Bones of the Hills

For an instant, both men sensed the strain in the other and exchanged a glance that had none of the lightness of their words.

‘We cannot take so many if they are as good as their weapons and armour,’ Jochi said. ‘I will hit the flank, but then pull back and let them follow me far from the main force.’

‘Is that Tsubodai’s voice I hear?’ Jebe asked.

Jochi did not smile.

‘It is my voice, general. I will run them to exhaustion, well away from their reinforcements.’

Jebe bowed his head to the khan’s son. He did not mention that almost half of Jochi’s tuman were of Chin stock. Though they rode hardy Mongol ponies, they would not have the endurance of men born to the saddle.

‘Good luck, general,’ he called as he turned his mount.

Jochi did not reply, already issuing orders to his men. Ten thousand of those behind the ridge gathered quickly and rode east to get around the steep slope. It would not be easy to charge over the loose shale, and Jebe honestly did not know which of them had the hardest task.

Khalifa Al-Nayhan was a worried man as he rode up the hill, his fine gelding already labouring in the heat and dust. He had grown up in those very mountains and knew the ridge he was assaulting. The shah had given the order and he had formed his men without hesitation, but his stomach felt hollow. After the first shock of seeing Mongol scouts hundreds of miles from where they should have been, Shah Mohammed had settled into a fury Khalifa knew he could maintain for days or weeks. It was not a time to suggest that they wait for better terrain.

Khalifa urged his mount on over the broken ground, looking up at the ridge that seemed far above his head. Perhaps it was no more than a scout camp at the top. By the time he arrived, they might well have galloped away and then at least the shah would be satisfied. No one knew how these savage Mongols had made a Chin emperor kneel, and the shah needed quick victories to reassure his chieftains.

Khalifa shook the loose thoughts out of his head as he rode, feeling sweat sting his eyes. The summer had been mild so far, but climbing to the ridge was hard work. He trusted the men around him, many of them from his own tribe of desert warriors. The shah had spared nothing in outfitting them for war and, though the new armour and shields were heavy, Khalifa felt the confidence they brought. They were picked men: the first into every battle, the breakers of walls and armies. He felt his bow slapping against his thigh, but they could not bring arrows to bear while riding up such a slope. Once more, he thought of the shah watching and shook his head against weak thoughts. They would win or they would be killed. It was all the same to Allah.

At the steepest point of the slope, Khalifa knew they were committed. The horses plunged on, but the ground was even softer than he remembered and progress was painfully slow. Khalifa felt exposed and made his peace with God as he drew the curved shamsher sabre that had served him for many years. With his left hand, he raised his shield and rode only with his feet in the stirrups. Like many of his men, he secretly despised the metal footholders that made it hard to dismount quickly. Yet they showed their use on such a slope, when he needed both hands for his weapons. A quick tap on his boot showed him his dagger was still there in the leather sheath and he leaned forward into the warm breeze that came over the ridge.

In time of peace, civilisation had no place for butchers like him, but they were still needed, and would always be needed, when the jewelled cities and green parks were threatened. Khalifa had escaped two murder charges by joining the army and assuming a new name. It was what he did best. Sometimes he was paid and other times hunted, depending on how and when he practised his skills. Riding with his men into the teeth of the enemy was what he loved. The shah was watching and if they bloodied their swords, there would be rewards of women and gold for the commanders.

‘Hold the line straight, Ali, or I will see you whipped!’ Khalifa roared across his men. He saw dust still rising from the ridge and knew the enemy had not run. He could hardly see in the clouds that his own men churned up, but there was only one objective and his horse was still strong.

Above him, Khalifa saw rocks grow in size as they were pushed to the edge. He called out a warning, but he could do nothing. He watched in fear as the boulders came bouncing down, ripping through men and horses in a series of sickening cracks. Khalifa cried out as one came close enough for him to feel the wind of its passage. As it passed, it seemed to leap like something alive, striking the man behind with a great crunch. He could see only six of the stones scything through his men, but each one took many lives and left the ground littered with pieces of armour and men. They were riding in close ranks and there was no room to dodge the stones.

When no more boulders came, a ragged cheer went up from those who still laboured on the slope. The ridge was no more than four hundred paces away and Khalifa kicked his mount on, hungry now to bring vengeance to those who killed his men. He saw a dark line of archers ahead and raised his shield instinctively, ducking his head beneath the rim. He was close enough to hear orders called in a strange language and he clenched his teeth. The shah had sent forty thousand men up that slope. No force in the world could do more than thin the ranks before they were among them and killing.

Firing downhill, the Mongol archers could send their shafts further than normal. Khalifa could only keep his head down as arrows thumped against his shield. The one time he raised his head, it was immediately rocked back by a glancing blow that yanked the turban from his head and left it dangling. Rather than have it snag, he cut it free with part of his long hair and it bounded down the hill behind him.

At first, the shields protected his men, but as they reached the last hundred paces, the air was thick with whistling shafts and men died in scores. Khalifa’s shield was of wood, covered in the dried hide of a hippopotamus — the lightest and best of all the shah’s equipment. It held, though the muscles of his arm were bruised and battered until he could barely hold it. Without warning, he felt his horse shudder and begin to die.

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.