Bones of the Hills (50 page)

“Very well,” he said. “I will ride fast and far, lord. If the prince brings his army from the south, look for me in the hills.”

THE MONGOL SCOUT SENSED SOMETHING
. He had followed two men into the mountains for three full days, staying well back as he watched their progress. They had led him deep into the maze of canyons and high mountains around the Panjshir valley and the Afghan town of Parwan, with its ancient fortress. It was hard country, but the scout was experienced and knew every twist of the land. In the gathering dark, he could not follow the tracks any longer and he looked for a safe place to spend the night. It bothered him that he had lost the men. Something about them had aroused his curiosity from the first sighting. From a distance, they had looked like one of the Afghan hill tribes, swathed in cloth to protect their faces from the sun and wind. Still, there was something odd about them and he had been drawn in. In the canyon, he felt an itch, as if someone was watching. Could they have prepared an ambush? It was possible. The hill tribes knew the land even better than he did. They moved like ghosts when they wanted to, and the scout was tempted to pull back and find the tracks again when the sun came up. He hesitated, sitting very still and listening for any noise over the moaning wind that wound its way through the hills.

He heard the snap of a bow, but he was not fast enough to throw himself down. The shaft struck him hard in the chest, where there was
no armor to protect him. The scout grunted, rocking back in the saddle. His hands held the wooden saddle horn between his legs, keeping him upright as his horse whinnied in distress. He sucked air, spitting blood as he yanked at the reins. His eyes had filled with tears of pain and he was blind as he turned his mare, trusting her to find the way out.

Another arrow buzzed out of the gloom and struck him in the back, piercing his heart. He fell with the impact, sliding over the horse’s head. She would have bolted, but men came running toward her, grabbing the reins and opening their arms wide so that she was forced to turn in place.

“He’s down,” the archer said to the man with him.

Jelaudin dropped a hand to his shoulder. “That was good work, in this light.”

The archer shrugged and removed the string from his bow, folding it neatly into a pouch at his waist. He knew he was a fine shot, perhaps the best that the prince of Peshawar could offer. His master had given his service to Jelaudin, but the archer’s loyalty was only to the prince, not this ragged holy man. Still, Jelaudin clearly knew the enemy. He had been able to predict the movement of the scout, tempting him just enough to bring him in for the shot.

Jelaudin seemed to sense the way the archer’s thoughts were running, despite the gloom of the canyon.

“Take away their eyes and these Mongols are not half so fearsome,” he said softly. “God guided your arrow, my friend.”

The archer bowed his head out of respect, though he was a craftsman and took pride in his skills.

“Will we be able to relieve the fortress at Parwan, master? I have an old friend who lives in the town. I would like to think we could bring him out alive.”

Jelaudin smiled in the darkness. “Never doubt it, my friend. By morning the Mongols will be blind, their scouts dead. We will come out of the hills and fall on them like a landslide.”

As dawn came, the sun revealed the dusty lands around Parwan and the fortress that stood at its back. Four Mongol minghaans surrounded the high tower of its castle, left over from the days when raiding parties roamed the region from the hills. The people of the town had abandoned their possessions to rush inside its walls, safe for a time.

The Mongol warriors had surrounded the fortress completely,
knowing there could be little water inside. A deep river ran through the valley and they could water their horses freely while those in the fortress felt only dust in their throats. Some of the Mongols roamed the deserted town while they waited. Others had built a bridge across the river so they could hunt in the wooded hills beyond. They were in no hurry. The fortress would fall and another place would accept a new ruler, or be utterly destroyed. The officers were pleasantly idle as they watched the sunlight stretch shadows across the dusty ground. They did not need the town, or anything in it, but it lay across a route to the west and Genghis had ordered the way made clear.

In the two years since Genghis and Tsubodai had ridden against the assassins, this work had become commonplace. They always had maimed men or old ones to man forts in the road. Tribute came in the form of gold, slaves, or horses, and every season brought a tighter grip on the Afghan lands. There were always some who refused to bow their heads to their new rulers, but if they fought, they were killed to the last man. The ancient stone tower at Parwan suited the Mongol needs, and the townspeople had lost all hope as the days passed and the only small well ran dry. They knew nothing of the great wars going on around them, only that a grim force of merciless warriors waited just outside the wall.

Jelaudin came out of the mountains as the sun rose, the words of the dawn prayer still fresh on his lips. His best trackers knew this region better than any Mongol scout alive, and they had hunted them in the valleys and canyons, until the last scout fell with Jelaudin watching. The Mongol force had no warning of the attack. Jelaudin exulted as his men poured down into the valley of Panjshir, its river shining in the sun. The Mongols barely had time to run to their horses before his army was in formation. He had called his men in faith and they had answered, walking or riding to him from thousands of miles away. Turkoman nomads had come, some of them as good as the Mongols themselves with a bow. Berber warriors rode on his left, who shared the faith if not the Arab blood that ran in Jelaudin’s veins. True Arabs, Bedouins, Persians, even Turks: he had bound them all to the men of Peshawar and their prince. Around that core, Jelaudin had trained his army.

The Mongols met them with whirring arrows, but Jelaudin knew his enemy and all his men carried long shields of layered wood and
cured leather. With the prince’s gold behind him, he had found a design that did well against the Mongol bows, and few of his men fell in the first vicious volleys. As the distance closed, Jelaudin rode with wild courage, shouting aloud as the Mongols changed their aim to his precious horses. They too wore the best armor Peshawar could produce, fish-scales of metal overlapping on their long muzzles and chests. It slowed them in the charge, but arrows could not easily bring them down.

They hit the Mongol lines that formed before them out of chaos, crashing with stunning force against men who did not give way. The last volley of arrows had ripped through his men and even their armor and shields could not protect them at just a few paces. Jelaudin saw them fall, but then he was among the enemy, his sword swinging. He misjudged his first blow in his hunger for vengeance, so that it cracked across the helmet of a Mongol warrior. His speed gave the blow power and the man went flying backwards, trampled instantly under hooves. Jelaudin’s army had survived the first contact, and the Mongol center fell back in confusion.

Jelaudin saw horns form on the wings and the prince of Peshawar was there to send his men around the outside, trapping the horns almost before they could begin the maneuver. The Mongols had never fought men who knew their tricks and tactics as well as Jelaudin. He shouted, manic with rage and joy as the Mongols fell back, their scout horns blowing retreat.

Even then they fought and the carnage was terrible when the Arabs pressed them too closely. The warriors kept tight formation, withdrawing in groups while the closest lines covered their backs with arrows and swords. Jelaudin raised his hand and bows bent along his front rank. As the gap opened, they sent a volley into the Mongols, each man aiming at the enemy archers, who carried no shields. Dozens of them were killed and the army of Jelaudin pressed on, step by step, forcing them back from the fortress while the citizens of Parwan cheered on the walls.

The river by the town was less than a mile away when the Mongols gave up the running fight and raced for the bridge. Jelaudin galloped after them with his men, intent on their deaths. He had seen them ride in triumph too many times not to take pleasure from the sight. He rode lightly, the breeze cool on his face.

The Mongols did not stop at the bridge. The surviving warriors galloped across without slowing down, risking their lives in the crush of
men. It was well done and Jelaudin’s men did not hesitate to follow them.

Jelaudin saw Mongol warriors leap from their horses and take axes to the ropes and timbers of the bridge, ignoring those who rode them down. Perhaps a hundred of his mounted men had crossed, and with terrible clarity, Jelaudin saw the Mongols intended to cut the force in half, leaving those on the fortress side helpless while they turned on the rest like mad dogs. The sight of such calm thinking broke through his frenzy and he reined in. He could direct his men to kill those who hacked at the bridge supports. If it held, he would destroy the Mongol forces to the last man, but if it fell, many of his men would die. He had done enough, he thought. He had wounded and bloodied an enemy who had not known defeat before. He took a horn from his waist, where it hung on a strap. It had once belonged to a Mongol scout, but his men were ready for the blaring note.

Those who had not yet reached the bridge turned back and formed into shining ranks, already cheering the victory. Those who had already gone over pulled away from the enemy and started to retreat across the river. Jelaudin watched with pride as they followed his orders without question, raising their shields to take the arrows that sailed after them.

The bridge fell, slapping into the river in a great spray. Perhaps fifty of his men were still on the other side and Jelaudin rode to the edge, looking down into the waters. It was too deep, he thought. Perhaps the men could have swum their horses across on another day, but not with enemy archers ready to rush them as they forced their mounts down the banks. Jelaudin raised his sword in salute to those who watched him from across the river, enemy and friend alike.

His men returned the gesture and turned their horses back, riding into the Mongols in one last charge. They were cut down, though each man went without fear, killing as many as he could.

The two forces faced each other across the torrent, panting and bloodied. Jelaudin could hardly describe the ecstasy of the moment. He saw the Mongol officer trot his mount to the opposite bank, and for a moment, they stared at each other. The Mongol shrugged at the trail of dead leading to the fortress in the distance. He raised his sword then, copying the gesture of respect before wheeling his mount and riding away. Genghis would hear and the subdued officer did not have to utter threats on his behalf.

“The news is in the mouth of every city, Genghis,” Kachiun said bitterly. “Before now, they saw us as unbeatable. This is a crack in that belief, brother. If we let it go unanswered, even for a season, they will grow in confidence and more will come to Jelaudin’s banners.”

“One successful raid does not make a general, Kachiun. I will wait for Tsubodai to return.” Genghis gestured irritably to the open plain he had found, eighty miles south of the lake where Kublai and Mongke had learned to swim. The nation could not remain anywhere for long. Lush grass was hard to find in Arab lands, but the world was large and Genghis had two sites picked out to move them to in another month. That was simply the way of their lives, and he did not think of it beyond quick decisions when the time came. Kachiun’s voice irritated him, interrupting his thoughts of Jochi and Tsubodai. It was true that Jelaudin’s army had killed more than a thousand of his men, the event sending ripples of disquiet through the Arab cities. The first tribute due from the Afghan city of Herat had not come, and Genghis wondered if it was delayed or whether they had decided to wait and see what he would do.

Kachiun waited, but when Genghis said nothing, he spoke again, his voice hard.

“The men lost were from my tuman, Genghis. Let me at least ride to the area and make this bastard prince nervous. If you won’t give me the army, let me raid his lines, striking and vanishing in the night as we have done before.”

“You should not fear these farmers, brother. I will deal with them when I know that Tsubodai has found Jochi.”

Kachiun held himself still, biting back the questions he wanted to ask. Genghis had not shared Tsubodai’s orders with him and he would not beg to be told, though he wanted very much to know. He still found it difficult to believe that Jochi had taken his men away and tried to lose himself. The spirits knew Jochi had been provoked, and at times, Kachiun could only curse the blindness of the father that had led to it, but the reality of betrayal had stunned them all. No one had ever turned against the man who had made the nation. For all his faults, Genghis was revered and Kachiun could hardly imagine the strength of will that allowed Jochi to wrench apart from everything he had known. He saw Genghis set his jaw obstinately, guessing at his thoughts as Kachiun tried again to make him understand.