Lords of the Bow. Conn Iggulden

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      The king sat in the highest room of his palace, looking over the flat valley of the Xi Xia. With the dawn mist rising off the fields, it was a landscape of great beauty. If he did not know there was an army out there beyond sight, the land might have seemed as peaceful as any other morning. The canals shone in the sun like lines of gold, carrying precious water to the crops. There were even distant figures of farmers out there, working without thought for the army that had entered their country from the northern desert.

      Rai Chiang adjusted his robe of green silk, patterned in gold. Alone, his expression was calm, but as he stared out into the dawn, his fingers picked nervously at a thread, worrying at it until it caught in his nails and snapped. He frowned, looking down at the damage. The robe was a Chin weave, worn to bring him luck in the matter of reinforcements. He had sent a letter with two of his fastest scouts as soon as he heard of the invasion, but the reply was long in coming.

      He sighed to himself, his fingers resuming their picking without him being aware of it. If the old Chin emperor had lived, there would be fifty thousand soldiers marching to defend his little kingdom, he was sure of it. The gods were fickle to have taken his ally at the very moment when he needed aid. Prince Wei was a stranger and Rai Chiang did not know whether the arrogant son would have the generosity of his father.

      Rai Chiang considered the differences between their lands, wondering if he could have done more to ensure Chin support. His most distant ancestor had been a Chin prince and ruled the province as a personal fiefdom. He would have seen no shame in asking for aid. The Xi Xia kingdom had been forgotten in the great conflict centuries before, unnoticed as greater princes struggled against each other until the Chin empire had been cut in two. Rai Chiang was the sixty-fourth ruler since that bloody period. Since the death of his father, he had spent almost three decades keeping his people free of the Chin shadow, cultivating other allies and never giving offence that could lead to his kingdom being forcibly returned to the fold. One of his sons would one day inherit that uneasy peace. Rai Chiang paid his tribute, sent his merchants to trade and his warriors to swell the ranks of the Imperial army. In return, he was treated as an honoured ally.

      It was true Rai Chiang had ordered a new script for his people, one that bore little resemblance to Chin writing. The old Chin emperor had sent him rare texts by Lao Tzu and the Buddha Sakyamuni to be translated. Surely that was a sign of acceptance, if not approval. The Xi Xia valley was separate from the Chin lands, bordered by mountains and the Yellow River. With a new language, the Xi Xia would move further from the influence of the Chin. It was a dangerous and delicate game, but he knew he had the vision and energy to find the right future for his people. He thought of the new trade routes he had opened into the west and the wealth that was flowing back along them. All that was endangered by these tribes roaring out of the desert.

      Rai Chiang wondered if Prince Wei would realise the Mongols had come round his precious wall in the northeast by entering the Xi Xia kingdom. It would do the Chin no good now the wolf had found the gate to the field.

      ‘You must support me,’ he whispered to himself. It galled him to depend on the Chin for military aid, after so many generations easing his people away from their dependence. He did not know yet if he could bear the price Prince Wei would ask for that support. The kingdom could be saved only to become a province again.

      Rai Chiang tapped his fingers in irritation at the thought of a Chin army on his land. He needed them desperately, but what if they did not leave when the battle was over? What if they did not come at all?

      Two hundred thousand people already sheltered within the walls of Yinchuan, with thousands more gathered outside the closed gates. In the night, the most desperate tried to climb into the city and the king’s guards were forced to drive them off with swords, or shoot a volley of arrows into their midst. The sun rose each day on fresh corpses and more soldiers had to leave Yinchuan to bury them before they could spread disease, labouring under the sullen stares of the rest. It was a grim and unpleasant business, but the city could feed only so many and the gates remained closed. Rai Chiang worried at the golden threads until beads of blood appeared under his fingernails.

      Those who had found sanctuary slept in the streets, the beds of every inn and lodging house long taken. The price of food was rising every day and the black market thrived, though the guards hanged anyone caught hoarding. Yinchuan was a city of fear as they waited for the barbarians to attack, but three months had gone by with nothing but reports of destruction as the army of Genghis laid waste to everything in their path. They had not yet come to Yinchuan, though their scouts had been seen riding in the far distance.

      A gong sounded, making Rai Chiang start. He could hardly believe it was the hour of the dragon already. He had been lost in contemplation, but it had not brought him the usual sense of peace before the day truly began. He shook his head against the malicious spirits that sapped the will of strong men. Perhaps the dawn would bring better news. Preparing himself to be seen, he straightened in his throne of lacquered gold and tucked the sleeve with the broken thread under the other. When he had spoken to his ministers, he would have a new robe brought and a cooling bath to make his blood flow with less turbulence.

      The gong sounded again and the doors to the chamber opened in perfect silence. A line of his most trusted advisers walked in, their footsteps muffled by shoes of felt so the polished floor would not be scratched. Rai Chiang regarded them impassively, knowing that they took their confidence from his manner. Let him but show one trace of nervousness and they would feel the storms of panic that blew through the slums and streets of the city below.

      Two slaves took up positions on either side of their king, creating a gentle breeze from large fans. Rai Chiang hardly noticed their presence as he saw his first minister could barely maintain his calm. He forced himself to wait until the men had touched their foreheads to the floor and proclaimed their oath of loyalty. The words were ancient and comforting. His father and grandfather had heard them many thousand times in this very room.

      At last, they were ready to begin the business of the day and the great doors shut behind them. It was foolish to think they were completely private, Rai Chiang reflected. Anything of note in the throne room became market gossip before the sun set. He watched the ministers closely, looking for some sign that they felt the fear curdling in his breast. Nothing showed and his mood lightened a fraction.

      ‘Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven, king and father to us all,’ his first minister began, ‘I bear a letter from Emperor Wei of the Chin.’ He did not approach himself, but handed the scroll to a bearer slave. The young man knelt and held out the roll of precious paper and Rai Chiang recognised the personal chop of Prince Wei. Rai Chiang hid the stirring of hope in his breast as he took it and broke the wax seal.

      It did not take long to read the message and, despite his control, Rai Chiang frowned. He could sense the hunger for news in the room and his calm had been affected badly enough for him to read it aloud.

      ‘It is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us? Bleed these invaders and the Chin will avenge your memory.’

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