Bones Of the Hills

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Standing between two pillars of rock, Kachiun looked down into the Panjshir valley, seeing the tents and horses of Jelaudin’s army. The late morning was already hot and he was sweating and scratching idly at an armpit where a boil needed lancing. With Jelme and Khasar, he had ridden as hard as any scout, half-killing the horses to bring swift vengeance for the defeat at Parwan.

The army of Jelaudin knew the Mongols had come. Kachiun could see robed figures watching them from every peak, men who had climbed hand over hand up sheer rock to their positions. One of them was far above his head, out of reach of any arrow. Kachiun could not snatch them down and he was uncomfortable under that silent scrutiny. All the watchers were turned towards him and some of them signalled the army in the valley with flags, keeping Jelaudin informed.

There too, Kachiun could see evidence of a controlling mind, one who had learned from the enemy at last. The Arab camp was three miles across the river from the town of Parwan, on a stretch of open plain backed by mountains that rose like blades from the flat ground. The position allowed no ambush and could not be ridden around. It did not rely on walls, though Kachiun could see that stone blocks and wooden stakes had been dragged into position before the enemy camp, perfectly placed to foul a charge. Squares of tents fluttered in the morning breeze and, even as Kachiun watched, flag signals from the peaks brought men out into solid ranks. They showed their confidence in such a position, daring the Mongols to ride against them.

‘We must cross that river,’ Jelme said at Kachiun’s shoulder. ‘Now we know where they are, we can search for a ford.’

Kachiun had overall command of the three tumans and he nodded, still staring into the valley as Jelme sent scouts riding to find the best place across the barrier. He bit his lip at the thought, knowing that Jelaudin would have marked the fording places for a hundred miles. There was no chance for a surprise attack when the shah’s son knew exactly where they would come from. Still, they had to cross. Jelaudin had chosen the spot for the battle. He knew the land; he had the numbers and every other advantage that mattered. Once again, Kachiun wished Genghis had sent more men with him, this one time.

Kachiun squinted at the watcher far above him, hundreds of feet above his head. The man squatted in white robes, having climbed a face of rock that reached almost to a point. Kachiun resisted the urge to send warriors up to cut him down. The man may have taken days to reach the precarious position overlooking an entrance to the valley. If he had waterskins and supplies with him, he could defend it against climbing men for as long as he wanted.

His brother Khasar rode up to the front. Kachiun saw he too glared at the man on the heights.

‘We cannot sit here all day, brother,’ Khasar said as he reined in. ‘I could ride down and destroy that little town, at least. The Arabs might lose heart when they see the smoke rise.’

Kachiun looked over the valley. The minghaan officers who had been defeated had described the ground in great detail, pathetically eager to please after the shame of their loss. Kachiun could not see figures moving anywhere in the town and he assumed the people had retreated again to the fortress that loomed above the plain. If he’d thought there was the slightest point to it, he would have sent Khasar down like an arrow. Instead, he shook his head.

‘What is one more town, to us or them? When we have beaten this army, we can take that fortress as we please.’

Khasar shrugged at his reply and Kachiun went on, speaking his thoughts aloud to make them clear.

‘He is confident, Khasar, with the mountains at his back.’

‘He is a fool then,’ Khasar said lightly.

‘He is not a fool, brother. This man has seen us gut his father’s army. He knows our tactics and strengths, perhaps our weaknesses. See how he has placed blocks of stone to interrupt our lancers and bow lines. He is confident and that worries me.’

‘You think too much, Kachiun. When Jelme has found a way across the river, we will pin him against those hills. We will make an example of him.’

Kachiun nodded warily. Genghis had not demanded a quick victory, only that he take first blood from the enemy. Yet the first rule of war was to avoid letting the enemy choose the terrain and set the terms. Kachiun cracked the knuckles of his hands, then his neck, wishing Tsubodai was there for his insight.

It was not long before Jelme’s scouts returned, reporting a shallow ford barely five miles away along the river. Kachiun gave the order for the tumans to move and he could not help glancing up at the flicker of bright flags from one peak to the next as the movement was reported.

‘They come,’ Jelaudin murmured, reading the flags.

‘They have no choice,’ Nawaz replied.

Jelaudin glanced at the rajah from under lowered brows, hiding his amusement at this peacock he had made his second in command. Under his armour, the rajah was dressed in silk of purple and gold, topped by a turban of pale blue. To Jelaudin’s eyes, he looked as if he had been dressed by a prostitute or an actor, but he did not doubt the man’s resolve.

Once more, Jelaudin reviewed the lines of his men, though he had inspected them a thousand times. There were no flaws, he was certain. The mountains protected their rear, while heavy slabs from Parwan’s walls lay in clusters ahead, exactly where they would disrupt the Mongol riders. If the enemy had sent someone to the town, they would have found great sections of the walls missing, floated across the river on rafts of wood taken from homes. The people of that place had lost much for this defence, but they did not begrudge the sacrifice, not when the army had brought success against the unbelievers already. The fortress that sheltered them was too far away across the river for Jelaudin to see individual faces, but he knew they watched from the heights. They at least would have a spectacular view of the fighting to come.

‘We have until this afternoon, if they use the first ford across the river,’ Jelaudin said. ‘Let us walk among the men one more time. Some will be nervous and it will help them to see us calm and cheerful.’

His own eyes belied the casual tone, but Nawaz did not comment, merely ducking his head and dismounting to walk with him.

‘I had expected more than thirty thousand of them,’ Nawaz said as they passed between tents. ‘Are they so arrogant?’

Jelaudin nodded.

‘They are justified in their arrogance, my friend. They took my father’s army apart when he had three times their number. This will be a hard fight, even after all I have done.’

Nawaz blew air from his lips, showing his scorn for the idea.

‘I have emptied my treasury to give you the shields and armour you wanted. In turn, you have fired the men’s hearts.’ He saw Jelaudin glance at him and went on. ‘I am not a fool. You know them better than any man, but by tonight we will be burning piles of their dead.’

Jelaudin smiled at the rajah’s confidence. It was true that he knew the Mongols for the force in war that they were. He could hope for victory, but nothing in this life was guaranteed.

‘I will lead the men in prayers today at noon. If Allah looks kindly on us, we will shatter the legend of this khan, so that his strength bleeds out. Win here and all those cities that watch and wait will throw in with us to root the man from our land. Lose and he will not be challenged again. Those are the stakes, Nawaz.’

The rajah lowered his head, abashed. He held Jelaudin in awe, even before he had sent the Mongols running across their bridge. More than anything, he wanted to impress this man he had known as a boy, just a year older than him. His gaze swept the lines of men Jelaudin had brought under a single banner. Turkomans, Berbers, Bedouins from the far deserts and dark-skinned warriors from Peshawar, marked from the rest by the armour of his personal guard. There were Afghans too in the ranks, serious men who had come down from the hills with heavy, curved swords. None of them were mounted for the battle to come. Jelaudin had chosen a position that would remove the advantage of the Mongol horses. His army would fight on foot. They would stand or be destroyed.

He had worked hard over the previous days to prepare the position, knowing that the Mongols would not be slow in their response. Nawaz had even laboured with his men to take the stones from Parwan across the river. The rajah hoped they saw that he could put aside his dignity to work with them, though his self-conscious efforts had made Jelaudin laugh. Nawaz flushed as he recalled Jelaudin’s words on the subject of pride. He was a prince of Peshawar! It came naturally to him, though he strove to be humble.

Nawaz wrinkled his nose as he and Jelaudin walked past a latrine strip, flies swarming angrily as men shovelled earth back into it. Even in that, Jelaudin had taken a part, choosing the site of the strip so that when it was filled in, it would make a rough earth bank on their right flank. Nawaz looked away from the men who heaved earth into the trench, but Jelaudin called to them by name and reduced their shame at such unclean work. Nawaz watched him with feverish intensity, trying to learn everything he could. He had spent his father’s gold like water to outfit the army. Somehow it was not enough and he hoped to show Jelaudin that he could command and fight with as much courage as anyone there.

The sun moved across the heavens, throwing shadow onto the army that waited. It would dwindle to nothing as noon approached, but until then, the men were cool. The Mongol tumans would be hot and thirsty by the time they had crossed the river and ridden back. Jelaudin had planned for everything and he nodded with approval at the young boys waiting to run among the men with waterskins when the fighting began. The horses were safe, tethered at the rear where they could not panic and bolt. He saw piles of arrows bound in twine as well as fresh shields and swords by the thousand.

‘I have not eaten this morning, Nawaz,’ Jelaudin said suddenly. ‘Will you share a little food with me?’

In fact, he had no appetite at all, but he knew his men would grin and point to see their leader eating without a care while the feared enemy approached. Nawaz led the way to his own tent, larger than the rest. It was as opulent as the clothes he wore and Jelaudin smiled again to himself at the ostentatious prince. As he reached the entrance, Jelaudin looked over the plain he had chosen to avenge the Shah of Khwarezm, searching for anything out of place or that he might improve. There was nothing. All that was left was to wait.

‘Have your servants bring the food out here, Nawaz,’ he murmured. ‘Let the men see me sitting as one of them, but keep the meal simple, as they would have themselves.’

The rajah of Peshawar bowed his head, hurrying inside the tent to do Jelaudin’s bidding.

The fording place had soaked the tumans as they crossed in a spray of muddy water, but the sun leached moisture away as they rode five miles back to the Panjshir valley. The sun was long past noon when they saw the enemy once more in the distance. Kachiun walked his horse at the head of the three tumans, conserving its strength as Jelme and Khasar rode beside him.

‘This will be a hard fight, brother,’ Kachiun said to Khasar. ‘Follow my orders and put aside all thoughts of an easy victory.’

Khasar shrugged as the valley opened up in front of them. They had found another entrance to the central plain, but it too had a man on a peak and he stood to raise a banner that could be seen for miles. The river ran on their left as they trotted towards Jelaudin’s camp. The three generals could see that his army had formed on foot in a bow across the land. Sixty thousand standing men made a formidable sight and the Mongols rode with grim concentration, looking to their generals for orders.

Kachiun felt his bladder fill as he crossed the plain. On a long ride, he would simply have let the liquid run down the horse’s flank. With the enemy so close, he grimaced and held it rather than have the men think he did it from fear.

When the lines of the enemy were a mile away, Khasar and Jelme rode back across the face of the tumans to their positions. They had attended Kachiun on the ride to and from the river and both men knew what they had to do. In that, at least, Kachiun knew he was well served. He raised his hand and thirty thousand warriors moved into a trot. Ahead of them, Jelaudin’s front rank raised swords and shields, the heavy blades resting on their shoulders and gleaming in the sun as it moved west.

Kachiun stared ahead at the blocks of stone littering the open ground. He did not know if Jelaudin had dug pits in front of his men and he tortured himself trying to guess where they might be placed. Should he leave the centre open and concentrate on the flanks alone? It was maddening to think that Jelaudin knew their tactics. Surely he would expect horns to form, in which case, Kachiun should send the tumans down the centre. That would leave their own flanks vulnerable and he felt his armpits grow cold with running sweat as he rode. His generals knew his plan, but they were ready for anything and he could change the orders, right to the moment they struck the enemy.

Jelaudin had seen Genghis fight, Kachiun told himself. One or both of the flanks would have traps in their path. At half a mile, he was suddenly certain of it. This prince thought he had made himself safe in a position where he could not manoeuvre. Kachiun decided to show him the flaw in his thinking.

‘Swing wide right!’ he roared, raising his arm and jerking it in a circle. The scouts near him raised red banners on their right side and the tumans flowed. They would attack the right flank alone, sending everything they had against that one part of Jelaudin’s army. Let the rest fret as they stood behind their rocks and spikes.

It took years of practice to move so many men without fouling each other’s lines. The Mongols managed it as if it was nothing to them, the tumans sliding into a new formation far out on the wing of the enemy. They increased their speed to a canter to match Kachiun and bent their bows. Behind them, a plume of dust rose high enough to cast a shadow across the valley. With the sun behind, they rode with darkness fleeing ahead.

Kachiun saw the enemy shake their swords in anger as he thundered past the first piles of cut stones on his left. If he had led Jelaudin’s men, he would have already had them coming forward like a door swinging shut on the tumans. Yet they stood, as they had been told to stand.

At four hundred paces, Kachiun counted aloud as the distance shrank at terrifying speed. He rode in the fifth rank, keeping himself alive to direct the battle. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry as he forced himself to breathe through his nose, snorting each breath. All three tumans raced towards the enemy. They had run so wide that they would strike almost along the line of hills.

The first ranks hit trenches concealed with river rushes and loose soil. At full gallop, the horses went down hard, sending their riders flying. Some of them had their feet trapped in the stirrups and dislocated their legs as they were brought up short. The army of Jelaudin roared, but the Mongols recovered quickly. More than a hundred had fallen, but those who still lived curled into a ball and used their mounts as shelter as the ranks behind leapt over them. A few more fell as they misjudged the barrier of broken horses, but the line hardly slowed. No other army could have loosed a volley in the strip of land between the trenches and the enemy. The Mongols sent shafts as thick as flies into the enemy, knocking them back. As they reached the lines of swords, some of the warriors threw down their bows, while most took a moment to secure the weapon on a saddle hook, drawing a blade with the other hand. They did not consider the dead men they left behind at the trenches, only that they avenged them.

The roaring line hit Jelaudin’s soldiers at close to full speed, the weight and power of the horses as dangerous to a standing force as the blades themselves. The Mongols spent their mounts ruthlessly, using them as battering rams to break the lines apart.

Kachiun could see the curved blades of the Arabs swinging in flashes of sunlight as they resisted. His tumans had struck only a small part of the line and more than half of his men could not bring their weapons to bear. Instead, they sent arrows over their own ranks, the black shafts rising high to fall anywhere in the enemy host. They tore into the Arab force, but as Kachiun had been told, the enemy shields were well made and their discipline held. He saw shields raised high overhead, so that they formed a wall against the dropping shafts while the men sheltered safely underneath.

Jelaudin’s men fought with fury and discipline as they were forced back a step and then another, over their own dead. The Mongol charge lost its speed against their packed ranks and the curved swords still rose and fell in unison. Warriors were cut from the saddle and, to Kachiun’s horror, he saw his men pushed back as the Arabs surrounded any warrior in their midst, like islands in a sea.

The rest of Jelaudin’s army began to swing out against him. They had abandoned the safety of their position, but the advance was in order, rather than a mad rush. The far flank moved forward and Kachiun swore to himself. His column had cut into just one part of the enemy and he reached for the horn at his throat to counter this latest threat. When he blew the note, Khasar answered, pulling his men back with just a single order that flowed down the chain of command. Kachiun saw his questioning glance and pointed to the closing door of men that was swinging across the plain. Jelaudin’s men knew where the trenches lay and they stepped across them with barely a pause. In just moments, they would have encircled the Mongol tumans and then the killing would begin in earnest.

Khasar had ten thousand archers, each with a quiver of thirty arrows on his back. They formed up in the widest line they could make, though the leading edge was quickly sucked into the fighting on the wing. The rest bent their bows at those who marched towards them. Khasar dropped his arm and thousand of shafts bit the air, thumping into armour and men. Another volley followed on the instant and one more.

Kachiun shouted in frustration as he saw the Arab lines shudder. Hundreds of them fell, but they walked with shields high and merely grunted as they took the shots. Kachiun was exposed and for the first time he truly feared defeat.

He blew the horn again, a double note repeated that would send his men running. Those who were closest to him responded first, but the order spread like a ripple through the tumans. Khasar cried out in anger, but then he too turned his horse from the enemy and pulled back.

The Arab forces howled in triumph to see their enemy run. Thousands of them tried to cut down the Mongols riding away from them, racing after them with swords held ready for a vicious blow. Kachiun waited for the rest, making sure he did not ride so quickly that he left them all behind. The false withdrawal would have been easier against mounted men, where each rode alone in a wild frenzy of bloodlust.

Kachiun took a sharp breath when a new horn signal sounded across the plain. It was not one of his. To his amazement, he saw the running Arab lines stagger to a halt and turn back. Some gaudy prince among their line had blown the note and they gave up the chase on the instant. Kachiun had already been planning the point when he would turn and cut them to pieces, far from the protection of the ground they had prepared.

Instead, they re-formed where they had first stood and the tumans were left alone on the plain, panting and bloody in their frustration.

Only a few of the Arabs were too slow to respond and were cut down by Mongol warriors. The rest stood in solid ranks and bellowed insults, raising their swords and shields as if daring the Mongols to come and take them. Kachiun could see Khasar’s appalled expression as the two brothers met half a mile away from the battlefield.

‘Jelaudin,’ Khasar said, gasping for air. ‘That bastard knows us too well.’

Kachiun nodded grimly. The son of the shah had seen false retreats against his father and he had been ready. The Mongols had been made to look foolish as they ran from the enemy and he struggled to find the calm he needed.

The sun had moved astonishingly far during the fighting, so that early evening shadows leapt from him as he dismounted and tipped a waterskin to his mouth. There was time for another attack, but Jelaudin had out-thought him at every step and his confidence had been shattered. Khasar sensed his confusion and spoke again, needing his brother to start thinking.

‘What about taking up a position outside their lines tonight and sending arrows at them? It might draw them away from the hills at their back.’

Kachiun shook his head.

‘With no other threat, they would just gather under shields. The shafts would be wasted.’

‘Then what, brother? Leave them to their victory?’ Khasar asked. His eyes widened in shock as Kachiun did not reply. ‘You would let these dog-raping farmers have the day?’

‘Unless you have a better idea,’ Kachiun snapped.

Khasar gaped at him and both men looked up gratefully as Jelme rode up, covered in dust.

‘They are cut off from the river, at least,’ Jelme said. ‘Whatever supplies of water they have must run out eventually. We can wait them out.’

Khasar looked scornful at the idea.

‘I wish Tsubodai were here,’ he said. ‘He would not have us waiting for an enemy to die of thirst or old age.’

Kachiun grimaced, though he shared the same thought.

‘It comes down to this,’ he said. ‘No tricks or manoeuvres. Bows and swords alone against twice as many.’

‘That’s all you have?’ Khasar asked incredulously. ‘Genghis will have your thumbs for a plan like that. We’d lose more than half our men.’

‘We have never faced another one like this, Khasar, and we must win.’ He thought for a moment while the other two men watched him anxiously. ‘If they will not leave the position, we can approach slowly, clearing the ground as we go.’ He looked up and they saw his confidence return.

‘Archers to the front to keep them down and under their shields as we come in. Lancers behind them, ready to charge. Without the pits and stones, they are just an army of foot soldiers. We will cut them down.’ He glanced at the sun approaching the western hills and grimaced. ‘But it will not be today. We must wait for dawn. Have the men rest and eat and bind their wounds. Tomorrow will test us all, but we cannot fail in this place.’

When Khasar spoke, his voice held none of his usual mockery.

‘Brother, you must send men to Genghis. Get him to bring reinforcements.’

‘He could not reach us in less than half a month, Khasar.’

‘So we wait! We wait and watch those farmers get thirsty while we drink their river.’

Jelme cleared his throat and both brothers were relieved to have another break the tension between them.

‘The losses would be fewer if we had the rest of the tumans. There is that.’

Kachiun knew it was good advice, though every part of him wanted to resume the battle. He could not remember being forced to such a position before and it rankled. He cursed for a time, in three languages.

‘Damn them to hell! Very well, I will send riders to Genghis.’

Khasar knew the decision had cost his brother in pride and for once he chose not to mock him, merely clapping his hand on Kachiun’s shoulder.

‘The point of war is to win, Kachiun. It does not matter how we do it, or how long it takes. By the time Genghis arrives, they will be dry-throated like chickens in the sun. I will enjoy what comes after that.’

As dawn came the following day, bringing a grey light to the Panjshir valley, the Mongols rose from their camp on the other side of the river, where they could not be attacked in the night. At first, Kachiun could not understand why his sharp-eyed scouts were shouting. The night had been freezing and he had slept with his arms tucked into a deel robe over his armour. He pulled the sleeves back to free his sword hand, reaching for it from instinct as the scouts came running towards him.

‘Is it an attack?’ he demanded, still numb from sleep and the cold. The scout looked terrified at having to deliver his news.

‘No, general. The enemy have gone in the night. The plain is empty.’

Kachiun sagged. The valley of Panjshir was a labyrinth of cracks and passes on all sides. Jelaudin’s men would have known them all.

His mind turned to the scouts he had sent riding to Genghis the evening before. He had not done well in the Panjshir valley and now he would have to send more men to keep Genghis informed. Even worse was the thought he did not voice, that Jelaudin’s men had taken another victory with them to the hills. It was a hard land to track an enemy on the move. The prospect of searching for them among the maze of rocks and valleys that formed this part of the world made him sick with fury. It did not matter that he had most of his forces intact. The enemy had seen them retreat. Kachiun swallowed drily as he realised he had let a spark leave the valley that could set the world alight. Word would spread that the Mongols could be defeated and, whether he liked it or not, Genghis would have to be told.

‘Get the trackers out,’ he snapped. ‘We will have to run them down.’