Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

Kublai seemed almost in a trance as he stood on the empty grassland, surrounded by the sea of horses and men. The carts of his camp could be seen in the distance, slowly coming up behind them. He was aware of Bayar walking over again to speak to him, but he did not reply, just stood in silence, drawn utterly into himself.

It had been Bayar’s order to raise the ger. The general was filled with apprehension. Whatever Kublai had read had left him pale and dumbstruck on the grassy plain. It was a crime punishable by flogging for a man to question a yam rider about his messages, but even so, Bayar watched closely as the man accepted tea and a pouch of bread and meat. The rider chewed with the same long stare that Bayar saw in Kublai and the general itched to take him for a walk and discover the truth.

The carts arrived without fanfare or any great welcome, now that the wives and children had gone. Oxen and camels were turned loose to graze. Forges were set up on the grass and fed with charcoal until the heavy iron glowed red. Warriors who needed something strolled in with no great urgency. All over the plain, others sat down to ease their legs and backs. Many of them took the chance to defecate in a place where they would not stay, or urinate into the grass. Others sharpened weapons and checked their bows and shafts as they liked to do at every opportunity. Some of them ate, others talked, but the strange stillness at the heart of the tumans was spreading out, so that more and more of them knew something was wrong.

When the ger was complete, Bayar approached Kublai again.

‘There is a place to rest, my lord,’ he said.

Kublai dragged his gaze back from very far away.

‘Bring my packs to me,’ he said softly. ‘There are things I need in them.’

Bayar bowed and trotted away. The strangeness of the day made him want to return to Kublai as soon as possible. He sent four scouts into the baggage carts to bring back the great rolls, tied with rope.

‘Put them inside,’ Bayar ordered the men. Kublai had not moved. ‘My lord, is the news so terrible? Will you tell me what’s wrong?’

‘The khan is dead, general,’ Kublai replied, his voice barely a whisper. ‘My brother is dead. I will not see him again.’

Bayar recoiled in shock. He shook his head as if he could deny the words. He watched as Kublai ducked into the ger, disappearing in the gloom within. Bayar felt as if he had been kicked in the chest, the air hammered out of him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to think.

Uriang-Khadai was close enough to see Bayar rocked by whatever Kublai had said to him. He approached the younger general with a wary expression, needing to hear, but at the same time deeply worried about what he might be told.

Bayar saw that there were many men nearby who had witnessed his reaction to the news. They had almost abandoned the pretence of not listening. Regardless of the penalties, he doubted the two yam riders would be left alone for long. The news could not be contained. Bayar found himself sweating at the thought. It would spread across the world. Campaigns would come to a halt, cities would grow still as they heard. The men of power in the khanates would know they were thrown back into the maelstrom once again. Some of them would fear the future; others would be sharpening their swords.

‘Mongke Khan is dead,’ Bayar told his superior.

Uriang-Khadai blanched, but gathered himself quickly.

‘How did it happen?’ he said.

Bayar raised his hands helplessly. Everything Kublai had achieved in Sung lands was thrown into chaos by a single message. He could hardly think. Watching him, Uriang-Khadai’s lips thinned to a seam of pale flesh.

‘Get a hold of yourself, general. We have lost khans before. The nation goes on. Come with me to speak to the yam riders. They will know more than we have been told.’

Bayar stared. He followed as Uriang-Khadai strode away, heading to the unwounded rider who stared at him like a rabbit faced with a wolf.

‘You. Tell me what you know.’

The yam rider swallowed a mouthful of bread and meat painfully, then stood.

‘It was an assassin, general.’

‘ Orlok ,’ Uriang-Khadai snapped.

The man was trembling as he repeated the title.

‘Orlok. I was sent out with a dozen others. More went north to the Chin yam lines.’

‘What?’ Uriang-Khadai stepped closer to him. ‘You were in Sung territory?’

‘The khan was coming south, orlok,’ the man stammered, his nervousness growing. He knew yam riders were meant to be untouchable, but sooner or later, he was going to have to tell the manner of the khan’s death. It struck at the heart of every yam rider in the khanates. They would never be as trusted again.

‘How far away are they?’ Uriang-Khadai demanded. ‘How many men? Must I ask for every detail before it spills from your mouth?’

‘I … I’m sorry, orlok. Twenty-eight tumans, but they will not come further. Orlok Seriankh is taking them back to Karakorum. The khan’s other brothers will have heard by now, certainly Lord Arik-Boke as he was in the capital. Lord Hulegu may hear any day now, if he has not already.’ The scout searched for something else to say under Uriang-Khadai’s cold stare. ‘I was there when the body of Guyuk Khan was found, orlok. The nation will pull back to Karakorum until there is a new khan.’

‘ I was there when Tsubodai had the news of Ogedai’s death, young man. Do not tell me what I already know.’

‘No, orlok, I’m sorry.’

Uriang-Khadai turned to Bayar, frustrated with the yam rider and his nervousness.

‘Do you have questions for him?’

‘Only one,’ Bayar replied. ‘How did an assassin reach the khan in the middle of such an army?’

The exhausted young man looked as if his bread and meat had lodged in his throat.

‘He … dressed as a yam rider. He was let through. He was searched, but I heard he kept a razor hidden.’

‘Jesus Christ ,’ Uriang-Khadai growled.

Bayar looked at him in surprise, though the Christian curses were spreading even to those who had no knowledge of the faith itself.

Kublai stood inside the ger without moving for a long time. He wanted Chabi to come to him, but he could not summon the energy to send for her. He could hear the noises of his people around him, but at least the small space kept out their stares. It was a relief to be apart from them, though he did not weep. His thoughts moved sluggishly. As a boy, he had once swum in a frozen river and felt his arms and legs become numb, helpless, so that he thought he might drown. It had been Mongke who pulled him out, the older brother who laughed as he shivered and curled up on the bank.

He had a hundred memories, a thousand conversations vying for space in his mind. He remembered Mongke sending him out to hammer the Sung, but he also remembered the old ger they had found in a valley when they were fifteen or so. While the rest of their family slept, Kublai and Mongke had taken iron bars and destroyed it. The rotting wood and felt had collapsed on itself as they flailed and swung, lucky not to hit each other in their enthusiasm.

It was not a grand tale of the sort to tell at a khan’s funeral, just two boys doing something stupid one night, for fun. They had discovered later that the ger had not been abandoned at all. When its owner had returned, he had been incandescent with rage and vowed to find the ones who had done it. He never had. Despite all the adult years that had passed since that day, Kublai smiled at the memory. He had lost friends before, but he had thought his brothers would always be there, in good times and bad. To lose Mongke was to take an axe to the foundations of everything he was.