Bones Of the Hills

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After the initial race east along the valley, both the tumans and their pursuers settled into a slow gallop that ate the miles. Before the sun set, Khalifa’s men tried to close the gap three times and were driven back with arrows fired by men turning in the saddle. Unlike the Mongols, the Arab horsemen were not accurate loosing arrows at full speed. Though their mounts were faster over short distances, they were forced to settle in for a long chase. By the time the sun touched the west behind them, they were more than a dozen miles from the shah’s army. The Mongol warriors rode in grim concentration, knowing that to fall behind was to die.

Jochi and Jebe had come together about halfway through the ranks of their men. They did not know how many of their number had been lost on the slopes under the ridge. The Arabs had fought well at the end, but both generals were pleased with what they had achieved. Genghis would be told of both strength and weaknesses in the enemy and what they had learned would be vital to the khan in the days to come. Still, they had to survive the dogged pursuit. Both men knew it was easier to chase than to be hunted. As eagles and wolves had eyes to the front of their heads, so did man. Riding after an enemy kept the spirits strong, just as hearing the enemy always at their backs sapped the confidence of the tumans. Yet they did not falter.

‘Will they follow us into the darkness, do you think?’ Jochi asked.

Jebe looked back over his shoulder at the mass of riders. Perhaps thirty thousand men had come after them and he could not know their quality. He and Jochi had left so many on the slopes that he thought anger would keep the Arabs on their trail for a long time. They had been thrown back in chaos in the battle and they would not let them go without a chase. As he stared at the enemy, Jebe could admit that the Arabs were excellent horsemen. They had shown discipline and courage. Against that, the two tumans could only bring the stoic endurance they had learned on the brutal winter plains. They would not fall, if they had to run to the end of the world.

Jebe glanced back at the setting sun, now just a gold line that cast writhing shadows ahead of his men. He realised he had not answered the question and shrugged.

‘They look determined enough and they have more speed in short bursts. If I were their commander, I would wait for true darkness and then close the gap when we cannot see to drive them back.’

Jochi rode carefully, conserving his strength. His left arm ached and his legs were stiff, the old scars sending needles of discomfort along his thighs as they stretched. Even so, he struggled not to show his pride at the action on the ridge. His flanking charge had shattered the Arab soldiers, but Jebe had not mentioned it.

‘When it is dark then, we should race for a mile and open a gap they cannot cross easily.’

Jebe winced at the thought of pelting full speed across unknown ground. Their greatest fear was that the Arabs knew the valley would come to a sudden end, perhaps in a blocked canyon. The tumans could be riding right to their own destruction. Jochi strained to see ahead, but the peaks on either side seemed to go on for ever. A pang of hunger interrupted his thoughts and he reached into a pocket to pull out a lump of dried mutton. In the last light, he eyed the black twist dubiously, but tore off a piece and chewed before reaching out and offering it to Jebe. The general accepted the gift without speaking, pulling it apart with his fingers before passing the rest back. They had not eaten since the morning and both men were starving.

‘When my father fought the Xi Xia kingdom,’ Jochi said, chewing, ‘the king used clusters of iron nails that could bring down a charging line.’

‘They would be useful now,’ Jebe replied, nodding. ‘If we had each man carry just a few, we could let these Arabs ride over a trail of them.’

‘Next time, my friend,’ Jochi said. ‘If there is one.’

The sun set and a dim grey light crossed the valley, falling through shades to blackness. They had a little time before the new moon rose, its white crescent reversed. Jochi and Jebe gave orders that could barely be heard above the thunder of hooves and the pace increased slowly. Both leaders depended on the sturdiness of the plains-bred ponies. The scouts were used to riding a hundred miles in a single day and Jochi and Jebe counted on that to exhaust their enemy. Like the men who rode them, the ponies were as tough as old leather.

Behind them, both generals heard the rhythm of the Arab horses change to the fastest gallop, but they had already widened the gap. Jochi sent an order for the rear ranks to shoot three shafts each into the blackness. The decision was rewarded by crashes and yells that echoed from the hills. Once more the pursuers fell back and the generals settled to a fast canter, ready to gallop at any moment. The Mongol ponies had fought and charged already that day. Many of them were weary and already suffering without water, but there was no way to rest them.

‘Did you see the flags of the shah’s army?’ Jochi asked.

Jebe nodded, remembering the host of crescents all along the Arab ranks. The new moon was significant to their enemy, perhaps because it marked the beginning and end of their holy month. Jebe hoped it was not an omen of good fortune for those that rode behind him.

The crescent cast a silvery gloom on the armies that streamed through the valley. Some of the Mongol warriors used the dim light to loose arrows until Jochi sent an order to conserve their stock. It was too hard to kill a man with a shield in the dark and they would need every shaft.

Khalifa rode in furious silence at the head of his men. He had never experienced anything like this moonlight chase and could not escape the nagging feeling that he had deprived the shah of his cavalry wing in territory that had already proved hostile. He had ridden down fleeing armies before, but that was a brief wild moment after an enemy broke, where a warrior could blood his sword joyfully on the necks of fleeing men, or shoot arrows until his quiver was empty. He remembered such times with great fondness, coming as they did after battles where he had ridden close to death.

This was something different and he could not understand the Mongol generals ahead. They rode in good order and every attempt to bring them down before sunset had been repulsed. Had their nerve gone? They did not ride in mindless panic. Instead, they seemed to be guarding the strength of their mounts, keeping only just enough ahead that he could not bring bows to bear against them.

Khalifa gritted his teeth in irritation, his wounded side throbbing. The shah had chosen this valley as the fastest route west to support Otrar. The crease between mountains was more than a hundred miles long and opened out into a great plain close by the village where Khalifa had been born. Every mile took him further from the main army and made him wonder if the Mongols were not deliberately drawing him away. Yet he could not rein in and let them go. His blood cried out for vengeance for those they had slaughtered.

The moon rose, which brought some respite as he spent hours calculating angles from the red planet Merreikh to the moon and the eastern horizon. He could not decide if the results promised good fortune or not and the mental game did not satisfy him. Could the Mongols have planned an ambush so far from the main battle site? Surely it was impossible. As the moon crept higher, he strained his eyes in the gloom for some sign that the Mongols were signalling to another force lying in wait.

He could see nothing but their backs, riding as if they were not pursued by a vast army of furious men intent on their deaths. In the dark valley, it was easy to imagine enemies in every shadow. Khalifa’s anger sustained him as the cold became biting. He took a single gulp from his waterskin and shook it irritably. It had not been full at the beginning and there was only a little left. He felt his men looking to him for orders, but he had no words for them. He would not return to the shah only to tell him the enemy had escaped. He could not.

Jebe and Jochi had spent much of the night in conversation, developing a mutual respect that deepened with the hours in the saddle. Some of the men dozed in turns around them, always with a friend to take the reins in case their mounts began to drift back through the ranks. It was common practice for those who had been herdsmen to ride asleep, though usually at just a walking pace. No one fell, despite their drooping heads. The tumans had slowed as the moon began to descend and the force at their heels had instantly kicked on to a gallop, closing the gap once more. Four times they had been forced to match the frantic pace before slowing, but as dawn approached, both armies were trotting, their mounts biting froth at their mouths as they panted and rode on.

Jochi saw the first wolf dawn and reached across to nudge Jebe. The moon was just a faint sliver on the hills and a new day was beginning. Another attack was likely and the men around them rubbed tiredness from their eyes. The night they had spent seemed to have lasted for ever and at the same time had vanished in an instant. Despite the enemy at their backs, it had been oddly peaceful as the men shared the last of their dried meat and passed skins of warm, sour water between them until they were empty.

Jebe was sore and dry-mouthed, feeling as if there was dust in every joint. His lower back ached and he could only wonder at the enemy who were still there when he looked back. As the light increased, he saw the Arab horses were exhausted from the ride. Their pursuers were lolling in their saddles, but they had not fallen, or allowed the tumans to get too far ahead.

Jochi was proud of the Chin who rode with his people. They had suffered more than anyone and so many had drifted back that they formed the rear of the tumans. Still they went on. Less than half a mile separated the two armies and that had not changed since the darkest hours.

As the sun rose in glory, Khalifa passed orders down to his senior men. He had suffered through the night, with cold and exhaustion. The end of the valley was in sight and he knew they had covered more than a hundred miles in one ride. When he had been young, he might have laughed at such a challenge, but at forty, his knees and ankles had begun to hurt with every stride of his mount. His men too were weary, though they had the grim endurance of desert Arabs. They lifted their heads as the order came to close the gap once more. Surely he could bring the Mongols to battle this last time!

There was no sudden surge of speed to alert the enemy ahead. Instead, Khalifa urged his panting mount on slowly, closing the gap to just four hundred paces before the Mongols reacted. Khalifa raised his hand then, roaring through the dust in his throat for a charge.

His men dug in their heels and the exhausted horses responded, hitting a ragged gallop. Khalifa heard a horse scream and go down, spilling a man to the ground. He could not see what had happened as he closed to two hundred paces and drew a long, black arrow from the quiver on his back.

The Mongols had seen the threat and answered it with a volley of shafts loosed behind them as they galloped. Even then, the accuracy was terrifying and Khalifa saw men and horses plucked away to be trampled on every side. He snarled in frustration as his arrow feathers touched his cheek. His mount was foundering and still they managed to widen the gap. He let go, crying out in triumph as his shaft took an enemy high in the back, sending him crashing down. Dozens more were struck, though armour saved some. Those who fell went under the Arab hooves as they writhed in the dust, struck many times until their bones were shattered pulp.

Khalifa shouted raucously to his men, but they were finished. He could see from the way they swayed in the saddle that they had reached the end of their strength. Many of the horses had gone lame in the night. They drifted to the rear as their riders flailed uselessly with whips and sword scabbards.

He considered ordering a halt, but the effort was too much. Always, he thought he could hang on a little longer, just until the Mongols killed their horses and began to die themselves. His eyes were sore and red from the gritty dust he had ridden through all night and he could only watch as the enemy drew ahead once more, to half a mile and further. There they stayed as the sun rose higher and neither side could widen or close the gap. Khalifa put his bow back in the leather sleeve behind his right leg and patted his horse’s neck.

‘Just a little further, great heart,’ he murmured to the plunging animal. He knew that many of the horses would be ruined after such a ride. They had been pushed beyond anything they had known before and the wind of many would be permanently broken. He heard another thump and cry as a horse fell somewhere behind him, staggering into those around it and collapsing. Others would follow, he knew, but still the rear ranks of the Mongols beckoned him on and he narrowed his eyes against the choking dust.

As the tumans came out of the shadowy valley onto a plain, their spirits lifted. They could see the morning smoke of villages in the distance and they followed a road of packed earth into the east. Somewhere ahead lay cities of the shah and potential reinforcements for those who still followed. Jebe and Jochi had no idea how many men the shah could bring to the field. His cities could have been stripped for the war, or left well-manned and bristling for just such a raid into their territory.

The road was wide, perhaps because of the huge army that had trampled the earth in passing, just a few days before. The Mongol column narrowed to use the hard ground, riding in ranks of fifty across as they came out of the mountains in a whirl of dust. The sun passed noon and the heat brought horses and men crashing down on both sides, vanishing behind in a welter of hooves. The Mongols sweated and there was no water or salt to keep up their strength. Jebe and Jochi began to glance back more and more often in desperation.

The Arab horses were better than anything they had faced before in war, certainly better than Chin or Russian mounts. Yet as the heat sapped their strength, the pursuers began to fall further behind until Jebe ordered a slower pace. He did not want to lose them or allow them time to halt and regroup. He thought perhaps that they had led the shah’s riders for more than a hundred and fifty miles, approaching the limits of even the toughest Mongol scouts. The ponies were lathered in strings of soapy spit, their skin dark with sweat and fresh sores where the saddle had rubbed away patches of old callus.

Long into the sweltering afternoon, they passed a road fort with open-mouthed soldiers on the walls, shouting challenges to them as they passed. The Mongols did not respond. Each man was lost in his own world, resisting the weakness of flesh.

Jochi spent the hot hours in pain as a raw spot appeared on his thigh, rubbed bloody in the ride. It went numb as the evening came once again, which was a blessed relief. His scars had eased, but his left arm felt weak and the ache there had become a hot iron in his flesh as he gripped the reins. There was no talking in the Mongol ranks by then. Their mouths were closed as they had been taught, conserving moisture in their bodies as they approached the end of endurance. Jochi looked to Jebe occasionally, waiting for the other man to judge the best time to break off the ride. Jebe rode stiffly, his eyes hardly leaving the horizon ahead. To look at him, Jochi thought the young general might well ride to the horizon.

‘It is time, Jebe,’ Jochi called to him at last.

The general stirred sluggishly from his daze, mumbling something incoherent and spitting feebly, so that the wad of phlegm struck his own chest.

‘My Chin warriors are drifting further back,’ Jochi went on. ‘We could lose them. Those who follow are letting the gap widen.’

Jebe turned in the saddle, wincing as his muscles protested. The Arabs were almost a full mile behind. The lead animals were stumbling and lame and Jebe nodded, a tired smile crossing his face as he came fully alert.

‘At this pace, a mile is only four hundred heartbeats,’ he said.

Jochi nodded. They had spent part of the dawn judging speed with markers as they passed them and then took note of the Arab ranks drawing abreast that point. Both Jochi and Jebe found the calculations easy and had amused each other estimating distance and speed to pass the time.

‘Increase the pace then,’ Jochi replied. He forced his mount to a canter as he spoke and the tumans matched them doggedly. The enemy dwindled with painful slowness as the generals called out the mark. When the first Arab riders passed a pinkish stone six hundred heartbeats after the last Mongol, the generals looked at each other and nodded grimly. They had come as far as any scout had ever ridden and further. All the men were weary and sore, but it was time. Jochi and Jebe passed orders down the line so that the warriors were ready. Though they had pushed themselves to the limit, Jochi and Jebe both saw something in the red-rimmed eyes of those around them that made them proud.

Jochi had sent orders to the minghaan officers of his Chin recruits at the back and it was one of those men who rode up through the ranks to speak to him.

The Chin soldier was covered in dust as thick as paint, so that cracks appeared around his eyes and mouth. Even then, Jochi could see his anger.

‘General, I must have misunderstood the order you sent,’ he said, his voice a dry croak. ‘If we turn to face this enemy, my men will be in the front rank. Surely you cannot mean to have us fall back?’

Jochi glanced at Jebe, but the Mongol general had fixed his gaze on the horizon.

‘Your men are exhausted, Sen Tu,’ Jochi said.

The Chin officer could not deny it, but he shook his head.

‘We have come this far. My men will be shamed if they are taken from the line of battle at the end.’

Jochi saw fierce pride in his officer and realised he should not have given the order. Many of the Chin would die, but they too were his men to command and he should not have tried to spare them.

‘Very well. You have the first rank when I call the halt. I will send those with lances to you. Show me you are worthy of this honour.’

The Chin officer bowed in his saddle, before returning to the rear. Jochi did not look again at Jebe, though the latter nodded in appreciation.

It took time for the orders to spread through the Mongol riders. For tired men, it seemed to act like a gulp of airag, so that warriors sat straighter in their saddles and readied their bows, lances and swords. While they still rode, Jebe sent his lancemen to support the rear and waited until they were in position.

‘We have come a long way, Jochi,’ Jebe said.

The khan’s son nodded. He felt as if he had known Jebe all his life after the night ride.

‘Are you ready, old man?’ Jochi said, grinning despite his tiredness.

‘I feel like one, but I am ready,’ Jebe replied.

Both men raised their left hands high into the air and circled their fists. The Mongol tumans ground to a halt and the gasping horses were turned to face the enemy riding towards them.

Jebe drew his sword and pointed it at the dusty Arab riders.

‘Those are tired men,’ he roared. ‘Show them we are stronger’

His mount snorted as if in anger and broke into a gallop, its sides heaving like bellows as they charged the pursuing enemy.

Khalifa rode in a daze, drifting in and out of alertness. At times, he thought of the vineyard near Bukhara, where he had first seen his wife tending the crop. Surely he was there and this ride was just a fever dream of dust and pain.

His men began to shout with dry throats all around him and Khalifa raised his head slowly, blinking. He saw the Mongols had stopped and for a moment he took a searing breath in triumph. He saw the rear ranks raise lances and suddenly the gap between the armies was closing. Khalifa hardly had strength to speak. When he tried to shout, his voice was a feeble whisper. When had he emptied his water flask? That morning? He could not remember. He saw the approaching line and somehow Chin faces were grinning at him. Even then he could barely raise his shield.

The approaching lancers carried small shields in their left hands, some part of him noted. Archers needed both hands for the bows and were vulnerable just as they began to draw. Khalifa nodded to himself at the thought. The shah would value such information.

The two armies came together with a numbing crash. The heavy birch lances broke shields and pierced men right through. On the narrow road, the column ripped into the Arab riders, deeper and still deeper, tearing them apart.

Arrows screamed past his ears and Khalifa felt something burn his stomach. As he looked down, he saw an arrow there and he plucked at it. His horse had stopped moving at last, falling to its knees as its heart burst in its chest. Khalifa fell with it, the cursed stirrups entangling his right leg, so that his knee tore and his body twisted as he fell. He gasped as the arrow drove further through him. Above his head, he could see Mongols riding like kings.

Khalifa could hear nothing but wind rushing in his ears. The Mongols had ridden them down and he feared for the armies of the shah. He must be told, Khalifa thought to himself, but then he was gone.

‘Kill them all!’ Jochi shouted above the roaring hooves and men.

The Arabs tried to rally, but many could barely lift their swords more than once and they fell like wheat. The generals smashed through them with their column, seeming to take new strength from every man they killed.

It took hours to turn the dusty road red. As it grew dark, the slaughter continued until they could not see to strike and those who tried to run were brought down by shafts, or chased like lost goats. Jebe sent scouts to look for water and at last they made camp on the banks of a small lake just three miles further down the road. The warriors had to be watchful then, as their mounts would have drunk to bursting. More than one had to strike his pony hard on the nose to stop it taking too much water. Only when the animals had drunk did the men throw themselves into the lake, turning the dark waters pink with blood and dust as they gasped and drank and vomited it back up, cheering the generals who had brought them such a victory. Jochi took the time to commend Sen Tu for the way he had led the Chin recruits. They had hacked through the enemy with unmatched ferocity and they sat at fires with tribesmen of both tumans, proud of the part they had played.

Jochi and Jebe sent aching men back along the road to quarter dead horses and bring them to the fires. The men needed meat as much as water if they were to make it back to Genghis. Both generals knew they had done something extraordinary, but they fell into the routines of the camp with just a shared glance of triumph. They had deprived the shah of his cavalry wings and given Genghis a fighting chance.