Authors: Conn Iggulden
Kokchu chuckled, a dry hacking in his throat. “As children are wary of the dark, so are men wary of power. It tempts them and yet it consumes them. It is never a game to play lightly.” He rested his gaze on Temuge until the younger man looked up and winced visibly. Kokchu’s unblinking eyes were strangely bright, the pupils wider and darker than Temuge had ever seen them.
“Why have you come tonight,” Kokchu murmured, “if not to plunge your hands into the darkness once more?”
Temuge took a deep breath. The smoke no longer seemed to irritate his lungs and he felt light-headed, almost confident.
“I heard you found a traitor while I was away in Baotou. My brother the khan spoke of it. He said it was wondrous how you picked the man out of a line of kneeling warriors.”
“Much has changed since then,” Kokchu said with a shrug. “I could smell his guilt, my son. It is something you could learn.” Kokchu summoned his will to keep his thoughts focused. He was used to the smoke and could take a great deal more of it than his young companion, but still there were bright lights flashing at the edges of his vision.
Temuge felt all his worries dissolving as he sat there with this strange man who smelled of blood despite his new silk robes. Words tumbled out of him and he did not know he slurred them.
“Genghis said you laid your hands on the traitor and spoke words in the oldest tongue,” Temuge whispered. “He said the man cried out and died in front of them all without a wound.”
“And you would like to do the same, Temuge? There is no one else here and there is no shame between us. Say the words. Is that what you want?”
Temuge slumped slightly, letting his hands drop to the silken floor so that he could feel it slide under his fingers with extraordinary clarity.
“It is what I want.”
Kokchu smiled wider at that, showing dark gums as his lips slid back. He did not know the identity of the traitor or even if there had been one. The hand he had pressed against the man’s scalp had held two tiny fangs and a venom sac embedded in wax. It had taken him many nights of hunting the vicious little pit viper he wanted, risking being bitten himself. He began to chuckle again at the memory of the awe on the face of the khan as the victim writhed from just a touch. The dying man had gone almost black in the face before the end, the twin spots of blood hidden by his hair. Kokchu had chosen him because of the Chin girl he had taken to wife. She had roused the shaman to lust as she passed his ger to draw water, and then she had refused him, as if she were one of the people and not a slave. He laughed harder as he remembered the knowledge coming into her husband’s eyes before death stole it away with everything else. Since that moment, Kokchu had been feared and honored in the camp. Not one of the other shamans of the tribes dared challenge his position, not after that display of power. He felt no guilt at the deception. His fate was to stand with the khan of the nation, triumphant over his enemies. If he had to kill a thousand to do so, he would count it worth the price.
He saw Temuge was glassy-eyed as he sat there in the stifling smoke. Kokchu clamped his jaw shut, pressing away his amusement. He needed his mind clear to bind the younger man, so close that he would never tear free.
Slowly Kokchu reached into the small pot of thick black paste at his side, holding up a finger so that tiny seeds were visible in the gleaming muck. He reached out to Temuge and opened his mouth without resistance, smearing the paste onto his tongue.
Temuge choked at the bitter taste, but before he could spit, he felt numbness spreading quickly. He heard whispering voices behind him and he jerked his head back and forth as his eyes glazed, searching for the origin of the sound.
“Dream the darkest dreams, Temuge,” Kokchu said, satisfied. “I will guide you. No, even better. I will give you mine.”
It was dawn before Kokchu staggered out of the ger, sour sweat staining his robe. Temuge was unconscious on the silk floor and would sleep for most of the day to come. Kokchu had not touched the paste himself, unwilling to trust the way it made him babble and not yet sure how much Temuge would remember. He had no wish to put himself in the other’s power, not when the future was so bright. He took deep breaths of freezing air and felt his head clear itself of the smoke. He could smell its sweetness coming out of his pores, and he giggled to himself as he crossed back to his own ger and banged open the door.
The Chin girl knelt where he had left her, on the floor by the stove. She was incredibly beautiful, pale and delicate. He felt his lust swell for her again and wondered at his own stamina. Perhaps it was the remnant of smoke in his lungs.
“How many times did you disobey me and rise?” he demanded.
“I did not,” she said, trembling visibly.
He reached out to raise her head, his hands slipping clumsily from her face and enraging him. The gesture became a blow and he knocked her sprawling.
He stood panting as she scrambled back and knelt once more. Just as he began untying the sash on his deel, she raised her head. There was blood on her mouth and he saw her lower lip was already swelling. The sight inflamed him.
“Why do you hurt me? What more do you want?” she asked, tears shining in her eyes.
“Power over you, little one,” he said, smiling. “What does any man want but that? It is something in the blood of every one of us. We would all be a tyrant if we could.”
CHAPTER 17
T
HE EMPEROR’S CITY OF
Y
ENKING
grew quiet in the hours before dawn, though it was more from a surfeit of food and drink in the Feast of Lanterns than any fear of the Mongol army. As the sun had set, Emperor Wei mounted a platform to be seen by the heaving crowds, and a thousand dancers had made a din to raise the dead with cymbals and horns. He had stood with his feet bare, showing his humility before the people as a million voices chanted, “Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years!”, the sound crashing across the city. Night was banished on the Feast of Lanterns. The city gleamed like a jewel, a myriad of flames lighting squares of boiled horn or glass. Even the three great lakes were aglow, their black surfaces covered in tiny boats each carrying a flame. The water gate was open to the great canal that stretched three thousand
li
to the southern city of Hangzhou, and the boats drifted out like a river of fire throughout the night, taking the light with them. The symbolism pleased the young emperor as he endured the noise and smoke from fireworks banging and echoing from the great walls. There were so many that the whole city was covered in white gunpowder smoke and the air itself was bitter on the tongue. Children would be made that night, by force or for pleasure. There would be more than a hundred murders, and the lakes themselves would claim a dozen drunkards in the dark depths as they tried to swim across. It was the same every year.
The emperor had suffered through the adoring chants, buffeted by the clamor in his name that stretched from the walls and beyond. Even the beggars, slaves, and whores cheered him on that night and lit their ramshackle homes with precious oil. He endured it all, though at times his gaze over their heads was distant and cold as he planned to crush the army that had dared to enter his lands.
The peasants knew nothing of the threat and even the sellers of news had little information. Emperor Wei had seen to it that the gossipmongers were kept quiet, and if their arrest disturbed those who looked for such signs, the festival had gone ahead with all its usual gusto, mad with drink and noise and light. Seeing the revelers, the emperor was reminded of maggots writhing on a corpse. His Imperial messengers brought grim reports as they rejoiced. Beyond the mountains, cities were aflame.
With dawn lighting the horizon, the shouting and singing in the streets died down finally, giving him peace. The last of the little wooden candle boats had vanished out to the countryside, and only a few firecrackers could be heard rattling in the distance. Emperor Wei sat in his private rooms and stared out over the still, dark heart of Songhai lake, surrounded by hundreds of great houses. The most powerful of his nobles clustered around that central mass of dark water, in sight of the man from whom they took their power. He could have named every member of the highborn families that fought and struggled like jeweled wasps to administer his northern empire.
The smoke and chaos of the festival trailed away with the morning mist on the lakes. With such a scene of ancient beauty, it was difficult to comprehend the threat from the west. Yet war was coming and he wished his father still lived. The old man had spent his life crushing the slightest hint of disobedience to the very edges of the empire and beyond. Emperor Wei had learned much at his feet, but he felt the newness of his position keenly. He had already lost cities that had been part of Chin lands since the great schism that split the empire into two halves three hundred years before. His ancestors had known a golden age and he could only dream of restoring the empire to its former glory.
He smiled wryly to himself at the thought of his father hearing of the Mongol horde on their family lands. He would have raged down the corridors of the palace, striking slaves out of his way as he summoned the army. His father had never lost a battle and his confidence would have raised them all.
Emperor Wei started from his thoughts as a throat was cleared softly behind him. He looked back from the high window to see his first minister bowing to the floor.
“Imperial Majesty, General Zhi Zhong is here as you asked.”
“Send him in and see that I am not disturbed,” the emperor replied, turning away from the dawn and seating himself. He glanced around his private rooms, seeing that nothing was out of place. His writing desk was freed of the clutter of maps and papers, and there was no sign of his anger as he waited for the man who would rid him of the tribesmen. He could not help thinking of the Xi Xia king and the letter he had sent to him three years before. With shame, he recalled the spite of his words and the pleasure he had felt in sending them. Who could have known then that the Mongol threat was more than a few shouting tribesmen? His people had never feared those who could be culled whenever they grew restless. Emperor Wei bit the inside of his lip as he considered the future. If they could not be beaten quickly, he would have to bribe the Tartars to attack their ancient enemies. Chin gold could win as many battles as bows and spears. He remembered his father’s words with fondness and once more wished he were there to offer his counsel.
General Zhi Zhong was a man of immense physical presence, with the build of a wrestler. His head was perfectly shaven and gleamed with oil as he bowed. Emperor Wei felt himself straighten automatically as he entered, the legacy of many hours on the training ground. It was reassuring to see that fierce glare and massive head once more, for all it had caused him to quiver as a boy.
As Zhi Zhong straightened, the emperor saw he looked murderous and once more he felt like a child. He struggled to keep his voice firm as he spoke. An emperor could not show weakness.
“They are coming here, General. I have heard the reports.”
Zhi Zhong weighed the smooth-faced young man he faced, wishing it could have been the father. The old man would already have acted, but the wheel of life had taken him and this was the boy with whom he must deal. The general clenched both fists at his sides, standing painfully straight.
“They have no more than sixty-five thousand warriors, Imperial Majesty. Their cavalry is superb and every one is an archer of extraordinary skill. In addition, they have learned the art of the siege and have weapons of great power. They have achieved a discipline I have not witnessed in my dealings with them before.”
“Do not tell me of their strengths!” the young emperor snapped. “Tell me instead how we will crush them.”
General Zhi Zhong did not react to the tone. His silence was enough criticism and the emperor waved for him to go on, a flush staining his pale cheeks.
“To defeat the enemy, we
must
know them, my lord, Son of Heaven.” He spoke the title as an aid to control, to remind the emperor of his status at a time of crisis. General Zhi Zhong waited until the emperor had firmed his mouth and mastered his fear. At last, he went on.
“In the past we would have looked for weaknesses in their alliance. I do not believe the tactic will work here.”
“Why not?” Wei blurted out. Would the man not tell him how to defeat these tribesmen? As a boy, he had suffered through many lectures from the grizzled general, and it seemed he could not escape them even with an empire at his feet.
“No Mongol force has ever come past the outer wall before, Imperial Majesty. They could only howl at it.” He shrugged. “It is not the barrier it once was and these Mongols have not been thrown back by superior force as they might once have been. They have grown bold as a result.” He paused, but his emperor did not speak again. The general’s glare lost some of its fierceness. Perhaps the boy was beginning to understand when to keep his mouth shut.
“We have tortured their scouts, Imperial Majesty. More than a dozen in the last few days. We lost men to bring them in alive, but it was worth it to know the enemy.” The general frowned in recollection.
“They are united. Whether the alliance will fall apart in time I cannot say, but for this year, at least, they are strong. They have engineers, something I thought I would never see. More, they have Xi Xia wealth behind them.” The general paused, his face showing contempt for their old allies. “I will enjoy taking the army to the Xi Xia valley, Imperial Majesty, when this is over.”
“The scouts, General,” Emperor Wei prompted, his impatience growing.
“They talk of this Genghis as beloved of their gods,” the general continued. “I could find no hint of a disaffected group in their number, though I will not cease to search. They have been broken apart before with promises of power and wealth.”
“Tell me how you will defeat them, General,” Emperor Wei snapped, “or I will find one who can.”
At that, Zhi Zhong’s mouth became a sharp line in his face. “With the outer wall broken, we cannot defend the cities around the Yellow River, lord,” he said. “The land is too flat and gives them every advantage. His Imperial Majesty must reconcile himself to losing those cities as we move men back.”
Emperor Wei shook his head in frustration, but the general pressed on.
“We must not let them choose the battles. Linhe will fall as Xamba and Wuyuan have fallen. Baotou, Hohhot, Jining, Xichen— all are in their path. We cannot save those cities, only avenge them.”
Emperor Wei rose to his feet in fury. “Trade routes will be cut and our enemies will know we are weak! I brought you here to tell me how to save the lands I inherited, not watch them burn with me.”
“They cannot be held, Imperial Majesty,” Zhi Zhong said firmly. “I too will grieve for the dead when this is ended. I will travel to each of the cities and spread ashes on my skin and make offerings in atonement. But they
will
fall. I have given orders to pull back our soldiers from those places. They will serve His Imperial Majesty better here.”
The young emperor was speechless, his right hand fluttering against the lining of his robe. With a vast effort of will, he steadied himself.
“Speak carefully to me, General. I need a victory and if you tell me one more time that I must give up my father’s lands, I will have your head right now.”
The general held his emperor’s furious gaze. There was no trace of the weakness he had seen before. For an instant, he was reminded of the boy’s father, and the notion pleased him. Perhaps war would bring the strong blood to the fore as nothing else could.
“I can gather almost two hundred thousand soldiers to face them, Imperial Majesty. There will be famine as supplies are diverted for the army, but the Imperial guard will keep order in Yenking. The place of battle will be of my choosing, where the Mongols cannot ride us down. I swear to the Son of Heaven by Lao Tzu himself that I will destroy them utterly. I have trained many of the officers and I tell Your Majesty they will not fail.”
The emperor raised a hand to a waiting slave and accepted a cool glass of water. He did not offer a drink to the general, nor thought of it, though the man was almost three times his age and the morning was warm. Water from the Jade spring was for the Imperial family alone.
“This is what I wanted to hear,” he said gratefully, sipping. “Where will the battle take place?”
“When the cities have fallen, they will move on to Yenking. They will know this city is where the emperor resides and they will come. I will stop them in the range of mountains to the west, at Yuhung Pass, the one they call the Badger’s Mouth. It is narrow enough to hamper their horses and we will kill them all. They will not reach this city. I swear it.”
“They cannot take Yenking, even if you fail,” the emperor said confidently.
General Zhi Zhong looked at him, wondering if the young man had ever left the city of his birth. The general cleared his throat softly.
“The question will not arise. I will destroy them there, and when the winter has passed, I will travel to their homeland and burn the last of them from the earth. They will not grow strong again.”
The emperor felt his spirits lift at the general’s words. He would not have to stand in shame before his father in the land of the silent dead. He would not have to atone for failure. For a moment, he thought again of the cities the Mongols would take, a vision of blood and flames. He forced it away from his mind, taking another sip of water. He would rebuild. When the last of the tribesmen had been cut to pieces, or nailed to every tree in the empire, he would rebuild those cities and the people would know their emperor was still powerful, still beloved of heaven.
“My father said you were a hammer to his enemies,” the emperor said, his voice gentled by his changing mood. He reached out and took hold of Zhi Zhong’s armored shoulder. “Remember the fallen cities when you have the chance to make them suffer. In my name, exact retribution.”
“It will be as His Imperial Majesty desires,” Zhi Zhong replied, bowing deeply.
Ho Sa walked through the vast camp, lost in thought. For almost three years, his king had left him with the Mongol khan, and there were times when he had to struggle to remember the Xi Xia officer he had once been. In part, it was that the Mongols accepted him without question. Khasar seemed to like him and Ho Sa had spent many evenings drinking airag in the man’s ger, waited on by his pair of Chin wives. He smiled wryly as he walked. They had been good evenings. Khasar was a generous man and thought nothing of lending his wives to a friend.
Ho Sa stopped for a moment to inspect a bundle of new arrows, one of a hundred others under a rigid construction of leather and poles. They were perfect, as he had known they would be. Though the Mongols scorned the regulations he had once known, they treated their bows like another child and only the best would do for them.
He had long since realized he liked the tribes, though he could still miss the tea of his home, so different from the salty muck they drank against the cold. The cold! Ho Sa had never known such a vicious season as that first winter. He had listened to all the advice they gave him just to stay alive, and even then, he had suffered miserably. He shook his head at the memory and wondered what he would do if his king summoned him home as he surely must one day. Would he go? Genghis had promoted him to lead a hundred under Khasar, and Ho Sa enjoyed the camaraderie of the officers together. Every one of them could have commanded in Xi Xia, he was certain. Genghis did not allow fools to be promoted, and that was a matter of pride for Ho Sa. He rode with the greatest army in the world, as a warrior and a leader. It was no small thing for a man, being trusted.