Genggiyen Khan

When Zayarqan first heard tell of the batur who had led the forest people out of the Black Forest, he felt no wariness toward Yarha at all. He only snorted.

The five myriarchies that had ruled the Jurchens centered on Ilan Hala, together with the Gilyaks and the Udege—Taan, Hurha, Odori, Bukhgang, and Tuulian—had collapsed along with the Otchigin house that once held them in its grip. Chieftains who had swaggered about in offices granted by the Mongols were cut ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down in revolt, and at times they schemed against one another, each determined to be the head. With the myriarchs' authority in ruins, Mongol officials pressed without fear for the tribute of falcons, until they too were killed, and rebellion broke out at last. For more than twenty years, Ilan Hala had known nothing but the struggle of the strong devouring the weak.

"At first I thought it wouldn't last. Forest people who don't know the country and can't even farm—that's obvious, isn't it?"

Zayarqan looked up at the man standing proud before him and sneered.

"Brave as you like, if you can't gather men and you can't rule them, that's the end of it. That's why I figured you'd blaze up like a grass fire for a season and then fall of your own accord."

"You're not wrong. It could have gone that way."

Yarha nodded, and at the frankness of the great enemy who had brought him down, Zayarqan let out a sigh.

Yarha had been nothing more than the head of a little band of forest people. The one who raised him into a rival fit to match Zayarqan—who had stood on the very verge of uniting Ilan Hala as its greatest power—was Jarhun, the man whose eye Zayarqan had gouged out. Fleeing him, Jarhun had sought the savage batur whose courage was already a byword, and sworn Yarha his loyalty. From that moment the small clan that had left the Black Forest merely in order to eat swelled its strength in a flash.

"Without Jarhun's wisdom, I would have accomplished nothing. We were an aiman, not a gurun."

The bands Yarha led were clans bound by blood, scattered through the deep forest. The ferocity of the forest people was no small thing, nor was a skill at the hunt the Jurchens could scarcely match. But they were ignorant of how to join their strength to any group not tied to them by blood or marriage, and Yarha had been no different. What he did possess was the wisdom not to scorn the one-eyed man who came to him in a beggar's rags and drive him off, but to bend his ear to the man's counsel—so that he might lead his people and survive in an unfamiliar southern land.

"I thought that viper was good for nothing but petty tricks. Who knew his hand was this deft? Heh. I should have hunted him down and cut off the root of later trouble. I grew far too careless."

Zayarqan sighed, the look on his face hollow.

They had been nothing but rough, savage forest people; Udege scattered to plunder in every direction; Gilyaks who took their own kinsman Zayarqan, for submitting to the Mongols, as a traitor; and the small Jurchen tribes scrambling merely to live through the chaos of Ilan Hala. Jarhun worked that three-inch tongue of his, and Yarha brought an uncommon courage and a gift for leading armies, and between them—by marriage, by persuasion, by threat—they bound into a single power the tribes not yet in Zayarqan's hand, or already set against him. A little band once joined only by blood became a vast force of peoples who were not even the same clan, not even the same stock: a gurun. Small and rough-hewn, yet a state, woven together under the grand name of Amba Aisin Gurun—the Great Jin.

"Damn it! God damn it! How in the world do you fight so well? A man who hunted reindeer in the Black Forest, leading an army like that..."

Fury bursting in him, Zayarqan glared at Yarha.

Yarha's swift expansion had felt like a threat, and Zayarqan had called up his own troops and every ally besides and gone on the attack. Until then his power and his numbers had both been overwhelming—but whenever they met on the field, Yarha and the forest people he led came forward and threw the fight out of shape. Contrary to every expectation, Zayarqan could not easily crush him, and even suffered several defeats, until little by little his allies began to doubt. That viper Jarhun did not miss the opening. He set to coaxing Zayarqan's allies, turned the man's anda toward neutrality, and brought some of them over to the other side, so that the balance of the stronger power tilted, little by little, the other way. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The last battle was fought to break the deadlock. Zayarqan was crushed there, and nothing remained to him.

"A pity, Zayarqan. If not for my promise to Jarhun, we might have been friends."

"Friends? Don't be a fool. The title of khan is wasted on you! What—a man who means to raise Amba Aisin Gurun again, talking of friends!"

Zayarqan let out an empty laugh, looking up at the lord of Ilan Hala, who gazed down on him without a flinch.

"Any last words?"

At Yarha's low voice, Zayarqan jerked his chin toward Jarhun, who stood beside him glaring.

"He's no jackal. He's a viper. Don't trust him. You're far too simple to handle a man like that."

"Y-you wretch! Khan! This is poison in the ear! That man's words—"

Jarhun shouted, his face flushing red.

"Enough. Don't get worked up, Jarhun. I don't cast aside my anda, and I don't betray them."

Yarha looked at him with those deep-set eyes.

"You and I drank one another's blood before Abka and Na, and before the gods of our ancestors."

"......"

"I trust you, Jarhun."

"Th-thank you, Genggiyen Khan."

Zayarqan, watching, snorted. Genggiyen—bright, clear, and wise. A title that suited this simple fellow not at all. Who had hung a dog-shit name like that on him...

Steel whispered as Yarha drew a blade whose edge shone blue: the famed sword Zayarqan himself had been granted by the Mongols of the Liaoyang Branch Secretariat, when he swore loyalty to the Great Khan.

"Have you said all you mean to say, Zayarqan?"

Zayarqan set himself and lifted his head high.

"Your last words—I'll carve them into my chest, Zayarqan."

"Kahahaha! I'll be watching from the other side! Whether the man who beat me can truly become a khan!"

Zayarqan stared at him, eyes wide. Yarha looked down, unmoved, on the rival who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had once overwhelmed him.

"Then watch. See what the man who beat you accomplishes."

The blade traced a lightning arc. Zayarqan's head lifted clear before pain had time to reach him, and blood gouted from the headless corpse and soaked the ground.

"By the custom of our forebears, cremate him with due honor. Summon the saman, and comfort his soul."

"We obey the khan's will!"

The forest people who served as Genggiyen Khan Yarha's guard carried the body and the head away with ceremony. Jarhun watched them go with a look that was not entirely pleased.

"The life is taken, so the grudge is ended, Jarhun. The ancestor gods and the bear spirits will not permit any further vengeance."

"...Yes. I understand."

Yarha dismissed the guards and went with Jarhun into the log house where he stayed. The two sat facing each other. Yarha was lost in thought a moment, then raised his head.

"The people don't have enough to eat."

"......."

"Too many have gathered. We can't hold like this for long. We scatter, or..."

"If it comes to that, Aisin Gurun falls. Everyone will scatter again and start fighting one another."

Yarha nodded.

To ride at the van and swing a blade, to give rough warriors their orders so they fought as one body—that was simple. No one had taught him, and it did not matter whether the numbers swelled past tens, or hundreds, or thousands. Yarha could draw the battlefield in his head as if he watched it from the sky, and he had an inborn gift for moving countless warriors as if they were his own hands and feet. But fighting well is not the same as running a state. Coordinating the powerful men of each tribe, mediating among them, dividing plunder and army grain, deciding where they would live—complicated, vague, hard-to-grasp work. To Genggiyen Khan Yarha, Jarhun was the wise man who accomplished the things he himself could not understand.

"Hunting can never keep this band. And that farming they did—I hear this year's take won't amount to much?"

"Zayarqan's side pulled the men into the war, so the fields were never properly tended. There will be some harvest, but nowhere near enough to last until next year."

Yarha, taciturn forest man that he was and spare of shown feeling, frowned faintly and worked his fingers through his beard.

"A head of a house who starves his family, a chief who lets his band go hungry—he has no right to lead. We feed them, whatever it takes. Otherwise it's better that we all scatter."

To Yarha the forest man, a khan was one who leads. No different from the head of a small family, or the chief when blood-kin gather for a time to hunt together. Feeding one's people was the duty laid on the one who leads. To him, even those not of his blood who had gathered beneath him were no different from his father, his mother, his wife, his children—kin of the blood.

"Jarhun. That southern country you spoke of. You said Bayan Gurun overflows with food?"

"Yes. A wealthy place, true to its name."

"If we go there, can we feed the band? If we fight them and win, can we keep our people from starving? That's what I'm asking."

A forest man with little sense of mine and thine—but Yarha was neither dull nor foolish. To protect his band and feed them through the turmoil of Ilan Hala, he too had soaked his hands deep in other men's blood. He had grown used to taking what belonged to others in order to live.

"It is still too soon. They... the Esen Batur who rules Bayan Gurun is a truly powerful khan."

"Hmm..."

Jarhun looked impassive enough, but he could see that Yarha was badly on edge. The Jurchens lived by farming, herding, and the hunt—yet to eat by hunting or fishing, a people had to scatter across a broad land. With thousands and tens of thousands massed as one realm under a khan's command, as they were now, getting through this winter by the hunt was utterly impossible. For Yarha, who had never put his hand to a field, the present could only be a source of dread.

"If Amba Aisin Gurun conquers all under heaven, the Jushen will never go hungry. But for that, the Gilyaks, the Udege, and all the other Jurchens must first submit beneath the khan's banner."

"......."

"And for that, we must strike Bayan Gurun and bring it down. Then we gain vast stores of grain and supplies—and the Jurchens and Udege as well, a hundred thousand strong."

"A hundred thousand..."

A number hard to imagine, before he left the Black Forest. Among the forest people there had been no cause even to count a tanggū—a hundred—let alone a minggan or a tümen.

"But for the present, it is too soon."

"Are they that strong?"

Yarha was not an arrogant man. But he held a certain confidence in the courage of the warriors under him, and in his own skill at leading them. He had started with empty hands and unified Ilan Hala.

"Kundulen Khan, the Esen Batur, is the man who brought down the Otchigin house—the royal line of the Golden Clan that once ruled this Liaodong. Even the Mongol Great Khan could do nothing with him, and went so far as to grant him the rank of prince, so formidable is his host."

"Our warriors are brave. They don't fear death. Are the people living soft in that southern country braver than our forest people?"

Yarha tilted his head, as if he found it hard to understand.

"Of course the warriors Genggiyen Khan leads have no equals. But among them, those who wear armor are scarcely a handful, and many still loose bone arrowheads, do they not?"

"Hmm..."

"Esen Batur is wealthy past imagining. Most of his own retainers wear armor of iron. They use iron arrowheads, not bone, and their spears and blades are forged of steel."

Yarha frowned. They were Jurchens too—how was such a thing possible? Even in Ilan Hala, men in iron armor had been rare. The armor taken as plunder was not enough to clothe even his bravest warriors, and iron arrowheads were beyond dreaming of.

"Besides, we do not have enough warhorses. To face them we need a strong cavalry, and horses are short, are they not?"

At Jarhun's point, Yarha nodded.

"If Amba Aisin Gurun is to unite the Jurchens and seize all of this Liaodong, we must secure enough warhorses and increase the cavalry. And if we can reach even for Goryeo in the south, and for the Central Plains, we will never again have to fear hunger."

"The Central Plains..."

"Grain and wealth overflow there beyond anything one can imagine. Once, our ancestors conquered the Central Plains, gathered alban from the Nikan, and every one of them lived in plenty."

Yarha stared blankly at Jarhun, who spoke with a flush of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠excitement. Jarhun was wise, and by following his counsel they had founded a state and won their victories. But at times he spouted things whose meaning was hard to grasp—like the saman, taken by a spirit and raving.

"Jarhun, if you say so, then that's how it is. What matters is food, right now. If the warriors and their families go hungry, they'll turn sour."

"....."

"With what we have, even getting through the winter won't be easy. If not southern Bayan Gurun, where do we find food?"

Jarhun scratched a crude map into the dirt floor with a twig.

"This is Ilan Hala, which our Aisin Gurun holds. Follow the Sunggari Ula west from here, and an endless steppe opens before you."

"Go west?"

"Yes. Before we scheme against Bayan Gurun, we strike the weakened Mongols first."

Jarhun pointed to a land of vast grassland and forest, ringed by great mountains.

"When the Otchigin house fell, their own tribe, the Ongniud, were killed or dragged off to Bayan Gurun. The Ujiyed, who ran then with their tails on fire, live by herding on the steppe and in the forest west of Ilan Hala."

"The Ujiyed..."

"The Mongols turn out livestock too numerous to count. Attack them, and we gain vast herds and fine warhorses—enough to see us through the winter."

Jarhun smiled.

"What is more, the Mongols have no small store of iron armor and blades, compared with the Jurchens. Seize those and arm our warriors, and what then? Next year we can meet Bayan Gurun in battle."

Yarha nodded. When they faced Zayarqan, it was his own ability that had led the warriors out and won. But how to open a fight, how to secure supplies, how to draw allies in—all of that was thanks to Jarhun's counsel. He was already astride a tiger that would not stop running. If it would feed the people who followed him, there was nothing Yarha would not do.

"Good. Anda Jarhun. As you advise, we go west."

"Thank you, Genggiyen Khan."

Jarhun bowed his head to the lord he himself had raised. He had lost an eye, and lost his family besides. His clansmen looked on him—the man who had abandoned them and fled—with eyes of distrust. But the will to rebuild Amba Aisin Gurun still burned in his breast, for nothing else was left to him. That was why he had raised Yarha, a batur among baturs and honored by the warriors, to be Genggiyen Khan. Unite the Jurchens, seize Liaodong, and press on into the Central Plains as their ancestors had done. And once the realm grew to that size, force of arms and a talent for war alone would no longer be enough to govern it. Jarhun's lone eye blazed, and he set his teeth.