Conn Iggulden - Empire of Silver

He turned as one of Von Thuringen's knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.

'Sir Henry,' King Bela said in greeting.

The knight dismounted slowly and bowed. He spoke in French, both men fluent in that language.

'My lord, they are attempting to hold the bridge against us. Eight hundred, perhaps a thousand of them have sent their horses back to the others.'

'They would prefer it if we did not cross, eh, Sir Henry?' King Bela chuckled expansively. 'They have felt our breath on their necks for days and they would rather we left them to their retreat.'

'As you say, my lord. But it is the only bridge for a hundred miles or more. We must dislodge them tonight or in the morning.'

Bela thought for a moment. He was in a very good mood.

'When I was a boy, Sir Henry, I would collect limpets from the rocks near Lake Balaton. They would cling to the stones, but with my little knife, I would work them free for the pot! Do you follow me, Sir Henry?'

Bela laughed at his own wit, though the knight only frowned slightly, waiting for orders. The king sighed at such a stolid companion-in-arms. There was little humour in the ranks of knights, with their dour version of Christianity. A waft of roast pork reached them on the air and King Bela clapped his hands together in anticipation, making his decision.

'Send archers, Sir Henry. Let them have a little sport, a touch of target play before sunset. Hit them hard and drive them back over the river. Is that clear enough for you?'

The knight bowed again. Sir Henry of Braybrooke had a boil on his leg that needed lancing and a sore foot that seemed to be rotting in its bandages, for all the unguents and poultices he tried. The meal he would enjoy would be a thin soup and stale bread, with perhaps a little sour wine to force it down his dry throat. He mounted carefully, stiff with his discomforts. He did not enjoy slaughter, though the godless Mongols deserved to be wiped from the face of the good earth. Still, he would follow the king's order, honouring his vow of obedience to the knights.

Henry of Braybrooke passed on the king's command to a regiment of archers, four thousand bowmen under a Hungarian prince he neither liked nor respected. He stayed just long enough to watch them begin their march to the bridge and then went to join the lines for soup and bread, his stomach growling. Chagatai looked out into bright sunshine. In his right hand he held a yellowed parchment that had travelled more than a thousand miles along the yam stations. It was stained and grubby from its journey, but the brief lines written there made his heart pound. The yam rider who had delivered it still held position with one knee bent, his presence forgotten the moment Chagatai had begun to read. In hastily scrawled Chin characters, the message was one he had both expected and almost dreaded for years. Ogedai had fallen at last.

It changed everything. Chagatai had become the last surviving son of Genghis Khan, the last in the direct line of the nation-maker, the khan of khans. Chagatai could almost hear the old man's voice as he thought through what lay ahead. It was a time to be ruthless, to snatch the power that had once been promised, that was his by right. Tears sprang to his eyes, partly in memory of his youth. He could be the man his father had wanted him to be at last. Unconsciously, he crumpled the yellow papers.

Tsubodai would stand against him, or at least in favour of Guyuk. The orlok had never been in Chagatai's camp. He would have to be quietly killed, there was no other way. Chagatai nodded to himself, the simple decision opening up other pathways into the days to come. He had stood in the palace of Karakorum with Ogedai and Tsubodai. He had heard his brother talk of Tsubodai's loyalty, but Chagatai knew he could never trust the orlok. There was simply too much history between them and he had seen the promise of death in Tsubodai's hard eyes.

Karakorum was the key to the lock, he was certain. There was no history of direct descent of power, at least not in the tribes of the Mongol nation. The khan had always been chosen from those best suited to lead. It did not matter that Guyuk was Ogedai's eldest son, or that Ogedai favoured him, any more than it had mattered that Ogedai was not the eldest of his brothers. The nation knew no favourites. They would accept whoever held the city. They would follow whoever had the strength and will to take Karakorum. Chagatai smiled to himself. He had many sons to fill those rooms, sons who would make the line of Genghis stretch to the end of history. His imagination filled with a dazzling vision, an empire that would reach from Koryo in the east to the western nations, under just one strong hand. The Chin had never dreamed so far, but the land was vast and it tempted him to try to hold it all.

He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.

'It is time, Suntai,' Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. 'The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.'

His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider and, after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.

'Your will, my lord khan.'

Guyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela's call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.

Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.

As he rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to each other, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains and he smiled at the man's expression, lifted by their simple joy.

When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu's closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu's flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.