Reincarnated as Genghis Khan's Grandson, I Will Not Let It Fall-Chapter 58: Jochi’s Sons

The cluster held its pace for a long time after the streambed fell behind them.

The flat terrain southeast of the fight gave back the same pale near-winter landscape in every direction, the frost-stiff grass offering no cover and no feature and no way to read the closing distance except by watching the gap between the two groups narrow increment by increment.

Both sides could read it. The cluster ahead had the heading of men going somewhere specific, not the scattered individual lines of a broken force finding whatever direction felt open.

They moved together with the coherence of riders who knew each other and knew where they were going.

Batu’s horses were tired.

The animals under his group had stood in the sustained exchange through the morning, had crossed the drainage cut under concentrated fire, had fought on the south bank, and were now deep into a hard pursuit on frost-compressed earth.

Each stride had a shortened quality the summer had not produced.

The hooves finding less give in the near-winter soil, the impact traveling back through the horses’ legs and into their riders’ seats in a way that said the animals were working harder than the pace suggested.

The horses in the cluster ahead had been held through all of it. They were tired from the run, but they had not stood in the exchange.

The difference was real and the closing rate was slow.

The cold came at the face with every stride, the air at this pace cutting into the exposed skin of the hands and around the eyes like a blade.

White breath rose from the horses and was torn away immediately behind them. The sound of the pursuit was the specific sound of a small fast group on open ground, stripped of the battle’s layered noise, each component distinct.

Kirsa rode alongside Batu without speaking.

His eyes moved between the cluster ahead and the terrain they were crossing, reading what lay between the two groups.

He had been on the southern approach tracks since the campaign’s early weeks, taking the raiding circuits, running the landmarks by which Siban’s guides had navigated the store sites.

He was doing that reading now, silently, the information assembling in his face without expression.

Far to the north, carried south by the cold air in fragments, the sound of Dorbei’s pursuit was still running.

Faint at this distance, reduced to a low continuous percussion beneath the wind.

The broken center was still being pressed. Whatever was happening there was happening without Batu, and the order of sending Dorbei was either right or it wasn’t, and there was nothing to do with that question from here.

The cluster’s heading was southeast.

Batu tracked the line of it against the terrain ahead, extending the heading forward across the pale ground, reading where it led.

Kirsa was doing the same. Neither man said anything.

The terrain told them what it told them and there was no urgency in naming it before they arrived.

The grass ahead changed its color first.

The frost-pale surface gave way to a slightly darker strip across the southeastern approach, a band where drainage from higher land to the south and east had been working the soil over seasons, pulling moisture through and leaving a different texture in the frost.

Then the near bank’s descent was visible as a low line against the flat, the earth dropping toward a cut that ran east to west, shallower and narrower than the main streambed to the north, but present.

The raiding parties had used it as a navigation landmark.

In summer it had been a dry bed, easy ground, something you noted and crossed without thinking.

In near-winter it carried a thin standing base of ice and cold water at its floor, the surface pale where the light found it, the near bank descending at an angle that tired horses felt before their riders gave orders.

The cluster’s lead horses slowed.

The animals felt the descent and the pale surface below it and they checked, a shortening of the stride, the head coming up slightly, the body already taking weight back before the front legs had registered the bank.

The horses behind read the slowing and the whole group compressed at the near bank’s edge, forty-plus riders pulling up in seconds, dust rising and hanging in the cold air.

Then they turned.

The whole group facing north. The secondary channel at their backs. Batu’s group coming from the north.

Batu brought his riders to a walk and then stopped.

The two groups faced each other across a hundred meters of open terrain.

The cold air held the sound of both groups’ breathing, the animals working hard, equipment settling.

The distant pursuit had faded below the wind. For a moment there was nothing except the two groups, the cold, and the pale light of the near-winter sky.

The man at the center of the turned group.

Batu had been reading him since the pursuit began.

Broad through the shoulders, his riding coat dark and functional.

A strip of cloth wrapped and tied around his forearm. He had been in the close fight.

The wrap was precise, the knot tight and correct. His horse stood between his legs without movement, the animal’s stillness carrying through to the rider above it.

At this distance his face gave back nothing.

He rode forward three horse-lengths and stopped.

On both sides the guard riders tightened. Hands found weapons.

Nobody moved.

Batu rode forward to meet the distance halfway and stopped.

The cold air sat between them. The horses breathed.

"We’re Jochi’s sons," Berke said. "Both of us. Born of the same line, running the same steppe."

He said it without inflection. A plain statement, put on the open ground between them before anything else could be put there.

"Yes," Batu said.

Berke looked at him. Something moved in his jaw briefly and was still.

"I built everything here before you came south," Berke said. "The network, the crossings, the supply lines. Every approach to this territory. I built it so that anything coming from the north would pay for every meter."

He paused. "I built it because this ground was ours before Karakorum had a word to say about it. Jochi’s ground."

Batu held his gaze.

"You also ran deception through Temur," Batu said. "Before the first tributary submitted."

Berke did not look away.

"I ran the deception," he said. "I won’t say otherwise."

A long pause. The wind moved across the open terrain around them.

Somewhere behind Batu, one of the guard animals shifted and was stilled.

"You built a better army than I had," Berke said.

He looked at the ground between their horses for a moment. Then back up.

"The relay, the screen, the supply running through sealed ground. I watched it from the south side. You built something I couldn’t match with what I had left."

He paused. "Our father would have understood it."

The cold air. The pale sky above the flat earth.

"He might have," Batu said.

Berke held the look across the gap between them. A long steady look.

Then he turned his horse.

The guard rider came forward before Berke had fully cleared the space between them, bow already rising, his horse moving from a stand into a canter in two strides, the release coming fast and flat at a range where missing required effort.

Batu pulled his horse left hard. The shaft went past his right shoulder.

His own bow was up before the rider had nocked again, and behind him he heard Kirsa’s release, and then the guard riders coming forward on both sides, and the open terrain between the two groups ceased to be space.