Bones of the Hills. Conn Iggulden
to have it end. The rim of his mouth was red and Yao Shu watched as Genghis swallowed bitterness.
Jochi too had observed the extraction, though he had tried to make it look as if he hadn’t. As Genghis rose again, Jochi lay back on his bed and stared at the ribs of birch that made up the ceiling of the ger. Yao Shu thought the khan would leave without speaking to his son and was surprised when Genghis paused and tapped Jochi on the leg.
‘You can walk, can’t you?’ Genghis said.
Jochi turned his head slowly.
‘Yes, I can walk.’
‘Then you can ride.’ Genghis noticed the wolf’s-head sword that Jochi never let out of his sight and his right hand twitched to hold it. It rested on the tiger skin and Genghis ran his fingers through the stiff fur.
‘If you can walk, you can ride,’ Genghis told him again. He might have turned away then, but some impulse held him in place.
‘I thought that cat would kill you,’ Genghis said.
‘It nearly did,’ Jochi replied.
To his surprise, Genghis grinned at him, showing red teeth.
‘Still, you beat it. You have a tuman and we ride to conquer.’
Yao Shu saw that the khan was trying to mend bridges between them. Jochi would command ten thousand men, a position of immense trust and not lightly given. To Yao Shu’s private disappointment, Jochi sneered.
‘What else could I possibly want from you, my lord?’
A stillness came into the ger then, until Genghis shrugged.
‘As you say, boy. I have given you more than enough.’
The stream of carts and animals took days to spill out of the mountains to the plains. To the south and west lay the cities ruled by Shah Mohammed. Every man and woman of the people had heard of the challenge to their khan and the deaths of their envoys. They were impatient to bring vengeance.
Around the core of the people, scouts rode out in wide circles as they moved, leaving the cold mountains behind. The generals had gambled with knuckle bones for the right to take a tuman raiding and it had been Jebe who had thrown four horses and won. When Genghis heard, he summoned Arslan’s replacement to him for orders. Jebe had found the khan with his brothers, deep in conversation as they planned the war to come. When Genghis finally noticed the young man standing by the door, he nodded to him, barely looking up from new maps being drawn with charcoal and ink.
‘I need information more than piles of the dead, general,’ Genghis said. ‘The shah can call on cities as great as any in Chin lands. We must meet his armies, but when we do, it will be on my terms. Until that day, I need everything you can learn. If a town has less than two hundred warriors, let them surrender. Send their traders and merchants to me, men who know a little of the world around them.’
‘And if they will not surrender, lord?’ Jebe asked.
Khasar chuckled without looking up, but the khan’s yellow gaze lifted from the maps.
‘Then clear the way,’ Genghis replied.
As Jebe turned to leave, Genghis whistled softly. Jebe turned to him questioningly.
‘They are your warriors now, Jebe, not mine, nor any other man here. They will look to you first. Remember that. I have seen brave warriors who broke and ran, then stood against impossible odds just a few months later. The only difference was that their officers had changed. Never believe another man can do your job. You understand?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Jebe replied. He had struggled not to show his delight, though he felt light-headed with it. It was his first independent command. Ten thousand men would look to him alone, their lives and honour in his hands. Genghis smiled wryly to himself, fully aware of the young man’s sweating palms and thumping heart.
‘Then go,’ the khan said, returning to his maps.
On a spring morning, Jebe rode out with ten thousand veterans, eager to make his name. Within just a few days, Arab merchants rode into the camp as if the devil himself was behind them. They were willing to barter and sell information to this new force in the land and Genghis welcomed a stream of them to his ger, sending them away with their pouches full of silver. Behind them, distant plumes of smoke rose sluggishly into the heat.
Jochi joined his men two days after he had seen Genghis in the ger for the sick. He was thin and pale from six weeks of seclusion, but he mounted his favourite horse stiffly, setting his jaw against the pain. His left arm was splinted and the wounds on his legs cracked and wept, but he smiled as he trotted to the ranks. His men had been told he was coming and they formed up to greet their general and the khan’s first son. Jochi’s expression remained stern, concentrating on his own weakness. He raised a hand in greeting and they cheered his survival and the tiger skin he had placed between the saddle and the horse’s skin. The dried head would always snarl at his pommel.
When he took his place in the front rank, he turned his pony and looked back at the men his father had given him. Of the ten thousand, more than four were from the Chin cities. They were mounted and armoured in the Mongol style, but he knew they could not shoot arrows as fast or as well as his brethren. Two thousand more were from the Turkic tribes to the north and west, dark-skinned men who knew the Arab lands better than the Mongols themselves. He thought his father had given them to Jochi as those of lesser blood, but they were fierce and they knew the ground and the hunting. Jochi was pleased with them. The last four thousand were of the people: the Naimans, the Oirat and the Jajirat. Jochi cast his gaze over their ranks and it was there that he sensed a weakness in their grim faces. The Mongols knew Jochi was not a favourite son of the khan, perhaps not even his son at all. He read subtle doubt in the way they looked at each other and did not cheer as lustily as the others.
Jochi felt his energy flag and summoned his will. He would have liked longer for his arm to heal. Yet he had seen Tsubodai bind men together and he was eager to begin the work.
‘I see men before me,’ he called to them. His voice was strong and many grinned. ‘I see warriors, but I do not yet see an army.’
The grins faltered and he gestured to the vast array of carts rolling out of the mountains behind them.
‘Our people have enough men to keep out the wolves,’ he said. ‘Ride with me today and I will see what I can make of you.’
He dug in his heels, though his legs had already begun to ache. Behind him, ten thousand men began to trot out onto the plains. He would run them ragged, he told himself, until they were blind with exhaustion, or until his limbs hurt so much he could not stand it any longer. Jochi smiled at the thought. He would endure. He always had.
The city of Otrar was one of the many jewels of Khwarezm, made rich at the crossroads of ancient empires. It had guarded the west for a thousand years, taking a part of the wealth that flowed along the trade roads. Its walls protected thousands of brick houses, some of them three storeys high and painted white against the hard sun. The streets were always busy and a man could buy anything in the world in Otrar, if he had enough gold. Its governor, Inalchuk, gave offerings each day in the mosque and made public displays of his devotion to the teachings of the prophet. In private, he drank forbidden wine and kept a house of women chosen from the slaves of a dozen races, all picked for his pleasure.
As the sun dipped towards the hills, Otrar cooled slowly and the streets lost their mad energy as men and women returned home. Inalchuk wiped sweat from his eyes and lunged at his sword instructor. The man was quick and there were times when Inalchuk thought he allowed his master to take points. He did not mind as long as the instructor was clever. If he left too obvious an opening, Inalchuk struck with greater force, leaving a welt or a bruise. It was a game, as all things were games.
Out of the corner of his eye, Inalchuk saw his chief scribe halt on the edge of the courtyard. His instructor darted at him to punish the moment of inattention and Inalchuk fell back