For an instant, his eyes brightened with bitter rage. He had the right to inherit his brother's line, not some bastard son who had been nothing but a trial to his father. If Temuge had commanded a loyal tuman, he knew Chagatai would not live to take Karakorum. Chagatai would burn all the books in Karakorum's library, without understanding for a moment what treasures lay within. Temuge swallowed his grief and began to think and weigh his options. Sorhatani did not understand the stakes involved. Perhaps the city could be held if it had a man who understood its value, not a woman who had merely inherited her power through no talent of her own. Tsubodai would hear soon, and he despised Chagatai. The entire army would come east like a storm to defend the capital city. Temuge concentrated harder, weighing his decisions and choices. If the city survived, Guyuk would be grateful.

It felt as if his life had been preparing him for this point, this decision. His family were no more and without them he felt a strange freedom. With the last witnesses gone, his old failures were just ashes, forgotten.

There would be some who chafed under Sorhatani's rule. Yao Shu was certainly one and Temuge thought the chancellor would know of others. It could be done before Chagatai arrived. Sometimes, power could change hands as quickly as a knife thrust. Temuge stood up and looked down at Khasar's body for the last time.

'He will burn the books, brother. Why should I allow that? I was there in the beginning, when death was just a breath away. I promise I will not be afraid now, with your spirit watching me. I was born to power, brother. It is the way the world should be, not the way it has become. I am the last of us, Khasar. This is my time now.' King Bela watched as the camp was set around him, beginning with his own tent. It was a magnificent affair of oiled struts and sturdy canvas against the wind. He could already smell the meal his servants were preparing. Standing at the centre of it all, he felt a surging pride. His army had not needed the Cuman nomads to drive the Mongols back, day after day. Good Magyar steel and courage had been all that was required. It amused him to think he had herded the Mongol shepherds like one of their own flocks. He could regret that he had not driven them harder against the banks of the Sajo river, but they had not checked in their headlong retreat, barely pausing at the bridge before flowing across it. When he shaded his eyes against the setting sun, he could see the enemy tents, strange circular things that dotted the landscape across the river. They had none of the order and quiet efficiency he saw around him, and he relished the thought of the pursuit still to come. He had the blood of kings in his veins and he felt his ancestors crying out to see the invader thrown back, broken and bloody on the mountains they had come from.

He turned as one of Von Thuringen's knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.

'Sir Henry,' King Bela said in greeting.

The knight dismounted slowly and bowed. He spoke in French, both men fluent in that language.

'My lord, they are attempting to hold the bridge against us. Eight hundred, perhaps a thousand of them have sent their horses back to the others.'

'They would prefer it if we did not cross, eh, Sir Henry?' King Bela chuckled expansively. 'They have felt our breath on their necks for days and they would rather we left them to their retreat.'

'As you say, my lord. But it is the only bridge for a hundred miles or more. We must dislodge them tonight or in the morning.'

Bela thought for a moment. He was in a very good mood.

'When I was a boy, Sir Henry, I would collect limpets from the rocks near Lake Balaton. They would cling to the stones, but with my little knife, I would work them free for the pot! Do you follow me, Sir Henry?'

Bela laughed at his own wit, though the knight only frowned slightly, waiting for orders. The king sighed at such a stolid companion-in-arms. There was little humour in the ranks of knights, with their dour version of Christianity. A waft of roast pork reached them on the air and King Bela clapped his hands together in anticipation, making his decision.

'Send archers, Sir Henry. Let them have a little sport, a touch of target play before sunset. Hit them hard and drive them back over the river. Is that clear enough for you?'

The knight bowed again. Sir Henry of Braybrooke had a boil on his leg that needed lancing and a sore foot that seemed to be rotting in its bandages, for all the unguents and poultices he tried. The meal he would enjoy would be a thin soup and stale bread, with perhaps a little sour wine to force it down his dry throat. He mounted carefully, stiff with his discomforts. He did not enjoy slaughter, though the godless Mongols deserved to be wiped from the face of the good earth. Still, he would follow the king's order, honouring his vow of obedience to the knights.

Henry of Braybrooke passed on the king's command to a regiment of archers, four thousand bowmen under a Hungarian prince he neither liked nor respected. He stayed just long enough to watch them begin their march to the bridge and then went to join the lines for soup and bread, his stomach growling. Chagatai looked out into bright sunshine. In his right hand he held a yellowed parchment that had travelled more than a thousand miles along the yam stations. It was stained and grubby from its journey, but the brief lines written there made his heart pound. The yam rider who had delivered it still held position with one knee bent, his presence forgotten the moment Chagatai had begun to read. In hastily scrawled Chin characters, the message was one he had both expected and almost dreaded for years. Ogedai had fallen at last.

It changed everything. Chagatai had become the last surviving son of Genghis Khan, the last in the direct line of the nation-maker, the khan of khans. Chagatai could almost hear the old man's voice as he thought through what lay ahead. It was a time to be ruthless, to snatch the power that had once been promised, that was his by right. Tears sprang to his eyes, partly in memory of his youth. He could be the man his father had wanted him to be at last. Unconsciously, he crumpled the yellow papers.

Tsubodai would stand against him, or at least in favour of Guyuk. The orlok had never been in Chagatai's camp. He would have to be quietly killed, there was no other way. Chagatai nodded to himself, the simple decision opening up other pathways into the days to come. He had stood in the palace of Karakorum with Ogedai and Tsubodai. He had heard his brother talk of Tsubodai's loyalty, but Chagatai knew he could never trust the orlok. There was simply too much history between them and he had seen the promise of death in Tsubodai's hard eyes.

Karakorum was the key to the lock, he was certain. There was no history of direct descent of power, at least not in the tribes of the Mongol nation. The khan had always been chosen from those best suited to lead. It did not matter that Guyuk was Ogedai's eldest son, or that Ogedai favoured him, any more than it had mattered that Ogedai was not the eldest of his brothers. The nation knew no favourites. They would accept whoever held the city. They would follow whoever had the strength and will to take Karakorum. Chagatai smiled to himself. He had many sons to fill those rooms, sons who would make the line of Genghis stretch to the end of history. His imagination filled with a dazzling vision, an empire that would reach from Koryo in the east to the western nations, under just one strong hand. The Chin had never dreamed so far, but the land was vast and it tempted him to try to hold it all.

He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.