Bones of the Hills (46 page)

The sun could not be seen for much of the morning in that place of peaks and stone, so that Tsubodai wondered at the half-lit existence of the villagers. Even in high summer, their homes would have been cold for most of the day. Only when the sun was overhead would light and warmth reach the street below. By then he did not doubt that the villagers were all servants of the ones he had come to root out from their stronghold. Nothing else explained why they would choose such a life.

Tsubodai rode in the second rank and looked back only once as the army began to move, a vast slow tail that stretched back almost to the first village he had found destroyed. Some of them still had no idea what had happened the day before, but they followed in his steps and wound their way further into the hostile terrain.

The path narrowed still further as he left the village behind, forcing his men to ride two across. It was almost a crack in the mountain, the air cold from constant gloom and shadows. Tsubodai kept his weapons ready, straining his eyes ahead for some sign of the arban he had sent. Only hoofprints remained and Tsubodai’s men followed them slowly, wary of an ambush but still going on.

The sense of enclosure became stifling as the slope began to rise. To Tsubodai’s discomfort, the trail narrowed again, so that only one man at a time could squeeze his horse through. Still the hoofprints led them. Tsubodai had never felt so helpless in his life, and he had to struggle with swelling panic. If they were attacked, the first ones killed would block the path of those behind, leaving them easy targets. He did not think he could even turn his mount in such a narrow pass and winced every time his legs brushed the mossy rock on either side.

Tsubodai jerked his head up as one of his men gave a low whistle and the horses came to a sudden stop. He cursed under his breath as he realized he could not even ride to the front to see what they had found.
The finest army in the world had been reduced to a single line of nervous men. No wonder the assassins had not abandoned their fortress. Tsubodai squinted upwards at the strip of bright sky above his head. All it would take was a few men with stones up there and the mountains would become a tomb for all their hopes and ambitions. He took a sharp breath when a pebble dropped from somewhere above, but nothing followed it.

One of his men came back on foot, ducking under the legs of the horses and making them shy nervously. They too felt hemmed in by the rock on all sides, and Tsubodai was worried one of them might panic. In such a small space, it would be chaos.

“There’s a wall built across the path ahead, General,” the warrior said. “It has a gate, but it’s made of iron. If you have hammers sent up, we can knock out the hinges, but it won’t be quick.”

Tsubodai nodded, though the thought of sending orders back along a line of stationary horses would have been farcical if it hadn’t been for the constant threat of an attack. Despite himself, he glanced up again with a wince.

“You’ll have to go yourself. Have the hammers brought from man to man and have an officer break out the mantlets from the closest cart that has them.” The portable wooden barricades would be useful, at least. Genghis had insisted on having dozens of the things made in Samarkand to protect his archers, a decision that was only now bearing fruit.

Tsubodai waited impatiently as the runner clambered back along the line. The carts of siege supplies were far behind, and time passed slowly as the men talked amongst themselves and waited. Only Genghis seemed cheerful, as Tsubodai looked back at him. The khan was sharpening his sword with a whetstone from his saddlebags, raising the blade at intervals to inspect the edge. He caught Tsubodai staring and chuckled, the sound echoing as he continued with the task.

In the stillness, some instinct made Tsubodai look up for a third time. He saw the strip of blue sky speckled in dark objects. His jaw dropped and he shouted to those around him to duck, raising his armored forearms above his own head just before the first stone hit him.

The stones fell in waves, causing the Mongols to grunt and snarl in pain. Those who had shields heaved them up, but they were only a few. Their horses suffered the barrage without helmets or armor, bucking and kicking in fear and pain. More than a few were stunned, slumping and scrabbling as their legs gave way. Tsubodai clenched his fists over his head as he saw some of them would not rise again, their skulls broken.
He saw men with their arms hanging loose, the bones broken despite the armor, and still the stones fell into the confined space. The one thing Tsubodai could be thankful for was that the stones were small. Rocks capable of snapping a man’s spine either wedged in the pass above their heads or bounced and shattered into smaller pieces. Even as he took note of that, one of the large stones survived the fall and struck the forehead of a horse only feet away from him, killing the animal instantly. A memory came back to the general of the first fort he had taken with Genghis. Men had stood above him then in a killing hole, driving shafts almost straight down. They had been saved by wooden barriers, held above their heads. Tsubodai felt his heart thump painfully as he realized he had forgotten about the carts behind him. They could not be drawn into the narrowing path, and he had a vision of the whole army being blocked, unable to reverse as the sides of rock closed on them. His men reeled under the barrage of stones, crying out in pain and frustration.

“Where are those mantlets!” Tsubodai roared. “We need mantlets here!” His voice carried far down the lines, snapping back and forth from the walls. As the trail turned, he saw men gesture urgently to those behind them, passing on his order. How far back were the carts? He waited, wincing at the crack of stones as he crouched over his saddle with his arms protecting his head.

He thought he had been listening to screams and his own breath forever when he heard a shout. Tsubodai risked looking out over his shoulder. Stones still rattled off his armor, rocking him. Even the small ones hurt. He breathed in relief to see the heavy wooden shields being passed from rider to rider overhead. They could not come fast enough.

The trail of wooden barriers halted as those under the falling stones held on to them instead of passing them down the line. Tsubodai shouted furious orders at them. More were coming, he could see. Already the stones could be heard thumping off the wood, hard enough to hurt the ears. Tsubodai grabbed the first mantlet to reach him, seeing that Genghis was already safe. He did not think the khan would be giving his up, and it took a wrench of will to pass his on to those ahead. They could move them only by tilting them up. When the mantlets were turned like shells to protect the men, they often wedged in the walls and hardly needed holding.

Bareheaded once more, Tsubodai looked to Genghis and saw the khan had lost his calm. Genghis grimaced as he saw his general unprotected and then shrugged as if it were nothing. He heaved his mantlet
off where it had stuck and reached back for another. Tsubodai saw stones falling around the khan. One rocked his head back when it struck Genghis’s helmet, but another mantlet was dragged forward and the general breathed in relief to see him secure once more.

The rain of stones dwindled and then stopped, leaving battered and dying men beneath the heavy boards. Without armor, they would have been destroyed. Whether the assassins had seen the wooden barriers or simply run out of missiles, Tsubodai did not know. He did know he would move sky and earth to pay them back for the agony of being helpless.

Hammers came forward under the shell of mantlets, handed from man to man until heavy blows began to ring out from somewhere ahead. Maddeningly, Tsubodai could not see the front ranks. The wall they tried to break was twelve horse lengths in front of him, and he could only wait and sweat.

Tsubodai thought he could have the dead horses butchered and sent back in pieces along the line. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had struck him. They needed to get out of the chimney of rock, and gutting horses would take too long, even if they had room to swing the axes.

Instead, Tsubodai saw the mantlets could be used to cover dead men and horses, allowing the rest to walk over them. It would be grisly business, but without a way forward, it didn’t matter if the iron gate could be battered out or not.

The echoing crash of the gate falling could be heard far back along the line, bringing a ragged cheer from the warriors. Tsubodai saw the men ahead lunge forward and then cry out as they were struck by something unseen. Tsubodai squinted, but there was little light in that place and the mantlets reduced it almost to nothing in their shadow. Just ahead of him lay the horse he had seen struck. Its rider had been pinned against the wall as the animal slumped. Blood had come from his nose and he was pale and still. Tsubodai did not know if he lived, but he gave orders without hesitation.

He passed his own mantlet forward to cover the battered pair. With Tsubodai urging him on, the closest warrior dug in his heels, forcing his mount up and onto the unstable platform.

It lurched under the weight and the terrified pony resisted, but Tsubodai and the rider yelled at it. The warrior belted its flanks with his sword scabbard until the animal lurched over, whinnying in distress. Tsubodai grimaced and followed, trying not to hear the sound of
breaking bones under his weight. He told himself the man beneath was surely dead.

Tsubodai’s horse almost bolted free at the sight of an empty path ahead. He reined in desperately, knowing that whatever had silenced his men was still waiting. Only one warrior rode ahead of him and that man raced forward madly, calling a war cry and brandishing his sword.

Tsubodai passed through the rubble of the gate and sunlight struck his eyes, almost blinding him. Beyond, he caught a glimpse of a wide spot in the path. His horse was running for it, desperate to get away from the fear and stench of blood in the pass. Tsubodai yanked the reins savagely, turning his mount left as arrows whirred past him. The other warrior had ridden straight in and arrows appeared in his chest. Tsubodai saw him stagger, but his armor held and he had time to kill a bowman before another shaft took him under the chin at close range.

The general gasped for breath, blinking as more warriors clattered out of the pass to join him. Those who had broken arms and collarbones were unable to use their weapons, but they ran into the arrows to clear the pass behind them.

The archers facing them were dressed in white robes, pulled open by the action of drawing their bows. Tsubodai could see they wore the mark of serenity, and fury swept over him. He kicked his mount at the massed lines of men. There was nowhere to run or maneuver. His warriors would either break the line or die in twos and threes as they came out.

It helped that the horses ran mad with terror. The Mongol warriors hardly tried to stop them as they charged. Tsubodai’s horse went straight at an archer fumbling another arrow onto the string. The shot went buzzing past the general and he swung his sword as he plunged past, his horse kicking the next man down. Tsubodai showed his teeth in cruel pleasure as his warriors began to cut further into the lines. Each man’s chest bristled with arrows, but the armor was good and the archers poor. The assassins were not warriors, for all the fear they created. They had not trained every day from the moment they could walk. They could not crush fear and pain to make one last cut into an enemy. The warriors of the khan could and did.

The pass ahead was wide enough for five horses to gallop abreast. Perhaps a hundred bowmen stood on tiers of rock, cut almost like steps. They could not hold the flood coming out at them. Volleys might have broken the first ranks, but Tsubodai saw every man shot alone. He swung his blade at another, cutting a great gash in the man’s
side as he whipped past. His horse was foundering, with two arrows deep in its chest. Only its panic kept it running, but Tsubodai was ready when the strength in the animal vanished and it fell hard. He leapt lightly down, staggering almost into the arms of an Arab. Tsubodai spun in a frenzy, so that his sword came round at neck height. The man died and the next he faced was caught helpless between shots. Tsubodai took two sharp strides and plunged his sword into the bare chest, right at the level of the serenity tattoo. A warrior who had come through still mounted kicked out as Tsubodai braced to block a third, sending his intended victim tumbling backwards. Tsubodai looked up in thanks and saw it was Genghis, bloody and jubilant.

Against unarmored men, Tsubodai thought the archers would have stolen victory even from a large number. The chimney of rock was the best defense he had ever seen, and he understood why the assassins had stayed there to fight. No doubt they thought they could hold against anyone. Tsubodai wiped his mouth, where he tasted something foul and sticky. His hand came away red and he spat on the ground.

Around him, the last of the archers were being cut down, and the Mongol riders let out a bellow of victory, releasing all the fear and anger they had not shown before. Tsubodai did not join them. His body was aching from a hundred impacts, and he sat down on the stone steps, using his foot to shove away a body and make a space. He found himself panting hard for air, as if his lungs could not fill properly. The sun was high above their heads, not yet even at noon, and Tsubodai laughed weakly at the sight. He felt like he had been trapped in that dark place for years and every breath was a struggle to find calm.

He looked further up the path, past the warriors and the dead. He had seen the fortress standing over them all the time they had fought, but only now did it enter his thoughts.

The assassins had made their stronghold from the mountain stones, building it right across the pass so that there was no way around. The cliffs on either side were too smooth to climb, and Tsubodai sighed as he studied the single great gate that blocked him still.

“Hammers here!” he shouted. “Hammers and mantlets.”

THE CATAPULTS GENGHIS HAD BROUGHT FROM SAMARKAND
could not be dragged through the narrow pass, even in pieces. Instead, the work fell to men wielding hammers and wall hooks. The door into the fortress was made of bronze and brass, set well back into stone columns. Progress was incredibly slow and the work was exhausting. Tsubodai organized the hammer teams, with other men to bring up the mantlets so they could work under their protection. By the end of the first day, the columns on both sides of the door were chipped and battered, with great gouges from where iron bars had been struck with hammers. It still held. Above their heads, arrows came at intervals, but the best archers in the nation were standing ready for them, sending shafts up before the assassins could even aim. Even then there were not many defenders and Tsubodai wondered if the main force of the assassins already lay dead on the bloody steps to the fortress. The assassins worked best in darkness and with stealth. They did not have the numbers to stand against a determined army, as Genghis had said. All their strength lay in their home never being discovered.