by G R Matthews
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gongliang said.
# # #
All the practice, the drills, the training, exercising, running and lifting was something he had cursed at the time. Now, after days of fighting on the wall he could finally appreciate everything his sword masters had been saying. Even the past year of training in the capital, intense as it had been under his Taiji master, had not made him as tired as he felt now. Dropping into the quiet was becoming more difficult. Building the image in his mind was becoming more of a struggle every time the enemy crested the walls. Letting go was too easy and the wave of exhaustion that flowed through his limbs when he did almost drove him to his knees.
“How much longer?” Haung said to Gongliang.
If he looked as tired as his second in command then Haung was sure that they were both due about seven weeks of sleep. Either that or, given the caked dust and dried blood that covered their faces, they were already dead.
“Hopefully not too long,” Gongliang said, hefting the dented shield on his arm.
Around them the Empire soldiers were tending the injured, binding the wounds of their fallen comrades, or pitching the Mongols back over the Wall.
The battle for the Wall tended to ebb and flow like the tide, Haung noted. The attackers would crest the Wall and fight like demons for every stone of territory in an effort to establish a safe zone from which to expand their presence. The battle would descend from carefully ordered lines into pockets of a chaos. Each soldier forgot, in those moments, that they were fighting for their country, that they were weapons of their respective generals. In those moments, as swords stabbed and swung, as shields were raised and men screamed out in fear and anger, they were totally selfish, they were fighting only for their lives. That is not to say that there not moments of altruism, but even those had overtones of selfishness, of self-preservation. You saved the man next to you, if you could, so that they in turn could save you.
Once the Mongols were pushed from the Wall, the tide ebbed and a moment of calm descended. Each man, Haung included, spent their first breath wondering whether they were still alive and unhurt. The second breath was given in thanks that all was well. With the third intake of life giving air, thoughts turned to their comrades. The selfishness and joy of survival was brushed away, hidden in the pit of shame that each man dug for themselves in their first real battle. In that small window between high and low tide, civilisation returned.
“Haung.” A deep voice boomed along the wall and the tired, recently promoted general turned towards the large warrior stomping through the Empire soldiers who scrambled out of his way.
“Gang,” Haung nodded. “I’m glad you are still with us.”
“Not one of those ill-trained, fur-lined, horse stinkers has even come close. I’d be embarrassed if they did,” Gang said, lifting his great ball hammer in one hand and shaking it to emphasis his point. “But...”
“But?” Haung heart sank. The big warrior had been unfailing in his joy of battle. He encouraged the troops, raised morale and generally acted as if he was wringing every ounce of enjoyment from every second of life. This was the first word the man had spoken which did not reflect that nature.
“My section is close to breaking. Liu’s are not far off either. We just don’t have enough men fit and able to hold it much longer. They’re good men, the best, but they are exhausted.”
“When one section goes, the rest of the Wall will not be far behind,” Haung said.
“We have to hold.” Gongliang spoke at the same time.
Gang shared a look with both of them, dipping his gaze to take in the bandage on Gongliang’s upper arm. “I know that. I also know battles and this one is lost. If you want to live we have to pull back now, whether the lady’s plan is ready or not. We don’t have the luxury of time.”
“We can go now,” Enlai said, striding up to the group with Xióngmāo only a step behind.
“General?” Gongliang said.
Haung stood still, thinking. Abandoning the Wall was admitting defeat, but had not that already been done. Sending the refugees and wounded away over the past few days was an admission of failure. He had been sent to investigate the refugee problem and identify the enemy. In that regard, he had succeeded. It had never been part of the plan to lead the defence of the whole wall.
“Haung, we’ve lost,” Gang said. “We knew we didn’t stand much of a chance when we saw the enemy before us. When the Fang-shi betrayed us that tiny chance vanished. We’ve done well to hold on this long. This battle is over. Let’s just make sure we are ready for the next one.”
He understood the words, the meaning behind them and knew that it was time. “Pull back. Get the troops off the Wall. Gongliang use whatever you have left to buy our troops the time to clear the Wall. You know what to do.”
Gang turned and started barging his way through the troops as Gongliang started to call orders. Haung felt hollow. Defeat was not bitter, it was empty.
“Win some, lose some,” Enlai said. “But one warrior is not an army and one battle is not a war. There will be time for revenge, if you wish it, later.”
Haung put aside his thoughts and looked, not for the first time, at Enlai. He was more of a mystery now that he had revealed himself to be a Taiji. The battle had not left time for much conversation and Haung determined to find out more, as soon as he had the chance to. It was impossible to deny his words, it was time to live and that meant retreat.
A rumble ran through the wall. It vibrated through his legs and chest. A loud crack echoed through the valley. It was followed by others along the length of wall. The thunder came from the ground not the sky and it was from here that clouds rose. The Mongols below, those enveloped in the mist and smoke from the last of the powder weapons, the Yan Qiu, saved for this very moment, began to scream. The gas stole the air from their lungs, each scream was the last exhalation of life, and it stung their skin, scalded their eyes. Blisters burst out on any uncovered flesh and the smell of burning flesh rose up the wall.
“Go, off the wall. Remember the pathway,” Haung shouted and started to move the troops off the wall.
These were the last of his army, the one he had inherited. They were the best fighters, warriors, killers and survivors. Every soldier here had fought on the Wall, had faced death every minute and had somehow survived. These men were the rear-guard, hand-picked, volunteered and pressed into the role. They would not let him, or their comrades, down.
At the base of the stairs, Gongliang waited. “Move along, General. I need space.”
The same message was given at the base of every stairway by those of Gongliang’s special troop who had survived. Each held a cord in their hand and, when the last of the troops had cleared the stairs, they gave a strong tug and started to run.
Haung turned at the edge of the safe area and watched Gongliang run towards him. Behind the sprinting man, the stairs began to fall. Large blocks of stone slid from their positions and crashed to the floor. One after the other, stairs and stones tumbled to the floor. The first hit with dull thumps and with a dancers grace came to rest on the compacted mud floor beneath the wall. Those that followed clattered onto the fallen stones. The latecomers shattered and cracked. Stones heavier than ten horses snapped in half and sharp retorts could be heard to the left and right. Dust rose to obscure the mounds of rubble that marked the last position of stairs that once had led from earth to rampart.
“That will hold them back a little,” Gongliang gasped.
“If they cannot get to the ground they cannot pursue,” Haung said. “The wall builders thought of everything.”
“They can still get through the gate,” Enlai said.
“Not for a little while,” Gongliang responded. “We’ve blocked that.”
“We’ve bought a little time, but we need to get moving, “ Haung said.
The group led the remaining soldiers on a twisting and turning route through the army barracks and the now empty refugee town. Only a few
days ago this place had been full of life, wretched, tired and hungry, but full of people. Now there was only the clink of metal, creak of leather and tramp of boots as the Empire soldiers headed out on to the plain beyond.
Here the troops were being marshalled under the watchful eyes of Gang, Liu and other Empire officers. Every man was handed a pack that contained a water bottle, a sleeping roll and enough food to last a few days. The army was going to travel light from here on. There were few horses. Almost every beast had been pressed into service, pulling a wagon full of wounded or refugees south, away from the wall and to safety.
Gathered into their different groups, each one commanded by an officer, it seemed to Haung that perhaps they had quit the Wall too soon. With this many soldiers, he was sure he could hold it forever. But, as he came closer, he noted the wounds, the bloodied bandages, the men lying on the floor tended by medics, and exhaustion in each man’s eyes.
“Haung.” Liu waved to him. “By my count we have just over a thousand men still capable of fighting.”
“Is that all?” He looked about. There seemed to be many more than that gathered on the plain.
“Looks more, doesn’t it? It is not.” Liu shook his head. “We have a further three hundred walking wounded and two hundred who won’t be going anywhere.”
“We will not leave any man behind,” Haung said.
“We don’t have a choice,” Liu said and there was soft edge to his voice. “If we move some of them, they’ll die. The others will die within a day or two on the road and they’ll slow us down.”
“We will not leave anyone behind,” Haung said again.
“Haung...” The sentence faltered in the face of Haung’s resolute expression and Liu turned away, heading back to his command.
“Gongliang, let’s get everyone moving. We haven’t got time to rest. We need to be as far from the Wall as we can be before they find a way over.” Haung started to move forward. “I want the rested scouts out ahead of the army and some behind. We can’t afford to be taken by surprise.”
“Where are we heading to?”
“The capital,” Haung said. “We’ll stop at the towns along the way, drop off any wounded we can and see if we can find soldiers to bolster our numbers.”
“Don’t be stupid, Haung,” Xióngmāo said and the general stopped.
“What?”
“Let the dying men die. I know it seems cruel, and it is, but they will slow us down and if we are caught out in the open this little army will be wiped out. My friends can buy us a day, maybe two, and you will need to use every moment to get as far away as you can,” the lady said.
“I will not leave men to die,” Haung said.
“They are already dead, Haung. Are you prepared to sacrifice everyone else’s life just to grant them another day of agonising, painful, fear-filled life?”
“They are my men,” he said. “It is my job to protect them, keep them alive.”
“And to send them to their deaths. You did that on the Wall, what is so different now?” she said.
“That was battle, this is abandoning them, this is letting them die. It is not right, not honourable.”
“Haung,” and he saw her take a deep breath, “there is a potion which will ease their passing. It will be painless. I promise.”
“No,” Haung shouted and then glanced around, meeting the eye of everyone who had turned before he continued in a quieter voice. “No. I will not have these men poisoned. I will not order my own men murdered.”
“So you will have everyone else die instead? What military decision is that, Haung? You are the general now, tough decisions are yours to make, but let me be clear with you. If the Mongols find any alive, they will torture them for information and for fun. If the Mongols catch us on the road because we have moved too slowly, they will kill you all. The choice is simple, save two hundred for one more day and you condemn over a thousand to death. Let them die and there is a chance to save that thousand. Choose wisely, General, if you ever want to see your wife and child again,” Xióngmāo said.
“She’s right, Haung,” Enlai said, the Taiji seeming to have taken up a permanent role as the lady’s bodyguard.
Haung looked at them both, neither seemed happy with the choice they had laid in front of him. They were, he was forced to admit, right. It was his decision, but condemning his own men to death by poison was a step too far. He could not do it.
“Haung,” Xióngmāo reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder, “take your army south. I will look after the men left behind. I will tend their wounds until they pass.”
“No,” Enlai said. “I cannot allow you. The danger is too great.”
“I am not going south with you. Zhou is still alive and I will be setting about the task of rescuing him. Don’t forget, I have lived amongst the Mongols before. I can pass myself off as one of them.” She turned to Haung. “Lead your men south. The Emperor knows you are coming. Don’t stop moving and help will be there for you.
“I will stay with you,” Enlai said to her.
Haung watched Xióngmāo shake her head before she said, “It has been good to see you, my friend. Let’s make it fewer years before we meet again. Haung, your decision?”
He took a deep breath and said, “Do it, and thank you for your help on the wall. Thank your friends too. I hope they can give us that day.”
“They will, our new ally is interesting,” she said.
Haung put a hand on Enlai’s shoulder. “Come on. The lady has made her decision and let’s not make her angry. Someone once told me, never make her angry.”
Chapter 7
There was a commotion outside the tent walls. Thick as the fabric was, it did not muffle all sound and though he could not leave, he could piece together the snippets he heard. It was a puzzle, relied on supposition and a lot of guesswork, but building a mental picture of the world outside gave Zhou a sense of place and time.
Place was the easiest by far. He was still near the wall. The sounds of battle were distant but discernible. Far enough away to be out of range of any Empire weapons and the only voices he heard spoke a language he did not understand. The noises closer by were all of preparation, shouts from commanders, of leaders massing their troops, extolling them to great feats and the cheers of the thousands. Apart from the horses, it did not sound so different from the preparations on the Wall. The exact feats, the exact threats and commands the leaders used were indecipherable but the tone was clear.
It had been strange, on the Wall, to see each man combat their personal fear. The time in between the attacks had been the most difficult. Each man’s imagination conjuring up the worst fate that could befall them in the battle. Some groups joked and laughed with each other, but the jokes were poor and the laughter brittle. At any moment, it could snap and men would descend into tears.
Some men were silent. They sat, spears, swords, crossbows resting on the stone work next to them, staring into space, unmoving, lost in their own thoughts. Only their fingers tapped or twitched, unconscious spasms of fear and dread.
The lucky men had jobs to do. Collecting bolts, resupplying the wall, carrying the wounded away, getting food and water, clearing the wall of debris, counting swords, every single job was something to take their minds of the next attack.
Underlying it all were the bonds they had forged. He had watched in confusion and awe as Xióngmāo went amongst the men. In the vision of the spirit, he had seen her bolster the ties, strengthen them, add power to them. Even those men who sat on their own had their own personal visits. As she moved on, their spirit grew brighter and the number of filaments that connected them to the others had grown two or threefold. Without her, Zhou was sure the Wall would have broken days ago.
When battle came those bonds brightened. Each Empire soldier was connected to those around him. They fought better, were harder to kill, each man protecting the one next to him. They were no longer single soldiers fighting their own personal battles, they were a uni
t, a group, a family that would do everything they could for one another. Xióngmāo had likened the effect to that of ants or bees, each man was but a part of the whole colony or hive. They shared information, sights and sounds, feelings and thoughts without realising it.
The losses on the Wall had still been great. No man is immortal and they fell in droves, but those left behind just fought all the harder. The Wall held. Even without the Fang-shi and the Wall’s magical defences, it held. By the faint sounds of battle it was holding still, and Zhou did not know whether to laugh or cry.
Time was more difficult. No sight of the sun or moon. His prison admitted no light or gave clues to darkness. By reckoning the likely times of battle, the increased noise and chatter in the camp, the times of quiet, he had an estimate. Whether it was right or wrong, and by how much, was just another guess.
# # #
Zhou was sat on the rug, trying to meditate, when he felt it.
The vibrations ran through the ground, through his buttocks and crossed legs, up through his arms that rested on his knees and up through his stomach and chest, to meet in his skull. It felt as though he was silently humming, the reverberations felt and heard in the hollow space of his ears, mouth and jaw.
Then the sound came. A sharp, echoing retort, a crack of thunder. It came all at once and passed by as quickly as it had come, leaving only the memory of the noise.
He scrambled to his feet, all desire for meditation and calm gone. The rumbling had faded away, but he knew the sound. On the Wall, he had heard it before. The powder weapons were being used again. Gongliang had said they had run out, that must mean reinforcements or resupply. Perhaps the Wall would hold them back forever, the thought brought hope. Maybe they now had a Fang-shi who could activate the defences. The Mongols have lost, the Empire is safe. But what becomes of me?
That stopped him for a moment. With no way of knowing, there was little point dwelling on it. Zhou moved to the wall of his prison, straining to hear the sounds and make sense of them. There were the shouts, and he was still no closer to understanding them, the pounding of horses hooves, sounds of soldiers moving and weapons clanking. It lasted an age, before calm and quiet settled on the camp. Were they retreating or readying for another assault?
