‘My sister lives in a village in the mountains, master, perhaps two days north from where I found your men.’ He swallowed nervously as Yusuf interpreted and Genghis tossed him a skin of airag to clear his throat. The man drank and choked, having thought it was water. Red in the face, he had to be thumped on his back before he could continue.
‘I am sorry, master. Strong spirits are forbidden to me,’ he gasped. Yusuf grinned as he relayed the words.
‘Tell him that is not a strong spirit,’ Genghis growled. ‘And tell him to speak before I have him thrown in the pit and covered over while he still breathes.’
By the time Yusuf finished speaking, the little man was pale and already babbling.
‘My sister says that men live in the mountains and take food and servants from the village. They answer to no man, master, but she said they sometimes carry quarry stones on carts up into the high peaks.’
As Genghis listened to Yusuf, he grew more irritable.
‘Ask him if that is all he knows. It is not enough.’
The Arab paled still further and shook his head.
‘She told me two young men of the village followed the carts once, three, perhaps four years ago. They did not come back, master. They were found dead when their families went to search for them, with their throats cut.’
Genghis stared as he heard the last part of the translation. It was not confirmation, but it was the most promising of all the wild tales that had come in.
‘It is possible, Tsubodai. You were right to bring him to me. Give him a cart of gold with two oxen to pull it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You and I are going north, Tsubodai. He will accompany us as far as this village of his sister. If we find what we need, he can take the gold. If not, his life is forfeit.’
The little man listened to Yusuf and fell to his knees in relief.
‘Thank you, master,’ he called as Genghis left the ger, his mind already busy with plans for an attack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Genghis forced himself to be patient as he prepared to fight an enemy unlike any other he had faced. He moved the families back to the shelter around Samarkand, leaving Jelme and Kachiun with them for protection. Jelme came to thank him personally for the posting, which left Genghis blinking in surprise, quickly masked. It had not occurred to him that the general would prefer to spend time with his father in the city rather than hunting the Assassins who threatened them.
For that task, he took his own tuman, as well as Tsubodai’s. The best part of twenty thousand men were still a force that awed him when he remembered his first raiding bands of a few dozen. With them, he could bring mountains down if he had to. Even so many could cross sixty to eighty miles a day if they travelled light, but Genghis had no idea what lay ahead of them. The artisans of Samarkand were there to be used and he had them construct siege equipment and new carts, piling on just about anything he thought they might need and tying them down with canvas and rope. The khan was a whirlwind of energy as he planned for the attack and none of his men were left in doubt as to how seriously he took the threat. Of all men in the tribes, Genghis understood the danger of assassins, and he looked forward to the assault to come.
The new carts had the stronger spoked wheels Tsubodai had brought back from Russia, but they groaned and creaked as the two tumans moved off at last. Even after a month of preparation, Jochi had not returned to the camp. It was possible he still sought out information on the Assassins, but events had moved on. Genghis sent two warriors riding east after him, then two more after Khasar, freeing their hands. The region was fat with wealthy cities and while he sought out the Assassins, Genghis knew Khasar and Jochi would enjoy taking them at their leisure.
Chagatai had asked to assist his father in the search for the mountain stronghold, but Genghis had refused him. Nothing he knew of the Assassins spoke of large numbers. Their strength lay in secrecy and, once that was broken, Genghis expected to dig them out like sticking a knife into a termite hill. Chagatai was still under a cloud with his father and Genghis could hardly look at him without feeling anger and dashed hopes surface. He had not made the decision to raise Ogedai lightly. Thoughts of his legacy had been troubling the khan for many months, but he had planned for Chagatai to inherit for far longer. It was not that he regretted it, at all. The decision was made. Genghis knew his temper well, however. He knew that if Chagatai showed the slightest resentment, there was a chance he would kill him.
Instead, Genghis sent him south with Jebe to raze the land in his name. All his generals were warned not to let Arabs too close to them, even those they knew and trusted as interpreters. Genghis left all but a few of his behind the walls of Samarkand, forbidding them from going anywhere near the camp. Arslan would be merciless to any who disobeyed the order and Genghis felt he had secured his people in all ways as he rode north.
With the laden carts, they made barely thirty miles a day, starting at dawn and riding at walking pace for all the hours of daylight. They left behind the green fields around Samarkand, taking the carts across a shallow fording point of the northern river before crossing into lands of dust and scrub grass, hills and valleys.
By the fourth day, Genghis was chafing at the pace. He rode up and down the lines of carts, urging the drivers to make their best speed. What had seemed good sense and restraint in Samarkand now ate at his confidence. The Assassins surely knew he was coming. He worried that they would simply abandon their position in the mountains and leave it empty for him to find.
Tsubodai shared the opinion, though he said nothing, knowing that a good general does not criticise a khan, even to those he trusts. Yet Tsubodai was convinced Genghis had handled it badly. The only thing that might work was a massive strike, surprising the Assassins where they were strongest before they even knew enemies were in the area. This slow-moving caravan of carts was almost exactly the opposite of what Tsubodai wanted. Riding with barely more than blood dust and mare’s milk, he and his men had raced from the mountains to Genghis in twelve days. Now, as the moon waxed and waned for almost a full turn, Tsubodai eyed it with more and more misgiving.
When they came to the last village he had sacked, Tsubodai was already planning what to do if the Assassins had vanished. This time, Genghis did not stop, though ash-marked figures ducked and scrabbled in the wreckage, searching for anything they might salvage. The Mongol tumans rode past without a thought for those who hid from them.
The mountains could be seen for days before they reached the foothills. In response to his own nervous energy, Tsubodai gained Genghis’ permission to ride out with the scouts, searching for new information. He found the second village when the carts were still forty miles and more than a day’s ride behind him. It was there that Tsubodai had met the village council and the man he had brought to Genghis.
No one lived there any longer. Tsubodai’s heart sank as he walked his horse through the gutted shells of homes. It was not the work of his men, and in this dead place there were not even urchins to sift the ruins for food or coins. If Tsubodai had needed any final confirmation of the Assassins’ presence, he found it in the bodies that lay everywhere, gashed and burned where they had fallen. Only flies, birds and wild dogs lived in the village and the buzz and flutter of wings sounded all around him, rising in choking clouds as his horse walked through.
Genghis came up when Tsubodai’s riders told him the news. He kept the cold face as he rode through to his general, jerking sharply only once when a fly landed on his lips.