CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
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 armour 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 towards her, grabbing the reins.
‘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 ming-haans 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 with a bow as the Mongols themselves. 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 armour 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 armour 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 centre 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 manoeuvre. 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.