Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

Some of the men exchanged glances, knowing from experience that a fresh Mongol tuman could have covered a thousand miles or more since then. Alandar chose to speak, knowing that of all of them, he was most immune to Arik-Boke’s anger.

‘My lord, he could be almost anywhere. We suspect he sent tumans against Batu in the north, so it is likely he has already split his forces. But we know he will come to Karakorum.’

‘This is just a city,’ Arik-Boke said.

‘It is a city with the women and children of his tumans, my lord. Kublai will come for them. What choice does he have?’

Arik-Boke grew still, thinking. At last, he nodded.

‘Yes, we have that at least. We know where he will come and we have something precious to him. That will do as a starting place, orlok. But I do not want to fight a defensive battle. Our strength is in movement, in speed. He will not pin me down. Do you understand? That is the thinking of our enemies. I want to get out of Karakorum and find him while he moves. I want to run him down like a circle hunt, closing slowly on his men until there is nowhere left to run.’

‘The closest yam stations are already working, my lord,’ Alandar replied. ‘We are restocking a dozen each day, now that we know what happened to them. We will have warning as soon as they sight his tumans.’

‘I was told that before, Alandar. I will not rely on them again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Send the tumans towards the Chagatai khanate, with scouts running between them. Five battle groups of forty thousand to cover the ground. Keep the scouts out, ready for the first touch. When they sight the enemy …’ He paused, savouring the word in relation to his foolish brother. ‘When they see him, they will not engage until the full force has gathered. We will strike him down, this false khan. And I will be there to see it.’

‘Your will, my lord. I will leave a thousand men to patrol the camps and Karakorum and establish the yam stations first between the city and the Chagatai lines.’ It was an interpretation of the orders he had been given and Arik-Boke bristled immediately.

‘This is just a city, orlok. I have said it. I am khan of the nation. One city means nothing to me.’

Alandar hesitated. The khan was in no mood to hear an argument, but he had to speak. His position demanded it, to temper the khan’s righteous anger with tactical sense.

‘My lord, if your brother sent tumans into the north, they would be behind us as we move against his main force. Karakorum could be destroyed …’

‘I have hostages to keep them peaceful, Alandar. I will have knives at the throats of their women and children if they touch the first stone of Karakorum. Does that satisfy you? What general of my brother’s would give that order? They will not move against the city for fear of the slaughter that will follow.’

Alandar swallowed uncomfortably. He was not certain that Arik-Boke would go through with the threat and he knew better than to press him on it. No khan had ever considered butchering his own people, but then there had never been a war amongst their own, not since Jochi had betrayed Genghis. That was nothing compared to what Arik-Boke faced and the orlok voiced none of his misgivings, choosing to remain silent.

Arik-Boke nodded as if he had received assent.

‘I will leave enough men to carry out my orders, orlok, sworn men who understand the meaning of their oath. That is enough now. My blood cries out to answer these insults. Send messengers to Hulegu. Tell him I call his oath. And gather my tumans on the plain. I will ride to find my brother Kublai and I will choose the manner of his death when we have him.’

Alandar bowed his head. He could not shake the sense that the khan was underestimating the enemy tumans. They were as fast as his own men and, for all Arik-Boke’s bluster, he could not make himself believe they were led by a fool, a scholar. A fool would not have cut the supplies into Karakorum before the attack. A scholar would not have removed the most powerful lords from Arik-Boke’s side before the true fighting even began. Even so, he had learned obedience from a young age.

‘Your will, my lord khan,’ he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Hulegu cursed his general’s memory as he galloped along the fighting line. Kitbuqa had been killed years before, but his legacy lived on in the Moslems who had vowed never to accept his khanate. Holding Christian Mass in mosques had turned out to be a terrible idea when it came to pacifying the region, though it was true that many of the tribes also screamed the name of Baghdad as he caught and punished them.

He had never known such a cauldron of trouble as the khanate he had chosen. From the destruction of the city on, men had drifted in from thousands of miles away to fight for the land he had taken. He grinned as he rode. His grandfather had said there was no better way to spend a life and the khanate was never still, never peaceful, as it vomited up new enemies each year. It was good for the tumans he commanded. His men kept themselves sharp against the dark-skinned madmen who died screaming the name of a city or their god.

Hulegu ducked as an arrow whirred somewhere close. The line of enemy horsemen blurred as he ran down its flank. He had only heartbeats before they began to react to his sudden manoeuvre. He could hear their roaring voices and the air was thick with dust and sweat and the taint of garlic under a battering sun.

Hulegu barely gestured and his galloping line angled into the enemy flank, raising lances at the last moment. They plunged through horses and men, spearing a hundred paces into the crush as if they were a knife sinking into flesh. The Persians crumpled before them and Hulegu cut down on his left and right, each blow aimed to break and blind, to leave falling men behind him.

He heard the snap of crossbow bolts and something struck him high in the chest, piercing his armour and thumping his collarbone. He groaned, hoping it had not broken again. As he punched through the lines, he felt only numbness from the area, but the pain would come. His tumans were outnumbered, but they were still fresh and strong and the day had barely begun. His charge had sliced away a great section of their lines and he signalled to his minghaan officers to enclose and cut it free. It was shepherd’s work, separating young rams from a flock and cutting them down. The main force of horsemen and foot soldiers moved on to face the Mongol shafts ahead and there was space for a time.

Hulegu wiped sweat from his face with a damp hand, blinking as his eyes stung with salt. He was thirsty, but as he looked around, there was no sign of his camel boys with waterskins.

Movement drew his attention and Hulegu stared as a dark mass of soldiers came jogging over the crest of a hill. They moved quickly and lightly despite the heat and he could see they were armed with bows and swords. Hulegu trotted out from the main battle for twenty or thirty paces, judging the best response. All his tumans were engaged by then and he had no separate reserves. He began to frown as the Persian soldiers kept coming, as if there were no end to them. They gleamed in the sun, wearing armour of brass and iron. As he watched, horsemen appeared on their flanks, overtaking the walking men.

He had missed an army, hiding in the hills. Whichever local leader had brought them in and hidden them had chosen his moment with care. Hulegu wet his dry lips with his tongue, looking around him and trying to keep a sense of the battle. He would have to detach a full tuman to meet and prevent them from joining up with their brothers.

Sweat ran into his eyes as the men around him finished butchering the hundreds they had cut out from the main force. It was work they knew well and his warriors were confident in their power, well used to battle after years spent fighting.