Bones Of the Hills c-3 Page 13

  Khalifa would have leapt clear, but his feet snagged in the stirrups and, for a breathless moment of panic, his right leg was trapped under the dying horse. Another mount crashed into his as it fell and he jerked free, thanking Allah for his deliverance. He rose on sandy ground, spitting blood and wild with rage.

  The entire front rank had been brought down by the archers, fouling those behind. Many of his men were yelling, tugging at shafts through their legs and arms while others lay sprawled and unmoving. Khalifa roared fresh orders and the men behind dismounted to lead their mounts through the broken dead. The gap closed further and Khalifa held his sword high, pointing it at the enemy above. One hundred paces and he was lost in his desire to kill. If anything, he was faster on foot, though every step on loose ground sapped his strength. He scrambled up with his sword ready for the first blow. The shah was watching and Khalifa could almost feel the old man’s eyes on his back.

  The Mongols poured over the ridge, straight down the steep slope. Their ponies slid, with front legs straight and stiff while the back legs bunched to keep them upright. The desert warriors strained to take the first impact, but to Khalifa’s shock, another wave of arrows punched them from their feet before the two forces met. He could not understand how the Mongols could draw and loose while guiding their mounts down such a slope, but the volley devastated his men. Hundreds died on foot or leading their mounts and this time the shafts were followed by the Mongol front line crashing down on them. Khalifa heard their yelling swell until it seemed to echo back from the hills all around.

  The Mongol horsemen came like a breaking wave, smashing anything in their path by sheer weight. Khalifa was standing behind the bodies of two horses and could only watch in astonishment as the charge roared past him, a wedge tipped with lances that struck deep and deeper into the climbing lines below.

  He was left alive, but still they came. Khalifa could not climb further. The way was blocked by thousands of Mongol horsemen, guiding their mounts with just their knees while they loosed arrows at anything that moved. A long shaft ripped through his side, parting the steel links of his armour as if they had been made of paper. He fell, shouting incoherently, and it was then that he glimpsed another force cutting across the face of the slope.

  Jochi’s men hit the flank of the Arab riders below Jebe’s charge. Their arrows tore a hole in the ranks and they followed it with lances and swords, cutting men down while they were held in the press. Khalifa stood to see them, fear and bile rising in his throat. Arrows still whirred by his bare head, but he did not flinch. He saw the two forces meet in the centre and the combined mass drove his men further down so that they almost reached the valley floor. Bodies covered the ground behind them and riderless horses ran wild, knocking fresh warriors from their saddles in their panic.

  The Mongol charge from the ridge had passed him by and Khalifa saw one horse with its reins trapped under a dead man. He ran to it, ignoring the pain in his side as he mounted, throwing his shield aside with a curse when the arrow shafts snagged. The air was thick with dust and the cries of dying brothers, but he had a horse and a sword and had never asked for more. Perhaps thirty thousand desert men still lived, struggling below to hold back the twin charge. Khalifa could see the Mongols had gambled their full force in the attack and he shouted as he rode wildly down the hill towards the ranks. They could be held. They could be broken, he was sure of it.

  As he reached his men, he bellowed commands to the closest officers. A solid square began to form, ringed with shields. The Mongols threw themselves at the edges and began to die as they met the swords of his tribe. Khalifa felt the battle like a live thing and knew he could still turn the losses to triumph. He had his men retreat in order back to the flat ground, harried all the way by the Mongol warriors. He drew them away from the slope they had used to such effect, and when the earth was hard under his mount, Khalifa ordered a charge into them, urging his men on with words of the prophet.

  ‘They shall be slain or crucified or have their hands and feet cut off on alternate sides, or be banished from the land. They shall be held up to shame in this world and sternly punished in the hereafter!’

  His men were true Arabs of the blood. They heard and became fierce once more, taking the fight to the enemy. At the same time, the shah moved at last, sending fresh soldiers racing in squares as the Mongols came within range. The lines met and a roar went up as the Mongols were knocked back, defending desperately as attacks came from more than one direction. Khalifa saw the shah’s ranks move wide to surround them, marching steadily in.

  The Mongol warriors faltered, overwhelmed as Khalifa barged his horse through to the front rank. A young warrior came at him and Khalifa braced and took the man’s head as he swept past. The shah’s riders advanced, their swords red. Discipline held them and Khalifa was proud. Once more, he sensed uncertainty in the attacking horsemen and suddenly they broke and ran, leaving the foot regiments in their wake as they galloped clear.

  Khalifa ordered his lancers forward and was pleased with their formation as they took many of the fleeing men in the backs, hammering them from the saddles.

  ‘For the prophet, brothers!’ he roared. ‘Run these dogs down!’

  The Mongol warriors were streaming across the plain on their ponies, riding flat out. Khalifa raised his hand and dropped it and the lines of Arabs dug in their heels to give chase. They would pass along the flank of the shah’s army and Khalifa hoped the fierce old man would see and give thanks. As he rode, he glanced back to the slope leading up to the ridge. It was black with the dead and he felt new strength surge in him. These men had dared to enter his land and they would find only fire and the sword.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After the initial race east along the valley, both the tumans and their pursuers settled into a slow gallop that ate the miles. Before the sun set, Khalifa’s men tried to close the gap three times and were driven back with arrows fired by men turning in the saddle. Unlike the Mongols, the Arab horsemen were not accurate loosing arrows at full speed. Though their mounts were faster over short distances, they were forced to settle in for a long chase. By the time the sun touched the west behind them, they were more than a dozen miles from the shah’s army. The Mongol warriors rode in grim concentration, knowing that to fall behind was to die.

  Jochi and Jebe had come together about halfway through the ranks of their men. They did not know how many of their number had been lost on the slopes under the ridge. The Arabs had fought well at the end, but both generals were pleased with what they had achieved. Genghis would be told of both strength and weaknesses in the enemy and what they had learned would be vital to the khan in the days to come. Still, they had to survive the dogged pursuit. Both men knew it was easier to chase than to be hunted. As eagles and wolves had eyes to the front of their heads, so did man. Riding after an enemy kept the spirits strong, just as hearing the enemy always at their backs sapped the confidence of the tumans. Yet they did not falter.

  ‘Will they follow us into the darkness, do you think?’ Jochi asked.

  Jebe looked back over his shoulder at the mass of riders. Perhaps thirty thousand men had come after them and he could not know their quality. He and Jochi had left so many on the slopes that he thought anger would keep the Arabs on their trail for a long time. They had been thrown back in chaos in the battle and they would not let them go without a chase. As he stared at the enemy, Jebe could admit that the Arabs were excellent horsemen. They had shown discipline and courage. Against that, the two tumans could only bring the stoic endurance they had learned on the brutal winter plains. They would not fall, if they had to run to the end of the world.

  Jebe glanced back at the setting sun, now just a gold line that cast writhing shadows ahead of his men. He realised he had not answered the question and shrugged.

  ‘They look determined enough and they have more speed in short bursts. If I were their commander, I would wait for true darkness and then close the gap when we cannot see
to drive them back.’

  Jochi rode carefully, conserving his strength. His left arm ached and his legs were stiff, the old scars sending needles of discomfort along his thighs as they stretched. Even so, he struggled not to show his pride at the action on the ridge. His flanking charge had shattered the Arab soldiers, but Jebe had not mentioned it.

  ‘When it is dark then, we should race for a mile and open a gap they cannot cross easily.’

  Jebe winced at the thought of pelting full speed across unknown ground. Their greatest fear was that the Arabs knew the valley would come to a sudden end, perhaps in a blocked canyon. The tumans could be riding right to their own destruction. Jochi strained to see ahead, but the peaks on either side seemed to go on for ever. A pang of hunger interrupted his thoughts and he reached into a pocket to pull out a lump of dried mutton. In the last light, he eyed the black twist dubiously, but tore off a piece and chewed before reaching out and offering it to Jebe. The general accepted the gift without speaking, pulling it apart with his fingers before passing the rest back. They had not eaten since the morning and both men were starving.

  ‘When my father fought the Xi Xia kingdom,’ Jochi said, chewing, ‘the king used clusters of iron nails that could bring down a charging line.’

  ‘They would be useful now,’ Jebe replied, nodding. ‘If we had each man carry just a few, we could let these Arabs ride over a trail of them.’

  ‘Next time, my friend,’ Jochi said. ‘If there is one.’

  The sun set and a dim grey light crossed the valley, falling through shades to blackness. They had a little time before the new moon rose, its white crescent reversed. Jochi and Jebe gave orders that could barely be heard above the thunder of hooves and the pace increased slowly. Both leaders depended on the sturdiness of the plains-bred ponies. The scouts were used to riding a hundred miles in a single day and Jochi and Jebe counted on that to exhaust their enemy. Like the men who rode them, the ponies were as tough as old leather.

  Behind them, both generals heard the rhythm of the Arab horses change to the fastest gallop, but they had already widened the gap. Jochi sent an order for the rear ranks to shoot three shafts each into the blackness. The decision was rewarded by crashes and yells that echoed from the hills. Once more the pursuers fell back and the generals settled to a fast canter, ready to gallop at any moment. The Mongol ponies had fought and charged already that day. Many of them were weary and already suffering without water, but there was no way to rest them.

  ‘Did you see the flags of the shah’s army?’ Jochi asked.

  Jebe nodded, remembering the host of crescents all along the Arab ranks. The new moon was significant to their enemy, perhaps because it marked the beginning and end of their holy month. Jebe hoped it was not an omen of good fortune for those that rode behind him.

  The crescent cast a silvery gloom on the armies that streamed through the valley. Some of the Mongol warriors used the dim light to loose arrows until Jochi sent an order to conserve their stock. It was too hard to kill a man with a shield in the dark and they would need every shaft.

  Khalifa rode in furious silence at the head of his men. He had never experienced anything like this moonlight chase and could not escape the nagging feeling that he had deprived the shah of his cavalry wing in territory that had already proved hostile. He had ridden down fleeing armies before, but that was a brief wild moment after an enemy broke, where a warrior could blood his sword joyfully on the necks of fleeing men, or shoot arrows until his quiver was empty. He remembered such times with great fondness, coming as they did after battles where he had ridden close to death.

  This was something different and he could not understand the Mongol generals ahead. They rode in good order and every attempt to bring them down before sunset had been repulsed. Had their nerve gone? They did not ride in mindless panic. Instead, they seemed to be guarding the strength of their mounts, keeping only just enough ahead that he could not bring bows to bear against them.

  Khalifa gritted his teeth in irritation, his wounded side throbbing. The shah had chosen this valley as the fastest route west to support Otrar. The crease between mountains was more than a hundred miles long and opened out into a great plain close by the village where Khalifa had been born. Every mile took him further from the main army and made him wonder if the Mongols were not deliberately drawing him away. Yet he could not rein in and let them go. His blood cried out for vengeance for those they had slaughtered.

  The moon rose, which brought some respite as he spent hours calculating angles from the red planet Merreikh to the moon and the eastern horizon. He could not decide if the results promised good fortune or not and the mental game did not satisfy him. Could the Mongols have planned an ambush so far from the main battle site? Surely it was impossible. As the moon crept higher, he strained his eyes in the gloom for some sign that the Mongols were signalling to another force lying in wait.

  He could see nothing but their backs, riding as if they were not pursued by a vast army of furious men intent on their deaths. In the dark valley, it was easy to imagine enemies in every shadow. Khalifa’s anger sustained him as the cold became biting. He took a single gulp from his waterskin and shook it irritably. It had not been full at the beginning and there was only a little left. He felt his men looking to him for orders, but he had no words for them. He would not return to the shah only to tell him the enemy had escaped. He could not.

  Jebe and Jochi had spent much of the night in conversation, developing a mutual respect that deepened with the hours in the saddle. Some of the men dozed in turns around them, always with a friend to take the reins in case their mounts began to drift back through the ranks. It was common practice for those who had been herdsmen to ride asleep, though usually at just a walking pace. No one fell, despite their drooping heads. The tumans had slowed as the moon began to descend and the force at their heels had instantly kicked on to a gallop, closing the gap once more. Four times they had been forced to match the frantic pace before slowing, but as dawn approached, both armies were trotting, their mounts biting froth at their mouths as they panted and rode on.

  Jochi saw the first wolf dawn and reached across to nudge Jebe. The moon was just a faint sliver on the hills and a new day was beginning. Another attack was likely and the men around them rubbed tiredness from their eyes. The night they had spent seemed to have lasted for ever and at the same time had vanished in an instant. Despite the enemy at their backs, it had been oddly peaceful as the men shared the last of their dried meat and passed skins of warm, sour water between them until they were empty.

  Jebe was sore and dry-mouthed, feeling as if there was dust in every joint. His lower back ached and he could only wonder at the enemy who were still there when he looked back. As the light increased, he saw the Arab horses were exhausted from the ride. Their pursuers were lolling in their saddles, but they had not fallen, or allowed the tumans to get too far ahead.

  Jochi was proud of the Chin who rode with his people. They had suffered more than anyone and so many had drifted back that they formed the rear of the tumans. Still they went on. Less than half a mile separated the two armies and that had not changed since the darkest hours.

  As the sun rose in glory, Khalifa passed orders down to his senior men. He had suffered through the night, with cold and exhaustion. The end of the valley was in sight and he knew they had covered more than a hundred miles in one ride. When he had been young, he might have laughed at such a challenge, but at forty, his knees and ankles had begun to hurt with every stride of his mount. His men too were weary, though they had the grim endurance of desert Arabs. They lifted their heads as the order came to close the gap once more. Surely he could bring the Mongols to battle this last time!

  There was no sudden surge of speed to alert the enemy ahead. Instead, Khalifa urged his panting mount on slowly, closing the gap to just four hundred paces before the Mongols reacted. Khalifa raised his hand then, roaring through the dust in his throat for a charge.

>   His men dug in their heels and the exhausted horses responded, hitting a ragged gallop. Khalifa heard a horse scream and go down, spilling a man to the ground. He could not see what had happened as he closed to two hundred paces and drew a long, black arrow from the quiver on his back.

  The Mongols had seen the threat and answered it with a volley of shafts loosed behind them as they galloped. Even then, the accuracy was terrifying and Khalifa saw men and horses plucked away to be trampled on every side. He snarled in frustration as his arrow feathers touched his cheek. His mount was foundering and still they managed to widen the gap. He let go, crying out in triumph as his shaft took an enemy high in the back, sending him crashing down. Dozens more were struck, though armour saved some. Those who fell went under the Arab hooves as they writhed in the dust, struck many times until their bones were shattered pulp.

  Khalifa shouted raucously to his men, but they were finished. He could see from the way they swayed in the saddle that they had reached the end of their strength. Many of the horses had gone lame in the night. They drifted to the rear as their riders flailed uselessly with whips and sword scabbards.

  He considered ordering a halt, but the effort was too much. Always, he thought he could hang on a little longer, just until the Mongols killed their horses and began to die themselves. His eyes were sore and red from the gritty dust he had ridden through all night and he could only watch as the enemy drew ahead once more, to half a mile and further. There they stayed as the sun rose higher and neither side could widen or close the gap. Khalifa put his bow back in the leather sleeve behind his right leg and patted his horse’s neck.

  ‘Just a little further, great heart,’ he murmured to the plunging animal. He knew that many of the horses would be ruined after such a ride. They had been pushed beyond anything they had known before and the wind of many would be permanently broken. He heard another thump and cry as a horse fell somewhere behind him, staggering into those around it and collapsing. Others would follow, he knew, but still the rear ranks of the Mongols beckoned him on and he narrowed his eyes against the choking dust.