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
