Boleslav looked at the sun dipping down on the distant hills. An arrow struck his charger without warning, making it buck. Another hammered his shield, pushing it back into his chest with the impact. He felt a sick fear overwhelm him. He could not save Krakow. The knights had been reduced to a shadow and only his peasant foot soldiers remained. He would be hard-pressed to save his own life. He signalled and his heralds blew retreat across the battlefield.

The light was already failing, but the Mongols continued their shooting as the pikemen began to withdraw. The exhausted Templars formed a thin line in the rear, taking arrows on their armour as best they could to prevent the withdrawal becoming a complete rout.

Boleslav moved into a canter. His messengers went with him, their heads down. Defeat hung on them all, as well as fear. Instead of sending letters of victory, he would be running to his brother Henry, asking for his charity and his pity. He rode numbly, watching the shadows before him. The Mongols had annihilated the French Templars, to that point the greatest fighting force he had ever known. Who could stop them, if not the martial orders? Those knights had slaughtered hordes of Moslem heretics in and around Jerusalem. To see them torn apart in a single day shook his very foundations.

Behind him, the Mongols howled like wolves, hundreds at a time darting in and killing those who wanted nothing more than to retreat. The arrows continued to fall even after the light was poor. Men were dragged off their saddles from behind, tumbling into the arms of men who laughed as they killed them, pushing and shoving each other to get in a kick or a blow.

As full darkness came, Baidur and Ilugei called back their men at last. The city of Krakow stood naked before them and they walked their horses in as the moon rose. The moonlight was strong, the air clear and cold as the yam rider galloped at full speed along the dusty track. He was weary. It was hard to keep his eyes open and the ache in his lower back had become a jarring pain. A sudden panic gripped him as he lost count of the way stations he had passed that day. Had it been two or three? Karakorum was far behind, but he knew he would have to hand on the bag with its precious contents. He did not know what he had been given, except that it was worth his life. The man from Karakorum had appeared out of the darkness and thrust it into his hands, snapping hoarse orders. He had been galloping even before the man dismounted.

With a jolt, the scout realised he had almost slipped out of the saddle. The warmth of the horse, the rhythm of hooves, the bells that jingled under him, all of them lulled his senses. It would be his second night without sleep with nothing but the track and the horse for company. He counted again in his head. He had passed six of the yam way stations, changing horses at each one. He would have to hand over the bag at the next one, or risk falling on the road.

In the distance, he saw lights. They would have heard his bells, of course. They would be waiting with a horse and spare rider as well as a skin of airag and sweet honey to keep him going. They would need the other rider. He could feel exhaustion washing over him. He was done.

He slowed to a trot as he reached the stone yard in the middle of nowhere, the visible sign of the khan's influence and power. As the yam staff clustered around him, he swung his leg over and nodded to the spare rider, little more than a boy. There had been a verbal message as well as the bag. What was it? Yes, he remembered.

'Kill horses and men if you have to,' he said. 'Ride as fast and far as you can. This is for the hands of Guyuk alone. Repeat my words.'

He listened as the fresh rider said them all again in a rush, overcome with excitement. The bag was passed from hand to hand, a sacred trust, never to be opened until it reach its destination. He saw a stone seat in the yard, some sort of mounting block perhaps. He sank onto it gratefully, watching the lad begin his run before he allowed himself to close his eyes. He had never run so fast or far in his life and he wondered what could possibly be so important.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The funeral pyre of the khan was an immense structure, half as high as the palace tower in the city behind it. It had been constructed quickly, using vast stocks of cedar wood from the cellars of the palace. They had been found there when Ogedai's instructions were read. The khan had prepared for death and every detail of the ceremony had been set out long in advance. There had been other letters in the sealed package Yao Shu had presented to Torogene. The personal one to her had left her weeping. It had been written before Ogedai went on the Chin campaign and it broke her heart to read the brash enthusiasm of her husband's words. He had prepared for death, but no man can truly understand what it means to have the world go on without him, how it is for those who must live without his voice, his smell, his touch. All that was left were the letters and her memories. Karakorum itself would be his tomb, his ashes placed in a vault below the palace, there to rest for eternity. Temuge stood on the green grass in robes of golden silk inlaid with blue. His back hurt him all the time and he had to strain to look up at the top of the pyre. He did not weep for his brother's son. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and thought deeply about the future as the first flames spread, charring the wood and releasing a cedar sweetness into the air that would carry for many miles with the smoke.

His mind drifted into the past as he stood there, doing his duty and being seen by the thousands watching. His people were not given to huge displays of grief, but there were many red eyes in the crowd of workers that had come out from Karakorum. The city itself lay empty, as if they had never given it life.

A son of Genghis lay in those flames, a son of the brother he had loved and feared, hated and adored. Temuge could barely remember the first days of being hunted, when they were all just children. It was so very long ago, though there were times when he still dreamed of the cold and the aching hunger. An old man's thoughts often wandered back to his youth, but there was little comfort in it. His four brothers had been there then. Temujin, who would choose the vainglorious name of Genghis; Kachiun, Khasar and Bekter. Temuge struggled to remember Bekter's face and could not bring it to mind. His sister Temulun had been there as well, another one torn from life.

Temuge thought of the yam letter Yao Shu had shown him just that morning. His brother Kachiun was dead and he looked inside for a sense of grief, of loss, such as Torogene displayed in her weeping. No, there was nothing. They had grown apart many years before, lost in the difficulties and irritations of life that soured clean relationships. Of the seven who had hidden in a cleft in the ground, only he and Khasar remained as witnesses. Only they could say they had been there from the very beginning. They were both old men and he felt the aches in his bones every day.

He looked past the growing brightness of the wooden tower and saw Khasar standing with his head bowed. They had crossed the Chin nation together when they were young, finding Yao Shu when he was just a wandering monk, waiting for his future to come upon him. It was hard to remember ever being that strong and vital. Khasar looked oddly thin, Temuge noticed. His head seemed overlarge as the flesh had sunk away in his face and neck. He did not look well at all. On an impulse, Temuge walked over to him and they nodded to each other, two old men in the sunshine.

'I never thought he'd go before me,' Khasar murmured.

Temuge looked sharply at him and Khasar caught the glance. He shrugged.