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
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.’
‘
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
‘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.’
‘
‘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?’
