'It is time, Suntai,' Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. 'The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.'

His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider and, after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.

'Your will, my lord khan.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Guyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela's call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.

Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.

As he rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to each other, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains and he smiled at the man's expression, lifted by their simple joy.

When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu's closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu's flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.

At the edge of the forest there were rocky outcrops and Guyuk picked his way past the broken ground as it merged with grassland. He could already see Mongke's tuman forming up, as well as his own men coming in from all directions and taking their positions. Guyuk kicked his mount into a canter and rode across.

Even from a distance, Guyuk heard the jingle of bells that meant a yam rider had reached them. His pulse raced with excitement at getting news of any kind. It was too easy to feel isolated away from the main army, as if his battles and raids were the whole world. Guyuk forced himself to relax as he rode. Tsubodai would be calling them back for the final push to the west. Truly the sky father had blessed their enterprise, and he had never once regretted coming so far from the plains of home. Guyuk was young, but he could imagine the years ahead, when all those who had ridden in the great trek would share a special bond. He felt it already, a sense of shared danger, even of brotherhood. Whatever else Tsubodai had intended, the trek had forged bonds between the generals who had ridden with him.

As he rode up to Mongke, Guyuk saw his friend was flushed and angry. Guyuk raised his eyebrows in unspoken question and Mongke shrugged.

'He says he will speak only to you,' he said stiffly.

Guyuk looked in surprise at the young yam rider. He was travel-stained, though that was normal enough. Guyuk saw great patches of sweat on the rider's silk tunic. He wore no armour, but carried a leather satchel on his back that he had to struggle to remove.

'My instructions are to give the message only into the hands of Guyuk, my lord. I meant no offence.' The last comment was directed at Mongke, who glowered at him.

'No doubt Orlok Tsubodai has his reasons,' Guyuk said, accepting the satchel and opening it.

The weary rider looked uncomfortable in the presence of such senior men, but he shook his head.

'My lord, I have not seen Orlok Tsubodai. This message came down the line from Karakorum.'

Guyuk froze in the process of pulling out a single folded parchment. The men watching saw him grow pale as he examined the seal. With a quick snap, he broke the wax and opened the message that had travelled almost five thousand miles to reach his hand.

He bit his lip as he read, his eyes travelling back to the beginning over and over as he tried to take it in. Mongke could not bear the strained silence.

'What is it, Guyuk?' he said.

Guyuk shook his head. 'My father is dead,' he replied, dazed. 'The khan is dead.'

Mongke sat still on his horse for only a moment, then dismounted and knelt on the grass with his head bowed. The men around him followed suit, word spreading among their number until both tumans were kneeling. Guyuk looked over their heads in confusion, still unable to take it in.

'Stand up, general,' he said. 'I will not forget this, but I must return home now. I must go back to Karakorum.'

Mongke rose, showing no emotion. Before Guyuk could stop him, he pressed his forehead against Guyuk's boot in the stirrup.

'Let me take the oath to you,' Mongke said. 'Allow me that honour.'

Guyuk stared at the man looking up at him with such fierce pride in his eyes.

'Very well, general,' he said softly.

'The khan is dead. I offer you salt, milk, horses, gers and blood,' Mongke replied. 'I will follow you, my lord khan. I give you my word and my word is iron.'

Guyuk shuddered slightly as the words were echoed by the kneeling men around them, until they had been said by all. The silence held and Guyuk looked over them, beyond the horizon to a city only he could see.

'It is done, my lord,' Mongke said. 'We are bound to you alone.' He mounted in one leap and began snapping orders to the closest minghaan officers.

Guyuk still held the yellow parchment as if it would burn him. He heard Mongke ordering the tumans north, to join Tsubodai.

'No, general. I must leave tonight,' Guyuk said. His eyes were glassy, his skin like wax in the sunlight. He barely noticed Mongke bring his horse alongside, or felt the grip as Mongke reached out to touch his shoulder.

'You will need the other tumans now, my friend,' Mongke said. 'You will need all of them.' Tsubodai crouched in the darkness. He could hear the river running close by. The air was filled with the odour of men and horses: damp cloth, sweat, spiced mutton and manure, all mingling in the night air. He was in a grim mood, having watched a minghaan of warriors slowly cut to pieces as they tried to hold the river bridge on his orders. They had completed their task, so that darkness came without the main Magyar army crossing. King Bela had forced just a thousand heavy horse across in a bridgehead, establishing his position for the morning. They would not sleep, with Mongol campfires all around them. The sacrifice had been worthwhile, Tsubodai thought. King Bela was forced to wait for the morning before he could flood across the bridge and continue his dogged pursuit of the Mongol army.