of Karakorum were painted white, he could see only a hint of paleness behind the darker lines of Kublai’s tumans, like a reflection off metal. He nodded to himself, clenching his fist on his sword hilt.
His twelve generals were riding on either side of him, already looking back to their tumans and wanting his permission to ride with their men. Arik-Boke kept silent. His orlok had failed him and he had not appointed another, just to see him fail in turn. He was khan and he would command the battle. He could sense the unease of the senior men, as if the fools thought he would keep them in line with him right up to the first shafts in the air.
His tumans had ridden fifty miles that day without stopping. They were weary, but the sight of the enemy standing to face them would cast that weariness away. Arik-Boke did not feel it himself. Anger and excitement coursed through him as the range closed to two miles, less. He could see the formations of Kublai by then, still standing as if they had grown roots waiting for him. He struggled with colossal rage at the thought of them barring the way to his own city, standing in the khan’s rightful path. His brother would answer for his arrogance, he promised himself.
His tumans matched his speed, though they were not idle. Spare horses were brought up from the rear in their thousands, pulled alongside, so that his warriors could jump across without slowing down. The ones they had ridden all morning fell back quickly without heels and whips to keep them going. Arik-Boke was close enough to see the bright yellow flags of his brother’s position, standing tall on spears like bristling spines. At such a distance, he could not make out the symbol on them, but he had his first sight of the false khan’s position. He could imagine Kublai looking out and a shudder went through him as if their gazes had locked over the empty plain.
‘There is your target,’ he called to his generals. ‘I will give a province to the man who brings me his head. Which one of you will be a khan after today?’
He saw the stunned expressions as they understood and he was satisfied. They would drive their men ruthlessly for such a reward, falling on Kublai like a mountain dropping from the blue sky. It was a good thought.
He sent them back to their tumans and felt the change in just a short time as they began to roar orders. The speed grew and all the tumans matched the racing lines, each one subtly trying to manoeuvre to be in the best position to hit that small group of banner flags.
Arik-Boke grinned into the breeze. The armies were less than a mile apart and he had set bloody meat before the wolves. He had more men and they fought for the great khan of the nation. To ride to such a battle was the closest thing to joy he had ever known.
The scout was exhausted, drooping in the saddle as his horse reached the final yam station in the heart of Karakorum. It had not been an easy run to get around Kublai’s tumans. He’d had to swing wide, beyond the scout lines, and then ride on through the darkness whenever he found a path or a road. He hadn’t slept for three days, hadn’t been able to with enemy scouts checking every trail and path. He’d spent some of the previous night with a dagger cutting into his bicep, using the pain to keep him awake as he peered out from a thicket and waited for a group of warriors to move on. He scratched at the bandage as he guided his exhausted mount down the city road to the yam station. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him hear whispers and see strange colours he could not name whenever he forced his eyes open. He had no idea what had happened to his companion. Perhaps he hadn’t had luck with him and had taken an arrow as he rode.
The scout was eighteen years old and he had once thought of his strength as limitless, until the ride showed him the truth. Everything hurt and his mind felt like a solid lump in his skull, stupid and slow to react. Perhaps that was why he felt so little triumph as he almost fell from the saddle into the waiting arms of the yam riders. They did not laugh at the state and stench of him, the saddle still damp under his legs from the times he had urinated without stopping. With an army taking position outside the city, they were visibly worried. One of them took a wet cloth from a bucket and rubbed it over the scout’s face roughly, waking him up a little as well as clearing the caked dust and filth.
‘No message bag,’ one of them said, with a twist to his mouth. None of them expected good news from the sort of message that could not be written down. He slapped the scout lightly on the face.
‘Wake up, lad. You’re here, you’ve arrived. Who were you sent to speak to?’
The scout brought his hands up irritably at the rough treatment, pushing them away as he stood on his own.
‘From the khan. Captain of the Guards,’ he croaked at them. One of the men handed over a skin of clean water and he gulped gratefully, spitting onto the floor to clear his gummed mouth. His words did a reasonable job of waking them all up to their usual efficiency.
‘You walk him in, Lev,’ the yam master said. ‘I’ll deal with the horse.’
The animal was blown, ruined, and in much the same state as its rider. The master took the reins with a grim expression to lead it out into the yard. He didn’t want blood on the floor inside.
‘I’ll be expecting a few choice cuts for tonight,’ one of the others called after him.
The yam master ignored the comment and the scout was led stumbling away with a man’s hand on his shoulder.
The yam rider knew better than anyone not to question the scout and they walked in silence through the streets towards the khan’s palace. It could be seen from a long way off, with its gold-capped tower. The scout looked up at it gratefully, hobbling along with each step sending sharp pains up his legs.
The palace gates were manned by Day Guards in polished armour. They nodded to the yam rider and looked askance at his filthy companion.
‘Khan’s orders. Captain of the Guard, urgent,’ the yam rider said, enjoying the chance to make them move quickly for once. One of the Guards whistled and another one inside went running off at full sprint, his boots clattering on the stone corridors so that they could hear his progress for some time.
‘Any news of that army?’ the Guard asked.
The scout shrugged, his voice still rough.
‘They were turning to face the khan, last I saw. It’ll be over today.’
The Guard looked as if he wanted to ask more, but they could all hear the running steps returning, with another alongside. The captain had not bothered about his dignity, not with a message from the khan and a hostile army outside Karakorum. He arrived at a flat sprint, skidding to a stop and putting an arm out to the gatepost to steady himself.
‘Do you need to tell me in private?’ he asked, panting.
‘I wasn’t told that. The khan told me to say “It’s time”.’
To the scout’s surprise, the captain paled and took a deep, slow breath as he settled himself.
‘Nothing else?’
‘That’s it, sir. “It’s time.”’
The captain nodded and walked away without another word, leaving four men staring after him.
‘That doesn’t sound good for someone,’ one of the yam men muttered.
Kublai snapped his gaze back and forth, between the tumans riding towards him and his own. Both sides moved fluidly, shifting and overlapping as they came together, searching out weaknesses in the other and forcing them to react. To an outsider, it might have looked as if two great armies swept mindlessly towards each other, but the truth was a constant, darting struggle. Arik-Boke’s generals would shore up one wing and Kublai or Uriang- Khadai would react to it. They would bring a new tuman swinging over to bolster another position, drawing the enemy back into line rather than risk a massed attack on a weak part of their formations. It happened at a canter and then a gallop, with each officer seeking the slightest advantage as they came within bow range.
At three hundred paces, the first shafts were sent flying up from both sides. The maximum range and the closing speeds meant they would hit overhead in the ranks further back. Kublai saw them soaring thickly to where his bannermen rode and he roared a final order to the closest general. They had only moments to react, but they drifted left, shoring up his own ranks and weakening the false position.
It was too late for Arik-Boke to react again. Kublai and Uriang-Khadai had been reading his formations, seeing the build of strength on his left wing. It was well hidden, with thousands of men screening the main shift, but Arik-Boke had taken the bait. He would hit the false position, where he believed Kublai to be waiting for him.
Kublai barely noticed the volleys thrumming out from both sides, one every six heartbeats, launching terrible death and destruction. He had eyes only for the enemy movements. They were throwing their strength into one side to reach where they thought he was, skewing their formations to bring the maximum numbers against that point of
