Читать книгу Conqueror - Conn Iggulden - Страница 17

Guyuk loved the long summer evenings, where the world hung for an age, suspended in grey light. The air was clear and warm and he felt at peace as he watched the sun begin to ease towards the west, turning the sky a thousand shades of red, orange and purple. He stood at the small door of a ger, looking out at the encampment of his tumans. It was always the same, as they made a town, a city rise in the wilderness. Everything they needed was carried on the backs of the spare horses. He could smell meat and spices on the air and he breathed deeply, feeling strong. The light would last a long time yet and the hunger was strong in him. He tried to sneer at his own caution. He was khan; the laws of Genghis would not bind him.

Guyuk jumped onto the pony’s back, enjoying his own energy and youth. His face was flushed. Two of his minghaan officers were nearby, doing their best to look in any direction but his. He gestured to his waiting servant and Anar came forward with his hunting eagle, the bird and the man quiet with tension. Guyuk raised his right forearm, where he wore a long leather sheath from his fingers to above his elbow. He accepted the weight of the bird and tied the jesses. Unlike his falcons, the eagle had always fought the hood. She was bare-headed, her eyes sharp with excitement. For a moment, the bird flapped furiously, revealing the white under-feathers of her wings as they spread and beat. Guyuk looked away from the furious wind until she began to settle, trembling. He stroked her head, wary of the great curved beak that could rip the throat out of a wolf.

When the bird was calm, Guyuk gave a low whistle and one of the minghaan officers approached with his head down. It was as if the man wished to see nothing, to know nothing of what went on. Guyuk smiled at his caution, understanding it. The man’s life was in his hands at a single glance or poorly chosen word.

‘I will hunt to the east this evening,’ Guyuk said. ‘You have brought the scouts in?’ His heart was hammering and his voice sounded choked to him, but the minghaan merely nodded in response, saying nothing. Seven times in a month of riding, Guyuk had done the same thing, swept up in passions he never felt with his young wife in Karakorum.

‘If I am needed, send men directly east.’

The minghaan bowed without raising his eyes. Guyuk approved of his discretion. Without another word, the khan nodded to Anar and the two men began trotting their mounts out of the camp. Guyuk held the eagle lightly, the bird looking forward.

Whenever they passed warriors, he saw bowed heads. Guyuk rode with his head high, passing out into the long grasslands. Spare mounts grazed there by the tens of thousands, a herd so vast it covered the land like a shadow and grazed the long plains grass down to nothing each night. There were warriors there too, spending the night on watch with the animals. One or two of them saw him from a distance and trotted closer until they saw it was the khan. At that point they became blind and deaf, turning away as if they had seen nothing.

The evening light was beginning to fade in soft shades by the time Guyuk passed the herds. With every mile, he felt some of his burden lift and sat taller in the saddle. He saw the shadows lengthen before him and as his mood cleared, he was tempted to chase them, like a boy. It was good to be able to put aside the seriousness of his life, just for a time. That too was something he missed when he returned to the camps. When he came back, he could always feel responsibilities closing in on him like a heavy cloak. The days would be filled with tactical discussions, reports and punishments. Guyuk sighed to himself at the thought. He lived for the golden moments away from it all, where he could be his own man, at least for a time.

Some half a dozen miles to the east of the camp, he and Anar found a stream trickling through the plains, running almost dry in its course. There were a few trees by the banks and Guyuk chose a spot where the shadows were gathering, enjoying the utter peace and isolation. Such things were precious to a khan. Guyuk was always surrounded by men and women, from the first moments of waking, to the last torch-lit meetings before he went to bed. Just to stand and listen to the stream and the breeze was a simple joy.

He untied the jesses that snared the eagle’s legs and waited until the bird was ready before he raised his arm and threw her into the air. She rose quickly on powerful wings, circling hundreds of feet above him. It was too late in the day to hunt and he thought she would not go far from him. Guyuk untied his lure and spun out the cord, watching her with pride. Her dark feathers were tinged with red and she was of a bloodline as fine as his own, descended from a bird caught by Genghis himself as a boy.

He began to whirl the lure around him, the cord invisible as he swung the weight in faster and faster circles. Above his head, he saw her wheel and drop, vanishing for a moment behind a hill. He smiled, knowing the bird’s tactics. Even then, she surprised him, coming from his side rather than where he was staring. He had time to see a blur that braked with outstretched wings as she plunged into the lure and bore it to the ground with a shriek. He cried out, complimenting the bird as she held it down. He fed her a scrap of fresh meat from his leather-bound hand and she gulped it hungrily as he retied the jesses and raised her up. If there had been more light, he might have ridden with her to take a fox or hare, but the evening was closing in. He left her tied to his saddle horn, silent and watchful.

While he exercised the bird, Anar had laid thick horse blankets on the soft turf. The young man was nervous, as he had learned to be. Guyuk removed his stiff leather glove and stood for a time, watching him. When the khan showed his teeth, it was the slow smile of a predator.

The expression was wiped from his face at the sound of distant hooves and faintly jingling bells. Guyuk looked up, furious that anyone dared to approach. Even a yam rider should have been told not to interrupt him that evening. With clenched fists, he stood self-consciously, awaiting the newcomer. Whatever it was about, he would send the man back to camp to wait for the morning. For a heartbeat, he wondered if some fool had enjoyed the thought of the khan being disturbed. It was the sort of simple malice that appealed to the common men and he vowed to get the name from the yam rider. He would enjoy administering punishment for the jest.

He did not recognise Batu at first in the darkening twilight. Guyuk had not seen him since they had returned from the Great Trek into the west, and the rider approached with his head down, barely trotting. When Batu raised his head, Guyuk’s eyes widened. In that instant, he knew he was more alone than he had been for years. His precious army was out of reach, too far to call. He saw Batu smile grimly and dismount. Anar called some question, but Guyuk did not hear as he raced to his own horse and drew his sword from where it lay strapped to the saddle. His eagle was fussing, disturbed by the stranger. On impulse, Guyuk tugged loose the cord that held her legs before he walked clear, giving himself space.

‘There is no need to rush, my lord,’ Batu called. He waited until he saw Guyuk was not going to try and ride away, then dismounted. ‘This has been a long time coming. A few moments more won’t hurt.’

With dismay, Guyuk saw Batu wore a sword belted to his hip. As he stared, Batu drew the blade and examined its edge.

Guyuk held the wolf’s-head sword he had inherited, a blade of blued steel with a carved hilt. It had been in his family for generations, khan to khan. He took strength from the feel of it in his hand as he threw the scabbard aside into the grass.

Batu approached slowly, perfectly balanced and every pace sure on the ground. The light was poor and darkness was coming swiftly, but Guyuk could see his eyes gleam. He snarled, throwing off his fear. He was younger than Batu and he had been trained by masters of the sword. He rolled his shoulders lightly, feeling the first light perspiration break on his brow as his heart rate increased. He was no lamb to be cut down without a fight. Batu seemed to sense his confidence and paused, his eyes flickering to Anar. Guyuk’s companion stood in shock a dozen paces away, his mouth open like a thirsty bird. Guyuk realised with a pang that he too would be killed if Batu succeeded in his madness. He set his jaw and raised his blade.

‘You would attack the khan of the nation? Your own cousin?’

‘Not my khan,’ Batu said, taking another step. ‘You’ve had no oath from me.’

‘I was coming to you to accept that oath, Batu,’ Guyuk said.

Batu paused again and Guyuk was pleased to see he had worried him. Any small advantage would matter. For unarmoured men, both of them knew a fight might last only a few heartbeats. Perhaps two masters could hold each other off for a time, but for normal warriors, the lengths of razor steel they held were too deadly. A single gash could bite to the bone or remove a limb.

Batu stalked past Guyuk’s pony and Guyuk barked a command.

‘Strike!’

Batu lurched away from the animal, expecting it to kick out. They had both seen the warhorses of the Christian cavalry, trained to be weapons in battle. Guyuk’s pony did nothing and instead the eagle on its back launched with a huge spread of wings. Guyuk leapt forward at the same time, roaring at the top of his lungs.

In fear, Batu struck out at the bird, his sword coming down and across the eagle before its claws could reach him. The wings hid the wound from Guyuk’s sight, but it screeched and fell almost at Guyuk’s feet. He lunged for Batu’s chest and knew a moment of exultation as he saw Batu’s blade was too low to block.

Batu sidestepped, pulling his sword free from the crippled bird. It had landed on its back, its talons still raking the air and its head straining to reach him. For an instant, his arm was away from his body, outstretched. Guyuk had put everything into the lunge and could barely recover his balance, but he jerked his blade up and caught Batu along the ribs with the edge as he pulled back for another blow. The light deel opened in a gash and blood showed beneath it. Batu cursed and kept moving out of range, away from the bird and its master.

Guyuk smiled, though inwardly he was raging at the damage done to his eagle. He dared not glance down at it, but its cries were already weakening.

‘Did you think this would be easy?’ he taunted Batu. ‘I am the khan of the nation, cousin. I carry the spirit and the sword of Genghis. He will not let me fall to some dog-meat traitor.’

Without taking his eyes from Batu, Guyuk called over his shoulder: ‘Anar! Take your horse and ride back to camp. Bring my bondsmen. I will finish this scavenger while I wait.’

If he had hoped to provoke Batu into an attack, he got his wish. As Anar moved to his white mare, Batu surged forward, his sword alive in his hand. Guyuk brought his own blade across to block and grunted as he felt the man’s strength behind the blow. His confidence was jolted and he stepped back a pace before holding his ground. A memory flashed from his earliest lessons, that once you have started to retreat, it is hard to stop.

Batu’s blade was too quick to see and only his childhood training saved Guyuk as he parried twice more from instinct alone. The blades rang together and he felt a sharp sting on his forearm. To his disgust, he was already breathing hard, while Batu worked with his mouth closed, chopping blows at him without a pause. Guyuk stopped another attack that would have opened him like a goat, but his lungs were aching and Batu seemed tireless, growing faster and faster. Guyuk felt another sting on his leg as the tip of Batu’s blade caught him and opened a deep cut into the muscle. He took another step backwards and almost fell as the leg buckled. He could not turn to look for Anar and he could hear nothing beyond his own breathing and the clash of swords. He hoped his servant had run. Guyuk had begun to think he could not win against this man who used a sword with all the casual strength of a woodsman cutting trees. He continued to defend desperately, feeling warm blood course down his leg as he looked for just one chance.

He didn’t see Anar come from the side in a rush. Guyuk’s response across a lunge had put his blade right over, leaving him vulnerable. At that moment, Anar crashed into Batu and sent them both rolling on the grass. Guyuk could hear his own heartbeat thump, as if the world had grown still.

Anar was unarmed, but he tried to hold Batu as the man sprang to his feet, giving Guyuk his chance. Batu punched his sword twice into Anar’s side, two hard blows that drew the air and life out of him. Even then, Anar’s hands gripped Batu’s deel robe, dragging him off balance. Guyuk stepped forward in a wild rage. His first blow was spoiled as Batu jerked Anar around as a shield, then let him drop. Guyuk lunged for his heart, but he moved too slowly. Batu’s sword ripped into him before he could land the blow. He was aware of every sliding inch of metal as it passed into his chest between his ribs. Guyuk turned with it, his rage allowing him strength to try and trap the blade. He gasped as it tore him inside, but Batu could not pull it free. They hung almost in an embrace, too close for Guyuk to bring his own sword to bear. Instead, he hammered his hilt into Batu’s face, breaking his nose and smashing his lips. Guyuk could feel his strength vanishing like water pouring out of him and his blows grew weak until he was barely able to raise his hands.

His sword fell from his fingers and he sat suddenly, his legs useless. Batu’s sword came with him, still deep in his chest. Anar was lying on the ground, choking and gasping bloody air. Their eyes met and Guyuk looked away, caring nothing for the fate of a servant.

Darkness swelled across his vision. He felt Batu tugging at the sword hilt as a distant pressure, almost without pain. When it came free at last, Guyuk felt his bowels and bladder release. It was not a quick end and he hung on, panting mindlessly for a time before his lungs emptied.

Batu stood, looking down through swelling eyes at his dead cousin. The man’s companion lasted a long time and Batu said nothing as he waited for the choking sounds to stop, the desperate eyes to grow still. When they were both gone, he sank to one knee, placing his sword on the ground at his side and raising a hand to his face to feel the damage. Blood flowed in a sticky stream from his nose and he spat on the grass as it dribbled into his throat. His gaze fell to Guyuk’s sword, with the hilt in the shape of a wolf’s snarling jaws. He shook his head at his own greed and looked around for the scabbard in the grass. Moving stiffly, he cleaned the blade before re-sheathing it and placing it on Guyuk’s chest. The khan’s robe was already heavy by then, sopping wet with cooling blood. The sword was Batu’s to take, but he could not.

‘My enemy the khan is dead,’ Batu muttered to himself, looking on Guyuk’s still face. With Kublai’s information, he had known Guyuk would leave his guards and the safety of his camp. He had waited for three precious days, risking discovery by the scouts while he lay and watched. Doubts had assailed him the whole time, worse than thirst. What if Kublai had been wrong? What if he was throwing away the days he needed to take his people to safety? Batu had been close to despair when he saw Guyuk ride out at last.

Batu stood, still looking down. The summer darkness had come, though he was sure they had fought for just a short time. He glanced at the dead eagle and felt a pang of regret, knowing the bird’s bloodline came from Genghis himself. He stretched his back and stood taller, breathing clean air and beginning to feel the aches and wounds he had taken. They were not serious and he felt strong. He could feel life in his veins and he breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation. He did not regret his decision to face the khan with a sword. He had a bow and he could have taken both men before they even knew they were under attack. Instead, he had killed them with honour. Batu suddenly laughed aloud, taking joy in being alive after the fight. He did not know how the nation would fare without Guyuk. It did not matter to Batu. His own people would survive. Still chuckling, Batu wiped his sword on a clean part of the servant’s tunic and sheathed it before walking back to his horse.

The warriors stood around the body of their khan, stunned and silent as Mongke rode in. Crows called in the trees around them as the sun rose. The lower branches seemed to be full of the black birds and more than one hopped on the ground, flaring its wings and eyeing the dead flesh. As Mongke dismounted, one of the warriors kicked out at a crow in irritation, though it took flight before he could connect.

Guyuk lay where he had fallen, his father’s sword placed on his chest. Mongke strode through his men and loomed over the khan’s body, his emotions hidden behind the cold face every warrior had to learn. He stood there for a long time and no one dared speak.

‘Thieves would have taken the sword,’ he said at last. His deep voice grated with anger and he reached down and picked up the blade, pulling out a length of the steel and seeing it had been cleaned. His gaze searched the bodies, settling on the smears that marked the tunic of the khan’s servant.

‘You saw no one?’ Mongke said suddenly, whirling on the closest scout. The man trembled as he replied.

‘No one, lord,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘When the khan did not return I went out to look for him … then I came to find you.’

Mongke’s eyes burned into him and the scout looked away, terrified.

‘It was your task to scout the land to the east,’ Mongke said softly.

‘My lord, the khan gave orders to bring the scouts in,’ the man said without daring to look up. He was sweating visibly, a trail like a tear working its way down his cheek. He flinched as Mongke drew the wolf’s-head sword, but he did not back away and simply stood with his head down.

Mongke’s face was calm as he moved. He brought the sword edge down on the man’s neck with all his strength, cutting the head free. The body fell forward, suddenly limp as Mongke turned back to the bodies. He wished Kublai were there. For all his distaste for his brother’s Chin clothes and manners, Mongke knew Kublai would have offered good counsel. He felt lost. Killing the scout had not even begun to quench the rage and frustration he felt. The khan was dead. As orlok of the army, the responsibility could only be Mongke’s. He stayed silent for a long time, then took a deep, slow breath. His father Tolui had given his life to save Ogedai Khan. Mongke had been with him at the end. Better than any other, he understood the honour and the requirements of his position. He could not do less than his father.

‘I have failed to protect my oath-bound lord,’ he muttered. ‘My life is forfeit.’

One of his generals had come close while he stood over the body of the khan. Ilugei was an old campaigner, a veteran of Tsubodai’s Great Trek into the west. He had known Mongke for many years and he shook his head immediately at the words.

‘Your death would not bring him back,’ he said.

Mongke turned to him, anger flushing his skin. ‘The responsibility is mine,’ he snapped.

Ilugei bowed his head rather than meet those eyes. He saw the sword shift in Mongke’s hand and straightened, stepping closer with no sign of fear.

‘Will you take my head as well? My lord, you must put aside your anger. Choosing death is not possible for you, not today. The army has only you to lead them. We are far from home, my lord. If you fall, who will lead us? Where will we go? Onwards? To challenge a grandson of Genghis? Home? You must lead us, orlok. The khan is dead, the nation is without a leader. It lies undefended, with wild dogs all around. Will there be chaos, civil war?’

Grudgingly, Mongke forced himself to think beyond the still bodies in the glade. Guyuk had not lived long enough to produce an heir. There was a wife back in Karakorum, he knew. Mongke vaguely recalled meeting the young woman, but he could not bring her name to mind. It no longer mattered, he realised. He thought of his mother, Sorhatani, and it was as if he heard her voice in his ear. Neither Batu nor Baidur had the support of the army. As orlok, Mongke was perfectly placed to take over the nation. His heart beat faster in his chest at the thought and his face flushed as if those around could hear him. He had not dreamed of it, but the reality had been thrust upon him by the bodies lying sprawled at his feet. He looked down at Guyuk’s face, so slack and pale with his blood run out of him.

‘I have been loyal,’ Mongke whispered to the corpse. He thought of Guyuk’s wild parties in the city and how they had sickened him. Knowing the man’s tastes, Mongke had never been truly comfortable with Guyuk, but all that was behind. He struggled with a vision of the future, trying to picture it. Once more, he wished Kublai were there, instead of a thousand miles away in Karakorum. Kublai would know what to do, what to say to the men.

‘I will think on it,’ Mongke said to Ilugei. ‘Have the khan’s body wrapped and made ready for travel.’ He looked at the wretched body of Guyuk’s servant, noting the slick of dry blood that had poured out of his mouth. Inspiration struck him and he spoke again.

‘The khan died bravely, fighting off his murderer. Let the men know.’

‘Shall I leave the body of the killer?’ Ilugei said, his eyes gleaming. No one loved a lie like a Mongol warrior. It might even have been true, though he wondered how Guyuk’s sword could have been cleaned and laid down so carefully by a dying man.

Mongke thought for a time, before shaking his head.

‘No. Have him quartered and the pieces thrown into one of the night pits. Let the flies and the sun feast.’

Ilugei bowed solemnly at the order. He thought he had seen the light of ambition kindle in Mongke’s eyes. He was certain the man would not turn down the right to be khan, no matter how it had come about. Ilugei had despised Guyuk and it was with relief that he thought of Mongke leading the nation. He had no time for the insidious Chin influences that had become so much a part of the nation’s culture. Mongke would rule as Genghis had, a traditional Mongol khan. Ilugei struggled not to smile, though his heart rejoiced.

‘Your will, my lord,’ he said, his voice steady.