Authors: Conn Iggulden
His men dug in their heels and the exhausted horses responded, hitting a ragged gallop. Khalifa heard a horse scream and go down, spilling a man to the ground. He could not see what had happened as he closed to two hundred paces and drew a long, black arrow from the quiver on his back.
The Mongols had seen the threat and answered it with a volley of shafts loosed behind them. Even then, the accuracy was terrifying and Khalifa saw men and horses plucked away to be trampled on every side. He snarled in frustration as his arrow feathers touched his cheek. His mount was foundering and still they managed to widen the gap. He let go, crying out in triumph as his shaft took an enemy high in the back, sending him crashing down. Dozens more were struck, though armor saved some. Those who fell went under the Arab hooves as they writhed in the dust, struck many times until their bones were shattered pulp.
Khalifa shouted raucously to his men, but they were finished. He could see from the way they swayed in the saddle that they had reached the end of their strength. Many of the horses had gone lame in the night. They drifted to the rear as their riders flailed uselessly with whips and sword scabbards.
He considered ordering a halt, but the effort was too much. Always, he thought he could hang on a little longer, just until the Mongols killed their horses and began to die themselves. His eyes were sore and red from the gritty dust he had ridden through all night, and he could only watch as the enemy drew ahead once more, to half a mile and further. There they stayed as the sun rose higher, and neither side could widen or close the gap. Khalifa put his bow back in the leather sleeve behind his right leg and patted his horse’s neck.
“Just a little further, great heart,” he murmured to the plunging animal. He knew that many of the horses would be ruined after such a ride. They had been pushed beyond anything they had known before, and the wind of many would be permanently broken. He heard another thump and cry as a horse fell somewhere behind him, staggering into those around it and collapsing. Others would follow, he knew, but still the rear ranks of the Mongols beckoned him on and he narrowed his eyes against the choking dust.
As the tumans came out of the shadowy valley onto a plain, their spirits lifted. They could see the morning smoke of villages in the distance, and they followed a road of packed earth into the east. Somewhere ahead lay the cities of the Shah and potential reinforcements for those who still followed. Jebe and Jochi had no idea how many men the Shah could bring to the field. His cities could have been stripped for the war, or left well manned and bristling for just such a raid into their territory.
The road was wide, perhaps because of the huge army that had trampled the earth in passing, just a few days before. The Mongol column narrowed to use the hard ground, riding in ranks of fifty across as they came out of the mountains in a whirl of dust. The sun passed noon and the heat brought horses and men crashing down on both sides, vanishing behind in a welter of hooves. The Mongols sweated and there was no water or salt to keep up their strength. Jebe and Jochi began to glance back more and more often in desperation.
The Arab horses were better than anything they had faced before in war, certainly better than Chin or Russian mounts. Yet as the heat sapped their strength, the pursuers began to fall further behind until Jebe ordered a slower pace. He did not want to lose them or allow them time to halt and regroup. He thought perhaps that they had led the Shah’s riders for more than a hundred and fifty miles, approaching the limits of even the toughest Mongol scouts. The ponies were lathered in strings of soapy spit, their skin dark with sweat and fresh sores where the saddle had rubbed away patches of old callus.
Long into the sweltering afternoon, they passed a road fort with openmouthed soldiers on the walls, shouting challenges to them as they passed. The Mongols did not respond. Each man was lost in his own world, resisting the weakness of flesh.
Jochi spent the hot hours in pain as a raw spot appeared on his thigh, rubbed bloody in the ride. It went numb as the evening came once again, which was a blessed relief. His scars had eased, but his left arm felt weak and the ache there had become a hot iron in his flesh as he gripped the reins. There was no talking in the Mongol ranks by then. Their mouths were closed as they had been taught, conserving moisture in their bodies as they approached the end of endurance. Jochi looked to Jebe occasionally, waiting for the other man to judge the best time to break off the ride. Jebe rode stiffly, his eyes hardly leaving the horizon ahead. To look at him, Jochi thought the young general might well ride to the horizon.
“It is time, Jebe,” Jochi called to him at last.
The general stirred sluggishly from his daze, mumbling something incoherent and spitting feebly, so that the wad of phlegm struck his own chest.
“My Chin warriors are drifting further back,” Jochi went on. “We could lose them. Those who follow are letting the gap widen.”
Jebe turned in the saddle, wincing as his muscles protested. The Arabs were almost a full mile behind. The lead animals were stumbling
and lame and Jebe nodded, a tired smile crossing his face as he came fully alert.
“At this pace, a mile is only four hundred heartbeats apart,” he said. Jochi nodded. They had spent part of the dawn judging speed with markers as they passed them and then took note of the Arab ranks drawing abreast at that point. Both Jochi and Jebe found the calculations easy and had amused each other estimating distance and speed to pass the time.
“Increase the pace then,” Jochi replied. He forced his mount to a canter as he spoke, and the tumans matched them doggedly. The enemy dwindled with painful slowness as the generals called out the mark. When the first Arab riders passed a pinkish stone six hundred heartbeats after the last Mongol, the generals looked at each other and nodded grimly. They had come as far as any scout had ever ridden and further. All the men were weary and sore, but it was time. Jochi and Jebe passed orders down the line so that the warriors were ready. Though they had pushed themselves to the limit, Jochi and Jebe both saw something in the red-rimmed eyes of those around them that made them proud.
Jochi had sent orders to the minghaan officers of his Chin recruits at the back, and it was one of those men who rode up through the ranks to speak to him.
The Chin soldier was covered in dust as thick as paint, so that cracks appeared around his eyes and mouth. Even then, Jochi could see his anger.
“General, I must have misunderstood the order you sent,” he said, his voice a dry croak. “If we turn to face this enemy, my men will be in the front rank. Surely you cannot mean to have us fall back?”
Jochi glanced at Jebe, but the Mongol general had fixed his gaze on the horizon.
“Your men are exhausted, Sen Tu,” Jochi said.
The Chin officer could not deny it, but he shook his head. “We have come this far. My men will be shamed if they are taken from the line of battle at the end.”
Jochi saw fierce pride in his officer and realized he should not have given the order. Many of the Chin would die, but they too were his men to command and he should not have tried to spare them.
“Very well. You have the first rank when I call the halt. I will send those with lances to you. Show me you are worthy of this honor.”
The Chin officer bowed in his saddle before returning to the rear.
Jochi did not look again at Jebe, though the latter nodded in appreciation.
It took time for the orders to spread through the Mongol riders. For tired men, it seemed to act like a gulp of airag, so that warriors sat straighter in their saddles and readied their bows, lances, and swords. While they still rode, Jebe sent his lancemen to support the rear and waited until they were in position.
“We have come a long way, Jochi,” Jebe said.
The khan’s son nodded. He felt as if he had known Jebe all his life after the night ride. “Are you ready, old man?” Jochi said, grinning despite his tiredness.
“I feel like one, but I am ready,” Jebe replied. Both men raised their left hands high into the air and circled their fists. The Mongol tumans ground to a halt and the gasping horses were turned to face the enemy riding toward them.
Jebe drew his sword and pointed it at the dusty Arab riders.
“Those are
tired
men” he roared. “Show them we are
stronger
.” His mount snorted as if in anger and broke into a gallop, its sides heaving like bellows as they charged the pursuing enemy.
Khalifa rode in a daze, drifting in and out of alertness. At times, he thought of the vineyard near Bukhara, where he had first seen his wife tending the crop. Surely he was there and this ride was just a fever dream of dust and pain.
His men began to shout with dry throats all around him, and Khalifa raised his head slowly, blinking. He saw the Mongols had stopped and for a moment he took a searing breath in triumph. He saw the rear ranks raise lances and suddenly the gap between the armies was closing. Khalifa hardly had strength to speak. When he tried to shout, his voice was a feeble whisper. When had he emptied his water flask? That morning? He could not remember. He saw the approaching line and somehow Chin faces were grinning at him. Even then he could barely raise his shield.
The approaching lancers carried small shields in their left hands, some part of him noted. Archers needed both hands for the bows and were vulnerable just as they began to draw. Khalifa nodded to himself at the thought. The Shah would value such information.
The two armies came together with a numbing crash. The heavy birch lances broke shields and pierced men right through. On the narrow
road, the column ripped into the Arab riders, deeper and still deeper, tearing them apart.
Arrows screamed past his ears and Khalifa felt something burn his stomach. As he looked down, he saw an arrow there and he plucked at it. His horse had stopped moving at last, falling to its knees as its heart burst in its chest. Khalifa fell with it, the cursed stirrups entangling his right leg, so that his knee tore and his body twisted as he fell. He gasped as the arrow drove further through him. Above his head, he could see Mongols riding like kings.
Khalifa could hear nothing but wind rushing in his ears. The Mongols had ridden them down and he feared for the armies of the Shah. He must be told, Khalifa thought to himself, but then he was gone.
“Kill them all!” Jochi shouted above the roaring hooves and men. The Arabs tried to rally, but many could barely lift their swords more than once and they fell like wheat. The generals smashed through them with their column, seeming to take new strength from every man they killed.
It took hours to turn the dusty road red. As it grew dark, the slaughter continued until they could not see to strike and those who tried to run were brought down by shafts or chased like lost goats. Jebe sent scouts to look for water and at last they made camp on the banks of a small lake just three miles further down the road. The warriors had to be watchful then, as their mounts would have drunk to bursting. More than one had to strike his pony hard on the nose to stop it taking too much water. Only when the animals had drunk did the men throw themselves into the lake, turning the dark waters pink with blood and dust as they gasped and drank and vomited it back up, cheering the generals who had brought them such a victory. Jochi took the time to commend Sen Tu for the way he had led the Chin recruits. They had hacked through the enemy with unmatched ferocity, and they sat at fires with tribesmen of both tumans, proud of the part they had played.
Jochi and Jebe sent aching men back along the road to quarter dead horses and bring them to the fires. The men needed meat as much as water if they were to make it back to Genghis. Both men knew they had done something extraordinary, but they fell into the routines of the camp with just a shared glance of triumph. They had deprived the Shah of his cavalry wings and given Genghis a fighting chance.
THE GATES OF THE CITY OF OTRAR
were barred against Genghis. He stood on a hill overlooking the city, watching dark smoke lift sluggishly over the burning suburbs. He had spent three days scouting the land, but even for those who had taken dozens of Chin cities, there was no obvious flaw in the design. The walls had been built in layers of light gray limestone on a granite base, each slab weighing many tons. In the walls of the inner city, two iron gates led out to a sprawling maze of abandoned markets and streets. It had been strange to ride through those echoing passageways in sight of the great walls. The governor had known they were coming for months, and apart from a few stray dogs and broken pots, everything of value had been taken. Genghis’s scouts had found a number of subtle traps set for them as they searched. One boy of only thirteen had kicked open a door and fallen back with a crossbow bolt in his chest. After two more deaths, Genghis had given Temuge the task of firing the outer city and Otrar still choked on black smoke. In the cinders and rubble below the hill, Tsubodai’s Young Wolves used pikes to pull down the walls and give the khan a clear route to the inner city.
There was no shortage of information. In exchange for gold, Arab merchants even gave the location of wells within the walls. Genghis
had ridden round the entire city with his engineers, noting the thickness of the stone.
The clearest weakness was the hill on the city’s northern side, overlooking the walls. His scouts had found abandoned pleasure gardens there, rich with flowers and an ornamental lake and wooden pavilion. Two days before, Genghis had sent warriors to clear the crest, leaving the rest covered in ancient pine trees. If he sited his wall-breaking weapons where the pavilion had stood, they would have the height to send stones right down the throat of the governor.
Genghis looked down on the city, enjoying the sense of having it almost in his grasp. If he had been governor of such a place, he would have had the hill leveled rather than give an enemy any advantage. Yet he could not enjoy it. Thirty miles to the east, his own camp was protected by his brother Khasar, with just two tumans. The rest of them had sallied into the field against Otrar. Before the far scouts had ridden in, he had been confident that the walls could be broken.