Conqueror

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Xuan, Son of Heaven and heir to the Chin empire, looked over the glassy surface of Hangzhou lake and listened to his children laughing as they splashed one another in the sun. He could see the ripples they made in the shallows spreading out over the deeper water, where a boatman fished for trout and stared too obviously in the direction of the Chin emperor’s family. Xuan sighed to himself. It was unlikely so lowly a man was a spy for the Sung court, but you never knew. In his years of peaceful captivity, Xuan had learned to trust no one outside his wife and children. There was always someone watching and reporting his every word and action. He had thought once that he would grow used to it in time, but in fact the opposite was true. Whenever he felt eyes on him, it was like already tender skin being prodded again and again until he wanted to rail and shout at them. He had done so once and the unlucky scribe who had made him angry had been quietly removed from his post, only to be replaced by another before the day was out. There was no true privacy. Xuan had come into Sung lands to escape a Mongol army and they had never been quite sure what to do with him. He was a cousin of the Sung emperor by blood and had to be treated with respect. At the same time, the twin branches of the family had not been friends or allies for centuries, and more importantly, he had lost his lands, his wealth and power - a sure sign that bad luck stalked his house. The truth was that luck had played a very small part in the tragedies he had known. The armies of Genghis had taken Yenking, his capital city. Xuan had been betrayed by his own generals and forced to kneel to the khan. Even decades later, the memories stirred restlessly beneath the calm face he showed the world. Yenking had burned, but the wolves of Genghis had still hunted him, relentless and savage. He had spent his youth running from them, city by city, year by year. The sons and brothers of Genghis had torn his lands apart until the only safe place was across the Sung border. It had been the worst of all choices, but the only one left to him.

Xuan had expected to be assassinated at first. As he was moved around the Sung regions from noble to noble, he used to jump up from his bed at every creak in the night, convinced they had come to end it. He had been certain they would stage his death to look like a robbery and hang a few peasants afterwards for show. Yet the first decade had passed without him ever feeling a knife at his throat. The old Sung emperor had died and Xuan was not even sure the man’s son still remembered his existence. He looked at the wrinkled skin on the backs of his hands and made fists, smoothing them. Had it truly been sixteen years since he had crossed the border with the last of his army? He was forty-nine years old and he could still remember the proud little boy he had been, kneeling to Genghis in front of his capital city. He still remembered the words the khan had said to him: ‘All great men have enemies, emperor. Yours will hear that you stood with my sword at your neck and not all the armies and cities of the Chin could remove the blade.’

The memories seemed part of another age, another lifetime. Xuan’s best years had vanished while he remained a captive, a slave, waiting to be remembered and quietly killed. He had seen his youth wither, blown away on silent winds.

Once again, he looked to the lake, seeing the young men and women bathing there. His sons and daughters, grown to adulthood. The figures were blurred, his eyes no longer sharp. Xuan sighed to himself, lost in melancholy that seemed to spin the days away from him, so that he was rarely in the world and sometimes only dimly aware of it. Their fates saddened him more than his own. After all, he had known freedom, at least for a time. His eldest son, Liao-Jin, was a bitter young man, petty in his moods and a trial to his brother and sisters. Xuan did not blame Liao-Jin for his weaknesses. He remembered how his own frustration had gnawed at him, before he managed at last to become numb to the passing seasons. It helped to read. He had found a fresh copied scroll of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in a library. Though he did not understand all of it, there was something about its message of accepting fate that fitted his situation.

Xuan still missed his wife, dead these ten years of some disease that ate her up from the inside. He had written many letters then, breaking his silence to beg the Sung court for doctors to save her. No one had come and each time he had been allowed to visit, she had grown a little weaker. His mind skittered away from the topic as it did with so many things. He dared not let his thoughts drift into the angry roads within.

A flight of ducks passed over his head and Xuan looked up at them, envying them their ability to fly and land wherever they wanted. It was such a simple thing, freedom, and so completely unappreciated by those who had it. Xuan was given a stipend each month for clothes and living expenses. He had servants to tend him and his rooms were always well furnished, though he was rarely allowed to stay in one place for more than a year. He had even been allowed to live with his children after the death of his wife, though he had discovered that was a mixed blessing at best. Yet he knew nothing of the outside world, or the politics of the Sung court. He lived in almost complete isolation.

Liao-Jin came out of the lake, dripping water from his lean body. His chest was bare and finely muscled, with his lower half covered in belted linen trousers that clung to him. The young man’s skin roughened in the breeze as he shivered and shook his long black hair. He towelled himself dry with brisk efficiency, looking over at his father and resuming his habitual scowl. At twenty, he was the oldest of the children, one of three Xuan had brought across the Sung border so many years before. The last, now a girl of twelve, had been born knowing no other way of life. Xuan smiled at her as she waved to him from the water. He was a doting father to his girls in a way that he found difficult with his two sons.

Liao-Jin pulled a simple shift over his head and tied his hair back. He could have been a young fisherman, without any sign of rank or wealth. Xuan watched him, wondering what sort of mood he would be in after the swim. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his son walk up the small pebbly beach towards him. Sometimes, he could hardly recall the bright, cheerful boy Liao-Jin had once been. Xuan could still remember when his son had truly understood their situation for the first time. There had been tears and rages and sulky silences almost ever since. Xuan never knew what to expect from him.

Liao-Jin sat on the pebbles and pulled his knees up, clasping his hands around them to keep warm.

‘Did you write to the prefect, as you said you would?’ he asked suddenly.

Xuan closed his eyes for a moment, weary of the conversation even before it had begun.

‘I did not say I would. He has not answered me for a long time.’

Liao-Jin’s mouth twisted unpleasantly.

‘Well, why would he? What good are you?’

The young man gripped a handful of pebbles and threw them into the water in a jerky motion. One of his sisters yelped, though she had not been hit. When she saw who had thrown the stones, she shook her head in admonishment and waded out deeper.

When Liao-Jin spoke again, the tone was almost a whine.

‘You know, there is no law to prevent me joining the Sung army, father. Whatever they think of you, I could rise. In time, perhaps I could have a house of my own. I could take a wife.’

‘I would like that for you,’ Xuan agreed distantly.

‘Would you? You haven’t written to the one man who might agree. You have done nothing, as usual, while every day passes so slowly I can’t bear it. If my mother was alive …’

‘She is not,’ Xuan said, his own voice hardening to match his son’s. ‘And there is nothing I can do until this prefect moves on to another post, or dies. I do not believe he even reads my letters any longer. He has not replied to one for eight, no ten years!’ His mood was spoiled, the peace of the day gone under his son’s fierce glare.

‘I would rather be in prison than here with you,’ Liao-Jin hissed at him. ‘At least there, I might dream of being released. Here, I have no hope at all. Shall I grow old? Do you expect me to tend you when your mind is gone and I am wrinkled and useless? I won’t. I’ll walk into the lake first, or put a rope around my neck. Or yours, father. Perhaps then they would let me walk away from my captivity.’

‘There are servants to tend me, if I grow ill,’ Xuan said weakly.

He hated to hear the bitterness in his son, but he understood it well enough. He had felt the same for a long time; part of him still did. Liao-Jin was like a stick stirring the muddy depths of his soul and he resisted, pulling away physically and coming to his feet rather than listen to any more. He raised his head to call his other children and paused. The distant towers of Hangzhou could be seen around them, the lake a creation of some ancient dynasty more than a thousand years before. On the rare days he was allowed there, he was rarely bothered by anyone, yet he saw a troop of cavalry trotting down from the road onto the shores of the lake. As he watched in vague interest, they turned in his direction. Xuan came to himself with a start.

‘Out of the water, all of you,’ he called. ‘Quickly now, there are men coming.’

His daughters squawked and Liao-Jin’s brother Chiun came out at a rush, spattering droplets onto the dry stones. The riders rode around the curving shore and Xuan became more and more certain they were coming for him. He could not help the spasm of fear that touched his heart. Even Liao-Jin had fallen silent, his face set in stern lines. It was not impossible that the soldiers had been told to make them disappear at last and both of them knew it.

‘Did you write to anyone on your own?’ Xuan asked his son, without looking away from the strangers riding in. Liao-Jin hesitated long enough for him to know he had. Xuan cursed softly to himself.

‘I hope you have not drawn the attention of someone who might wish ill on us, Liao-Jin. We have never been among friends.’

The soldiers drew to a halt just twenty paces from the shivering girls as they moved back to stand close to their father and brothers. Xuan hid his fear as the officer dismounted, a short stocky figure with grey hair and a wide, almost square face that was ruddy with health. The man flicked his reins over his horse’s head and strode to the small group watching him.

Xuan noted the small lion symbol etched into the officer’s scaled armour as he bowed. He did not know every rank of the Sung military, but he knew the man had proven himself as an archer and swordsman, as well as passing an exam on tactics in one of the city barracks.

‘This humble soldier is Hong Tsaio-Wen,’ the man said. ‘I have orders to escort his majesty Xuan, Son of Heaven, to the Leopard barracks to be fitted with armour.’

‘What? What is this?’ Xuan demanded incredulously.

Tsaio-Wen stared at him with unblinking eyes. ‘His majesty’s men have been assembled there,’ he replied, stiff with the formal idiom that would not allow him to address Xuan directly. ‘His majesty will want to join them there.’ He raised an arm to gesture to his men and Xuan saw they had brought a spare horse, saddled and waiting. ‘His majesty will desire to come with me now.’

Xuan felt ice touch his heart and he wondered if the moment had come when the Sung emperor had finally tired of his existence. It was possible that he would be taken to a place of execution and quietly made to vanish. He knew better than to argue. Xuan had known many Sung soldiers and officials in the sixteen years of his captivity. If he demanded reasons or explanation, Tsaio-Wen would simply repeat his orders with placid indifference, never less than polite. Xuan had grown used to the stone walls of Sung manners.

To his surprise, it was his son who spoke.

‘I would like to come with you, father,’ Liao-Jin said softly.

Xuan winced. If this was an order for his execution, his son’s presence would only mean one more body at sunset. He shook his head, hoping it was answer enough. Instead, Liao-Jin stepped around to face him.

‘They have allowed your men to assemble, after how long? This is important, father. Let me come with you, whatever it turns out to be.’

The Sung officer could have been made of stone as he stood there, giving Xuan no sign he had even heard. Despite himself, Xuan looked past his son and spoke.

‘Why am I needed now, after so long?’

The soldier remained silent, his eyes like black glass. Yet there was no aggression in his stance. It had been a long time since Xuan had judged the mood of fighting men, but he sensed no violence from the rest of the small troop. He made his decision.

‘Liao-Jin, I commission you as yinzhan junior officer. I will explain your duties and responsibilities at a later time.’

His son flushed with pleasure and he went down on one knee, bowing his head. Xuan rested his hand on the back of his son’s neck for a moment. Years before, he might have resisted any sign of affection, but he did not care if some honourless Sung soldiers saw it.

‘We are ready,’ Xuan said to Tsaio-Wen.

The officer shook his head slightly before speaking.

‘I have only one spare horse and orders to bring his majesty to the barracks. I have no orders about any other.’

The man’s tone was sour and Xuan felt an old anger stir in him, one he had not allowed himself to feel in years. A man in his position could have no honour, could allow himself no pride. Yet he stepped closer to the soldier and leaned in, his eyes bright with rage.

‘Who are you to speak to me in such a way? You, a dog-meat soldier of no family? What I choose to do is no concern of yours. Tell one of your men to dismount and walk back, or give up your own mount.’

Hong Tsaio-Wen had lived his life in a rigid hierarchy. He responded to Xuan’s certainty as he would have to any other senior officer. His head dipped and his eyes no longer challenged. Xuan was certain then that this was no execution detail. His thoughts whirled as Tsaio-Wen snapped orders to his men and one of them dismounted.

‘Tell your brother to take your sisters home,’ Xuan said loudly to Liao-Jin. ‘You will accompany me to the barracks. We will see then what is so important that I must be disturbed.’

Liao-Jin could hardly hide his mingled delight and panic as he passed on the word to his siblings. He had ridden a few times in his life, but never a trained warhorse. He dreaded embarrassing his father as he ran to the mount and leapt up into the saddle. The animal snorted at the unfamiliar rider and Xuan’s head snapped round, suddenly thoughtful.

‘Wait,’ he said. He passed his eyes over the other horses and found one that stood placidly, without any of the bunched tension of the first mount. Xuan looked across at Tsaio-Wen and saw the man’s hidden anger. Perhaps the officer had not deliberately chosen the most unruly mount in his troop, but he doubted it. It had been many years since Xuan had managed soldiers, but the old habits came back to him. He strode across to another rider and looked up at him with complete certainty that he would be obeyed.

‘Get down,’ he said.

The soldier barely looked at Tsaio-Wen before he swung his leg over and jumped to the shingle.

‘This one,’ Xuan called to his son.

Liao-Jin had not understood what his father was doing, but he too dismounted and came over, taking the reins.

Xuan nodded to him without explanation, then raised his hand briefly to the rest of his family. They stood forlorn, watching as their father and brother mounted up and rode away along the shore of the lake, heading back into the city of Hangzhou.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hangzhou had many barracks for the emperor’s armies. The best of them enclosed training grounds and even baths, where the soldiers could learn their trade, strengthen their bodies and then sleep and eat in huge dormitories.

The Leopard barracks showed signs of having been abandoned for many years. The roofs sagged and the training ground was overgrown with weeds poking through the sand and stones. Xuan rode under an archway covered in lichen and drew to a halt with Tsaio-Wen’s men in an open courtyard. He was flushed from the ride, long-unused muscles complaining in his legs and back. Yet he felt better than he had in years at just that taste of freedom and command.

Tsaio-Wen dismounted without a word or a glance at the two men he had brought with him. Xuan could see the traces of anger in the man’s walk as he strode into the first building. Xuan looked over to his son and jerked his head for him to get down from his borrowed horse. He did not know what to expect, but there had been so little novelty in recent years that almost anything would be welcome.

The troop of riders stood in silence and waited. After a time, Tsaio-Wen came out and took his reins. To Xuan’s surprise, he mounted, turning his horse back to the gate. Two of his men gathered the reins of the horses Xuan and his son had ridden and began to lead them away.

‘What is this?’ Xuan said. He knew Tsaio-Wen had heard him from the way the man stiffened. The officer chose to have his revenge in impoliteness and there was no reply.

A loud cry sounded from close by and Xuan spun round. Running towards him, he saw faces he knew, memories of a different life. Liao-Jin tensed as if they were about to be attacked, but his father laid a hand on his arm. When he spoke, his eyes were bright with tears.

‘I know these men, Liao-Jin. They are my people.’ He smiled, realising that his son would not recognise any of the men coming out and crowding around them. ‘They are your people.’

Xuan had to work hard to keep the smile on his face as he began to recognise men he had not seen for sixteen years. Time was never kind. Age had never made a man stronger, or faster, or more vital. He felt wrenched within, shocked over and over. He kept seeing faces he remembered as young, unlined, and somehow they were still there, but become wrinkled and weary. Perhaps at home they would have been less marked by the years. He doubted they had ever been well fed or allowed to stay fit.

They pressed in close and some of them even reached out to touch his clothes, almost to reassure themselves he was real. Then voices he had not heard for too long shouted orders and they fell back. The courtyard continued to fill as more and more came out from the dormitories, but those who had been officers were snapping orders at them to form ranks for an inspection. They smiled as they did so and there were many questions called from their number. Xuan could not answer them. He could hardly speak for the swelling emotions that filled him. He stood straight, his eyes shining as they made ragged groups of a hundred and marched out to take position on the weed-strewn parade ground.

It was not long before he realised the numbers coming out were thinning. Xuan’s heart sank. He had brought some forty thousand men into Sung lands. Some would always have died - the oldest among them would have been close to seventy by then. Natural causes would have taken a toll, but when he counted the silent squares, the total was only eight thousand men.

‘Where did you all go?’ he murmured to himself.

One man who had been shouting orders was dressed in little more than filthy rags. He was emaciated and where his skin showed it was marked in dirt that had almost been tattooed into him. It was pitiful to see such a figure trying to stand tall. Xuan did not recognise him, but he walked over and met the man’s eyes. They searched his, glimmering with hope where there should have been none.

‘It has been a long time,’ Xuan said. He was about to ask the man’s name when it came to him, with the rank first, flashing into his head from over the years. ‘Shao Xiao Bohai.’

Xuan blinked back pain as Bohai smiled to reveal just a couple of long yellow teeth in an empty jaw. The man had once commanded thousands, one of his experienced sword officers, but it was almost impossible to reconcile the memories with the skeletal figure who stood before him.

‘Is this all the men?’ Xuan asked.

Bohai dipped his head, then dropped prostrate on the ground. The rest of them followed on the instant, so that only Xuan and his son remained standing.

‘Up, all of you,’ Xuan ordered. His eyes had dried and he knew he could show no more emotion to these men. They needed more than that from him.

‘Well, Shao Xiao Bohai? You have not answered my question. You may speak freely to me.’

The man’s voice only creaked at first. He wet his lips and gums with his tongue until he could shape words.

‘Some of us ran. Most were brought back and killed in front of us. Others never returned.’

‘But so many?’ Xuan said, shaking his head.

‘His majesty will not want to hear the complaints of soldiers,’ Bohai said, staring off into the middle distance.

‘I order you to tell me,’ Xuan replied softly. He waited while the man wet his lips once more.

‘There were fevers each summer and some died from bad food. One year, some six thousand of us were taken away to work in a coal mine. They did not return. Each month, we lose a few to the guards they set, or Sung nobles looking for entertainment. We do not always know the fates of those who are taken away. They don’t come back. Your majesty, I have not seen the whole group together for sixteen years. I did not know until three days ago that we had lost so many.’ A spark appeared in the man’s dull eyes. ‘We endured in the hope of seeing his majesty one last time before death. That has been granted. If there is to be no rescue, no release, it will be enough.’

Xuan turned and saw his son standing with an expression of horror on his face.

‘Close your mouth, my son,’ he said softly. ‘These are good men, of your blood. Do not shame them for what they cannot control.’ His voice rose in volume, so that Bohai and those close by heard his words.

‘They are filthy because they have not been given water. They are starved because they have not been given food. See beyond the rags, my son. They are men of honour and strength, proven in their endurance. They are your people and they fought for me once.’

Xuan had not heard the Sung officer Tsaio-Wen approach behind him until the man spoke.

‘How touching. I wonder if their emperor will embrace them in their shit and lice?’

Xuan spun round and stepped very close to Tsaio-Wen. He seemed oblivious to the sword that hung from Tsaio-Wen’s belt.

‘You again? Have I not yet taught you humility?’ To Tsaio-Wen’s astonishment, Xuan prodded him in the chest with a stiffened finger. ‘These men were allies to your emperor, but how have they been treated? Starved, left in their own dirt without proper food? My enemies would have treated them better than you.’

Sheer surprise held Tsaio-Wen still for a moment. When his hand dropped to his sword, Xuan stepped even closer, so that their noses came together and angry spittle touched Tsaio-Wen’s face.

‘I have lived long enough, dog-meat. Show a blade to me and see what these unarmed men will do to you with their bare hands.’

Tsaio-Wen looked past him and was suddenly aware of all the ranks of furious men watching the scene. Carefully, he stepped back. Xuan was pleased to see a line of sweat along his forehead.

‘Personally, I would let you all starve,’ Tsaio-Wen said. ‘But instead, you are to be sent out against the Mongol tumans. No doubt the emperor would rather see Mongol swords blunted on your skulls than on Sung soldiers.’

He handed over a package of orders and Xuan took them, trying to hide his astonishment. He broke the imperial seal he knew so well and read quickly as Tsaio-Wen turned away. The Sung officer managed to cross some forty paces of the parade ground before Xuan raised his head.

‘Stop,’ he shouted. The soldier marched on, his stiff back showing his anger. Xuan raised his voice to a bellow. ‘You are mentioned in these orders, Hong Tsaio-Wen.’

The Sung officer scraped to a halt. His face red with rage, he came back. Xuan ignored him, continuing to read while the man stood quivering in indignation.

‘It seems my cousin the emperor is not a complete fool,’ Xuan said. Tsaio-Wen hissed at the insult, but he did not move. ‘He has recalled that there is only one group in his lands who have faced the Mongols before - and held them off. You see those men before you, Tsaio-Wen.’ To his pleasure, the closest ranks pulled their shoulders back as they heard. ‘It says that I should expect armourers and trainers to fit them once more for war. Where are these men?’

‘On their way,’ Tsaio-Wen grated through a clenched jaw. ‘Where is my name mentioned?’

‘Here,’ Xuan said, showing him the page of thick vellum covered in tiny black characters. It surprised him that the officer could read. Things had changed since his day.

‘I do not see it,’ Tsaio-Wen said, squinting at the page.

‘There. Where it says I may choose Sung officers to help with the supplies and training. I choose you, Tsaio-Wen. I enjoy your company too much to let you go.’

‘You can’t,’ Tsaio-Wen replied. Once again his hand fell to the sword and then dropped away at a guttural snarl from the closest men.

‘Your emperor has written that I can, Tsaio-Wen. Choose to obey me or choose to hang, I do not care which. The emperor has said we will march again. Perhaps we will be destroyed, I do not know. Perhaps we will triumph. It will be easier to decide when we have eaten well and grown strong, I know that. Have you made your decision, Hong Tsaio-Wen?’

‘I will obey the orders of my emperor,’ the man said, promising death with his eyes.

‘You are a wise man to show such obedience and humility,’ Xuan said. ‘You will be a lesson to all of us. Now it says here that there are funds available, so send runners into the city for food. My men are hungry. Send for doctors to tend the weak and sick. Employ servants to clean the barracks and painters to make it fresh. Find roofers to repair broken tiles, carpenters to rebuild the stables, butchers and ice men to fill the basements with meat. You will be busy, Tsaio-Wen, but do not despair. Your work benefits the last Chin army and there is no better cause.’

Tsaio-Wen’s eyes drifted to the papers Xuan held in his hand. Whatever the injustice or humiliation, he dared not refuse. Just a word from one of his senior officers that he had baulked at a lawful order and he would be finished. He bowed his head as if he had to break bones to do it, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Xuan turned to the incredulous smiles on the faces of his men. His son could only stare and shake his head in amazement.

‘None of us thought today would end like this,’ Xuan said. ‘We will grow strong in the months to come. We will eat well and train again with sword, pike and bow. It will be hard. None of us are young men any longer. When we are ready, we will leave this place for the last time. It does not matter whether we ride against the Mongols. It does not matter if we ride into hell. What matters … is that we will leave.’

His voice broke as he said the last words and they cheered him, their voices growing stronger and louder until they echoed across the parade ground and the barracks beyond.

In the gers of the camp healers, Kublai sat in grim silence as the wound on his arm was bandaged by a harried shaman. The man’s hands were deft and practised, working by instinct. Kublai grimaced in pain as the shaman tied off the knot and bowed briefly before moving on. General Bayar was just two cots down, wearing the cold face of indifference as another shaman worked to sew a gash on his leg that slowly dripped dark red blood.

Yao Shu approached, bearing a sheaf of paper with hastily scrawled figures.

‘Where are the Sung guns?’ Kublai asked Bayar suddenly. He did not want to hear the numbers of maimed and dead from Yao Shu, not then. He was still shaking slightly from his own fight on the hill, a quivering deep inside him that had lasted far longer than the swift struggle itself. Bayar stood to answer him, flexed his leg with a wince.

‘We found them still being brought up, my lord, a mile or so back. I have our own men looking them over.’

‘How many cannon?’

‘Only forty, but enough powder and balls for a dozen shots each. Smaller shot than the ones we had.’

‘Then abandon our own. Have oil wiped over them and cover them with oiled linen, but leave them where they are until we have a respite or we make more shot and powder.’

Bayar looked wearily at him. They had received news of two more armies approaching the area, marching hard and fast to support the ones that had gone before. Their only chance was to ride to the first and smash it before they faced a battle on two fronts.

‘Have you retrieved the arrows?’ Kublai asked.

Bayar was swaying as he stood, utterly exhausted. Kublai saw him summon his will to answer, a visible effort that reduced him to awe.

‘I have a minghaan out among the dead, collecting any that can be re-used. We’ll get perhaps half of them back. I’ll have more sent to the camp to be repaired. They’ll bring them up to us when the work is done.’

‘Send them with the wounded men who can’t fight,’ Kublai said. ‘And check the stocks in the camp. I need the fletchers working day and night. We can’t run out.’ He clenched his fist and looked at Yao Shu, waiting patiently. ‘All right. How many men have we lost?’

The old man did not need to consult his lists for the total.

‘Nine thousand and some hundreds. Six thousand of those dead and the rest too badly cut to go on. The shamans say we’ll lose another thousand by morning, more over the next week.’

Bayar swore under his breath and Kublai shuddered, his arm throbbing in time with his pulse. A tenth of his force had gone. He was sore and tired, but he knew the dawn would bring another fight against fresher soldiers. He could only hope the long march had taken the edge off the Sung troops.

‘Tell the men to eat and sleep as best they can. I need them ready before dawn for whatever comes. Send Uriang-Khadai to me.’

‘Lord, you have been wounded. You should rest.’

‘I will, when I am certain the scouts are all out and the wounded are being taken back to the main camp. It will be a cold meal tonight.’

Bayar bit his lip, then decided to speak again.

‘You need to be alert for tomorrow, my lord. Uriang-Khadai and I have everything else in hand. Please rest.’

Kublai stared at him. Though his body ached and his legs felt weak with weariness, he could not imagine sleeping. There was too much to do.

‘I’ll try,’ he promised. ‘When I have spoken to the orlok.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Bayar said.

A scout came through the camp, searching the wounded and those tending them. Kublai saw him first and his heart sank. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, seeing him ask someone who pointed in Kublai’s direction. As the scout came up, Kublai glared at him.

‘What is it?’

‘A third army, my lord. Coming from the east.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t the same report I had before?’ Kublai demanded. The man paled to see him angry and Kublai tried to get a hold of himself.

‘No, my lord. They have been marked. This is a new one, around sixty thousand strong.’

‘The wasp nest,’ Bayar murmured at Kublai’s side. He nodded.

Kublai wanted to ride again immediately, but Uriang-Khadai came to him as he was spooning a bowl of cold stew into his mouth and chewing, his eyes glazed.

The orlok had a strange expression on his face as he stood before Kublai. In less than a week, they had survived two major battles, each time outnumbered. Uriang-Khadai had expected the younger man to falter a hundred times, but he had always been there, giving calm orders, shoring up a failing line, sending in reinforcements as necessary. The orlok saw exhaustion in the khan’s brother, but he had not broken under the strain, at least not yet.

‘My lord, the third army is smaller and won’t be in range until tomorrow or the day after. If we ride towards them now, we can rest before the battle. The men will be fresher and if we have to fight twice tomorrow, they have a better chance of living through it.’

Uriang-Khadai was tense as he waited for an answer. He had grown used to the younger man ignoring his advice, but out of a sense of duty, he still gave it. He was ready to be rebuffed.

‘All right,’ Kublai said, surprising him. ‘We’ll ride east and break contact with the large force.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Uriang-Khadai said, almost stammering his answer. It did not seem enough. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Kublai put down the empty bowl and rubbed his face with both hands. Apart from being unconscious for a time, he could not remember when he had last slept. He felt dizzy and ill.

‘I may not always listen, orlok. But you have more experience than me. I don’t forget that. We’ll move the main camp out of their range as well. I need to find a safe place for them, a forest or a valley where they can rest. We have to keep moving and they can’t match our pace.’

Uriang-Khadai murmured a response and unbent enough to bow. He wanted to say something to raise the spirits of the young man who sat with his legs sprawled, too tired to move. Nothing came to mind and he bowed again as he withdrew.

Bayar had seen the exchange and strolled over, his mouth quirking as he watched Uriang-Khadai begin to issue the new orders.

‘He likes you, you know,’ Bayar said.

‘He thinks I am a fool,’ Kublai said without thinking, then chewed his lips irritably. Tiredness made it hard to keep his mouth shut. He had to lead without any show of weakness, not invite confidences.

‘No, he doesn’t,’ Bayar replied. He nodded to himself, still watching Uriang-Khadai. ‘Did you see him this morning when the Sung overran the wing? He didn’t panic, just pulled back, re-formed the men and shored up his position. It was good work.’

Kublai wished Bayar would stop talking. The last thing he wanted was to invite one officer to comment on another.

‘He isn’t a natural leader, Uriang-Khadai,’ Bayar said.

Kublai closed his eyes with a sigh, seeing green lights flash across the darkness.

‘The men respect him,’ Bayar went on. ‘They have seen his competence. They don’t worship him, but they know he won’t throw them away for nothing. That means a great deal to the ranks.’

‘Enough, general. He’s a good man and so are you. We all are. Now get on your horse and drag the tumans twenty more miles so we can intercept a Sung lord.’

Bayar laughed at the tone, but he ran to his horse and was wheeling the mount and giving orders before Kublai dragged his eyes open again.

In the years since Mongke had become khan, the numbers in the nation had grown beyond anything Genghis would have recognised. His brother Arik-Boke had benefited from peace on the plains of home and the birth rate had soared. Karakorum had become a settled city, with a growing population outside the walls in new districts of stone and wood, so that the original city was hidden from view. The soil was good and Mongke had encouraged large families, knowing that they would swell the armies of the khan. When he rode out in spring, he took with him twenty-eight tumans, more than quarter of a million men, travelling light and fast. They took no cannon and only the minimum of supplies. With horsemen just like those, Genghis and Tsubodai had swept across continents. Mongke was ready to do the same.

He had tried to be a modern khan, to continue the work Ogedai had begun in making a stable civilisation across the vast territories of his khanate. For years, he had struggled with the urge to be in the field, to ride, to conquer. Every instinct had pulled his mind away from the petty rule of cities, but he had strangled all his doubts, forcing himself to rule while his generals, princes and brothers cut the new paths. The great khanate had been won quickly, in just three generations. He could not escape a sense that it could be lost even faster unless he built and made laws to last. He had fostered trade links and yam stations, strings across the land that bound men together, so that the poorest sheep farmer knew there was a khan as his lord. Mongke had seen to it that each vast region had its khanate government reporting to him, so that those who had suffered could make their complaint and perhaps even see warriors come to answer for them. At times, he thought it was too big, too complicated for anyone to understand, but somehow it worked. Where there was obvious corruption, it was rooted out by his scribes and those responsible were removed from their high positions. The governors of his cities knew they answered to a higher authority than their own and it kept them quiet, whether from fear or security, he did not know. The taxes came in a flood, and rather than bury them in vaults, he used them to build schools, roads and new towns for the nation.

Peace was more effort than war, Mongke had realised early on in his time as khan. Peace wore a man down, where war could give him life and strength. There had been times when he thought his brothers would return to Karakorum to find him a withered husk, ground to nothing under the great stone of responsibility that was always turning above his head.

As he rode with his tumans, Mongke felt himself shedding the weight of the years. It was hard not to think of his trek with Tsubodai, facing Christian knights and battering foreign armies into submission. Tsubodai would have given fingers from his right hand for such an army as the one Mongke now commanded. Mongke had been young then and being back in the saddle with armed ranks before and behind was rejuvenating, an echo of his youth that filled him with joy. His horizons had been too small for too long. Chin lands lay to the south and he would see this new city Kublai had created on the good black soil. He would see Xanadu and decide for himself if Kublai had overstepped his authority. He could not imagine Hulegu ever turning away from the great khan, his brother, but Kublai had always been independent, a man who needed to know he was watched. Mongke could not shake the suspicion that he had better not leave Kublai too long alone.

Hulegu’s letter to him under personal seal had been the only sour moment in months of preparation. Mongke told himself he did not fear the Assassins his brother had stirred from their apathy, but what man would not? He knew he could hold his nerve in a battle, with everything going wrong around him. He could lead a charge and face men. His courage was a proven thing. Yet the thought of some masked murderer pressing a knife to his throat as he slept made him shudder. If there were Assassins dedicated to his death, he had surely left them behind for another year or two.

Arik-Boke had come to Karakorum to take over the administration while he was away. Mongke had made sure he too understood the risk, but his youngest brother had laughed, pointing to the guards and servants that scurried everywhere in the palace and the city. No one could get in unseen. It had eased Mongke’s mind to know his brother would be safe - and to leave the city behind him.

In just fourteen days, his tumans were in range of Xanadu, less than two hundred miles north of Yenking and the northern Chin lands. Half his army were barely twenty years old and they rode the distances easily, while Mongke suffered from lack of fitness. Only his pride kept him going when his muscles were ropes of pain, but the worst days came early and his body began to remember its old strength after nine or ten in the saddle.

Mongke shook his head in silent awe at the sight of a new city growing on the horizon. His brother had created something on the grand scale, turning fantasies into reality. Mongke found he was proud of Kublai and he wondered what changes he would see when they met again. He could not deny his own sense of satisfaction in bringing it about. He had sent Kublai into the world, forcing his younger brother to look beyond his dusty books. He knew Kublai was unlikely to be grateful, but that was the way of things.

They stopped in Xanadu long enough for Mongke to tour the city and work his way through the dozens of yam messages that had gone ahead or reached him while he travelled. He grumbled as he dealt with them, but there were few places he could ride where the yam riders couldn’t find him eventually. The khanates did not remain still simply because Mongke was in the field. On some days, he found himself working as hard as he had in Karakorum and enjoying it about as much.

He stripped Xanadu of food, salt and tea in the short time he was there. The inhabitants would go hungry for a while, but his was the greater need. So many tumans could not scavenge as they went. For the first time in his memory, Mongke had to keep a supply line open behind him, so that there were always hundreds of carts coming slowly south in the wake of his warriors. The supplies backed up while he rested in Xanadu, but when he left, they spread out again, paid for thousands of miles away in Karakorum and the northern Chin cities. Mongke grinned at the thought of his shadow stretching so far. Their food would catch them up whenever they stopped and he thought bandits were unlikely to risk raiding his carts, with the khan’s scouts never too far away.

He pushed the tumans south, revelling in the distances they could travel, faster than anyone but a yam rider able to change horses at every station. For the great khan, the tumans would ride to the end of the world without complaint. On minimum rations, he had already lost some of the flesh that clung to his waist and his stamina was increasing, adding to his sense of well-being.

Mongke crossed the northern Sung border on a cold autumn day, with the wind blustering along the lines of horsemen. Hangzhou lay five hundred miles to the south, but there were at least thirty cities between the tumans and the emperor’s capital, each well garrisoned. Mongke smiled as he rode, kicking in his heels and enjoying the rush of air past his face. He had given Kublai a simple task, but his brother could never have succeeded on his own. The twenty-eight tumans Mongke had brought would be the hammer that crushed the Sung emperor. It was an army greater than any Genghis had ever put in the field and as he galloped along a dusty road, Mongke felt his years in Karakorum slowly tear into dusty rags, leaving him fresh and unencumbered. For once, the yam riders were behind. Without the staging posts, they could make no better time than his own men and he felt truly free for the first time in years. He understood at last the truth of Genghis’ words. There was no better way to spend a life than this.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Kublai and Bayar sat with their backs against the same massive boulder of whitish grey stone. Uriang-Khadai watched them, his face unreadable. The twin of the huge stone loomed nearby, so that between them was a sheltered area that local sheep must have used every time it rained. The ground there was so thick with droppings that no grass showed at all and everyone who walked through it found their boots getting heavier and heavier as they went.

The sheep had gone, of course. Kublai’s tumans had rounded up eighty or so, and for some lucky warriors there would be hot meat that night. The rest would have to make do with blood from their spare mounts, along with a little mare’s milk or cheese, whatever they had.

Ponies grazed all around them, whickering and snorting as they cropped grass that grew in clumps so thick that it made progress slow over the hills. They could not even trot on such an uneven surface. The horses had to be walked slowly, their heads drooping with weariness.

‘We could circle back to the last site,’ Bayar said. ‘They won’t expect that and we need those arrows.’

Uriang-Khadai nodded wearily. Though he had gone with Tsubodai into the west, he had never known such a constant run of battles before. There had been a time when he had scorned reports of swarming Sung cities, but the reality was every bit as bad as he had been told. Kublai’s tumans had run out of gunpowder, shot and arrows, the sheer numbers of the enemy overwhelming them. Uriang-Khadai could still hardly believe they had been forced to retreat, but he had lost track of the armies they had beaten, and the one struggling to reach them was fresh and well armed. The tumans were down to swords for the most part, with even their lances broken and thrown away. Faced with new regiments racing towards them, Kublai had withdrawn at speed, seeking out the high ground.

‘Are they still there?’ Kublai asked.

Bayar stood up with a groan on aching legs, peering past the boulder. Below, he could see Sung regiments in ragged squares, seeming to inch their way up the slopes of the mountain.

‘Still coming,’ Bayar said, slumping back. Kublai swore, though it was no more than he had expected. ‘We can’t fight on this ground, you know that?’

‘I know, but we can stay ahead of them,’ Kublai said. ‘We’ll find a way out of the hills and when it’s dark, we’ll ride clear of them. They won’t catch up, not today anyway.’

‘I don’t like leaving the main camp unprotected for this long,’ Uriang-Khadai said. ‘If one of those armies comes across them, they’ll be slaughtered.’

Kublai tensed his jaw, irritated at Uriang-Khadai for reminding him. Chabi and Zhenjin were safe, he told himself again. His scouts had found a forest that stretched for hundreds of miles. The families and camp followers would have headed for the deepest part of it, as far from a road as they could get. Yet it only took one enemy tracker to spot smoke from a fire or hear the bleating of the herds. They would fight, of course. Chabi’s calm courage made his chest grow tight in memory, but he agreed with Uriang-Khadai about the outcome. A small voice within him worried as much about the stocks of arrows held in the camp. Without them, his tumans were a wolf whose teeth had been drawn.

‘You find me a way to make this Sung bastard vanish and I’ll ride back and see how they are getting on,’ Kublai said irritably. ‘Until then, we’ll just stay ahead of them and hope we aren’t riding into the arms of another noble out hunting for us.’

‘I would like to send a small, fast group for arrows,’ Uriang-Khadai said. ‘Even a few thousand shafts would make a difference at this point. Twenty scouts riding fast should be able to get past the Sung forces.’

Kublai multiplied numbers in his head and blew air out slowly. He didn’t doubt his scouts could survive the ride out, but coming back, with a quiver under each arm, one on their back, two tied to the saddle? They would be defenceless, easy prey for the first Sung cavalry to spot them. He needed more than two thousand arrows. He needed half a million at a minimum. The best stocks of fletched birch shafts lay on battle-fields for fifty miles behind them, already warping from damp and exposure. It was infuriating. He had prided himself on his organisation, but the Sung armies had just kept coming, giving his men no time to rest.

‘We need to find another city, one with an imperial barracks,’ he said. ‘They have what we need. Where are the maps?’

Bayar reached inside his tunic and pulled out a sweat-stained sheet of goatskin, dark yellow and folded many times, so that whitish lines showed as he opened it out. There were dozens of cities shown on the map, marked in characters painted by some long-dead scribe. Bayar pointed to one that lay beyond the range of mountains where the tumans sprawled in exhaustion.

‘Shaoyang,’ he said, jabbing a finger at it. Sweat dripped as he leaned over, so that dark spots appeared on the material. With a curse, he wiped his face with both hands.

‘That’s clear then,’ Kublai said. ‘We need to reach this city, overcome their garrison and somehow get to their stores of weaponry before the army behind catches up, or the population turns out and finishes us.’ He laughed bitterly to himself.

Uriang-Khadai spoke as Kublai leaned back. ‘There is a chance the garrison is already out,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘For all we know, we may have already beaten them. Or they could be out looking for us, like every other Sung soldier in the region.’

Kublai sat up, struggling to think through his exhaustion.

‘If they’re in place, we could draw them away. If we sent a few men into the markets with information to sell, maybe. Rumours of a Mongol army fifty miles in the wrong direction would surely bring the garrison out. We know by now there are standing orders to attack us on sight. They could not remain in the city with the right bait.’

‘If they are there at all,’ Uriang-Khadai agreed.

‘If they ignore the news, we will be waiting to enter a hostile city, with another army coming up fast behind us,’ Bayar pointed out. He was surprised to be the one urging caution, but Uriang-Khadai seemed to be caught up in the idea.

Kublai stood up, stretching his aching legs and looking down the mountain to the Sung regiments plodding after them. The ground was so broken with its clumps and hillocks of grass that they could not move any faster than those they chased. He could be thankful for that at least. He felt his head clear with the movement and gave a low whistle to the closest minghaan officers, jerking his head in the direction of travel. It was time to move on again.

‘You know I’d love to get into their stores,’ he said, ‘but even if the garrison is already out, the prefect of the city won’t let us just walk in and take what we need.’

‘The citizens of Shaoyang won’t know how the war is going,’ Uriang-Khadai said. ‘If you gave them the chance, he might surrender to you.’

Kublai looked closely for some sign of mockery, but Uriang-Khadai’s face was like stone. Kublai grinned for a moment.

‘He might,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll think about it as we go. Come on, the ones following are getting too close. What do you say to a fast ten miles over the peak to put some distance between us?’

All those who heard made some groaning noise at the prospect, but they lurched to their feet. With the ground so broken, it was all they could do to stop the Sung regiments below snapping at their heels.

Mongke hated sieges, but without a massive force of catapults and cannon, he faced the same problems Genghis had once known. Cities were designed to keep out marauding armies such as his, though for once they were not his main objective. Somewhere to the south, Kublai was engaging the Sung armies. Mongke would have liked to smash down the walls of the cities he passed, but his primary aim was to reach Kublai. It suited his purposes well enough if every city barred its gates against him - and the garrisons stayed safely inside. His problem lay in the supply line, which grew more and more vulnerable with every mile he rode south. Cities who hid from a quarter of a million warriors would not mind sallying out against a long line of carts, guarded by just a few thousand. When the line broke somewhere behind him, he had been forced to reduce the rations. He had sent scouts out for well over a hundred miles to report any herds he might snap up. It was one resource the Sung cities could not protect behind their walls, and as he entered a region of rich grassland Mongke saw so many cattle that his supply lines became unnecessary. For a glorious few days, his men feasted on charred beef still dripping with blood, putting back some of the body fat they had lost in hard riding. In its way, the problems of a campaign were equal to anything Mongke had dealt with in Karakorum, but he took more satisfaction in simple obstacles he could face and overcome.

As he went on, Mongke noted the cities he would return to when he had finished sweeping through the south with Kublai. He looked forward to seeing his brother more and more, imagining Kublai’s face when he saw the host Mongke had brought to support him.

Towns were easy prey compared to the great cities. Mongke’s tumans could fell trees and leave stubs of branches in just a morning, using them as rough ladders to climb lesser walls. Yet even then, Mongke had let hundreds of towns survive intact while his tumans swept on. They would keep until his return.

A little more than a month had passed since entering Sung lands when his outlying scouts reported a huge Sung army marching south with banners flying. The news spread through the tumans as fast as Mongke heard it himself, so they were ready to move when he raced to his horse. No infantry alive could stay ahead of them for long and his tumans were eager to fight.

His twenty-eight tumans followed the scout’s directions at full speed, sighting the enemy at evening three days later. Mongke was pleased to see they were less than half the size of his force. For once his generals would not have to think their way around an army that outnumbered them. It had always been his plan to bring a bigger hammer to the Sung than anyone had managed before. The Sung emperors had survived Genghis, Ogedai and Guyuk. They would not survive his own khanate.

As night fell, the tumans herded their spare mounts behind them. If the enemy attacked in the dark, the animals were likely to panic and stampede, or at the least get in the way of a counter-charge. They chewed sticks of dried beef to a soft mush and washed it down with airag or water, whichever they had to hand. The warriors wrapped reins around their boots and lay down on the damp grass to sleep. Every man there knew they would be off before dawn and fighting at first light.

As the camp settled, Mongke’s servants created a ger for him, taking the felt and spars from half a dozen packs. While they worked in the moonlight, he lay out a thin blanket and knelt on it, pulling his deel robe closer over his armour to keep him warm. He could see his breath as mist and he slowed his heart, letting the cares of the day ease from him. With the stars achingly clear overhead, he spent a moment praying to the sky father for the battle to go well, for Kublai to be safe, for the nation to prosper. Even in his private prayers, he thought as a khan.

He did not want to enter the ger they had prepared for him. Sleep was very far away and he felt strong and at peace. The dew had frozen on the grass so that he could hear every whispering footstep from his guards as they walked their shift. Mongke was surrounded by his people. He could hear them snoring, calling out in their sleep and mumbling to themselves. He chuckled as he stretched out on the blanket, deciding to spend the night under the stars like the rest of the warriors.

He woke in silence, with his head hidden in the crook of his arm. The cold ground seemed to have reached into him so that he could hardly move for stiffness. He felt his neck crunch as he sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. A shadow moved nearby and Mongke’s right hand darted for his sword in the scabbard, half-drawing the blade before he realised whoever it was held out a bowl of tea to him.

He smiled ruefully at his own nerves. The camp was coming to life around him, though dawn was still some way off. Horses suckled waterskins held high for them, though they would have found moisture in the frozen dew. There was movement everywhere and Mongke sipped his tea, letting the anticipation grow within him. He could not leave anyone alive from the Sung force marching ahead of his tumans. As tempting as it was to spread terror with a few survivors, he needed to use the speed he could bring to the battlefield. His task was to push the men and animals to their limits, crushing a vast track south and running ahead of the news until he had Hangzhou in sight. The Sung would have no time to entrench and prepare for him. Kublai had cannon, two hundred good iron weapons. Mongke would use those to smash down the emperor’s city.

He rose to his feet and stretched, wondering at the strange mood that had led him to sleep on the frozen grass. There was still frost in his hair and he rubbed at the strands with one hand while he finished the tea. He could feel the salt and heat hit his empty stomach and he sighed at the thought of cold meat to break his fast.

His horse was made ready by servants, already fed and watered with its coat brushed to a gleam. Mongke walked over to inspect the animal’s hooves, though it was just old habit. Some of the men were already mounted and waiting, sitting idly in the saddle and talking to their friends around them. Mongke accepted a thick wedge of stale bread and cold lamb, with a skin of airag to wash it down his throat.

‘Do you want to discuss tactics, my lord khan, or shall we just ride right over them?’

His orlok, Seriankh, was smiling as he spoke. Mongke chuckled through a mouthful. He looked up at the brightening sky and breathed deeply.

‘It will be a fine morning, Seriankh. Tell me what you have in mind.’

As befitted a senior officer, Seriankh responded without hesitation, long used to making quick decisions.

‘We’ll ride their flanks at the limit of their arrow range. I don’t want to surround them and make them dig in. With your permission, I’ll make a three-sided box and match their pace. The Sung cavalry will try to break out and stay mobile, so we’ll take them first with lances. For the infantry, we can cut them from behind, working our way up to the front.’

Mongke nodded. ‘That will do. Use the bows first, before the young men go in hand-to-hand. Keep the hotheads back until the enemy is reeling. There aren’t so many of them. We should be finished with this by noon.’

Seriankh smiled at that. It was not so long ago that a force of a hundred thousand would have been a battle to the last man, a bloody and desperate struggle. The force of tumans Mongke had brought had never been seen before and all the senior men were enjoying themselves with such strength at their backs.

Somewhere nearby, Mongke heard a jingle of saddle bells and he cursed softly. Another yam rider had caught up. Without the way stations to change his horse, he would have ridden to exhaustion to bring his letters.

‘I am never left alone,’ Mongke muttered.

Seriankh heard.

‘I could lose a yam rider at the rear until the battle is over,’ he said.

Mongke shook his head. ‘No. The khan never sleeps, apparently. Isn’t that what they say? I know I sleep, so it is a mystery to me. Form the ranks, orlok. Command is yours.’

Seriankh bowed deeply and strode away, already issuing orders to his staff that would ripple down to every warrior in the tumans.

The yam rider was so caked in dust and mud as to appear almost one with his horse. As he dismounted, fresh cracks appeared in the muck that covered him. He wore only a small leather pack across his shoulders and he was very thin. Mongke wondered when the man had last eaten, without yam stations to keep him going in Sung lands. There would have been little or nothing to scavenge in the wake of the tumans, that much was certain.

Two of the khan’s guards approached the rider. He looked surprised, but stood with his arms outstretched and his palms visible as they searched him thoroughly. Even the leather pack was opened, its sheaf of yellow papers handed to the rider before it was tossed down. He rolled his eyes at such caution, clearly amused. At last they were finished and turned away to mount with the rest. Mongke waited patiently, his hand outstretched for the messages.

The yam rider was older than most, he saw, perhaps approaching the end of his career. He did indeed look exhausted through the grime of hard riding. Mongke took the sheaf from him and began to read, his brow creasing in puzzlement.

‘These are stock lists from Xanadu,’ he said. ‘Have you brought me the wrong pack?’

The rider stepped closer, peering at the pages. He reached for them and Mongke didn’t see the thin razor he had kept concealed between his outstretched fingers. It was no wider than a finger itself, so that just the very edge of it glinted as he drew it sharply across Mongke’s throat, forward then back. The flesh opened like a seam under tension, a white-lipped mouth that spattered them both with blood.

Mongke choked and raised his right hand to the wound. With his left, he shoved the man away so he fell sprawling. Shouts of rage and horror went up and a warrior threw himself from the saddle at the khan’s attacker as he tried to scramble up, pinning him to the ground.

Mongke felt the warmth pouring out of him, leaving his flesh like stone. He stood, his legs locked and braced against the earth. His fingers could not hold the wound closed and his eyes were desperate. Men were shouting everywhere, racing back and forth and calling for Seriankh and the khan’s shaman. He could see their open mouths, but Mongke could not hear them, just a drum pulsing in his ears and a rushing sound like water. He eased himself down to a sitting position, showing his teeth as the pain grew. He was aware of someone binding a strip of cloth around his neck and hand, pressing hard on the wound so that he could not breathe. He tried to fight them off, but his great strength had deserted him. His vision began to constrict and he still could not believe it was truly happening. Someone would stop it. Someone would help him. His skin grew pale as blood left him in a pulsing stream. He sagged to one side, his eyes growing dull.

Seriankh stood over him, his eyes wide with shock. He had spoken to the khan only moments before and he stared in disbelief at the twisted figure with the right hand bound into bloody bandages tied tightly around the throat. Blood was sinking into the grass, making it black and wet.

Seriankh turned slowly to see the yam rider. His face had been smashed in by fists while Mongke died. His teeth and nose were broken and one of his eyes had been speared by a thumb. Even so, he laughed at Seriankh and spoke in a language the orlok did not know, his slurred speech sounding triumphant. His cheeks were pale under the dirt, Seriankh saw, as if he had shaved a beard and revealed skin long hidden from the sun. The Assassin was still laughing as Seriankh had him bound for torture. The Sung army was forgotten as Seriankh ordered braziers and iron tools made ready. The Mongols understood both suffering and punishment. They would keep him alive as long as they could.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Kublai stared as he trotted along the road to Shaoyang. The city was deep into the Sung heartland and he suspected it had not been attacked in centuries. Instead of a solid outer wall, it sprawled over square miles, a central hub surrounded by smaller towns that had grown together over centuries. It made Xanadu look like a provincial town and even Karakorum would have been lost in it. He tried to make an estimate of the numbers of people who must live in such a vast landscape of buildings, shops and temples, but it was too much to take in.

His tumans were drooping with exhaustion, having forced themselves to trot and walk, trot and walk for seventy miles or more, leaving their pursuers as far behind as possible. He had sent light scouts to the city, but he doubted they were more than a day ahead of him, such was the pace he had set. Both his men and their mounts were close to collapse. They needed a month of rest, good food and grazing before they went back to the fighting, but they would not find it in Shaoyang, with enemies all around.

As the first of the tumans walked their horses into an open street, there was no sign of the inhabitants. Such a place could not be defended and he could only wonder at a society where walls had been torn down to build new districts. It was hard even to imagine such a settled life.

There was no sign of a garrison riding out to meet them. Kublai’s scouts had already questioned the inhabitants, alternating between bribery and threats. He had been lucky, but after months of hard fighting, he was due a little luck. The garrison was apparently in the field, ten thousand of the Sung emperor’s finest sword and crossbowmen. Kublai wished them a long hunt, many, many miles away.

He heard Uriang-Khadai give a horn signal that sent two groups of three tumans on wider paths to the centre of the city, so that they would not all approach along the same road. Kublai supposed Shaoyang had a centre, that its oldest places would have been swallowed in the rambling districts. He did not enjoy riding along streets where the roofs loomed over him. It was too easy to imagine archers appearing suddenly, shooting down into men who had little room to manoeuvre. Once again, he was glad of the armour Mongke had made him wear.

Shaoyang seemed deserted, but Kublai felt eyes on him in the silence and he could see the closest officers were nervous, jerking their heads at the slightest hint of movement. They almost drew swords when a high voice sounded nearby, but it was just a child crying behind closed doors.

The tumans who rode with Kublai carried his banners, hanging limp in the windless roads. He was marked by them as leader for anyone who might have been watching and he felt his heart beating faster, convincing himself in the silence that it was a trap. As he passed each side street, he tensed, craning his neck to see down it, past the stone gutters and roadways to shuttered shops and tall stone buildings, sometimes three or four storeys high. No one came rushing out to drag his men from their horses. When he heard hooves clattering ahead, he assumed the sound came from some of his own men. He had single warriors out as scouts, but the streets were a labyrinth and there was no sign of them as he saw a small group of horsemen ahead.

The strangers were not armoured. They wore simple leggings and tunics and two of them were bare-armed, guiding their horses easily. Kublai took in the details as he looked around him once again for an ambush. The roofs remained clear and nothing moved. The Sung horsemen just sat and stared at them, then one of them spoke to the others and they began to walk their mounts slowly forward.

Around Kublai, swords came out of scabbards with a silk whisper. Bows creaked as they were made ready. The strangers moved stiffly under that close attention, very aware that the street could become their place of death with just one wrong step.

‘Let them come,’ Kublai murmured to those near him. ‘I can’t see any weapons.’

The tension grew as the small group closed on the line of Mongol warriors. One of the Sung men sought out Kublai in the ranks, assuming his identity from the bannermen on both sides of him. As if he had heard Kublai’s voice, he raised his arms very slowly and twisted in the saddle, first one way and then the next so they could see there was nothing on his back.

‘Ease off,’ Kublai said to the warriors.

Arms grew tired holding drawn bows; fingers could slip. He did not want the man killed when he had gone to so much trouble to speak to him. Around Kublai, bows and swords lowered reluctantly and the Sung men began to breathe again.

‘That’s near enough,’ Kublai said when they were just a dozen paces away.

The Sung group looked to the one who had ridden closest. His bare arms were heavy with muscle though his cropped hair was white and his face was deeply seamed.

‘My name is Liu Yin-San,’ the man said. ‘I am prefect of Shaoyang. I am the one who met your scouts.’

‘Then you are the one who will surrender Shaoyang to me,’ Kublai replied.

To his surprise, Liu Yin-San shook his head, as if he were not facing thousands of armed men stretching from that point to the outer towns of the city. Kublai had a sudden vision of a knife plunged into Shaoyang, with himself at the head. No, three knives, with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai. At the edges behind him, there would be warriors who had yet to enter, waiting impatiently for news from the front.

‘I have come unarmed to say I cannot,’ Liu Yin-San said. ‘The emperor has given orders to all his cities. If I surrender to you, Shaoyang will be burnt as a lesson to the others.’

‘You have met this emperor?’ Kublai asked.

‘He has not visited Shaoyang,’ Liu Yin-San replied.

‘Then how does he command your loyalty?’

The man frowned, wondering if he could explain the concept of fealty to men he had been told were little better than wild animals. He took hope from the fact that Kublai spoke in perfect Mandarin to him, the language and dialect of the Chin noble classes.

‘I took an oath when I was made prefect of the city,’ he said. ‘My orders are clear. I cannot give you what you want.’

The man was sweating and Kublai saw his dilemma clearly. If he surrendered, the city would be destroyed by a furious master. If he resisted, he expected Shaoyang to suffer the same fate from the tumans. Kublai wondered if Liu Yin-San had a solution, or whether he had ridden towards them expecting to be cut down.

‘If I became the emperor, would your oath of loyalty extend to me?’ he asked.

Liu Yin-San sat very still as he considered it.

‘It is possible. But, my lord … you are not my emperor.’

He tensed as he spoke, aware that his life hung in the balance. Kublai fought not to smile at his reaction. The prefect would have made different decisions if he’d known a Sung army was marching towards the city as they spoke. Kublai would not allow himself to be trapped in Shaoyang. He glanced up at the sun and thought he would have to ride clear soon.

‘You leave me with few choices, Liu Yin-San,’ he said. The man paled slightly, understanding his own death in the words. Kublai went on before he could reply. ‘I did not intend to stop in Shaoyang. I have other battles. From you, I merely needed supplies for my men, but if you will not surrender the city, you force me to give this order.’

Kublai turned in the saddle and raised his hand. Once more his men drew swords and raised their bows.

‘Wait!’ Liu Yin-San called, his voice strained. ‘I can …’ He hesitated, making some inner decision. ‘I cannot lead you to the barracks that lie less than a mile down this very road.’

Kublai turned slowly back to him, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

‘I will not surrender Shaoyang,’ Liu Yin-San said. Sweat was pouring from him, Kublai noticed. ‘I will order my people to barricade themselves in their homes. I will pray that the storm passes the city without bloodshed, that you take whatever you need and leave.’

Kublai smiled. ‘That would be a wise decision, prefect. Ride home past the barracks and be sure to fight if you are attacked. I do not think you will be, not today.’

Liu Yin-San’s hands were trembling as he turned his horse and began to walk it away. His men were driven before the Mongol army so that they rode awkwardly, expecting arrows in their backs at any moment. Kublai grinned, but he followed closely, taking his column in further until they reached the barracks of the city garrison. An open square eased some of the tension in the Mongol warriors. At the edges, double-storey buildings stretched, enough to house thousands of men.

Liu Yin-San halted then and Kublai could see the prefect was still expecting to be cut down.

‘There will come a time,’ Kublai said, ‘when I stand again before you and ask you to surrender Shaoyang. You will not refuse me then. Now go home. No one will die today.’

Liu Yin-San left with his small group, many of them looking back over and over as they dwindled into the distance, finally vanishing into the streets of the city. No one else was in sight, Kublai realised. The people of Shaoyang had indeed hidden themselves behind locked doors rather than face the invader.

His men began throwing open the buildings of the Shaoyang garrison, revealing vast stables, armouries, dormitories and kitchens. One of them put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply, drawing Kublai’s attention. He walked his horse over the training ground and saw Uriang-Khadai’s column enter the other side as he went. Kublai turned to the scouts that were always at his side.

‘One of you run to the orlok and tell him to report to me. Another to general Bayar, wherever he has gone to.’

They galloped away over the stones, a pleasant clattering that echoed back from the buildings around the open space. Kublai dismounted and walked into a long hall that had him grinning in the first few steps. He could see pikes by the thousand in racks, then as he walked further, he found shields stacked against each other in wooden frames. He walked past bows that could not match the range of his own. Rooms opened onto rooms and by the time Uriang-Khadai had reached the outer ones, Kublai was standing in a fletchers’ hall, with the smell of glue and wood and feather strong in the air. Dozens of benches showed where men worked each day and the results could be seen in the stacks of perfect quivers on every side. He pulled out a shaft and inspected it, rubbing the flights with his thumb. The Sung regiments were served by master craftsmen.

Kublai removed his bow from its loop over his back and strung it with quick movements. He heard someone enter behind him and he turned to see Uriang-Khadai standing with a rare expression of satisfaction on his face. Kublai nodded to him and drew the bow, sending an arrow at the far wall. It punched through the wood and vanished beyond it, leaving a visible spot of light as the flights fell to the wooden floor. For the first time in days, Kublai felt his weariness lift.

‘Have your men gather them up quickly, Uriang-Khadai. Get the scouts out looking for a place where we can sleep and eat, somewhere clear of the city. Tomorrow is soon enough to begin fighting our way clear.’

Kublai smiled as he looked around the hall. Someone would have to work it out, but there had to be a million shafts in new quivers, perhaps even more.

‘We have teeth again, orlok. Let’s use them.’

Xuan, Son of Heaven, had never seen the Sung at war. The sheer scale of it was impressive, but he thought the pace was dangerously slow. It had taken them a month to escort him to a meeting of Sung lords in the city. More than a hundred had been in attendance, placed according to their ranks in tiered seating, so that the most powerful had positions on the actual debating floor and the least were leaning over the upper balconies to listen. They had fallen silent as he’d walked in, flanked by Sung officials.

His initial impression had been of a mass of colour, staring eyes and stiff robes of green and red and orange. There were as many different styles as men in the room. Some wore simple tunics beaded in pearls, while others sweltered in high collars and headgear decorated with anything from peacock feathers to enormous jewels. A few of the younger ones looked like warriors, but many more resembled ornate birds, hardly able to move for the layers of silk and finery.

Xuan’s presence had flustered servants with no clear instructions. In terms of his nobility, he outranked all the men in the room, but he was the nominal ruler of a foreign nation and commanded a tiny force of ageing soldiers. The servants had found him a place on the lower floor, but towards the back, a typical compromise.

At first, Xuan was content merely to watch and listen, learning the personalities and politics as he suffered through another month of detailed talks. He recognised few faces or names from his time in Sung lands, but he knew the lords in that room could put a million men in the field if they chose to do so or were given a direct order by the emperor. Xuan had yet to see his cousin. The elderly emperor rarely left his palace and the actual business of the war was the concern of the lords. Yet the emperor had insisted Xuan attend the council, as one of the few men who had faced Mongol hordes and survived. His presence was tolerated, though he was not exactly welcomed as a long-lost son. Proud Sung nobles stopped just short of snubbing him completely. They had to endure his presence, but when he did not put his name down as a speaker, many of them were privately pleased, assuming he was intimidated by the powerful assembly.

They met twice every month, though it was rare for the seats to be filled as they had been on his first entrance. Through more regular attendance than half the lords there, Xuan learned of the second massive army Mongke Khan had brought into their lands. For a morning, the threat had almost swept aside the petty politics of the court. Two lords whose lands adjoined each other spoke without their usual barely concealed bitterness. It had not lasted beyond that first sense of truce and by the afternoon one of them had stormed out with his trail of servants and the other was frozen in rage at whatever insult he had perceived to his house and rank.

Despite the chaotic lack of leadership, actual fighting did take place. Xuan learned that in the south, the tumans with Kublai had smashed eleven armies, some three-quarters of a million men. Rather than allow them to grow strong on captured weapons, the only choice had been to throw regiment after regiment at the Mongols, forcing Kublai to keep moving and fighting, wearing him down. In his time in the debating chamber, Xuan had seen four nobles stand and make their farewells to take the field. None of them had returned and, as the news came in, their names were added to a scroll of the honoured dead.

As the third month began, Xuan entered the chamber with a lighter step. It was barely half full, but more were coming in behind him and taking their accustomed places. Xuan made his way to one of the scribes who reported the debates and stood in front of him until the man looked up.

‘I will speak today,’ Xuan said.

The scribe’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded, bowing his head as he added Xuan’s formal name with his brushes and ink. It took some time for him to complete it but the scribe knew his business and did not have to check his records. The gathering lords had not missed the event. Many of them were staring at him as he returned to his seat and others sent runners to their allies. While Xuan waited patiently, more and more lords came from their homes in the city until the room was as packed as it had been on his first day.

Xuan wondered if any of them knew he had been summoned to the emperor’s palace the night before, taken from the barracks where he stayed with his men. It had been a short meeting, but he had been pleased to find his elderly cousin was not unaware of the war, or its lack of progress. The emperor of the Sung was just as frustrated as Xuan himself and had left him with one command - to shake the lords out of their complacency. The rest of the night had been spent with Sung scribes, and for once Xuan had been allowed to see any record he wanted. He had given up sleep to learn everything he could and as he sat peacefully in the debating chamber, his mind twitched with facts and stratagems.

He waited through the ritual opening of the council, though the formalities took an age. Two other men spoke before him and he listened politely until they were finished and minor votes took place. One of them appeared to know the assembled lords were waiting for Xuan and hurried his presentation, while the other was oblivious and rambled on for an hour about iron ore supplies in the eastern provinces.

When they sat down, the emperor’s chancellor spoke his name and Xuan stood. Heads craned to see him and on a whim he walked forward to the centre of the room, so that he faced them all in half-circles rising up to the balconies above. No one whispered or shuffled. He had their complete attention.

‘According to the imperial records in Hangzhou, more than two million trained soldiers are under arms, not counting the losses to date. The honourable lords in this room have eleven thousand cannon between them. Yet a Mongol force of barely a hundred thousand has made them look like children.’

A ripple of outrage ran around the room, but the calculated reference to records had not been lost on them. Only the emperor had such information and it silenced those who might have shouted him down. Xuan ignored the murmuring and went on.

‘In time, I believe sheer numbers would have brought success despite the lack of a unified command. Mistakes have been made, not least the assumption that the army of Kublai is in the field and must eventually return home to resupply. They have no need to do so, my lords. They are not in the field. They are merely in a new place, as all places are new to them. They cannot be waited out, as I have heard so eloquently argued in this chamber. If they are not destroyed, they will come to Hangzhou in a year, or two years, or ten. It took them longer than that to take control of Chin lands in the north, lands far larger than those of the Sung.’

He had to wait as voices spoke over him, but the majority wanted to hear what he had to say and the fiery arguments died for lack of support.

‘Even so, they would eventually have failed against the Sung regiments. But now the Mongol khan has brought a new army to the Sung, greater than any he has wielded before. The reports give the numbers as more than a quarter of a million men - this time without their camps. They have no cannon and so their strategy becomes clear.’

The silence was total then, as every lord strained to hear. Xuan deliberately dropped his voice so that no one would dare to interrupt him again.

‘He ignores Sung cities and moves incredible distances. If I had not read the scout reports in the emperor’s offices, I would not have believed it, but they are crossing vast stretches of land each day, heading south. Their intention is clearly to join up with Kublai’s tumans, clearing the field of any army in their way. It is a bold strategy, one that shows contempt for the armies of the Sung. Mongke Khan will destroy the men in the field and then take the cities at his leisure, either using captured cannon, or by siege. Unless he is stopped, he will be at the gates of Hangzhou in less than a year.’

As one, the lords began to shout indignantly at the slur on their courage and strength. To be lectured in such a way by a failed emperor was too much, insufferable. Cooler heads considered once again that he had the ear of the emperor, his cousin by blood. The noise died down to just a few, who eventually subsided back to their seats with angry expressions. Xuan continued as if there had been no interruption.

‘There must be no more personal actions by individual lords. Those have failed to end the threat - a threat which has now grown. Nothing less than the complete mobilisation of Sung forces is necessary.’ Two Sung lords rose from their seats in silence, indicating to the emperor’s chancellor that they wished to speak. ‘This is the moment to strike,’ Xuan went on. ‘The Mongol khan is with his armies. If he can be stopped, there will be a period of time when both Chin and Mongol lands can be conquered.’ Four more stood to speak. ‘It will no longer be a mere defensive war, my lords. If you gather your armies under a single leader, we have a chance to unite Chin and Sung once again.’

He paused. A dozen Sung lords had risen, their eyes moving from him to the emperor’s chancellor, whose task it was to impose some order to debates. Until Xuan sat down, he could not be formally interrupted, though the rule was often ignored. For once, they waited, aware of the importance of the debate to come. Xuan frowned, knowing the men who would speak were not those likely to add to a clear resolution.

‘This war can no longer be fought as individuals. Appoint a leader who will command complete authority. Send half a million men against Kublai and as many against the Mongol khan. Surround their small armies and crush them. In that way, you will be spared the sight of Hangzhou in flames. I have seen Yenking burn, my lords. That is enough.’

He sat down under the silent pressure of so many eyes, wondering if he had reached anyone in the room.

The voice of the emperor’s chancellor rang out.

‘The chamber recognises Lord Sung Win.’

Xuan hid his grimace at the name and waited. He had a right to reply before the end.

‘My lords, I have just two questions for the esteemed speaker,’ Lord Sung Win said. ‘Do you have the emperor’s direct order to unite the armies? And is it your intention that the command of the Sung should fall to your hands?’

A roar of derision went up from the rest of the men in the room and Xuan frowned more deeply. He recalled the watery eyes of his cousin at their brief meeting. The emperor was a weak man and Xuan could still feel the clutch of his hand on his sleeve. He had asked for a letter of authority, an imperial mandate, but the man had waved his hand in dismissal. Authority lay in what the lords would accept and Xuan had known then that his cousin feared to give such an order. Why else would he have summoned an old enemy to his private rooms? If the emperor ordered it and they refused, his weakness would be exposed and the empire would fall apart into armed factions. Civil war would accomplish everything the Mongols could not.

All this flashed through Xuan’s mind as he stood stiffly once more.

‘I have the emperor’s confidence that you will listen, Lord Sung Win. I have his faith that you will not allow the Sung to be destroyed for petty politics, that loyal Sung lords will recognise the true threat. And I am not the one to lead you against the Mongols, my lord. Whoever does so must command complete confidence from this chamber. If you will take the responsibility, my lord, I will support you.’

Lord Sung Win blinked as he rose again, clearly wondering if Xuan had just ruined his chance to do exactly that. The Chin emperor was a thorn in the side of the lords there and his support was worthless.

‘I had hoped to see the emperor’s personal seal,’ Lord Sung Win said, his eyes bright with dislike. ‘Instead, I hear vague words with no substance, no opportunity to verify their accuracy.’

The chamber grew hushed and Lord Sung Win realised he had gone too far in almost accusing Xuan of lying. He recalled Xuan’s lack of status and grew calm once again. There would be no demand for reparation or punishment from such a fallen power.

Sung Win’s hesitation cost him with the imperial chancellor, who knew better than most what had gone on the night before between his master and the Chin cousin.

‘The chamber recognises Lord Jin An,’ he bellowed.

Sung Win closed his mouth with a snap and took his seat with bad grace as a younger lord nodded to the chancellor.

‘Does anyone here deny the existence of the khan’s army and its smaller brother in the south and west?’ Lord Jin An said, his voice clear and confident. ‘Will they refuse to accept the threat to us all, until those armies are battering at Hangzhou gates? Let us move to a vote at once. I put my name forward to lead one of the two armies we must send.’

For a moment, Xuan lost his frown and looked up, but the young lord’s voice was lost in the uproar. Even the number of armies was in dispute and Xuan felt his heart sink as he realised they could not be shaken from their apathy. In moments, Lord Jin An was angrily vowing that he would take his own men against Kublai, that he would act alone if no one else had the good sense to see the need. Xuan rubbed his eyes as the lack of sleep caught up with him. He had seen it four times before, when young lords set out to battle the tumans. Their martial fervour had not been enough. Accusations and threats were thrown back and forth across the chamber, as each of the lords shouted over their neighbours. There would be no resolution that day, if at all, and all the time the Mongol armies grew closer. Xuan shook his head at the insanity of it. He could try to reach the emperor once again, but the man was surrounded by thousands of courtiers who would consider such a request and whether they should even pass it on. Xuan had seen too much of Sung bureaucracy in his years as a captive and he did not have much hope.

When the meeting broke up at noon, Xuan approached the young lord, still talking furiously to two others. They fell silent at his presence and Lord Jin An turned to him, bowing instinctively to his rank.

‘I had hoped for a better outcome,’ Xuan said.

Lord Jin An nodded ruefully.

‘I have forty thousand, Son of Heaven, and the promise of support from a cousin.’ He sighed. ‘I have good reports this Kublai has been seen around Shaoyang. I should not even be here in this chamber, arguing with cowards. My place is there, against the weaker of the two armies. Forty thousand would be lost against the khan’s army in the north.’ His mouth twisted in irritation and he swept his arm across to indicate the last of the departing lords. ‘Perhaps when these fools see him riding through Hangzhou’s streets, they will see the need to work together.’

Xuan smiled at the younger man’s indignant expression.

‘Perhaps not even then,’ he said. ‘I wish I had a strong army to send with you, Lord Jin An. Yet my eight thousand are yours to command, if you will have us.’

Lord Jin An waved his hand, as if at a trifle. In truth, Xuan’s force would make little difference and both men knew it. In their prime, they would have been valuable, but after years of poor food and worse conditions, a few months had barely begun to restore them. Nonetheless, the young lord was gracious.

‘I will leave on the first of the month,’ he said. ‘It would be an honour to be accompanied by such men. I hope you will be available to advise me.’

Xuan’s smile widened in genuine pleasure. It had been a long time since he had been treated graciously by any Sung lord.

‘Whatever service I can provide is yours, Lord Jin An. Perhaps by the time we leave, you will have found other lords who might share your views.’

Lord Jin An looked back at the empty chamber.

‘Perhaps,’ he murmured, looking doubtful.

Orlok Seriankh paced as he addressed his assembled officers. Twenty-eight tuman generals stood before him. At their backs, two hundred and eighty minghaan officers stood in ranks.

‘I have sent scouts north to join the yam lines,’ Seriankh said. His voice was hoarse from giving a thousand orders, keeping the army from falling into chaos as a thousand voices argued over what to do. Mongke Khan lay dead, wrapped in cloth inside a lone ger. The rest of the army had packed up and were ready to move in any direction as soon as Seriankh gave the order.

‘Lord Hulegu will be informed of the khan’s death in a month, two at most. He will return. The khan’s brother, Arik-Boke, will get the news faster still, in Karakorum. There will be another quiriltai, a gathering, and the next khan will be chosen. I have a dozen men riding south to find Kublai and pass on the news. He too will come home. Our time here is at an end until there is a new great khan.’

His most senior general, Salsanan, stepped forward and the orlok turned to acknowledge him.

‘Orlok Seriankh, I will volunteer to lead a force to Kublai, to support his withdrawal. He will not thank us for abandoning him in the field.’ The man paused and then continued. ‘He may be the next khan.’

‘Guard your mouth, general,’ Seriankh snapped. ‘It is not your place to guess and spread rumours.’ He hesitated, thinking it through. Mongke had many sons, but the succession of khans had never been smooth since the death of Genghis.

‘To support his withdrawal, very well. We have lost a khan, but Lord Kublai has lost a brother. Take eight tumans and bring him safely out of Sung territory. I will take the khan home.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

With ancient oaks overhead, Kublai sat out in the open air. He bore the pain in silence as Chabi washed a cut on his right hand with a skin of airag, taking pulls from it himself to keep him warm. They had both known men who walked away from battles with just a gash, then died in feverish delirium days or weeks later. Humming to herself, Chabi sniffed at his hand and wrinkled her nose. Kublai hissed through his teeth as she squeezed the livid edges, making a thin stream of pus dribble down to his fingers.

‘I do have shamans for this, you know,’ he said affectionately.

She snorted. ‘They’re busy and you wouldn’t bother them with it until your arm was green.’

She gave his skin another sharp pinch, making him jerk. The flow of pus grew red and she nodded, satisfied, resting one hand on the curve of her belly as new life grew within. Kublai reached out and patted the bulge affectionately as she rewrapped the cut with a clean strip of cloth.

The families and followers had moved deeper into the forest while he had been fighting the Sung, obscuring all signs that might be found by enemies looking for them. Kublai had been forced to send hundreds of his men into the green depths.

Just to reach the area, he had fought his way back past two Sung armies and seen his stocks of arrows and lances dwindle once again, though he salvaged as many as he could. Without healers and rest, some of his wounded men had died each day.

He looked overhead, oddly uncomfortable as the thick branches reduced the forest floor to gloom. At least they were hidden. The families and camp followers had been kept safe by the dense forest, but he couldn’t shake the fear that they could also hide an enemy creeping up. Even for a man of Karakorum, the forest felt stifling compared to the open plains.

He looked closer at his wife as she stood, seeing dark smudges under her eyes. She looked thin and he cursed himself for not having made better preparations. He should have known the families would be forced to butcher the flocks while they waited for him to return. The vast herds usually replenished themselves each spring, but the one thing the forest did not have was good grazing. The ground was covered in rotting leaves and what little greenery there was had been stripped down to bare earth in the first month. The families had eaten deer and rabbits, even wolves when they found them, but it had not been long before the forest was trapped out for fifty miles. The herds of sheep and goats had shrunk to the point where everyone was on a meal a day and not much meat in that.

When Kublai had ridden in at last, the sight of his people had not been inspiring. They had rallied around as the tumans came in and he made a point of praising them for their survival, even as he seethed at how badly they had done without him. It was possible to count the ribs on the precious oxen and he wondered how many would have the strength to pull carts when the time came to move. His son and pregnant wife had been given barely enough meat to survive and Kublai wanted to lash out in rage at the rest of them. He would have done if they hadn’t been just as thin and pale as Chabi.

‘We have to move the camp,’ Chabi said softly. ‘I don’t want to think what would have happened if you’d stayed out much longer.’

‘I can’t take you out. They just keep coming,’ he said. ‘You’ve never seen anything like it, Chabi. There isn’t any end to them.’

Her mouth firmed as he spoke.

‘Even so, we can’t stay here. There isn’t a rabbit for twenty miles and when the last of the flocks are gone, we’ll starve. Some of the men were saying they’d strike out on their own if you didn’t come back soon.’

‘Who?’ he demanded.

Chabi shook her head. ‘Men with families of their own. Can you blame them? We knew we were in trouble, Kublai.’

‘I’ll drive herds back from the Sung hills and villages. I’ll get new animals to pull the carts.’

He swore under his breath, knowing it wouldn’t work. Even if he could drive a herd towards the forest, the marks of their passing would be there for any Sung scout to read. He had already endangered the position by bringing his tumans back to the camp. To do it again would leave a wide road through the forest. He pushed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, easing away some of the tiredness. The camp supported the warriors with everything from arrow shafts to shelter and hot food, but he had reached an impossible position.

‘I can send out the tumans to gather food and draft beasts to be butchered, or replace the weakest of our stock …’ He swore under his breath. ‘I can’t be thinking of this, Chabi! I have made tracks into the Sung, but I need to keep going, or everything I’ve done will have been wasted.’

‘Is it so terrible to rest up for the winter? You’ll be here when the child is born, Kublai. Send out your men to bring back anything that lives, raid the local towns and you’ll be ready to go out again in the spring.’

Kublai groaned at the thought. Part of him ached at the idea of simply stopping to rest. He had never felt so tired.

‘I’ve cleared a route as far as Shaoyang and beyond, Chabi. If I can keep moving, I’ll be able to reach their capital by spring or summer. If I stop now, I’ll see another dozen armies coming out against me, fresh and strong.’

‘And you will lose the camp if you go on,’ she snapped. ‘You will lose the fletchers, the tanners and saddlers, the hardworking wives and men who keep you in the field. Will the tumans still fight well while their families starve behind them?’

‘You will not starve,’ Kublai said.

‘Saying it does not make it so. It was getting ugly before your scouts found us, husband. Some of the men were talking about taking the last food stocks for themselves and letting the weakest ones die from hunger.’

Kublai grew still, his eyes hard.

‘This time you will tell me their names, Chabi. I’ll hang them from the branches.’

‘That is a distraction! It doesn’t matter now. Find a way to solve the problem, husband. I know the pressure on you, or I think I do. I know you will work it out.’

He walked a few paces away from her, staring into the green undergrowth all around.

‘This land is rich, Chabi,’ he said after a time. ‘I can take a month to raid new flocks. We can drive them back here, but then I’m sending half the camp home to Karakorum.’ He held up a hand to forestall her as she opened her mouth. ‘These aren’t the battles Genghis knew, where he could take the entire nation and raid with tumans from the centre. The Sung are like ants in their numbers, army after army. I need to think like a raider, with the bare minimum of supplies. The women and children can go home, with enough warriors to keep them safe. You and Zhenjin will leave with them. There. You asked for a decision and that’s it. I can take a month, I think.’

‘You can, but I am not going. I won’t lose another child on a hard journey home, Kublai. I’m staying with the camp until the birth.’

He saw the resolution in her face and sighed.

‘I’m too tired to argue with you, woman.’

‘Good,’ she said.

Kublai begrudged every day lost as his tumans scoured the land for herds for a hundred miles and more. In the winter, it took longer than he hoped and he saw the full moon twice before he brought the families out of the forest. The dark months were colder than the previous year. Ice crackled in the boughs of the forest, beautiful and dead at the same time. There was always wood for the stoves and the gers were surrounded by firewood piled higher than a man’s head.

The ground was still frozen when they began to pack up and leave the forest depths. Behind them, they left the usual marks, from black circles of ground under dismantled gers, to the graves of those who had died. Most were wounded men the shamans could not save, but there were many smaller graves as well, of children who had not lived through their first year. There were no mountains to lay them out for sky burial, where the carrion birds would feast. Cremation fires were too likely to spread or be seen by an enemy, so the frozen ground was broken just deep enough to cover them.

Kublai gathered the camp on an open plain. Hundreds of oxen had been yoked and they were better fed than when he had come upon them. Grain from Sung towns had been brought back with the herds and the massive animals were glossy with care, their muzzles wet and pink. He had ordered two hundred thousand of his people home, mostly the wives and children. Ten thousand men would go with them, those who had been wounded, or maimed in some old war. They could still fight if they had to.

His men griped out of habit at the order, but they too had seen the Sung armies and there was relief amidst the final embraces. The families would go fast to the Chin border, crossing in the spring to safer lands. From there, Kublai had sent scouts to his own estates. They would be safe on their journey north. He had kept only the most skilful craftsmen and herders, the metalsmiths, rope-makers and leather-workers. Most of the gers would go, so the tumans would sleep uncovered in the rain and frost.

Kublai had to keep some carts for the forges and equipment supplies - his silver would go with him into the east. He knew the camp would be less cheerful from that point. It was no longer a moving nation but a war camp, with every man there dedicated to the tumans they supported.

The two massive groups slowly drew apart, with many shouting last words. The mounted tumans watched grimly as their families grew smaller in the distance. Chabi and Zhenjin remained with her servants, but no one dared object to the decisions of the khan’s own brother. They had scouted to the Chin border and there were no armies in that direction. The danger lay only in the east and every man in the tumans knew the work was not finished. It was hard to be cheerful on such a day.

It was still a host that trundled deeper into Sung lands, but there was already a sense of having cut away the fat. They kept a good pace and if there was no singing in the camps at night, at least the men were quietly determined. Without the individual wives, the warriors were fed from communal pots, filled to the brim with a thick broth each night.

As the days began to lengthen, Kublai passed sites of his own battles. He rode in sick horror through fields of rotting corpses. Foxes, wolves and birds had feasted and flesh sloughed off the bones, enemies and friends sliding into one another as they were made soft in sun and rain. His tumans rode through with utter indifference, making Kublai wonder how they could keep their food in their stomachs. His imagination forced him to consider his own death, left in a foreign field. He did not know whether such concerns troubled men like Uriang-Khadai, or whether they would admit the truth if he asked.

His scouts reported contact with a force of cavalry forty miles shy of Shaoyang, but whoever it was retreated at speed before the tumans, staying out of range and riding as if all hell was on their heels. Without an order being given, Kublai’s warriors began to increase their pace each day. The carts in the reduced camp fell back to the maximum range of twenty miles, within reach of a sudden assault if they came under attack. During the cold days, the men drank warm blood from the mares, sharing the slight wounds between three or four spare mounts so that none of the animals grew too weak. They were in their own battle trail and there were no fresh supplies to be had until they passed Shaoyang. Kublai wondered how the prefect there would react when he saw them return. He would survive their passing for a second time, something few men could say.

Kublai had understood at last that he had too few warriors to smash their heads against Sung walls. Eventually, the swarming enemy would grind his tumans into dust. He had made his decision and wondered if he was even the same man who had entered Sung lands with such youthful confidence. He could not have gambled it all back then. Now, he would drive them on to the heart of the empire in one great push. He would not stop for Shaoyang. He would not stop for anything.

His tumans could see men on the roofs of the sprawling city as they rode past. Kublai raised a hand to them, in greeting or farewell, he did not know. He would cut the heart out of the Sung dragon in one strike. The other cities had nothing to fear from him.

Past Shaoyang, the land had not been stripped of everything that might feed a hungry soldier. The first small towns were looted for food, though Kublai forbade their destruction. Back in the forest camp, his men had seen the great store of silver he had taken, handed down from a thousand horses, the bars passing from man to man and then placed in piles on the wet leaves. Though the tumans had not been paid in months, they knew at least that it existed and did not grumble too loudly or too often.

He did not expect yam riders, so far to the south. The lines of way stations had ended in Chin lands and when he saw not one but two of the men, they barely resembled the fast-moving endurance riders he knew. His scouts brought the pair in together and Kublai drew to a halt on a wide plain as he heard the jingle of bells from their saddle cloths. He nodded to Uriang-Khadai and the orlok bellowed orders to dismount and rest.

‘They look half dead,’ Bayar murmured to Kublai as the men rode up with his scouts on either side.

It was true enough and Kublai wondered how the men had been finding food without the yam stations to feed them or give them fresh mounts. Both were unkempt and one of them moved with obvious pain, grunting at every step of his horse. They came to a halt and Bayar told them to dismount. The first one slid from the saddle, staggering slightly as he landed. While he was searched, Bayar looked up into the grey face of his companion.

‘I have an arrow somewhere in my back,’ the yam rider said weakly. ‘It’s broken off, but I don’t think I can get down.’ Bayar saw how his right hand hung limp, flopping in the reins that were wrapped around it. He called one of his men and together they pulled the rider clear of his saddle. He tried not to cry out, but the strangled sound of agony he made was worse.

On the ground, Bayar lowered the man to his knees and looked at the arrow stump sticking out high on his shoulders. Every breath would have hurt and Bayar whistled softly. He reached down and prodded the stub, making the rider jerk away with a stifled curse.

‘It’s rotting the flesh,’ Bayar said. ‘I can smell it from here. I’ll have a shaman cut it out and seal it with fire. You’ve done well.’

‘Did anyone else reach you?’ the man said. He leaned forward on his locked arms, panting like a dog. Bayar shook his head and the yam rider swore and spat. ‘There were twelve of us. I’ve been searching and riding for a long time.’ The eyes were angry and Bayar bristled in response.

‘We were enjoying ourselves, seeing a bit of the local country. You found us in the end. Now would you like to deliver your message, or shall I have that arrow cut out first?’

The second rider had been searched and allowed to approach Kublai, opening his leather bag and handing over a folded sheet sealed with Mongke’s mark in wax. Bayar and the wounded man watched in silence as Kublai broke the seal and read.

‘No need now. He already knows.’

The wounded yam rider sagged and Bayar took him under the arms, ignoring the stink of sweat and urine. He could feel heat radiating from the flesh, a sure sign of fever. Even then, Bayar was surprised at the lack of weight. The young man had almost starved to bring the message and he wondered what could have been so important as to send twelve riders with the same message. Bayar knew enough to suspect no good news ever arrived in that way. He called one of his officers over.

‘Fetch a shaman. If he’s to live, the arrowhead will have to be dug out and the wound cleaned. Take him from me.’ He passed the dazed rider over and stood, unconsciously wiping his hands down his leggings.

Kublai had grown pale as he read. The sheet with its broken seal hung forgotten from his hand. He stared into the distance, his eyes like dull glass. Bayar’s mood sank further as he walked across to him.

‘As bad as that?’ the general said quietly.

‘As bad as that,’ Kublai confirmed, his voice hoarse with grief.

Xuan felt alive for the first time in years as he rode west. The old skills were still there, long dormant, like seeds beneath the autumn leaves. He could see his men felt the same. They had grown old in captivity, their best years wasted and thrown away, but with every mile they rode from Hangzhou, the past was further behind. More important than that was the news that had come as they left the city. Mongol scouts had been captured as they came south. Each carried an identical message written in the script of their homeland.

Xuan had seen one of the originals, still stained with the blood of its owner. Only a suspicious mind could have seen the benefits of announcing the khan’s death as he rode south. Xuan had that mind, made so by years of captivity. Even so, he longed for the news to be true. He knew the traditions the Mongols followed so slavishly. If they returned home, it would be an answer to his prayers, indeed the prayers of the Sung nation.

He shook his head in the wind, clearing his thoughts with the physical movement. Whether Mongke Khan was truly dead or engaged in some dark game did not matter to him. Xuan did not know if he would live when they found Kublai’s tumans, but he was certain he would never return to Hangzhou.

He looked across at his eldest son, riding on his right hand. Liao-Jin was still swept up in the sheer ecstasy of freedom, no matter where they rode or who might face them. He had thrown himself into the training with all the energy of his youth. Xuan smiled to himself. The men liked him. He would have made a fine emperor, if there had been an empire for him to rule. None of that mattered. They were free. The word was like sweet summer to every man there.

In the chaotic activity of preparing eight thousand men to ride with Sung regiments, it had not been hard to bring Xuan’s other children out of captivity. Xuan had simply sent two of his men on horseback through the city streets, with orders in his own hand. No one had dared to question his new authority, or if they had, the responses had been too slow to stop them. Xuan had even hired servants for them with his Sung cousin’s silver. Given just one moonless night, he would send them north with a few of the best Chin men remaining to him. They would survive in their old lands, somehow. He had not yet told Liao-Jin that his son would travel with them, away from the Mongol tumans coming east.

On either side of the Chin force, Sung lords rode. Lord Jin An had been as good as his word and provided almost fifty thousand soldiers, half of them cavalry. Xuan had not known the young lord was a man of such power, but it seemed his clan had been leaders in the field of war for many generations. Lord Jin An had managed to persuade one other to join him, a cousin who brought another forty thousand to the ranks. To Xuan, it felt like a huge host, though both the Sung lords still seethed at the lack of support from the council, or the emperor himself.

They had brought hundreds of cannon that cut their pace down to a third of what it could have been, but Xuan took heart from the sight of those black tubes trundling along good Sung roads. There were times when Xuan could even dream of futures where he destroyed the Mongol army that was cutting its way through the Sung territories. A solid victory would unite even the council of lords, so that they would move as one against the greater threat in the north. On his most optimistic days, Xuan allowed himself to imagine his old lands returned to him. It was a good thought, but he smiled at his own foolishness. The Mongols had not been beaten for generations. He only wished Tsaio-Wen was there to see Chin soldiers riding with pride. The surly Sung officer had managed to vanish at the same time as the orders for him to report to the barracks had been sent. A coward at the last, Xuan thought. That too did not matter.

Shaoyang was not many miles ahead and the scouts were out, watching for the first sign of Kublai’s tumans. The Mongols had been in the area months before and Xuan did not expect them to be close, but he would find them. He would run them down. Xuan reached out and patted his horse’s neck, feeling again the exultation of being out at last. He turned to Liao-Jin and shouted above the noise of horses and men.

‘Take out the banners, Liao-Jin. Show the Sung who we are.’

He saw the flash of white teeth from his son as he passed on the orders to bannermen on either side. In its way, it had been the hardest task of the previous few months. Finding cloth had not been difficult, but Xuan had been forced to give the task to his own men, in case the news reached the lords or his emperor cousin and was forbidden before he could ride. They had shaped and sewed and cut the long banners, marking yellow silk with the painted chop of Xuan’s noble house. Xuan found he was holding his breath as the bannermen unfurled the cloth. The streaming banners fluttered in the wind, stretching out in lines of gold.

The last Chin army raised their heads. Many of them grew bright-eyed with tears at a sight they had never expected to see again. They cheered the banners of a Chin emperor and Xuan felt his throat grow thick with pride and grief and joy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

As the afternoon wore on, the tumans remained in the same place, just a few miles east of Shaoyang. The warriors saw that Kublai’s ger was being assembled and the constant, slight tension vanished. There would be no sudden order to mount and ride while the white ger was up. Between them, the eighty thousand men had three hundred thousand spare horses that ran together in a herd like the leaves of a forest, brown and grey and black and dun. As well as providing blood and milk for their riders, the ponies all carried some item of kit, from spare armour scales, ropes and glue, to hard blocks of cheese. It was the secret of their success that alone of all nations they could raid for hundreds of miles from the main camp.

Kublai seemed almost in a trance as he stood on the empty grassland, surrounded by the sea of horses and men. The carts of his camp could be seen in the distance, slowly coming up behind them. He was aware of Bayar walking over again to speak to him, but he did not reply, just stood in silence, drawn utterly into himself.

It had been Bayar’s order to raise the ger. The general was filled with apprehension. Whatever Kublai had read had left him pale and dumbstruck on the grassy plain. It was a crime punishable by flogging for a man to question a yam rider about his messages, but even so, Bayar watched closely as the man accepted tea and a pouch of bread and meat. The rider chewed with the same long stare that Bayar saw in Kublai and the general itched to take him for a walk and discover the truth.

The carts arrived without fanfare or any great welcome, now that the wives and children had gone. Oxen and camels were turned loose to graze. Forges were set up on the grass and fed with charcoal until the heavy iron glowed red. Warriors who needed something strolled in with no great urgency. All over the plain, others sat down to ease their legs and backs. Many of them took the chance to defecate in a place where they would not stay, or urinate into the grass. Others sharpened weapons and checked their bows and shafts as they liked to do at every opportunity. Some of them ate, others talked, but the strange stillness at the heart of the tumans was spreading out, so that more and more of them knew something was wrong.

When the ger was complete, Bayar approached Kublai again.

‘There is a place to rest, my lord,’ he said.

Kublai dragged his gaze back from very far away.

‘Bring my packs to me,’ he said softly. ‘There are things I need in them.’

Bayar bowed and trotted away. The strangeness of the day made him want to return to Kublai as soon as possible. He sent four scouts into the baggage carts to bring back the great rolls, tied with rope.

‘Put them inside,’ Bayar ordered the men. Kublai had not moved. ‘My lord, is the news so terrible? Will you tell me what’s wrong?’

‘The khan is dead, general,’ Kublai replied, his voice barely a whisper. ‘My brother is dead. I will not see him again.’

Bayar recoiled in shock. He shook his head as if he could deny the words. He watched as Kublai ducked into the ger, disappearing in the gloom within. Bayar felt as if he had been kicked in the chest, the air hammered out of him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to think.

Uriang-Khadai was close enough to see Bayar rocked by whatever Kublai had said to him. He approached the younger general with a wary expression, needing to hear, but at the same time deeply worried about what he might be told.

Bayar saw that there were many men nearby who had witnessed his reaction to the news. They had almost abandoned the pretence of not listening. Regardless of the penalties, he doubted the two yam riders would be left alone for long. The news could not be contained. Bayar found himself sweating at the thought. It would spread across the world. Campaigns would come to a halt, cities would grow still as they heard. The men of power in the khanates would know they were thrown back into the maelstrom once again. Some of them would fear the future; others would be sharpening their swords.

‘Mongke Khan is dead,’ Bayar told his superior.

Uriang-Khadai blanched, but gathered himself quickly.

‘How did it happen?’ he said.

Bayar raised his hands helplessly. Everything Kublai had achieved in Sung lands was thrown into chaos by a single message. He could hardly think. Watching him, Uriang-Khadai’s lips thinned to a seam of pale flesh.

‘Get a hold of yourself, general. We have lost khans before. The nation goes on. Come with me to speak to the yam riders. They will know more than we have been told.’

Bayar stared. He followed as Uriang-Khadai strode away, heading to the unwounded rider who stared at him like a rabbit faced with a wolf.

‘You. Tell me what you know.’

The yam rider swallowed a mouthful of bread and meat painfully, then stood.

‘It was an assassin, general.’

‘Orlok,’ Uriang-Khadai snapped.

The man was trembling as he repeated the title.

‘Orlok. I was sent out with a dozen others. More went north to the Chin yam lines.’

‘What?’ Uriang-Khadai stepped closer to him. ‘You were in Sung territory?’

‘The khan was coming south, orlok,’ the man stammered, his nervousness growing. He knew yam riders were meant to be untouchable, but sooner or later, he was going to have to tell the manner of the khan’s death. It struck at the heart of every yam rider in the khanates. They would never be as trusted again.

‘How far away are they?’ Uriang-Khadai demanded. ‘How many men? Must I ask for every detail before it spills from your mouth?’

‘I … I’m sorry, orlok. Twenty-eight tumans, but they will not come further. Orlok Seriankh is taking them back to Karakorum. The khan’s other brothers will have heard by now, certainly Lord Arik-Boke as he was in the capital. Lord Hulegu may hear any day now, if he has not already.’ The scout searched for something else to say under Uriang-Khadai’s cold stare. ‘I was there when the body of Guyuk Khan was found, orlok. The nation will pull back to Karakorum until there is a new khan.’

‘I was there when Tsubodai had the news of Ogedai’s death, young man. Do not tell me what I already know.’

‘No, orlok, I’m sorry.’

Uriang-Khadai turned to Bayar, frustrated with the yam rider and his nervousness.

‘Do you have questions for him?’

‘Only one,’ Bayar replied. ‘How did an assassin reach the khan in the middle of such an army?’

The exhausted young man looked as if his bread and meat had lodged in his throat.

‘He … dressed as a yam rider. He was let through. He was searched, but I heard he kept a razor hidden.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Uriang-Khadai growled.

Bayar looked at him in surprise, though the Christian curses were spreading even to those who had no knowledge of the faith itself.

Kublai stood inside the ger without moving for a long time. He wanted Chabi to come to him, but he could not summon the energy to send for her. He could hear the noises of his people around him, but at least the small space kept out their stares. It was a relief to be apart from them, though he did not weep. His thoughts moved sluggishly. As a boy, he had once swum in a frozen river and felt his arms and legs become numb, helpless, so that he thought he might drown. It had been Mongke who pulled him out, the older brother who laughed as he shivered and curled up on the bank.

He had a hundred memories, a thousand conversations vying for space in his mind. He remembered Mongke sending him out to hammer the Sung, but he also remembered the old ger they had found in a valley when they were fifteen or so. While the rest of their family slept, Kublai and Mongke had taken iron bars and destroyed it. The rotting wood and felt had collapsed on itself as they flailed and swung, lucky not to hit each other in their enthusiasm.

It was not a grand tale of the sort to tell at a khan’s funeral, just two boys doing something stupid one night, for fun. They had discovered later that the ger had not been abandoned at all. When its owner had returned, he had been incandescent with rage and vowed to find the ones who had done it. He never had. Despite all the adult years that had passed since that day, Kublai smiled at the memory. He had lost friends before, but he had thought his brothers would always be there, in good times and bad. To lose Mongke was to take an axe to the foundations of everything he was.

Kublai was barely aware of falling as his legs gave way. He found himself sprawled on thick rolls of carpet, dust rising into the air around him. He felt choked and his hands moved unconsciously to the leather ties of his armour, tugging them loose until the lacquered chest-plate of scales yawned open. He snapped the last tie in a spasm of anger, throwing it down. The motion spurred him on and he pulled off his helmet and thigh-plates in rough movements, tossing them aside to clang against the other pieces on the canvas floor. It was not long before the last of the armour was on the pile and he sat in simple leggings and a stiff silk tunic with long sleeves that reached past his hands and had been folded into cuffs. He felt better without the armour and sat with his arms around his knees, thinking through what he must do.

Bayar saw the galloping scout before Uriang-Khadai. He tapped the older man on the shoulder and they both turned to watch as the scout angled his mount towards the only ger he could see in the assembly of grazing horses and resting men.

The scout dismounted at the ger, but Bayar intercepted him, taking him by the arm and walking him away until he could be sure Kublai would not hear the interruption.

‘Report,’ Bayar said.

The scout was flushed and his face gleamed with sweat. He had ridden far and fast. With only a glance at the ger, he bowed to both men.

‘Orlok, general. There is a Sung army in range. Ten foot regiments or more. Five of horse and many cannon. They have their own riders out and I only had time to make a rough estimate before I came back.’

‘How far?’ Uriang-Khadai said. His gaze fell on the ger that sat alone.

‘Thirty miles east, about.’ The scout made a gesture showing a movement of the sun in the sky.

‘With cannon, they won’t be here until tomorrow,’ Bayar said in relief.

‘Unless they react to contact and push on without the guns,’ Uriang-Khadai replied sourly. ‘Either way, it does not matter. We must withdraw.’

The scout looked from man to man in surprise. He had been riding out far ahead of the tumans and had no idea of the news that had come in his absence. Neither of them chose to inform him.

‘Change mounts and get back out as soon as you can,’ Uriang-Khadai said to the scout. ‘I need eyes close to them. Better still, take three others and place them at the quarter points so they can relay whatever you see to me quickly.’

The scout bowed and jogged away.

Whatever Bayar might have said next was lost when Kublai walked out of the ger. He had left his armour inside and both men gaped at the change in him. He wore a robe of gold silk with a wide belt of dark red. The chest was embroidered with a dark green dragon, the highest symbol of Chin nobility. He held a long sword, his knuckles white on the scabbard as he looked over and approached his two most senior men.

Bayar and Uriang-Khadai went down on one knee, bowing their heads.

‘My lord, I am sorry to hear such news,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He saw Kublai look up as four scouts mounted nearby and began to gallop away to the east. Uriang-Khadai chose to explain before he could be asked.

‘There is a Sung army coming west, my lord. They will not be here in time to prevent our withdrawal.’

‘Our withdrawal,’ Kublai echoed, sounding as if he did not understand. Uriang-Khadai faltered under the yellow gaze.

‘My lord, we can stay ahead of them. We can be back in Chin lands by spring. The yam rider said your brothers will have received the news already. They will be making their way home.’

‘Orlok, you do not understand me at all,’ Kublai said softly. ‘I am home. This is my khanate. I will not abandon it.’

Uriang-Khadai’s eyes widened as he understood the significance of Kublai’s Chin robes.

‘My lord, there will be a quiriltai, a gathering of princes. Your brothers …’

‘My brothers have no say in what happens here,’ Kublai interrupted. His voice grew hard. ‘I will finish what I have begun. I have said it. This is my khanate.’ He spoke the words with a kind of wonder, as if he had only then understood the turmoil inside him. His eyes were chips of bright gold in the sun as he continued.

‘No, this is my empire, Uriang-Khadai. I will not be made to leave. Ready the tumans for battle, orlok. I will face my enemies and I will destroy them.’

Xuan paced in the darkness. His mind buzzed too loudly to rest, stinging him with questions and memories. Armies were strange things, sometimes far greater than the individual strengths of the soldiers in them. Men who might have run on their own would stand with their friends and their leaders. Yet they all had to sleep and they all had to eat. Xuan had camped near to an enemy before and it remained one of the oddest experiences of his life. The armies were so close that he could see the Mongol campfires as points of light on the darkling plain. The two Sung lords had guards and scouts at all points around the camp, but no one expected the Mongols to attempt a night attack. Their strength was in speed and manoeuvres, strengths which would vanish in the blind dark. Xuan smiled at the thought of men sleeping peacefully next to those they would try to kill in daylight. Only humanity could have conceived such a strange and artificial way to die. Wolves might tear the flesh of deer, but they never slept and dreamed near their quarry.

Somewhere close, Xuan could hear the deep snoring of some soldier lying flat on his back. It made him chuckle, though he wished he too could find the balm of sleep. He was no longer young and he knew he would feel it tomorrow, when the horns sounded. He could only hope the battle would not last long enough for his weariness to get him killed. It was one of the great truths of battle, that nothing exhausted a man as quickly as the rush and struggle of fighting hand to hand.

Shadows moved in the darkness and Xuan raised his head, suddenly panicky. He heard his son’s voice and relaxed.

‘I am here, Liao-Jin,’ he whispered.

The small group came to him and though it was dark he knew each one of them. His four children were all the mark he had made on the world. Lord Jin An had understood that. Xuan thought with affection of the young Sung noble. He might have spirited his children away without speaking to Jin An, but it was just as likely they would have been discovered. Xuan had taken a risk in speaking honestly to him, but he had not misjudged his man. Lord Jin An had understood immediately.

Xuan pressed a bag of coins into his son’s hand. Liao-Jin looked at him in surprise, straining to see his father’s features in the starlight.

‘What is this?’ he said softly.

‘A gift from a friend,’ Xuan replied. ‘Enough to keep you all for a time. You will survive and you will be among your own people. I do not doubt you will find others willing to help you, but no matter what happens, you have a chance at a life and children of your own. Isn’t that what you wanted, Liao-Jin? Someone was listening, perhaps. Go now. I have given you horses and only two men to accompany you, my son. They are loyal and they want to go home, but I did not want to send so many that they might think of robbing you.’ Xuan sighed. ‘I have learned not to trust. It shames me.’

‘I am not going!’ Liao-Jin said, his voice too loud. His sisters shushed him, but he passed the bag of coins into their hands and stood close to his father, bending his head to speak into Xuan’s ear.

‘The others should go. But I am an officer in your regiment, father. Let me stay. Let me stand with you.’

‘I would rather see you live,’ Xuan said curtly. ‘There will be many here who die tomorrow. I may be one of them. If it happens, let me know my sons, my daughters are safe and free. As your commander, I order you to go with them, Liao-Jin, with my love and my blessing.’

Liao-Jin did not reply. Instead, he waited while his sisters and brother embraced their father for the last time, standing aloof from them all. Without another word, Liao-Jin walked them away into the darkness, to where the horses waited. Xuan could see little, but he listened as they mounted and his youngest girl sobbed for her father. His heart broke at the sound.

The small group moved away through the camp and once again Xuan was pleased he had thought to seek permission from Lord Jin An. There would be no startled cries from Sung sentries in the night. Jin An had enjoyed the idea of it all and had even signed papers for Xuan that would help them if they were stopped in Sung lands. Everything else was down to fate. Xuan had done his best to give them a chance.

Footsteps approached and his heart sank with heavy knowledge. He was not surprised when the dark figure spoke with Liao-Jin’s voice.

‘They are gone. If you are to die tomorrow, I will be at your side,’ his son said.

‘You should not have disobeyed me, my son,’ Xuan said. His voice grew less harsh as he went on. ‘But as you have, stay with me as I walk the camp. I won’t sleep now.’

To his surprise, Liao-Jin reached out and touched him on the shoulder. They had never been a family given to open displays of affection, which made it worth all the more. Xuan smiled in the dark as they began walking.

‘Let me tell you about the enemy, Liao-Jin. I have known them all my life.’

Karakorum was full of warriors, the plains before the city once again filled with tumans and every room in the city housing at least a family. Two hundred thousand of them had come home and the land was hunted out for a hundred miles around the city. In the cramped camps, the talk was often of Xanadu in the east, apparently crying out for citizens.

Arik-Boke stood in the deepest basements of the palace, with all life and movement far above his head. It was cold in that place and he shivered, rubbing at bumps on his arms. His brother’s body lay there and Arik-Boke could not look away. Traditionalist to the end, Mongke had left instructions for his death, that he should be taken to the same mountain as his grandfather and buried with him. When he was ready, Arik-Boke would take him there himself. The homeland would swallow his brother into the earth.

The corpse had been wrapped and the terrible white-lipped gash across the throat had been sewn shut. Even so, it made Arik-Boke shudder to be alone in the dimly lit room with a pale mockery of the brother he had known and loved. Mongke had trusted him to rule Karakorum in his absence. He had given him the ancestral homeland as his own. Mongke had understood that blood and brotherhood was a force too strong to break, even in death.

‘I have done what you wanted, my brother,’ Arik-Boke told the body. ‘You trusted me with your capital and I have not let you down. Hulegu is on his way, to honour you and everything you did for us.’

Arik-Boke did not weep. He knew Mongke would have scorned the idea of red-eyed brothers growing maudlin. He intended to drink himself unconscious, to walk among the warriors as they did the same, to sing and be sick and drink again. Perhaps then he would shed tears without shame.

‘Kublai will be home soon, brother,’ Arik-Boke said. He sighed to himself. He would have to go back to the funeral feast above soon enough. He had just wanted to say a few words to his brother. It was almost as hard as if Mongke had been there alive and listening.

‘I wish I had been there when our father gave his life for Ogedai Khan. I wish I could have given my life to save you. That would have been my purpose in the world. I would have done it, Mongke, I swear it.’

He became aware of the echo in the basements and Arik-Boke reached out and took Mongke’s hand, surprised at the weight of it.

‘Goodbye, my brother. I will try to be the man you wanted. I can do that much for your memory.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

Before the sun rose, before even the grey light that heralded the dawn, both camps began to wake and get ready. Tea was brewed in ten thousand pots and a solid meal eaten. Men emptied their bladders, often more than once as internal muscles tightened with nerves. On the Sung side, the cannon teams looked over their precious weapons for the thousandth time, rubbing down the polished shot balls and checking that the powder bags had not grown damp and useless.

When the pale light known as the wolf dawn came, both armies could see each other. The Mongols were already mounted, forming up into minghaans of a thousand that would act independently in the battle to come. Men eased tight backs as they rode up and down the lines. Many of them tested the strings on their bows by pulling back without a shaft, loosening the heavy muscles of their shoulders.

Some things had to wait for light, but as soon as he could tell a white thread from a black one, Lord Jin An had the cannon teams pulled into position on the front rank. Others went to the sides, where they would present their black mouths to any flanking attack. He could see Mongol officers staring over at his regiments, noting their positions and pointing out features of the formation to others like them. Lord Jin An smiled. No matter how brave or how fast the Mongols were, they would have to ride through roaring shot to reach his ranks. He had learned from the defeats of other men. He tried to put himself in the Mongols’ position, to see how they might counter such a display of force, but he could not. They were lice-ridden tribesmen, while he was of the noble class of an ancient empire.

The Sung regiments formed up behind the lines of cannon. Lord Jin An sat his horse and watched as his subordinates assembled the gun soldiers in the first ranks back. Their heavy hand-cannon were slow to reload and notoriously inaccurate, but they would hardly be able to miss as they poured fire alongside the cannon. When the shot and powder was all spent, his cavalry ranks could ride out. Deeper still behind the guns, swordsmen waited in their lacquered armour of iron and wood, standing in disciplined silence. Lord Jin An had placed the Chin contingent there, behind the protection of his guns.

He liked the man who had once been an emperor. Lord Jin An had expected Xuan to be one of those obsessed with his status, having lost so much of it. Yet Xuan reminded the Sung lord of his own father, dead for almost a decade. He had found the same world-weariness in both men, tempered with a dry humour and the sense that they had seen more than they cared to remember. Lord Jin An did not think the Chin soldiers would run, but at the same time, he dared not trust his strategy to such elderly men. They were keen enough at dawn, but if the fighting went on all day, they would not be able to keep up with those half their age. Lord Jin An made a mental note to keep an eye on them through the fighting, to be sure a weakness in the lines did not develop.

The sun seemed to take for ever to creep above the eastern horizon. Jin An imagined it showing its face to the citizens of Hangzhou and to the lords who still disdained the threat to their culture and the emperor. They were fools. Before it set, he hoped to have broken the foreign army that had dared to enter Sung lands. With such a victory behind him, a man might rise far indeed. It was just one day, he told himself, feeling sweat break out on his skin. Just one, long day.

Kublai sat his horse, with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai on either side of him. The other officers had formed the tumans, though they remained ready for any orders from the three men watching the Sung positions.

‘I do not understand how imperial Chin banners can be flying there,’ Kublai said, frowning into the distance. ‘Is it mockery to present the colours of men we have defeated? If so, they are fools. We beat the Chin. They hold no fear for us.’

‘My lord, it is more important that the cannon ranks reduce their ability to manoeuvre,’ Uriang-Khadai said. He was flushed with a slow-burning indignation over Kublai’s refusal to listen to any idea of a retreat. In his frustration, he became ever more stilted in his manner, his tone lecturing. ‘They put too much faith in the heavy weapons, my lord, but we can still move. With respect, I must point out that I have been against engaging them from the beginning. This formation only reinforces my view. Why commit suicide against their guns?’

It irritated Kublai that Uriang-Khadai was so obviously right. Before hearing the news of his brother’s death, he knew he would have ridden round the Sung regiments, forcing them to come after him and leave their guns behind, or make such slow progress with them that they would never catch up. He could then choose the best ground to attack.

It was the merest common sense not to let an enemy have his main advantage. All Kublai’s cannon, both captured and brought from home, lay rusting on fields hundreds of miles away. The weapons were terrifyingly powerful in the right place and time, but until someone found a way to move them quickly, they were more often a hindrance to fast-moving cavalry. The Sung commander did not seem to understand that, at all.

Yet under the stillness, Kublai felt a part of him clamouring and clawing its way out. It was red-mouthed in savagery, demanding that he attack just where the enemy were strong. He wanted to take all the grief and pain of his brother’s death and dash it out against those iron guns. He wanted to show Mongke that he had courage, whether his brother’s spirit knew it or not.

‘Sun Tzu said there are seven conditions for victory,’ Kublai said. ‘Shall I list them for you?’

‘Sun Tzu never saw gunpowder used in war, my lord,’ Uriang-Khadai said stubbornly.

‘One. Which of the two sovereigns is imbued with Moral Law? Who is in the right, orlok? It matters to the men. The Sung are defending their lands, so perhaps they must take that first point. Yet I am the grandson of Genghis Khan and all lands are mine.’

Uriang-Khadai stared at him in worried silence. He had never seen Kublai so intensely focused. The scholar had been burnt out of him and Uriang-Khadai feared the effects of his grief.

‘Two. Which of the generals has most ability? I give you that one, Uriang-Khadai, and you also, Bayar. These Sung have made a house that cannot move, with walls of guns. Three. With whom lie the advantages of Heaven and Earth? I call that equal, as the land is flat and the skies are clear.’

‘My lord …’ Uriang-Khadai tried to interrupt.

‘Four. On which side is discipline most rigorously enforced? That would be ours, orlok, men who live hard lives from birth, men who endure. They have not grown soft in Sung cities. Five. Which army is stronger? In numbers, perhaps the Sung, but we have beaten their armies before. I will have that one, I think.’

‘Six. On which side are the officers and men more highly trained? That is ours. Every man here has fought and won many times. We are veteran soldiers, Uriang-Khadai. We are the elite tumans of the nation. The Sung have had peace for too long.’ He paused. ‘The last is a strange one. Which army is most constant in reward and punishment? Sun Tzu valued good leadership, I think, if I have understood it correctly. Without knowing the Sung, I cannot be certain, so I will call that one equal. The balance is with us, orlok.’

‘My lord, the guns …’

‘The guns must be swabbed down between shots,’ Kublai snapped. ‘The barrels must be cleaned of burning scraps of cloth or embers. A new powder bag must be jammed down and carefully pierced by a hollow reed filled with black powder. The ball must be lifted into the barrel and shoved down. It all takes time, orlok, and we will not give them time. They will have one shot and then we will be in range to kill the cannon teams. We can face one shot.’

He had been staring out to the Sung regiment waiting for them, but he turned to face Uriang-Khadai, his yellow eyes blazing.

‘Should I treat them with respect, these Sung men who know nothing of war? Should I fear their weapons, their black powder? I do not, orlok. I will not.’

‘My lord, please reconsider. Let them stand and run dry for a few days without water. Let them grow hungry while we forage the land and remain strong. They cannot remain for ever in one place, leaving us to ride unchecked around them. Let me burn the closest towns to us and they will be forced to answer, to come out.’

‘And by then, there will be another Sung army on its way to support them,’ Kublai said bitterly. ‘Have you not learned yet that there is no end to these people? Today, I think I will answer their arrogance with arrogance of my own. I will ride down the mouths of their guns.’

Uriang-Khadai was horror-struck.

‘My lord, you must stay clear of the battle. The men look to you. If you are killed …’

‘Then I will be killed. I have made my decision, orlok. Stand with me, or join the ranks under the orders of others.’

Uriang-Khadai slowly bowed his head, understanding at last that he would not move the younger man from his choice. He looked again at the Sung guns, in the new light of knowing he would ride into them.

‘Then, my lord, I suggest wide-spaced ranks as we go in, coming back after the first shot for massed arrow volleys and a lance charge. If I may, my lord, I would also hold back two groups of five hundred heavily armoured riders to strike as gaps appear in their lines.’

Kublai grinned suddenly.

‘You are an interesting man, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. I hope you live through today.’

Uriang-Khadai grimaced.

‘As do I, my lord. With your permission, I will pass on those orders to the minghaans, telling them to target the cannon teams first.’ When Kublai nodded, he went on. ‘The Sung have not placed as many cannon at their rear, my lord. General Bayar is reasonably competent. He should swing out with a tuman and attack them from behind.’

Bayar chuckled at the grudging description of him.

‘Very well,’ Kublai replied. He felt lighter now he had made the decision. It was done. He would ride against the guns with his men, the bones of his fate tossed high into the air.

Uriang-Khadai passed on the new orders to the minghaan officers. Through them, the news reached the jagun commanders of a hundred and the most junior officers in charge of just ten men. The sun had hardly moved before every warrior there understood what Kublai intended them to do. He made no speeches to them. Even if he had, only a small number would have heard the words. Though he watched them, they seemed unsurprised by the orders and simply readied themselves, checking their mounts and weapons one last time. Kublai sent a silent prayer to his brother’s spirit. Men would die that day who might have lived if he had made different choices.

He stopped, the moment stretching in his head. It felt as if a veil had lifted, as if the sun shone through his grief for the first time. He could almost hear Mongke’s voice speaking in anger or mockery. For just an instant, it was as if his brother was standing behind him. Kublai dug in his heels and rode to where Uriang-Khadai and Bayar were discussing the battle plan with a group of other men. Kublai did not dismount.

‘I have new orders, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. We will ride round this army and head for Hangzhou. If the enemy leave their guns to chase, we will turn and tear them to pieces. If they bring them, we will attack while the cannon are still attached to oxen.’

‘Thank God,’ Uriang-Khadai said.

The men around him were grinning and Kublai could suddenly see how much strain they had been under before. Yet they had not baulked at what he had asked of them. His heart filled with pride.

‘We are the tumans of Mongke Khan,’ Kublai said. ‘We move, we strike and we move on again. Mount up. Let us leave these Sung fools behind.’

There was laughter in the ranks as the news spread and Kublai’s words were repeated hundreds of times. The tumans surged forward into a trot and the Sung regiments less than a mile away watched in confusion as they swung clear of the battlefield, leaving only dust, manure and cropped grass in their wake.

General Salsanan had not expected it to be such a task when he volunteered to leave the khan’s tumans and come south. Though he did not know exactly where Kublai was, he expected to track him down by following a trail of burnt towns and cities. Instead, the Sung countryside seemed hardly to have been affected by the passage of armies. It was true that there were few animals grazing and the peasants ran to hide from his soldiers as they searched for anything they could eat. Even so, it was a far cry from the trail of devastation he had thought to see.

His eighty thousand had not even brought the usual supplies. Each man had only two spare mounts, and as they pushed on, Salsanan’s tumans lost a few ponies each day to lameness. Unable to keep up, the mounts were quickly butchered, providing enough meat to give two hundred men a hot meal. The tumans left only bones and often split those for the rich marrow before moving on.

After a month of searching, Salsanan would spend much of each day wishing Mongke Khan was still alive. The land was wide and the endless stream of small towns tempted him to stop and loot. Only his sense of duty kept him going. His men were disciplined, but he was beginning to wonder where Kublai had gone. It seemed impossible to lose a hundred thousand men, even in the vastness of Sung territories. He questioned every village leader and town official who trembled before him, but it was not until he reached the city of Shaoyang that the prefect gave him a solid lead. As he rode, Salsanan reminded himself that the man he went to fetch home could be the next khan. He would have to tread carefully with the scholar prince.

On the road east, Salsanan’s scouts had him riding up ahead of the tumans to confirm the strange sight they reported. Hundreds of heavy cannon lay overturned in the road, their draught animals slaughtered. The carcases had been expertly butchered, with most of the meat taken. In many cases, flies swarmed over just a head and hooves and bloody ground. There were dead men with them, unarmed peasants with dead hands still clutching at whips and reins. Salsanan smiled to see it, recognising the work of his own people.

Just a few miles further on, he found the first remnants of a shattered army, bodies lying in the dusty road. Over the crest of a hill, the corpses grew thicker, as if a stand had been made on that spot. Salsanan walked his mount slowly through them, then reined in as the full battle site was revealed. Dead men lay everywhere, scattered in heaps like shrivelled insects.

Salsanan saw distant figures walking amongst the dead, stopping and staring in terror as his warriors came into sight. He knew some men always survive a battle. In the chaos of fighting, they are knocked unconscious, or pass out from a wound. There will always be a few to rise the following day, limping home while armies and the war move on without them. As he rode further through the field of the dead, Salsanan watched battered Sung survivors raise their hands, their faces slack as his men began to round them up.

He nodded in fascination as he read the battle that had taken place. It had been hard. There were many Mongol bodies and he could discern the pattern of their charges in the corpses and broken lances. Kublai’s tumans had been beaten back more than once, he could see, perhaps almost flanked. The Sung commander had known their tactics and answered them without panic.

Salsanan picked up a broken arrow and scratched his head with the tip. He would speak to the bruised and battered survivors, but first he walked the field, learning from the bloody script the sort of man who might one day rule the nation.

He found a place where the grass had been churned into mud, just a short way from the main battle lines. A tuman had been rallied there and sent back in. Salsanan could almost see the line of their attack in his mind’s eye. He frowned as he walked through the echoes of the battle, revising his opinion of Mongke Khan’s brother. The charge had been tight, discipline excellent. The Sung lines had bowed back and Salsanan could see the broken and bloody spears where they had tried to stand. His years of training made him look right and left for the second charge that he would have sent in at the right moment. There. He led his horse by the reins over the corpses, moving carefully as they slid and shifted under his boots.

He found the spot where the battle had been decided. Crossbow bolts and pitted iron balls littered the ground and there was still a taste of gunpowder in the air. Kublai’s men had ridden through heavy fire to circle out and back at full gallop. Salsanan could read their confidence and he nodded, satisfied. There had been no hesitation, no doubts from the man who commanded them.

One of Salsanan’s men signalled and he mounted to ride over to another section.

‘What is it?’ he said as he rode up.

His man gestured to the bodies that lay all around them. The smell of spilt guts was appalling and flies buzzed into Salsanan’s face, making him wave them off. Even so, he bent to look.

‘They are so old,’ the scout said.

Salsanan stared around him, confirming it. All the faces were lined and the dead men closest to him looked thin and wasted.

‘Why would the Sung go to battle with such elderly soldiers?’ he muttered. His foot was on a yellow banner and he reached down and picked up the torn cloth. Part of a painted symbol was revealed, but Salsanan did not recognise it. He let the crumpled cloth fall.

‘Whoever they were, they should not have fought against us.’

His gaze fell on the centre of the dead, a corpse with short-cropped grey hair surrounded by a ring of many others, as if they had died trying to protect him. A much younger man lay almost across the body, the only youthful face Salsanan could see. Arrow and sword wounds marked them all, the shafts themselves wrenched out from their flesh.

Salsanan shrugged, letting the small mystery go. ‘We cannot be far behind them now. Tell the men to make a good pace. And make sure the scouts show themselves early. I do not want to be attacked by my own people.’

Salsanan caught up with Kublai’s tumans on the outskirts of Changsha city. Like wolves entering another’s territory, both sides were cautious at first. The outer scouts overlapped and raced back with messages for those who led them on both sides. The armies halted far enough away for there to be no sense of threat. Kublai rode out with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai, breaking off his negotiations with the prefect of Changsha almost in mid-sentence when he heard.

He and General Salsanan met on a spring afternoon, with just a few mare’s tails of cloud in the sky above and a warm breeze blowing. Between them, sixteen tumans faced each other. On Kublai’s side, they were veterans, fierce and grubby with old blood and dirt. On the other, they were fresh, their armour shining. Both forces looked at the other side in astonishment and there were many jeering calls.

Kublai was flushed with pleasure at the sight of so many tumans of the nation. He let Salsanan dismount first and bow before he climbed down from his horse.

‘You do not know how welcome you are,’ Kublai said.

‘My lord, it seems to have fallen to me to bring the worst news,’ Salsanan said.

Kublai’s smile vanished. ‘I already know my brother is dead. Yam riders found me, two of them.’

A crease appeared on Salsanan’s brow.

‘Then I do not understand, my lord. If they found you, why have you not begun the journey home? The nation is gathering at Karakorum. The funeral of the khan …’

‘My brother Mongke gave me a task, general. I have made the decision to finish it.’

Salsanan did not respond at first. He was a man used to authority and comfortable in a chain of command. With the khan dead, it was as if a vital support beam had been removed and his habitual certainty was gone. He stammered slightly as he tried again, unnerved under the pale stare of the khan’s brother.

‘My lord, I was given the task of escorting you home. Those are my only orders. Are you saying you will not come?’

‘I am saying I cannot,’ Kublai snapped, ‘until I have brought the Sung to heel. The sky father has sent you to me, Salsanan. Your tumans are a gift, when I thought there could be none.’

Salsanan saw Kublai’s assumption and spoke quickly to head him off before he gave orders that could not be undone.

‘We are not reinforcements, my lord. My orders were to bring you home to Karakorum. Tell me where your camp is and I will begin the preparations. The khan is dead. There will be a gathering in Karakorum …’

Kublai had flushed again as he spoke, this time in anger.

‘Are you deaf? I have said I will not come back until my work is finished. Until I have the Sung emperor’s head. Whatever your orders were, I countermand them. You are my reinforcements, sorely needed. With you, I will complete the khan’s wishes.’

Salsanan clenched his jaw, seeking for calm and finding it difficult to grasp. He found his own anger rising and his voice hardened as he replied.

‘With respect, I am not yours to command, my lord. Neither are the tumans under me. If you will not come home, I must leave you here and make my way back. I will carry whatever messages you want me to take to Karakorum.’

Kublai turned away, taking a moment to wrap his reins around his hand. He could see Salsanan’s tumans in silent ranks stretching into the distance. He hungered to have them with him, doubling his forces at a stroke. At his back, his veterans were waiting in good spirits, certain that this new army had come to bolster their strength. To see them march away would be a small death, abandoned at the moment of triumph. Kublai shook his head. He could not allow it. Every mile to the east had brought a greater density of towns, better roads and teeming people. Hangzhou was barely five hundred miles on, but already he could see the wealth and strength of the outlying cities. He needed Salsanan’s men. They were the answer to prayers, the sign of benevolent spirits bringing him aid when he needed it most.

‘You leave me no choice, general,’ Kublai said, his eyes glinting with anger. He mounted his horse easily, leaping into the saddle. ‘General Bayar, Orlok Uriang-Khadai, bear witness.’ Kublai raised his voice, making it carry to both sides of waiting warriors.

‘I am Kublai of the Borjigin. I am grandson to Genghis Khan. I am eldest brother to Mongke Khan.’

‘My lord!’ Salsanan said in shock, as he realised what was happening. ‘You can’t do this!’

Kublai went on as if he had not spoken.

‘Before you all, in the lands of my enemies, I declare myself great khan of the nation, of the khanates under my brothers Hulegu and Arik-Boke, of the Chagatai khanate and all others. I declare myself great khan of the Chin lands and the Sung. I have spoken and my word is iron!’

Deep silence followed his words for a beat, then his tumans bellowed in joy, raising their weapons. On the other side, Salsanan’s men responded in a great roar of acclamation.

Salsanan tried to speak again, but his voice was lost in the tumult. Kublai drew his sword and held it high. The noise seemed to double in volume, crashing against them.

Kublai looked down at Salsanan as he sheathed his sword.

‘Tell me again what I can’t do, general,’ he said. ‘Well? I have the right. I claim it by blood. Now I will take your oath, or I will have your head.’ He shrugged. ‘It is nothing to me.’

Salsanan stared, slack-jawed at what he had witnessed. He looked around at his cheering men and the last of his resistance faded. Slowly, he knelt on the grass, looking up at the khan of the nation.

‘I offer you gers, horses, salt and blood, my lord khan,’ he said, glassy-eyed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

At dawn, Arik-Boke stood on the plains before Karakorum. Mongke’s two oldest sons had been granted a place close by their uncle. Asutai was sixteen and Urung Tash fourteen, but in their wide shoulders they showed signs of what would become their father’s massive strength. They were still red-eyed from grief. Arik-Boke had been kind to them in the days after the terrible news had come home and both young men looked up to him in simple hero worship.

Hulegu stood at his brother’s right hand, still darkly tanned from his time in Persia and Syria. He had left only a small force behind with General Kitbuqa to guard the new cities, the new khanate he had won there. Arik-Boke could practically feel his brother’s pride. Hulegu had done well with Baghdad, but the region was far from pacified. He could not stay long in Karakorum.

Arik-Boke rubbed the scar across his ruined nose. He caught himself in the habit and took his hand away, determined to be dignified on this of all days. He looked out at the massed tumans of the nation, the princes who had crossed half the world to be there when they heard of the khan’s death. They had come a long, long way from the fledgling nation Genghis had created from far-flung tribes. It showed in their numbers and in their obvious wealth.

The body of Mongke Khan lay hidden in a huge covered cart, specially built for that task, for that day. It was to be drawn by forty white horses and followed on foot by thousands of men and women. Their tears would salt the ground as they returned to the last resting place of Mongke’s grandfather. Proud princes would walk in its wake, putting aside the signs of their rank as they mourned the father of the nation.

Arik-Boke watched as the sun began to set. In the dark, torches would be lit along a path that stretched away from the city and they would begin. Before that, they waited for him. He turned to Hulegu and his brother nodded to him. Arik-Boke smiled, recalling the first tense meeting after Hulegu’s return. For the first time in years, they had walked out of the city like a pair of poor herdsmen, bearing skins of airag on their shoulders. There were many fires around the city, many men and women huddling around them against the cold. Hulegu and Arik-Boke had sat down to join the vigil, talking all the while of the khan and brother they had lost. They had honoured Mongke with mouthfuls of airag spat into the air and both of them had drunk themselves into a bleary stupor.

Hulegu had been burnt dark under a harsh sun. He even smelled different, an odour of cloves and strange spices coming off his skin. As that first night had gone on, his eyes were bright as he described the lands he had seen, with sunlit mountains and ancient secrets. He told Arik-Boke of kohl-eyed Persian women he had seen dance to exhaustion, flinging sweat like bright jewels in the light of feast fires. He spoke of the great markets; of snakes and magicians, of brass and of gold. His voice had grown hoarse with recollection and awe.

Before the sun had risen, Arik-Boke had understood that Hulegu did not want the empire of the great khan. His brother had fallen in love with the desert lands and itched even then to return to them, begrudging every day spent on the cold plains of home. In the morning, they had risen to their feet with groans and creaking joints, but they were at peace with each other.

Arik-Boke breathed slowly, forcing himself to relax. It was time: the nation waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the incense that lay strongly on the air.

‘My brother Mongke entrusted the homeland to me, the plains where Genghis himself was born. In his absence, he entrusted Karakorum to my hands. I will continue his work, his ambitions, his vision for the small khanates. The nations cannot be left unattended, this we have agreed.’ His heart pounded and he took another breath.

‘I will be great khan, in the line of Genghis, in the line of Ogedai, Guyuk and my brother Mongke. Speak your oaths to me and honour my brother’s wishes.’

Hulegu knelt first at his side and Arik-Boke rested a hand on his shoulder. Mongke’s sons followed, for all to witness. Arik-Boke had offered them lands and wealth and had hardly needed to explain the alternative. After such a public display, there would be no one whispering to them that they could have taken the khanate.

As far as the eye could see, the tumans followed suit. In a ripple like a rock dropping into a still pond, the assembled princes knelt and offered gers, horses, salt and blood. Arik-Boke shuddered slightly, closing his eyes. Only Kublai was missing from the great host before Karakorum. His brother would hear the news from the yam riders waiting to gallop away, but by then the whole world would know there was a new khan. At least Kublai was not a man of great ambition, or he would surely have challenged Mongke when they were all still young. Arik-Boke tried to ignore the itch of his doubts. Kublai should have come home when he heard Mongke had died, but he had not. He was a dreamer, more suited to libraries and scrolls than leadership of the nation. If his older brother chose to challenge him, Arik-Boke would answer with all the force of the risen nation.

Arik-Boke smiled at the thought of the scholar riding to war. Kublai had sent home the women and children of his tumans. They too had given their oaths to him, kneeling in the dust before Karakorum. As Mongke’s sons had chosen their path, Kublai would be forced to accept the new order. He sighed with pleasure at the sight of so many tens of thousands on their knees before him. The youngest son of Tolui and Sorhatani had dared to stretch out his hand when the people needed a khan. It was Arik-Boke’s day and the sun was still rising.