to his mount. The mare responded with a surge of speed, almost leaping forward. Perhaps she felt the excitement as they did. The line matched him and Temujin drew back on the bow with a heave of all his strength. For a few moments, it was as if he held the weight of a grown man by just three fingers, but he was steady. He felt the rhythm of the gallop coursing through him, and there was the moment of perfect stillness when the mare flew without touching the ground.
The Tartars were already in full gallop. Temujin risked a glance at his men. Two ranks pounded across the plain and all seven hundred were ready with their bows drawn. He showed his teeth against the strain in his shoulders and loosed his first shaft.
The noise that followed was a single snap of sound that echoed from the hills around them. Arrows flew into the blue sky and seemed to hang there for an instant before they plunged down into the Tartar ranks. Many were lost in the ground, disappearing right up to the feathers. Many more ripped into flesh and tore their riders from the world in a single blow.
Before Temujin could see what had happened, the reply came and arrows rose above him. He had never seen so many and felt a shadow pass over his line from the distant sun. The Tartar arrows moved slowly as he watched them, trying not to wince in anticipation. Then they seemed to move faster and he could hear them coming with an insectile buzzing. His fingers scrabbled for a second arrow and his men loosed again before the Tartar shafts struck their line in a hammer blow.
At full gallop, men vanished from the saddle, their cries lost far behind in an instant. Temujin felt something crash against his thigh and shoulder, ricocheting away. It had not pierced the armor and he yelled in triumph, almost standing in the stirrups as he sent arrow after arrow at his enemies. His eyes blurred in the wind, so that he could not see details, but he picked his men and killed with savage abandon.
It could only have been moments before they met the first of the Tartar riders, but it seemed to take forever. As they closed, Temujin dropped his bow onto a saddle hook so that it would be there for him. It was just one of the ideas he and his officers had devised. He drew the sword that Arslan had made for him, hearing the razor rasp as it cleared the scabbard. Every heartbeat was an age and he had time. He yanked at the horn on a cord around his neck and raised it to his lips, blowing three times. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the wings move forward and he took a two-handed grip on the sword as he galloped on, balanced and ready.
They hit the Tartars with a crash of sound. Horses came together at full speed, with neither rider giving way, so that they were spun out of the saddle in thunder. The armies hammered into one another, arrows fired into faces and necks at close range. Death came quickly and both armies lost dozens of men in a single instant. Temujin could see the armor was working and he roared again in challenge, calling the enemy to him. One Tartar warrior went past him in a blur, but Temujin had cut him before he was gone. Another fired a shaft at such close range that it punched through the armor, the tip cutting into Temujin’s chest and making him cry out. He could feel the arrowhead moving, tearing his skin with every jerk. He brought his sword round in an arc and took the head of the archer.
Blood drenched him, dribbling between the iron plates of his armor. The charge had smashed the first line of Tartars, but there were so many of them that they did not break. The fighting lines had begun to falter into smaller groups of wildly hacking men, loosing arrows from numb fingers until their bows were useless and they turned to blades. Temujin looked for his brothers, but they were lost in the press of men. He killed again and again, his mare jerking forward with just the touch of his knees. A bellowing Tartar came at him, his open mouth already filled with blood. Temujin sank his blade into his chest, yanking viciously to free it. Another came from his side with a hatchet, chopping it against the armored layers. The blow did not penetrate, but Temujin was knocked sideways by the force. He felt muscles in his thighs tear as he struggled to stay mounted, but the man had gone on.
Eeluk’s Wolves were smashing their way through on the left. Some of them had dismounted and walked together into the midst of the Tartars, firing arrow after arrow. They wore leather armor under their deels and many of them bristled with broken shafts. Some had red droplets around their mouths, but they still fought on, pressing closer and closer to the Tartar center. Temujin could see Eeluk riding with them, his face wet with blood as he chopped down with the sword that had once belonged to Yesugei.
Horses lay dying and kicking wildly, a danger to anyone who came too close. Temujin guided his mare around one, seeing an Olkhun’ut warrior trapped beneath. He met the man’s eyes and cursed, leaping from the saddle to pull him clear. As he reached the ground, another arrow hammered into his chest, stopped by the iron. It sent him onto his back, but he scrambled up, heaving at the man until he was able to regain his feet. A quiver full of arrows lay on the ground nearby, and Temujin grabbed at it before mounting again, reaching for his bow. He kicked in his heels once more, putting all his strength into the draw. The Tartars seemed hardly to have noticed their losses, and still they did not break. He called to them, daring them to face him, and his warriors saw him remount. They took heart, cutting and killing with renewed energy. It could not last, he knew. He saw the Olkhun’ut pressing forward on his right, though they did not have the numbers to encircle the enemy. When their arrows were spent, they threw spinning hatchets into the press of the enemy, killing many before reaching for their swords.
Temujin heard the thunder of hooves before he saw Khasar coming in with his reserve. They had ridden around the battle site in a great circle, hidden by the hills. From the back of his mare, Temujin was able to see the solid line riding at reckless speed, with Khasar leading them. The Tartars in the flank tried to face them, but they were too tightly packed. Over the noise of galloping hooves, Temujin heard many of them scream, trapped amongst their own.
The armored horses and men hit the Tartar flank like a spear thrust, sinking deeply into them over a trail of bloody dead. Horses and men alike were hit by Tartar arrows, but they hardly slowed until they had cut right through to the center of the enemy, sending them reeling and crying out.
Temujin felt the Tartars give against him and he could not speak for the fierce excitement that filled his chest. He cantered into a mass of men, his mare shuddering in pain as arrows struck the leather and iron that protected her heaving chest. His quiver was empty once more and Temujin used Arslan’s sword to hack any living thing he faced.
He looked for his officers and saw that they had gathered the lines and were moving on as one. Kachiun and Arslan had forced the Olkhun’ut to follow Khasar’s wild rush into the center, yelling as they fought. Many had lost their mounts, but they kept together and took futile cuts on the armor while they killed with every strike. The Tartars heard their voices at their backs, and a ripple of panic went through them.
The battle slowed as men tired. Some of them had exhausted themselves with killing, so that they stood on both sides with their chests heaving and their breath ragged. Many of those fell easily to fresher men, their faces despairing as they felt their strength give way at last. The grass under their feet was red with wet flesh and littered with bodies, some still flailing weakly as they tried to ignore the coldness coming for them. The breeze blew through the fighting knots of men, taking the smell of the slaughterhouse into exhausted lungs. The Tartars began to falter at last, falling back step by step.
Eeluk threw himself against a cluster of them like one who had lost his mind. He was so covered in blood as to look like some wild-eyed death spirit. He used his great strength to smash men from their feet with his fists and elbows, trampling over them. His Wolves came with him and the Tartars barely raised their swords as terror took away their courage. Some of them ran, but others tried to rally the rest, pointing their swords back at the families around the gers behind.
Still mounted, Temujin could see the pale faces of women and children watching their men fight. He cared nothing for them. The sky father rewarded the strong with luck. The weak would fall.
“We have them!” he roared, and his men responded, seeing him ride with them. They were weary, but they took strength from his presence in their midst and the killing went on. Temujin’s fingers were slippery with blood as he grasped the horn around his neck, sounding three times to encircle the enemy. He left a print of his palm on the polished surface, but did not see it as Eeluk and Kachiun moved forward. The quivers were all empty, but the swords still swung and the Tartars broke at last, running back for the gers before they could be completely hemmed in. They would make a last stand there, Temujin saw. He welcomed it.
He saw his men begin to rush after them and blew a falling note to slow the charge. They walked over the dead toward the Tartar gers. Those who had run numbered fewer than two hundred, all who remained alive. Temujin did not fear them now. To his irritation, he saw Eeluk’s men were lost in the killing and had not heeded his call. For an instant, he considered letting them face the men at the gers alone, but he could not stand to see Eeluk slaughtered so easily. The Tartars would have bows there and shafts. Whoever faced them would have to come through a withering storm. Perhaps Eeluk had been right not to delay. Temujin set his jaw and blew a single blast for the advance. He rode over the breaking bones of the dead to lead them.
A ragged volley of arrows came from the gers. Some fell short as the women took up bows, but others had enough force to steal lives from men even as they rejoiced in their victory. Temujin heard his army pant as they ran and kicked their mounts on. They would not be stopped and the arrows whipped through them uselessly, making men stagger as they hit the iron plates of their armor. Temujin leaned into the wind as the gap closed, ready to finish what they had begun.
When it was over, the last stand of the Tartars could be read by the way the dead sprawled in clusters. They had held a line for a time before Khasar’s horsemen had crashed through them. Temujin looked around as the three tribes searched for loot on the carts, for once acting with a single mind. They had fought and won together and he thought it would be hard to go back to their old distrust, at least of men they knew.
Wearily, Temujin dismounted and grimaced as he pulled at the ties that held his chest piece. A dozen of the iron plates had been torn away, and many that remained were buckled. Three broken shafts stood out from the layers. Two of them hung limply down, but the third stood straight and that was the one he wanted out of him. He found he could not pull the armored cloth clear. As he tried, something wrenched in his muscles, causing a wave of dizziness.
“Let me help you,” Temuge said, at his shoulder.
Temujin glanced at his youngest brother and waved to be left alone. He did not feel like speaking and, as the battle fever passed, his body was revealing all the knocks and aches he had taken. As he stood there, he wanted nothing more than to cast off the heavy armor and sit down, but he could not even do that.
Temuge came closer and Temujin ignored him as his fingers probed the broken plate and the shaft sticking in him, rising and falling with his breath.
“It cannot be deep,” Temuge murmured. “If you can stay still, I’ll get it out of you.”
“Do it then,” Temujin replied, past caring. He ground his teeth as Temuge sawed through the shaft with his knife, then reached under the armored cloth to grip the other side. With a slow pull, he removed the chest protector and let it fall as he examined the wound. The silk had not torn, but it had been carried deep into Temujin’s pectoral muscle. Blood seeped from around the tip, but Temuge looked pleased.