Empire of Silver. Conn Iggulden

to miss the early rounds, especially as the final would be seen by only thirty thousand, in the centre of the city. Temuge had organised the paper tokens that gained entry to that final enclosure. They had been changing hands for horses and gold for days before the event. While Ogedai had fought for his life, women, children and the elderly were quietly sitting in darkness where they could watch the greatest skills of their people demonstrated. Even the game of thrones had come second place to that desire.

      The archery wall loomed above the east gate of Karakorum, bright in the rising sun. It had been built over the previous days, a massive construction of wood and iron that could hold more than a hundred small shields, each no larger than a man’s head. Around it, a thousand iron stoves added smoke to the air, cooking a feast for those who watched. The smell of fried mutton and wild onions was strong around the camp and the knowledge that civil war had been as close as a breath the night before did not diminish their appetites or still the ready laughter as the wrestlers practised with friends on the dry grass. It was a good day, with the sun strong on their backs as the nation prepared to celebrate a new khan.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Khasar stood with nine of his tuman’s best archers, waiting for his turn. He had to struggle to find the calm he needed and he took long, slow breaths while he held up each of the four arrows he had been given. In theory, they were all identical, products of the best fletcher in the tribes. Even so, Khasar had rejected the first three he had been handed. It was nerves in part, but he had not slept and he knew the day would be hard as it caught up with him. He was already sweating more than usual, as his body complained and ached. The only consolation was that every other archer had been awake as well. Yet the young ones were bright-faced and cheerful as they saw the grey pallor of more senior men. For them, it was a day of great potential, a better chance than they could have hoped to win recognition and Temuge’s precious medals of gold, silver and bronze, each stamped with the face of Ogedai. While he waited, Khasar wondered what Chagatai would have done if he had been successful. No doubt the heavy discs would have been quietly taken away and lost. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Knowing Chagatai, he would have used them anyway. The man felt no embarrassment about small things. In that at least, he was the true son of his father.

      The festival would last for three days, though Ogedai would be khan at sunset on the first. Khasar had already seen Temuge running himself ragged trying to organise the events so that all those who qualified to compete could do so. Temuge had complained to Khasar about the difficulties, saying something about archers who were also riding in the horse races, and runners who were wrestling. Khasar had waved him away rather than listen to the tedious detail. He supposed someone had to organise it all, but it did not sound like a warrior’s work. It was well suited to his scholarly brother, who could use a bow hardly better than a child.

      ‘Step forward, Bearskin tuman,’ the judge called.

      Khasar looked up from his thoughts to watch the competition. Jebe was a talented archer. His very name meant ‘arrow’ and had been given to him after a shot that brought down Genghis’ own horse. The word was that his men would be in the final. Khasar noted that Jebe did not seem to be suffering after the night’s exertions, though he had fought through the night to save Ogedai. Khasar felt a twinge of envy, remembering when he too could have ridden all night and still fought the following day, without rest or food beyond a few gulps of airag, blood and milk. Still, he knew he had not wasted the good times. With Genghis, he had conquered nations and made a Chin emperor kneel. It had been the proudest moment of his life, but he could have wished for a few more years of uncaring strength, without the painful clicking of his hip as he rode, or the sore knee, or even the small, hard lumps under his shoulder where a lance tip had broken off years before. He rubbed at the spot absently, as Jebe and his nine toed the line, a hundred paces from the archery wall. At that distance, the targets looked tiny.

      Jebe laughed at something and clapped one of his men on the back. Khasar watched as the general bent and slow-released his bow a few times, limbering up his shoulders. Around them, thousands of warriors, women and children had gathered to watch, growing still and silent as the team waited for the breeze to die.

      The wind dropped to nothing, seeming to intensify the sun on Khasar’s skin. The wall had been placed so the archers cast long shadows, but their aim was not spoiled by light in their eyes. Temuge had planned such tiny details.

      ‘Ready,’ Jebe said, without turning his head.

      His men stood on either side of him, one arrow on the string and three on the ground before them. There were no marks for style, only accuracy, but Khasar knew Jebe would make it as silky smooth as he could, as a matter of pride.

      ‘Begin!’ the judge called.

      Khasar watched closely as the team breathed out together, drawing at the same time and loosing just before they took the next breath. Ten arrows soared out, curving slightly as blurs in the air before they thumped home on the wall. More judges ran out and held up flags to show the hits. Their voices carried in the silent air, calling ‘Uukhai!’ for every shot in the centre of the target.

      It was a good start. Ten flags. Jebe grinned at his men and they loosed again as soon as the judges were clear. To go on to the next round, they had to hit only thirty-three shields with forty arrows. They made it look easy, hitting a perfect thirty and only missing two on the last shot for a score of thirty-eight. The crowd cheered and Khasar glowered at Jebe as he passed back through the other competitors. The sun was hot, but they were alive.

      Khasar did not understand why Ogedai had let Chagatai live. It would not have been his choice, but he was no longer one of the inner circle around the khan, as he had been with Genghis. He shrugged to himself at the thought. Tsubodai or Kachiun would know, they always did. Someone would tell him.

      Khasar had seen Chagatai just before he joined the archers. The younger man had been leaning on a wooden corral, watching the wrestlers prepare with a few of his bondsmen. There had been no visible tension in Chagatai and it was only then that Khasar had begun to relax. Ogedai seemed to have won through to some sort of peace, at least for a time. Khasar put such things out of his mind, an old skill. One way or another, it was going to be a good day.

      By the low, white walls of Karakorum, forty riders waited for the signal to begin. Their animals had been groomed and their hooves oiled in the days leading to the festival. Each rider had his own secret diet for his mount, guaranteed by his family to produce the long-distance stamina that the animal would need.

      Batu ran his fingers through his pony’s mane, a nervous habit that he repeated every few moments. Ogedai would be watching, he was almost certain. His uncle had overseen all aspects of his training with the tumans, giving his officers a free hand to work him bloody and then force him to study each battle and tactic in the nation’s history. He ached as he had ached almost constantly for more than two years. It showed in the new muscle on his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. It had not been in vain. No sooner had he mastered a task or a post than he was moved again on the order of Ogedai.

      The race that day was a respite of sorts from his training. Batu had tied his own hair back in a club, so that it would not whip his face and irritate him during the race. He had a chance, he knew that. He was older than the other boys, a man grown, though he had his father’s whip-lean frame. The extra weight would count over the distance, yet his pony was truly strong. It had shown its speed and endurance as a colt and, at two years of age, it was bursting with energy, as fit and ready as its rider.

      He looked to where his second in command turned a small, pale mare on the spot. He met Batu’s eyes for a second and nodded. Zan’s blind white eye gleamed at him, reflecting his excitement. Zan had been Batu’s friend when only his mother knew the shame of his birth, when she still hid the disgrace of the name. Zan too had grown up with vicious dislike, beaten and tormented by those pure-blood boys who mocked his golden skin and delicate Chin features. Batu thought of him almost as a brother: thin and fierce, with enough hatred for both of them.

      Some of the tumans had supplied teams of riders.