produced a quiver of thirty shafts, each the product of a master fletcher and still bright with oil. He tossed it to Tsubodai.
Outside, the crashing went on. Whoever it was had brought up hammers for the task and even the floor trembled with the blows. Tsubodai crossed to the windows set high in the outer wall. Like the ones in the outer room, they were barred in iron. Tsubodai could not help thinking how he would break in, if he were attacking the rooms. Though they were solid enough, they had not been designed to withstand a determined enemy. That enemy was never meant to get close enough, or to have time to hammer out the bars before Ogedai’s Guards cut them to pieces.
‘Cover the lamp for a moment,’ Tsubodai said. ‘I do not want to be visible to an archer outside.’ He pulled a wooden chest to the window and crouched on it, then rose suddenly to the barred space, ducking back just as quickly.
‘There’s no one in sight, lord, but the wall to the courtyard below is barely the height of two men. They will come here, if they can find it.’
‘But first they’ll try the door,’ Ogedai said grimly.
Tsubodai nodded. ‘Have your wife wait here, perhaps, readyto call if she hears anything.’ Tsubodai was trying to defer to Ogedai’s authority, but his impatience showed with every thump from the corridor outside.
‘Very well, general.’
Ogedai hesitated, fear and anger mingling, swelling in him. He had not built his city to be torn screaming from life. He had lived with death for so long that it was almost a shock to feel such a powerful desire to live, to avenge. He dared not ask Tsubodai if they could hold the rooms. He could see the answer in the man’s eyes.
‘It is strange that you are present for the death of another of Genghis’ sons, don’t you think?’ he said.
Tsubodai stiffened. He turned back and Ogedai saw no weakness in his black stare.
‘I carry many sins, lord,’ Tsubodai said. ‘But this is not the time to talk about old ones. If we survive, you may ask whatever you need to know.’
Ogedai began to reply, bitterness welling up in him. A new sound made them both whip round and run. An iron hinge had cracked and the wood of the outer door splintered, a panel yawning open. The lamplight from the room spilled out into the darker corridor, illuminating sweating faces. At the door, Huran speared his blade into them, so that one at least fell back with a cry of pain.
The stars had moved part-way across the sky by the time Khasar roused his tuman. He rode at the head in full armour, his sword drawn and held low by his right thigh. In formation behind him were ten groups of a thousand, each with their minghaan officers. Each thousand had its jaguns of a hundred men, led by officers bearing a silver plaque. Even they had their structures: ten groups of ten, with equipment to raise a ger between them and food and tools to survive and fight. Genghisand Tsubodai had created the system, and Khasar hadn’t given it a thought when he issued just one order to his quiriltai, his quartermaster. The tuman of ten thousand had formed on the plain, men running to their horses in what looked like chaos before the ranks coalesced and they were ready. Ahead lay Karakorum.
Khasar’s outriders reported other tumans on the move all around him. No one in the nation slept now. To the smallest child, they knew this was the night of crisis, so long feared.
Khasar had his naccara drummers sound a rhythm: dozens of unarmed boys on camels whose sole task was to inspire fear in an enemy with a rolling thunder. He heard it answered ahead and on the left, as other tumans took up a warning and a challenge. Khasar swallowed drily, looking for Kachiun’s men ahead. He had the feeling that events were slipping from his control, but he could do nothing else. His path had been set when men at the gate had dared to refuse a general of the nation. He knew they were Chagatai’s, but the arrogant prince had sent them
Outside, the crashing went on. Whoever it was had brought up hammers for the task and even the floor trembled with the blows. Tsubodai crossed to the windows set high in the outer wall. Like the ones in the outer room, they were barred in iron. Tsubodai could not help thinking how he would break in, if he were attacking the rooms. Though they were solid enough, they had not been designed to withstand a determined enemy. That enemy was never meant to get close enough, or to have time to hammer out the bars before Ogedai’s Guards cut them to pieces.
‘Cover the lamp for a moment,’ Tsubodai said. ‘I do not want to be visible to an archer outside.’ He pulled a wooden chest to the window and crouched on it, then rose suddenly to the barred space, ducking back just as quickly.
‘There’s no one in sight, lord, but the wall to the courtyard below is barely the height of two men. They will come here, if they can find it.’
‘But first they’ll try the door,’ Ogedai said grimly.
Tsubodai nodded. ‘Have your wife wait here, perhaps, readyto call if she hears anything.’ Tsubodai was trying to defer to Ogedai’s authority, but his impatience showed with every thump from the corridor outside.
‘Very well, general.’
Ogedai hesitated, fear and anger mingling, swelling in him. He had not built his city to be torn screaming from life. He had lived with death for so long that it was almost a shock to feel such a powerful desire to live, to avenge. He dared not ask Tsubodai if they could hold the rooms. He could see the answer in the man’s eyes.
‘It is strange that you are present for the death of another of Genghis’ sons, don’t you think?’ he said.
Tsubodai stiffened. He turned back and Ogedai saw no weakness in his black stare.
‘I carry many sins, lord,’ Tsubodai said. ‘But this is not the time to talk about old ones. If we survive, you may ask whatever you need to know.’
Ogedai began to reply, bitterness welling up in him. A new sound made them both whip round and run. An iron hinge had cracked and the wood of the outer door splintered, a panel yawning open. The lamplight from the room spilled out into the darker corridor, illuminating sweating faces. At the door, Huran speared his blade into them, so that one at least fell back with a cry of pain.
The stars had moved part-way across the sky by the time Khasar roused his tuman. He rode at the head in full armour, his sword drawn and held low by his right thigh. In formation behind him were ten groups of a thousand, each with their minghaan officers. Each thousand had its jaguns of a hundred men, led by officers bearing a silver plaque. Even they had their structures: ten groups of ten, with equipment to raise a ger between them and food and tools to survive and fight. Genghisand Tsubodai had created the system, and Khasar hadn’t given it a thought when he issued just one order to his quiriltai, his quartermaster. The tuman of ten thousand had formed on the plain, men running to their horses in what looked like chaos before the ranks coalesced and they were ready. Ahead lay Karakorum.
Khasar’s outriders reported other tumans on the move all around him. No one in the nation slept now. To the smallest child, they knew this was the night of crisis, so long feared.
Khasar had his naccara drummers sound a rhythm: dozens of unarmed boys on camels whose sole task was to inspire fear in an enemy with a rolling thunder. He heard it answered ahead and on the left, as other tumans took up a warning and a challenge. Khasar swallowed drily, looking for Kachiun’s men ahead. He had the feeling that events were slipping from his control, but he could do nothing else. His path had been set when men at the gate had dared to refuse a general of the nation. He knew they were Chagatai’s, but the arrogant prince had sent them
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