Bones of the Hills. Conn Iggulden
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had passed valleys set to straggling crops and traded simple gifts with farmers as poor as any they had ever seen. Yet game was plentiful and his men had roasted fat deer on their fires. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The farmers had pointed to the mountains in warning, but he had not understood. He had no quarrel with the hill tribes, but in the night a host of warriors had overtaken them, coming out of the darkness with wild cries and slashing at the sleeping men. Kurkhask closed his eyes briefly. Only eight of his companions had survived the struggle, though he had not seen his oldest son since the first clash of arms. The boy had been scouting the path ahead and Kurkhask hoped he had survived to carry word back to the khan. That thought alone gave him pleasure to set against his vicious resentment.
The carts had been looted of their trinkets, the silver and jade stolen by the tribesmen. As Kurkhask watched from under lowered brows, he saw many of them now dressed in Mongol deels with dark splashes of blood on the cloth.
The chanting intensified until Kurkhask could see white spittle gather at the edges of the men’s mouths. He held his back very straight as the leader of the tribe drew a blade and advanced on the line, screaming. Kurkhask exchanged glances with the others.
‘After tonight, we will be with the spirits and see the hills of home,’ he called to them. ‘The khan will hear. He will sweep this land clean.’
His calm tone seemed to drive the Arab swordsman to an even higher pitch of fury. Shadows flickered across his face as he whirled the blade over a Mongol warrior. Kurkhask watched without expression. When death was inevitable, when he felt its breath on his neck, he had found all fear could be put aside and he could meet it calmly. That at least gave him some satisfaction. He hoped his wives would shed many tears when they heard.
‘Be strong, brother,’ Kurkhask called.
Before he could reply, the sword took the warrior’s head. Blood gouted and the Arabs hooted and beat their feet on the ground in appreciation. The swordsman grinned, his teeth very white against dark skin. Again, the sword fell and another Mongol toppled sideways on the dusty ground. Kurkhask felt his throat constrict in anger until he could almost choke on it. This was a land of lakes and clear mountain rivers, two thousand miles west of Yenking. The villagers they had met were in awe of their strange faces, yet friendly. That very morning, Kurkhask had been sent on his way with blessings and sticky sweets that gummed his teeth together. He had ridden under a blue sky and never guessed the hill tribes were passing word of his presence. He still did not know why they had been attacked, unless it was simply to steal the gifts and trade goods they carried. He searched the hills for some glimpse of his son, hoping again that his death would be witnessed. He could not die badly if the boy watched. It was the last gift he could give him.
The swordsman needed three blows to take the third head. When it finally came free, he held it up by the hair to his companions, laughing and chanting in their strange language. Kurkhask had begun to learn a few words of the Pashto tongue, but the stream of sound was beyond him. He watched in grim silence as the killing continued until, at last, he was the only man still alive.
Kurkhask raised his head to stare up without fear. Relief filled him as he caught a movement far beyond the firelight. Something white shifted in the gloom and Kurkhask smiled. His son was out there, signalling. Before the boy gave himself away, Kurkhask dipped his head. The distant flicker vanished, but Kurkhask relaxed, all the tension flowing out of him. The khan would be told.
He looked up at the Arab warrior as he drew back the bloody length of steel.
‘My people will see you again,’ Kurkhask said.
The Afghan swordsman hesitated, unable to understand.
‘Dust be in thy mouth, infidel!’ he shouted, the words a babble of sound to the Mongol officer.
Kurkhask shrugged wearily.
‘You have no idea what you have done,’ he said. The sword swept down.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The wind had fallen on the high ridge. Dark clouds drifted above, making bands of shadow march across the earth. The morning was quiet and the land seemed empty as the two men rode at the head of a narrow column, a jagun of a hundred young warriors. The Mongols could have been alone for a thousand miles, with just creaking leather and snorting ponies to break the stillness. When they halted to listen, it was as if silence rolled back in over the dusty ground.
Tsubodai was a general to the great khan and it showed in the way he held himself. His armour of iron scales over leather was well-worn, with holes and rust in many places. His helmet was marked where it had saved his life more than once. All his equipment was battered, but the man himself remained as hard and unforgiving as the winter earth. In three years of raiding the north, he had lost only one minor skirmish and returned the following day to destroy the tribe before word could spread. He had mastered his trade in a land that seemed to grow colder with each mile into the wastes. He had no maps for his journey, just rumours of distant cities built on rivers frozen so solid that oxen could be roasted on the ice.
At his right shoulder rode Jochi, the eldest son of the khan himself. Barely seventeen, he was yet a warrior who might inherit the nation and perhaps command even Tsubodai in war. Jochi wore a similar set of greased leather and iron, as well as the saddle packs and weapons all the warriors carried. Tsubodai knew without asking that Jochi would have his ration of dried blood and milk, needing only water to make a nourishing broth. The land did not forgive those who took survival lightly and both men had learned the lessons of winter.
Jochi sensed the scrutiny and his dark eyes flickered up, always guarded. He had spent more time with the young general than he ever had with his father, but old habits were hard to break. It was difficult for him to trust, though his respect for Tsubodai knew no limit. The general of the Young Wolves had a feel for war, though he denied it. Tsubodai believed in scouts, training, tactics and archery above all else, but the men who followed him saw only that he won, no matter what the odds. As others could fashion a sword or a saddle, Tsubodai fashioned armies, and Jochi knew he was privileged to learn at his side. He wondered if his brother Chagatai had fared as well in the east. It was easy to daydream as he rode the hills, imagining his brothers and father struck dumb at the sight of how Jochi had grown and become strong.
‘What is the most important item in your packs?’ Tsubodai said suddenly. Jochi raised his eyes to the brooding sky for an instant. Tsubodai delighted in testing him.
‘Meat, general. Without meat, I cannot fight.’
‘Not your bow?’ Tsubodai said. ‘Without a bow, what are you?’
‘Nothing, general, but without meat, I am too weak to use the bow.’
Tsubodai grunted at hearing his own words repeated.
‘When the meat is all gone, how long can you live off blood and milk?’
‘Sixteen days at most, with three mounts to share the wounds.’ Jochi did not have to think. He had been drilled in the answers ever since he and Tsubodai had ridden with ten thousand men from the shadow of the Chin emperor’s city.
‘How far could you travel in such a time?’ Tsubodai said.
Jochi shrugged.
‘Sixteen hundred miles with fresh remounts. Half as far again if I slept and ate in the saddle.’
Tsubodai saw that the young man was hardly concentrating and his eyes glinted as he changed tack.
‘What is wrong with the ridge ahead?’ he snapped.
Jochi raised his head, startled. ‘I …’
‘Quickly! Men are looking to you for a decision. Lives wait on