‘Tell me what is happening,’ he murmured again to his shaman.
Kokchu had yet to see his thirtieth year and his eyes were sharp, though shadows of regret played over them.
‘The Jajirat have laid down their bows and swords, my lord. They have lost their courage, as you said they might.’
‘They give him too much honour with their fear,’ the khan said, drawing his deel close around his scrawny frame. ‘Tell me of my own Naimans: do they still fight?’
Kokchu did not respond for a long time as he watched the roiling mass of men and horses below. Genghis had caught them all by surprise, appearing out of the grasslands at dawn when the best scouts said he was still hundreds of miles away. They had struck the Naiman alliance with all the ferocity of men used to victory, but there had been a chance to break their charge. Kokchu silently cursed the Jajirat tribe, who had brought so many men from the mountains that he had thought they might even win against their enemies. For a little time, their alliance had been a grand thing, impossible even a few years before. It had lasted as long as the first charge and then fear had shattered it and the Jajirat had stepped aside.
As Kokchu watched, he swore under his breath, seeing how some of the men his khan had welcomed even fought against their brothers. They had the mind of a pack of dogs, turning with the wind as it blew strongest.
‘They fight yet, my lord,’ he said at last. ‘They have stood against the charge and their arrows sting the men of Genghis, hurting them.’
The khan of the Naimans brought his bony hands together, the knuckles white.
‘That is good, Kokchu, but I should go back down to them, to give them heart.’
The shaman turned a feverish gaze on the man he had served all his adult life.
‘You will die if you do, my lord. I have seen it. Your bondsmen will hold this hill against even the souls of the dead.’ He hid his shame. The khan had trusted his counsel, but when Kokchu watched the first Naiman lines crumple, he had seen his own death coming on the singing shafts. All he had wanted then was to get away.
The khan sighed. ‘You have served me well, Kokchu. I have been grateful. Now tell me again what you see.’
Kokchu took a quick, sharp breath before replying.
‘The brothers of Genghis have joined the battle now. One of them has led a charge into the flanks of our warriors. It is cutting deeply into their ranks.’ He paused, biting his lip. Like a buzzing fly, he saw an arrow darting up towards them and watched it sink to its feathers in the ground just a few feet below where they crouched.
‘We must move higher, my lord,’ he said, rising to his feet without looking away from the seething mass of killing far below.
The old khan rose with him, aided by two warriors. They were cold-faced as they witnessed the destruction of their friends and brothers, but they turned up the hill at Kokchu’s gesture, helping the old man to climb.
‘Have we struck back, Kokchu?’ he asked, his voice quavering. Kokchu turned and winced at what he saw. Arrows hung in the air below, seeming to move with oily slowness. The Naiman force had been split in two by the charge. The armour Genghis had copied from the Chin was better than the boiled leather the Naimans used. Each man wore hundreds of finger-width lengths of iron sewn onto thick canvas over a silk tunic. Even then, it could not stop a solid hit, though the silk often trapped the arrowhead. Kokchu saw the warriors of Genghis weather the storm of shafts. The horsetail standard of the Merkit tribe was trampled underfoot and they too threw down their weapons to kneel, chests heaving. Only the Oirat and Naimans fought on, raging, knowing they could not hold for long. The great alliance had come together to resist a single enemy and with its end went all hope of freedom. Kokchu frowned to himself, considering his future.
‘The men fight with pride, my lord. They will not run from these, not while you are watching.’ He saw a hundred warriors of Genghis had reached the foot of the hill and were staring balefully up at the lines of bondsmen. The wind was cruelly cold at such a height and Kokchu felt despair and anger. He had come too far to fail on a dry hill with the cold sun on his face. All the secrets he had won from his father, surpassed even, would be wasted in a blow from a sword, or an arrow, to end his life. For a moment, he hated the old khan who had tried to resist the new force on the plains. He had failed and that made him a fool, no matter how strong he had once seemed. In silence, Kokchu cursed the bad luck that still stalked him.
The khan of the Naimans was panting as they climbed and he waved a weary hand at the men who held his arms.
‘I must rest here,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘My lord, they are too close,’ Kokchu replied. The bondsmen ignored the shaman, easing their khan down to where he could sit on a ledge of grass.
‘Then we have lost?’ the khan said. ‘How else could the dogs of Genghis have reached this hill, if not over Naiman dead?’
Kokchu did not meet the eyes of the bondsmen. They knew the truth as well as he, but no one wanted to say the words and break the last hope of an old man. Below, the ground was marked in curves and strokes of dead men, like a bloody script on the grass. The Oirat had fought bravely and well, but they too had broken at the last. The army of Genghis moved fluidly, taking advantage of every weakness in the lines. Kokchu could see groups of tens and hundreds race across the battlefield, their officers communicating with bewildering speed. Only the great courage of the Naiman warriors remained to hold back the storm and it would not be enough. Kokchu knew a moment’s hope when the warriors retook the foot of the hill, but it was a small number of exhausted men and they were swept away in the next great charge against them.
‘Your bondsmen still stand ready to die for you, my lord,’ Kokchu murmured. It was all he could say. The rest of the army that had stood so bright and strong the night before lay shattered. He could hear the cries of dying men.
The khan nodded, closing his eyes.
‘I thought we might win this day,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘If it is over, tell my sons to lay down their swords. I will not have them die for nothing.’
The khan’s sons had been killed as the army of Genghis roared over them. The two bondsmen stared at Kokchu as they heard the order, their grief and anger hidden from view. The older man drew his sword and checked the edge, the veins in his face and neck showing clearly, like delicate threads under the skin.
‘I will take word to your sons, lord, if you will let me go.’
The khan raised his head.
‘Tell them to live, Murakh, that they might see where this Genghis takes us all.’
There were tears in Murakh’s eyes and he wiped them away angrily as he faced the other bondsman, ignoring Kokchu as if he were not there.
‘Protect the khan, my son,’ he said softly. The younger man bowed his head and Murakh placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to touch foreheads for a moment. Without a glance at the shaman who had brought them to the hill, Murakh strode down the slope.
The khan sighed, his mind full of clouds.
‘Tell them to let the conqueror through,’ he whispered. Kokchu watched as a bead of sweat hung on his nose and quivered there. ‘Perhaps he will be merciful with my sons once he has killed me.’
Far below, Kokchu saw the bondsman Murakh reach the last knot of defenders. They stood taller in his presence; exhausted, broken men who nonetheless raised their heads and tried not to show they had been afraid. Kokchu heard them calling farewell to one another as they walked with a light step towards the enemy.
At the foot of the hill, Kokchu saw Genghis himself come through the mass of warriors, his armour marbled in blood. Kokchu