hand as Bayar opened his mouth. ‘I will have Arik-Boke riding here in a fury, asking why I kept my head down while my rightful lord was under attack. If that is the result, I could lose everything.’
Bayar didn’t reply. Neither he nor Batu knew for certain what would happen if Kublai lost. Arik-Boke might well exact some kind of vengeance. A sensible man might declare an amnesty for the small khanates, but nothing in the bloodline suggested Arik-Boke would be sensible.
‘My second choice is to mount up with my tumans and ride in support of my lawful khan. I suspect you would oppose me in that, so the first thing would be to slaughter your men.’
‘If you think …’ Bayar began.
Once again, Batu stopped him with a raised palm.
‘You are in my land, general. My people are serving yours with fine meat and drink every day. I could give a single order and see an end to it before sundown. That is my second choice.’
‘Just tell me what you have decided,’ Bayar said irritably.
Batu grinned at him.
‘You are not a patient man, general. My third choice is to do nothing and keep you here with me. If Kublai wins, I have done nothing to injure him. If Arik-Boke triumphs, I have held three tumans from joining the fight. It would allow me to keep my life and lands, at least.’
Bayar paled slightly as the other man spoke. He had already wasted too much time in Batu’s khanate. Kublai had made him repeat his orders to ride for Karakorum and Bayar had some idea of his place in the khan’s plans. If he was held prisoner for months, it would mean the difference between success and disaster.
Batu had been watching his reactions closely.
‘I see that does not find favour with you, general. The best choice for my people is perhaps your worst.’
Bayar stared at him in sullen anger. Everything Kublai planned would come down to a battle before Karakorum. Bayar’s tumans were the final bone to throw, the reserve that would hit the enemy rear at exactly the right moment. He swallowed painfully, the rich meat feeling like a stone in his stomach. Kublai would look for him when the time came. If he was not there, his friend would be cut down.
Slowly, Bayar stood up.
‘I will leave now,’ he said. ‘You will make whatever choice you think is best, but you will not hold me here.’
He turned sharply at the sound of swords being drawn behind him. Two of Batu’s bondsmen were watching him with grim expressions, blocking the door to the sunlight and open air.
‘Sit down, general. I have not finished with you yet,’ Batu said, leaning back from the table. He saw the general’s eye drop to the heavy knife that had been used to cut the meat. Batu chuckled as he picked it up and used it to spear another thick slice.
‘I told you to sit down,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Arik-Boke drew back his bow and tried again to bring his heartbeat and breathing under control. He couldn’t do it. Whenever he felt the beginning of calm, spiking fury would make his pulse race and his hands tremble.
He loosed with a shout of frustration and saw the shaft strike high on the straw target. In disgust, he threw the bow down, ignoring the wince of his arms master at the treatment of such a valuable weapon. Tellan was in his sixties and had served three khans before Arik-Boke, one of them in the field. There were three boys working brooms around the perimeter of the training square and they all froze in shock to see an act that would have earned any one of them a whipping.
Tellan showed no expression as he gathered up the precious bow and stood patiently, though his hands ran down the length without conscious thought, searching for cracks or damage. When he was satisfied, he held it out again. Arik-Boke waved it away.
‘No more now. I can’t keep my mind clear,’ he said.
At his side, the orlok of his armies had been in the process of drawing his own bow. Alandar was faced with a delicate choice. His own heart thumped slowly and his hands and arms were like hardwood. He could have placed the shaft anywhere he chose, but under the khan’s glare, Alandar decided not to take the shot. He released the tension slowly, feeling muscles twitch uncomfortably across his chest.
Alandar untied the quiver from his shoulder and handed the equipment to the arms master of Karakorum’s training ground. He had thought Arik-Boke might benefit from a morning of sweat and practice, but the khan only seemed to grow in anger with every poor shot.
‘Would you prefer to work with swords, my lord khan?’ he asked.
Arik-Boke snorted. He wanted to hack someone to death, not go through routines and stances until his muscles ached. He nodded with bad grace.
‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Fetch the khan’s training swords, Tellan.’
As the arms master turned, Arik-Boke raised his head in inspiration.
‘Bring the wolf’s-head blade as well,’ he muttered. ‘And fetch the training suit.’
Tellan trotted off with the bows into the buildings around the training square. He returned with two swords in scabbards and an armful of stiff leather. Arik-Boke took the swords and felt the heft of each one.
‘Put the suit on, Tellan. I’m in the mood to cut something.’
The arms master was a veteran warrior. He had fought alongside Tsubodai and earned his position at the khan’s court. His brows lowered slightly and his expression grew stern. For one of his trainees, it would have been a sign of gathering storm clouds, but Arik-Boke was oblivious.
‘Shall I have one of the boys put it on, my lord khan?’ Tellan said.
Arik-Boke barely glanced at him.
‘Did I ask you to fetch one of the boys?’ he snapped.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then do as you are told.’
Tellan began to buckle the leather straps around himself. The practice suit had begun life as a blacksmith’s apron with long sleeves, the layers of sewn leather so stiff that it would hardly bend at the waist. To that had been added a padded helmet with neck-pieces and heavy guards that buckled under the sleeves and onto the shins. Tellan heaved the main part over his head and stood still as Alandar began to fasten the buckles.
Arik-Boke drew a practice sword and swung it through the air. It was heavier than a normal blade, weighted with lead so that a warrior’s wrist and forearms could develop strength. It lacked much of an edge and the point was rounded. He frowned at it and drew his personal blade, recovered from Mongke’s body.
The eyes of both Alandar and Tellan slid over to him as they heard the sound of shining steel being drawn. It was not just that both men were veterans. The sword had been in the khan’s family for generations. The hilt had been cast in the shape of a stylised wolf’s head and, in its own way, it was one of the most potent symbols of the risen nation. Genghis had carried it, as had his father before him. The sword was polished and viciously sharp, with every chip or dent smoothed out of it. It looked exactly what it was, a length of sharp metal designed to cut flesh. Arik-Boke swished it through the air with a grunt.
Alandar met Tellan’s eyes and smiled wryly at the man’s expression. He liked Tellan and had spent a few evenings drinking with him. The arms master was not one to faint at a little blood or the prospect of a battering, but he did not look happy. Alandar finished the buckles and stepped away.
‘Shall I give him a sword?’ he asked.
Arik-Boke nodded. ‘Give him yours.’
All three of them knew it would make little difference. The suit had been designed for multiple attacks, to let a young warrior try to remain calm and focused as half a dozen of his friends worked him over. It would not let Tellan move quickly enough to defend himself.
Alandar handed his blade to the arms master and grinned as he stood for an instant with his back to the khan. Tellan rolled his eyes in answer, but he took the weapon.
As Alandar stepped clear, Arik-Boke stepped in and swung at Tellan’s neck with everything he had. Alandar’s smile vanished as Tellan staggered backwards. The headgear for the suit had heavy pieces overlapping the neck
