Bones of the Hills

  ‘You will not be alone, general. I will be there.’

  Jochi nodded, his eyes stinging. His father had known this joy, this vow to follow one man, even if it meant death and the destruction of everything else they loved. It was worth more than gold, more than cities. A ripple spread through his officers as they shouted out to him, calling their names and joining him one by one. For each it was a personal choice, but he had them all and always had. When there were enough, they gave out a raucous cheer, a battle shout that seemed to rock the ground on which he stood.

  ‘When the scouts are dead, I will put it to the men,’ he said.

  ‘General,’ Sen Tu said suddenly. ‘If some of them choose not to come, if they decide to ride back to the khan, they will betray us.’

  Jochi looked into the man’s dark eyes. He had considered his plans for a long time. Part of him knew he should have such men killed. It was less dangerous to let the scouts live than have his own men return to Genghis. If he let them live, his own chances of survival vanished to almost nothing. His knew his father would have made the decision in a heartbeat, but Jochi was torn. He felt the eyes of all his officers on him, waiting to see what he would order.

  ‘I will not stop them, Sen Tu,’ he said. ‘If any man wants to return to his family, I will let him leave.’

  Sen Tu winced.

  ‘Let us see what happens, lord. If it is just a few, I can have men waiting with bows to make an end of them.’

  Jochi smiled at the Chin officer’s unrelenting loyalty. His heart was full as he looked over the crowd gathered on the river bank.

  ‘I will kill the scouts,’ he said, ‘and then we will see.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The village in the mountains was untouched. For three days, Tsubodai had ridden with Genghis and the tumans, at times following a narrow track that was barely three horses wide. The Mongols could not see how a village could even survive in such a place, though before noon on the third day, they had reached a heavily laden cart drawn by a mule. With a sheer drop on one side, the tumans could not pass in safety so Jebe forced the owner to cut the mule free before his men heaved the cart over the edge. Tsubodai watched it fall with interest until it shattered on the rocks below, spilling grain and bolts of cloth over a wide area.

  The terrified owner did not dare protest and Tsubodai tossed him a pouch of gold for his stoicism, which then broke as the man realised he had more wealth than he had ever seen before.

  The village itself had been built from the stones of the mountains, the houses and single street made of cut blocks the colour of the hills, so that they blended in like natural growths. Behind the small collection of buildings, a thin trail of water fell from dizzying heights above, making the air a mist. Chickens scratched in the dust and people stared in horror at the approaching Mongols before dipping their heads and hurrying away.

  Tsubodai watched all this with interest, though he could not escape a sense of unease. Warriors and carts stretched back along the mountain trail for many miles, and if there was to be a battle, only those in front would be able to fight. The land forced the general to break every rule he had devised for warfare over the years and he could not relax as he rode along the street with Genghis.

  Tsubodai sent a scout back to bring the man who had a sister in the village. With him went a dozen warriors to carry the gold and tip the cart off the cliff. If he had not, it would have blocked all the men behind and cut the army in half. As it was, Tsubodai could not see how to bring up the supplies from the rear. Without a staging area, the string of carts had to remain behind the warriors. Tsubodai struggled with the positions and terrain, hating the way the mountains held his men in a single, vulnerable line.

  When the merchant arrived, he was almost in tears to see the village intact, having feared its destruction for days of travel. He found his sister’s house quickly and tried to calm her terror of the Mongols strolling outside. She watched open-mouthed as warriors dumped bags of gold coins on her step, but the sight did not calm her. Instead, she paled further and further as the pile grew. As the warriors stood back, she slapped her brother hard across the face and tried to bar the door to him.

  ‘You have killed me, you fool!’ she screeched as he struggled with her in the doorway. He fell back a step, astonished at her rage, and as he did so, the door slammed shut and all the men could hear her weeping inside.

  ‘That was touching,’ Genghis murmured to Tsubodai.

  Tsubodai did not smile. The village was surrounded by rocky heights and he was certain they were being watched. The crying woman had certainly thought so. Tsubodai had seen her eyes dart up to the surrounding peaks for an instant before she closed the door in her brother’s face. Tsubodai raised his head and scanned every high point, but nothing moved.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ Tsubodai said. ‘This village exists to serve the Assassins, I’m certain of it. Why else would it be so far from anywhere else in the mountains? How do they even pay for supplies brought by cart?’ At the thought, he eased his horse nearer to Genghis, feeling the narrow street close in on him. A single lucky arrow could end it all, if the villagers were foolish or desperate enough.

  ‘I do not think we should stop here, my lord khan,’ he said. ‘There are two paths further into the mountains and only one back. Let me send scouts along them both and find the way in.’

  Genghis nodded and at that moment a bell rang, the sound muffled but echoing. The Mongols had bows and swords drawn before the notes died away, jerking in shock as the street doors thumped open and armed men and women rushed out.

  In just heartbeats, the village went from being silent and deserted to a bloody attack. Tsubodai’s horse kicked out at a woman behind him, knocking her flying. They were converging on Genghis, who was swinging his sword in a great arc to take a screaming young man across the neck.

  To Tsubodai’s surprise, the villagers were determined and desperate. His men were experienced in dealing with rioting crowds, but the violence could not be quelled with the shock of sudden blood-letting. He saw one of his warriors dragged off his horse by a man with an arrow in his chest, dying as he yanked with failing strength. Some of them screamed all the time they fought, the noise almost painful as it came from a hundred different throats and echoed back from the hills all around. Yet they were not warriors. Tsubodai took a blow from a long knife on his forearm bracer, turning the block into a short punch that cracked into his attacker’s jaw. The villagers had no defence against armoured men and only their ferocity made them hard to stop. Tsubodai fought with manic concentration, risking his own life to protect Genghis. They were alone for just moments as more of the khan’s tuman struggled to reach him and face outwards with their swords and bows. Arrows hissed through the throats of anyone who moved after that and the iron circle fought its way through them, moving with Genghis at the centre.

  The sun had not moved above the hills by the time the streets were covered in the dead. The merchant’s sister lay among them, one of the first to be cut down. Her brother had survived and he knelt by her gashed body, weeping openly. When one of the warriors dismounted to pull her clothing aside, the man struggled briefly in tearful rage before he was cuffed onto his back. Tsubodai’s men found no one with the mark of serenity at their throats.

  Tsubodai leant over his saddle, panting with exertion and relief at having survived. He truly hated the enclosure of hills, and the feeling of eyes on him was even stronger than before.

  ‘If they are not Assassins, why would they attack us so wildly?’ he demanded of one of his minghaan officers. The man could not reply to such a question, so merely bowed his head and looked away.

  Genghis trotted his pony to Tsubodai as the general stared around him, still shocked by what had happened.

  ‘I imagine they were ordered to get in our way,’ Genghis said lightly. He was maddeningly calm and not even breathing heavily. ‘Against thieves, or a raiding band, they would have done very well. It would take a det
ermined army to get through this village to the stronghold of our enemies.’ He grinned. ‘Fortunately, I have such an army. Send out your scouts, Tsubodai. Find me the way through.’

  Under the yellow gaze of his khan, Tsubodai gathered himself quickly and sent two arbans of ten men racing deeper into the mountains. Both routes turned sharply after only a short distance, so that the warriors quickly vanished from view. He ordered others to search every house, making certain there were no more surprises hidden in them.

  ‘I hope this means the Assassins have not abandoned their home,’ he said.

  Genghis brightened still further at the thought.

  By sunset, Tsubodai’s men had piled the dead at one edge of the village, by the icy waterfall. There was a pool there, before the water found its way further down the cliffs. Tsubodai organised the watering of the horses, a task which was maddeningly slow and laborious, but vital. For those too far back to come in, he used buckets from the village and had his warriors walk miles to them. Many would be forced to sleep on the narrow trail, just a few feet from a drop to their death. There was no grumbling from them, at least none that reached the ears of the general. They accepted their lot as they had always done.

  Only one group of Tsubodai’s scouts came back as the hills were lit with gold and the sun sank. The other had vanished and Tsubodai nodded to Genghis as the road remained empty. A single scout might have fallen, or broken a leg. For ten young warriors to disappear in the mountains, another force had to exist, ruthless and patient.

  The Mongols had found the path to the Assassins and they slept where they stood, half-frozen and with just a few mouth-fuls of dried meat and water to keep them alive as they waited for dawn.

  Tsubodai was up before first light, in part to be certain he could put a rank of men onto the narrow path before Genghis tried to lead them. The general was convinced the first ones in would die and he chose well-armoured archers from his own tuman, giving them the best chance he could. He did not want Genghis to risk himself against an unseen enemy in such a place. The rock walls that lined the path were too easy to defend. As Tsubodai stared into the lightening gloom, he guessed they would face stones and arrows at the very least. He hoped the Assassins did not have stocks of fire oil, but he was not confident. There was no point regretting past decisions, but the Assassins had been given a long time to prepare the way. If they had chosen to fight, it would be a hard path to walk and many of his men would not return from the mountains.

  The sun could not be seen for much of the morning in that place of peaks and stone, so that Tsubodai wondered at the half-lit existence of the villagers. Even in high summer, their homes would have been cold for most of the day. Only when the sun was overhead would light and warmth reach the street below. By then, he did not doubt that the villagers were all servants of the ones he had come to root out from their stronghold. Nothing else explained why they would choose such a life.

  Tsubodai rode in the second rank and looked back only once as the army began to move, a vast slow tail that stretched back almost to the first village he had found destroyed. Some of them still had no idea what had happened the day before, but they followed in his steps and wound their way deeper into the hostile terrain.

  The path narrowed still further as he left the village behind, forcing his men to ride two across. It was almost a crack in the mountain, the air cold from constant gloom and shadows. Tsubodai kept his weapons ready, straining his eyes ahead for some sign of the arban he had sent. Only hoofprints remained and Tsubodai’s men followed them slowly, wary of an ambush, but still going on.

  The sense of enclosure became stifling as the slope began to rise. To Tsubodai’s discomfort, the trail narrowed again, so that only one man at a time could squeeze his horse through. Still the hoofprints led them. Tsubodai had never felt so helpless in his life and he had to struggle with swelling panic. If they were attacked, the first ones killed would block the path of those behind, leaving them easy targets. He did not think he could even turn his mount in such a narrow pass and winced every time his legs brushed the mossy rock on either side.

  Tsubodai jerked his head up as one of his men gave a low whistle and the horses came to a sudden stop. He cursed under his breath as he realised he could not even ride to the front to see what they had found. The finest army in the world had been reduced to a single line of nervous men. No wonder the Assassins had not abandoned their fortress. Tsubodai squinted upwards at the strip of bright sky above his head. All it would take was a few men with stones up there and the mountains would become a tomb for all their hopes and ambitions. He took a sharp breath when a pebble dropped from somewhere above, but nothing followed it.

  One of his men came back on foot, ducking under the legs of the horses and making them shy nervously. They too felt hemmed in by the rock on all sides and Tsubodai was worried one of them might panic. In such a small space, it would be chaos.

  ‘There’s a wall built across the path ahead, general,’ the warrior said. ‘It has a gate, but it’s made of iron. If you have hammers sent up, we can knock out the hinges, but it won’t be quick.’

  Tsubodai nodded, though the thought of sending orders back along a line of stationary horses would have been farcical if it hadn’t been for the constant threat of an attack. Despite himself, he glanced up again with a wince.

  ‘You’ll have to go yourself. Have the hammers brought from man to man and have an officer break out the mantlets from the closest cart that has them.’ The portable wooden barricades would be useful, at least. Genghis had insisted on having dozens of the things made in Samarkand to protect his archers, a decision that was only now bearing fruit.

  Tsubodai waited impatiently as the runner clambered along the line. The carts of siege supplies were far behind and time passed slowly as the men talked amongst themselves and waited. Only Genghis seemed cheerful, as Tsubodai looked back at him. The khan was sharpening his sword with a whetstone from his saddlebags, raising the blade at intervals to inspect the edge. He caught Tsubodai staring and chuckled, the sound echoing as he continued with the task.

  In the stillness, some instinct made Tsubodai look up for a third time. He saw the strip of blue sky speckled in dark objects. His jaw dropped and he shouted to those around him to duck, raising his armoured forearms above his own head just before the first stone hit him.

  The stones fell in waves, causing the Mongols to grunt and snarl in pain. Those who had shields heaved them up, but they were only a few. Their horses suffered the barrage without helmets or armour, bucking and kicking in fear and pain. More than a few were stunned, slumping and scrabbling as their legs gave way. Tsubodai clenched his fists over his head as he saw some of them would not rise again, their skulls broken. He saw men with their arms hanging loose, the bones broken despite the armour, and still the stones fell into the confined space. The one thing Tsubodai could be thankful for was that the stones were small. Rocks capable of snapping a man’s spine either wedged in the pass above their heads, or bounced and shattered into smaller pieces. Even as he took note of that, one of the large stones survived the fall and struck the forehead of a horse only feet away from him, killing the animal instantly. A memory came back to the general of the first fort he had taken with Genghis. Men had stood above him then in a killing hole, driving shafts almost straight down. They had been saved by wooden barriers, held above their heads. Tsubodai felt his heart thump painfully as he realised he had forgotten about the carts behind him. They could not be drawn into the narrowing path and he had a vision of the whole army being blocked, unable to reverse as the sides of rock closed on them. His men reeled under the barrage of stones, crying out in pain and frustration.

  ‘Where are those mantlets!’ Tsubodai roared. ‘We need mantlets here!’ His voice carried far down the lines, snapping back and forth from the walls. As the trail turned, he saw men gesture urgently to those behind them, passing on his order. How far back were the carts? He waited, wincing at the crack of stones as h
e crouched over his saddle with his arms protecting his head.

  He thought he had been listening to screams and his own breath for ever when he heard a shout. Tsubodai risked looking out over his shoulder. Stones still rattled off his armour, rocking him. Even the small ones hurt. He breathed in relief to see the heavy wooden shields being passed from rider to rider overhead. They could not come fast enough.

  The trail of wooden barriers halted as those under the falling stones held on to them instead of passing them down the line. Tsubodai shouted furious orders at them. More were coming, he could see. Already the stones could be heard thumping off the wood, hard enough to hurt the ears. Tsubodai grabbed the first mantlet to reach him, seeing that Genghis was already safe. He did not think the khan would be giving his up and it took a wrench of will to pass his on to those ahead. They could move them only by tilting them up. When the mantlets were turned like shells to protect the men, they often wedged in the walls and hardly needed holding.

  Bareheaded once more, Tsubodai looked to Genghis and saw the khan had lost his calm. Genghis grimaced as he saw his general unprotected and then shrugged as if it was nothing. He heaved his mantlet off where it had stuck and reached back for another. Tsubodai saw stones falling around the khan. One rocked his head back when it struck Genghis’ helmet, but another mantlet was dragged forward and the general breathed in relief to see him secure once more.

  The rain of stones dwindled and then stopped, leaving battered and dying men beneath the heavy boards. Without armour, they would have been destroyed. Whether the Assassins had seen the wooden barriers, or simply run out of missiles, Tsubodai did not know. He did know he would move sky and earth to pay them back for the agony of being helpless.

  Hammers came forward under the shell of mantlets, handed from man to man until heavy blows began to ring out from somewhere ahead. Maddeningly, Tsubodai could not see the front ranks. The wall they tried to break was twelve horse lengths in front of him and he could only wait and sweat.