Bones of the Hills (37 page)

Gently the two brothers laid the old man back and Jelaudin opened out the clawed fingers, stroking the hand as he did so. He watched as Tamar closed their father’s eyes, and they waited, hardly believing that he was truly gone. The chest remained still, and one by one, the sons stood and looked down at him. The world was quiet and the stars shone overhead. Jelaudin felt they should not, that there should be something more than the gentle lap of waves to mark the passing of a great man.

“It is over,” Tamar said, his voice catching.

Jelaudin nodded, and to his surprise and shame, he felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

“The Mongol animals will come here in the end,” he said softly, glancing back to where he knew they camped, though the dark trees hid them from sight. “They will find the … they will find our father. Perhaps it will be enough for them.”

“We cannot leave him here for them,” Tamar replied. “I have a tinderbox, brother. There is enough dry wood and what does it matter now if we are seen? We should burn the body. If we live to return, we will build a temple here to honor him.”

“That is a good thought, brother,” Jelaudin said. “Very well, but when the fire takes hold, we will leave this island and cross the sea beyond. The Mongols are not sailors.” He recalled the maps he had seen in his father’s library at Bukhara. The sea had not looked too wide to cross. “Let them try to follow us across the deep waters where we leave no trail.”

“I do not know the lands across the sea, brother,” Tamar replied. “Where will we go?”

“Why, south, Tamar, as our father told us. We will raise a storm with the Afghans and in India. We will return with an army to crush this Genghis. On my father’s soul, I swear it.”

Jochi and Chagatai caught up with the Arab army as it began to descend into a bowl of hills to the east of Samarkand. The scout’s estimate of numbers had been low if anything. As Jochi conferred quickly with his younger brother, he thought the best part of forty thousand men had come to the aid of the Shah’s jeweled city. He did not let the thought worry him. In Chin lands and Arab, Genghis had shown quality of men was more important than sheer numbers. Tsubodai was credited with winning against the best odds when he had routed a city garrison of twelve thousand with only eight hundred men on a scouting raid, but all the generals had proved themselves against larger forces. They were
always
outnumbered.

The bowl of hills was a gift and neither brother delayed long as they sighted the enemy. Veterans of mounted battles, they knew the extraordinary benefit of having the high ground. Arrows flew further and horses became unstoppable in a charge as they struck the enemy. Chagatai and Jochi talked briefly, their enmity put aside for the moment. Chagatai merely grunted his assent when Jochi suggested he ride around the bowl and hit the Arab formations on the left flank. It would be Jochi’s task to meet them head-on at the foot of the valley.

Jochi’s men formed under his orders into the widest line the land would allow, the rest assembling in a block behind the warriors with the heaviest armor. Jochi could see spears and bows ready in the Arab ranks, though he was disappointed they had not brought elephants with them. The Arab princes seemed very attached to the idea of elephants in warfare. In return, the Mongols enjoyed sending them wild with arrows, then delightedly watching them trample their own troops.

Jochi looked down into the valley, judging the steep slope he would descend. It was crisscrossed with wild goat tracks, but scrub grass grew and the horses would fare well charging on such soil. He glanced left and right along the lines as he took his position in the very center of the front rank. His bow would sound with the first volley, and he felt the swelling confidence of men around him as they stared down at the army marching stolidly toward them. The Arabs blew horns and crashed drums as they marched, their horsemen visibly nervous on the flanks. The sloping ground was already compressing them and Jochi thought they had to be led by some young fool promoted for his blood rather than talent. The irony of his own position amused him as he gave the signal to walk the ponies down the central defile. There could be very
few sons of kings or khans who led
despite
their fathers rather than because of them.

As his tuman moved to a slow trot, Jochi constantly scanned the lines, looking for flaws. His scouts were out for many miles, as Tsubodai had taught him. There would be no ambush, no sudden appearance of reserves. Whoever led the force to relieve Samarkand had treated the Mongols too lightly and would pay for it. Jochi blew a single note on the horn around his neck and saw the heavy lances brought out of saddle cups, held now only by shoulders and arms trained to iron strength. As he increased the speed to a canter, Jochi nodded to a flag bearer and watched the order to widen the line stretch across them. For this moment, he had practiced and practiced until the men’s hands were bloody from shooting arrows at the gallop or punching lance points into straw targets a hundred times a day.

The army they faced loosed a volley of shafts on a barked order. Too early, Jochi thought, watching half of them fall short while the rest skipped uselessly off shields and helmets. He moved into a smooth gallop then and he could not have held back his men if he had wanted to. He put aside his nervousness and let the rhythm of his mount control his movement as he stood in the stirrups and placed a shaft on the cord.

All along the Mongol lines, men followed suit. The lancers began to dip the points, judging the moment when they would strike and kill.

Jochi released his arrow and six hundred more followed it on the instant. As they reached for another, the lancers dug in their heels and came together as an armored spike, lunging ahead of the rest. They hit at full speed and went through or over anything they touched, ripping a hole like a red mouth. Those behind could not stop and Jochi lost sight of falling men as he was carried deep into the enemy, bending his bow once more.

Ahead of him, his lancers threw down the shattered poles and drew swords as one. The archers behind them loosed another volley to the sides, widening the hole and driving men back as if burned. It was the best use of lances and bows Jochi had found and he exulted at the destruction they had wrought in just a few heartbeats. His rear lines rode out wide to overwhelm the wings, the tactic almost the reverse of his father’s favored horn maneuver. In just instants, the head of the enemy column boiled, all order lost as it fell back on itself.

Jochi drew his own sword as his mount came almost to a stop, unable to press any further through the ranks facing him. He could feel
the moment was perfect for the flank attack and looked up for his brother. He had time only for a single glance at the steep left flank before he was defending desperately, knocking aside a spear point that threatened to sweep him off the saddle. He looked again, not believing, but Chagatai’s tuman remained where it was on the slope.

Jochi could see the figure of his younger brother quite clearly, sitting his horse with relaxed hands resting on the saddle horn. They had not arranged a signal to bring him into the flank, but Jochi blew his horn anyway, the note ringing over the heads of his men. They too saw their kinsmen standing still and those who did not understand gestured furiously for them to join the fight before it turned.

With a curse, Jochi let the horn fall loose, fury filling him so that the next two strokes seemed effortless, his strength surging in his right arm. He wanted it to be Chagatai as he caught a man in the joint between his armor and neck, gashing him terribly as he fell beneath the hooves.

Jochi stood in his stirrups once more, this time searching out a way to free his men from the crush. The odds were good that he could disengage, with the front ranks still embroiled in the horns of his finest warriors. If they had not been betrayed, they might have fought clear, but he sensed the shock running through his men and it cost them in lives. The enemy had no idea why a Mongol general would sit and do nothing, but they were quick to take advantage.

Jochi called orders in frustration, but the Arab cavalry widened its line, arcing heavy horse ranks up to the rising ground and then hammering back down against his beleaguered men. Even then, they did not dare to pass too close to the left flank, where Chagatai waited to see Jochi butchered. In breathless moments between blows, Jochi could see senior men remonstrating with his brother, but then he was swept back into the fight.

His own officers were looking to him to call for a retreat, but Jochi was filled with fury. His arm ached and his father’s sword had lost part of its edge on armored men, but he felt berserk rage fill him, and everyone he killed was his brother or Genghis himself.

His men saw that he no longer looked to the hills. The son of Genghis fought with his teeth bared, and his sword arm swung lightly as he dug in his heels and sent his pony over dead men. They grinned to see his lack of fear and followed with a howl. Those who were cut ignored the wounds, or did not feel them. They too were lost for a time as their blood responded. They had pledged their lives to Jochi and
they had ridden an army into the ground. There was nothing they could not do.

His Chin soldiers fought with insane intensity, cutting their way deeper and deeper into the enemy column. As the Arab cavalry impaled them with spears, they grabbed the weapons, pulling the riders from their mounts and stabbing wildly as both men died. They would not turn from the swords and arrows of the enemy with their friends in ranks around them. They could not.

Under the relentless pressure of madmen who grabbed with bloody hands at swords that killed them, the Arabs turned and broke, their fear rippling even to those who had not yet joined the fight. Jochi saw one of his Chin officers wielding a broken lance as a club, stepping over dying men to smash it into the face of an Arab on a fine stallion. The Arab fell and the Chin soldier roared in triumph, calling a challenge in his own language to men who could not understand. The Mongols laughed to hear his bragging tone and fought on as their arms became leaden and wounds sucked at their strength.

More and more of the enemy turned from the ferocious attack, and Jochi was blinded for a moment by a spray of blood across his eyes. Panic filled him at the thought of being hit when he could not see, but then he heard Chagatai’s horns moaning across the valley, followed at last by the sound of thunder.

Chagatai’s tuman struck an enemy already desperate to get away from those who assailed them. Jochi watched panting as a space cleared around him and fresh shafts tore into the fleeing Arabs. He saw his brother again for an instant, riding like a king before he reached the foot of the valley and vanished from sight. Jochi spat hot phlegm, his battered body aching for the blow he wanted to land on Chagatai’s neck. His men knew what had happened. He would be hard pressed not to have them pick fights with those who had stood and watched in safety. Jochi swore to himself as he imagined Chagatai defending the delay, words like sweet grease in his mouth.

There were no enemies near Jochi as he ran a thumb along the edge of his sword, feeling the nicks in the steel. He was surrounded by bodies, many of them men who had ridden through the hills and destroyed the Shah’s best cavalry. Others looked to him with anger still fresh in their eyes. Chagatai was busy gutting the remainder of the Arab column, his horses trampling flags and banners into the bloody ground.

If he dealt with Chagatai as his brother deserved, both tumans would fight to the death, Jochi warned himself. His brother’s officers
would not let him anywhere near Chagatai with a blade, not when they knew the reason for his anger. Their shame would not prevent them drawing swords, and then his own men would respond. Jochi struggled with a powerful desire to race across the battlefield and see his brother cut into pieces. He could not go to Genghis for justice. It was too easy to imagine his father pouring scorn on his complaints, dismissing them as a criticism of tactics rather than a charge of murder. His breath shuddered with frustration as the sounds of battle moved away from him, leaving him empty.
Still
he had won, even in the midst of betrayal. He felt pride for his men mingle with the hatred and impotence forced on him.

Slowly, Jochi wiped blood from the blade he had won from Chagatai. He had faced death that night against the tiger, and he had faced it again on that day. He could not simply let pass what had been done to him.

He flicked droplets of blood onto the ground and began to ride slowly to where his brother sat his horse. With grim glances at each other, his men followed, ready to fight again.

SAMARKAND WAS AN ATTRACTIVE CITY
. Genghis walked his pony along a wide street lined with houses, the unshod hooves clicking over uneven stones. Somewhere ahead, smoke hung in the sky and he could hear the sounds of fighting, but this part of the city was deserted and surprisingly peaceful.

His men were wary for him as they walked on either side with bows bent, ready to punish the slightest sign of movement. They had beaten the garrison back inside the city in an orderly retreat that would have done honor to his own tumans. Genghis was surprised to find they had prepared a second position within the city itself, but then Samarkand was a surprising place. As with Yenking, he had begun to think he would have to starve them out, but they had risked it all as soon as a relieving army was in reach. His reason for insisting on speed had borne fruit once again, facing an enemy who vastly underestimated the strength of the tumans.