by G R Matthews
Haung, clinging on to a rope that had been lowered over the eastern side of the wall, looked up into his second-in-command’s eyes. With night a few hours old and a thick covering of cloud it was difficult to make out the man’s expression.
“Gongliang, you are probably correct,” Haung admitted. “We know they are going to send men out onto the field and try to find the pits. If we can show them they cannot walk our land with impunity and protect the location of some pits, it will help when they attack tomorrow.”
“We have archers on the walls for that,” Gongliang countered.
“And they can’t see much in this darkness. There is no point them randomly loosing arrows at imagined targets.” A thought occurred to Haung. “Send an order round, no one is to loose an arrow or bolt at any target until we are back in the city.”
“And how long will that be?” Gongliang said.
“There are times when you sound like a mother hen. Give us two hours and then lower the ropes again. If we are not back, lower them on every hour for five minutes.” Haung grinned in the darkness. “We will be back before dawn.”
“You had better be.”
Haung watched Gongliang’s head disappear from view and started to lower himself, hand over hand, down the rope to the earth below. As his feet touched the dirt he shook the rope and saw it rise back up the wall. Now, he was beyond the protection of the walls and in territory the enemy was contesting.
“Let’s get away from the wall before one of our own archers decides to take some target practice.” Enlai’s voice came from behind Haung.
“I’ve ordered them not to,” Haung said, turning round and scampering across the ground with Enlai at his side.
“Orders are one thing, but there’s militia up there who might not be as good at obeying as your soldiers,” the Taiji said.
Both men ran across the soft, undulating ground, away from the wall and then turned north towards the Mongol army. As they moved closer to the enemy, their pace slowed and darkness deepened. Over his shoulder, Haung could just make out the city walls as black slabs and only by the fact that they contrasted with the grey clouds above could he make out the towers. Ahead, the Mongol tents were harder to see, only the tops of those between him and the northern valley were visible, and discerning movement was impossible. Beyond those, he knew, the bulk of the Mongol forces camped and waited.
The road south was blocked by rubble and the river, the city guarded the path and the unstoppable, uncountable force of the Mongols were bottled up in this valley. A competent commander would send troops to the west, down the marshy valley, and seek out a path around the garrison city. Indeed, Haung had seen a small force do just that. According to some of the town elders, the nearest path south capable of accommodating an army as large as the Mongols was two days ride away. Better than that, they said, that path followed a steep gorge prone to rock falls. A competent commander would not take a force through a gorge if it could be avoided. Too easy for opposing forces to drop rocks, block the pass, or just rain arrows down on them with impunity.
“When you’ve finished staring off into the darkness, can we get on with this,” Enlai whispered. “How well can you see in the dark?”
“As well as you, I expect,” Haung snapped back.
“I doubt it.” Enlai crouched down next to the unmoving Haung. “Do you have a spell or Jiin-Wei trick you can use?”
“Trick?” Haung said.
“Some of that Fang-shi magic you were trained in.”
“I don’t use it,” Haung said.
“You what? Why?” Enlai’s voice contained a note of surprise.
“My Taiji master forbade me from using it.”
“Haung,” Enlai said and paused a moment before continuing, “I don’t want to go against your wise teacher’s advice, but as you can see we are stuck between two opposing armies, in the dark and have a job to do. A job you set us. Now, if you want to see your wife and child again you’ll give up foolish notions and take any advantage you can get. Worry about the rest later, when you have time.”
Haung strained his eyes, peering into the dark, trying to pick out his targets. He could not see a thing. The grey grain of flickering night vision was not up to the task. The most likely outcome of the night’s excursion was either falling down one of his own pits or bumping into the Mongols that were out here looking for the pits themselves.
“Haung, the Mongols will be using whatever magic they have to see in the dark.” Enlai’s whisper was a faint breeze against his ear.
“One moment,” Haung said, and drew the small knife from his belt. He rolled up his sleeve and drew the sharp edge over his skin, drawing a thin line of blood, black against his skin in the dark. Collecting the first, fresh well of blood from the cut he drew a smeared symbol on each eyelid. A deep breath and he opened the locked door in his mind, the place where he had contained the cold power of the void. He let a tiny bit leak out and then slammed the door shut again. He pushed the power along the meridian pathways of his body, focusing their energy in his eyes and locking it in place with blood symbols. There was a feeling of sickness in his stomach that passed quickly. “Done.”
It was not perfect, but it was a lot better. Colour was still absent but the blurry collection of dark grey and black had come into focus. The blades of grass were so clear he could make out the tiny hairs that lined the edges. Into the distance and the effect lessened, the tents were visible and he could make out the faint lines that delineated one from another, but that was as far as it went.
“If we wait here much longer, the whole army will be waking up,” Enlai said.
“Let’s go,” Haung said, “and be careful not to fall into our own pits. You take the western valley end and I’ll take this side.”
“See you back at the wall in two hours.” Enlai’s hand rested on his shoulder for a moment. “Don’t get killed and don’t be tempted to stay out here too long. Let’s just make our point and get back inside.”
Haung watched the Taiji disappear into the darkness and shook his head. From bad-tempered to concerned in the space of a heartbeat, his more experienced companion remained a puzzle. Putting aside his concerns and worries, Haung focused on the task at hand. He raised a hand to his neck and felt the familiar outline of the amulet, the one his Shifu had made for him, and he brought the image to mind, every detail, every nuance and emotion. He understood them all and let them wash over him, accepting it all. The quiet enveloped him, the silence of life, death and the night.
Vision sharpened further and the slight dips of the pits in the landscape were visible. The susurration of the breeze over the grass was a tickle in his ears, a waft of conversation from the wall flowed over him, the scratch of a stone on another from ahead, a quiet crunch of pebbles from the right. On the breeze, the scent of promised rain, the odour of horse and sweat. Every sense reached out into the darkness and Haung gave up conscious thought to the quiet, letting it lead him.
In his hands he carried the scabbarded Jian sword, hiding the blade lest any stray light reflect from it and give away his position. He crept across the ground, keeping low, following the sound of movement away from Enlai, and between the pits.
Ahead he spotted the first one and stopped, lowering himself to the ground, Jian sword resting on the ground and hand around the grip.
The Mongol warrior was stepping forward with great care, the long stick in his hand probing the ground as he moved. Haung watched him come and noted the warrior had forgone his helmet and thick armour though he still carried a sword on his belt. Three steps ahead of the warrior was a pit and it was between him and Haung.
Step, probe the ground around him, step again, probe the ground. One more step and the long stick sunk into the pit. The warrior bent down, placing the probe down beside him and began to feel for the outline of the pit with his hands.
Haung moved. Rising up and taking two graceful steps forward he reached the distracted Mongol. So swift was the movement that the wa
rrior did not realise he was no longer alone and had no time to cry out as Haung slid the sword free of its scabbard and stabbed downwards. The sharp-edged blade took the warrior through the back of his neck, silencing him forever.
The sword went back into its scabbard and Haung bent down to check the Mongol’s pulse. It was fluttering and weakening. The temptation to grant mercy was strong, but the warrior would die of his wounds and the need to move on was pressing.
Leaving the dying warrior, Haung crept away, into the dark.
Chapter 13
The hand clamped over his mouth woke him. Instinct made him grab at it and attempt to prise it off, but the owner was too strong. Zhou twisted his head from side to side and kicked his legs. The hand stayed firm across his mouth and his feet met only air.
The tent was dark and all he could make out was the darker shape that loomed over him. He struck out with a free hand and missed. His assailant grabbed his hand and held it steady.
“If you don’t stop struggling we are never going to get out of here,” the shape said in a voice he recognised. His struggles ceased and the voice continued. “Good. Now I am going to release my hand. Do not shout out or scream. The guards outside are asleep, but there are others around.”
Under the hand, Zhou nodded and the pressure released.
“Xióngmāo,” he whispered.
“It’s good to see you alive,” she answered. “We have to go. The camp is quiet at the moment and I’ve had to get some help from the others, but we are at the limit of their reach. The red plain is dampening all that they can do. Just follow.”
Zhou struggled to his feet, wiping sleep from his eyes and stifling a yawn. He had been told someone was coming and was glad it had been Xióngmāo, though he would have welcomed Biānfú with open arms if it had been him.
His prison door opened and he followed his rescuer outside. The two guards were indeed asleep at their posts. The one to the left of the door was laying down on the grass, his spear propped against the tent and his fur-lined helmet had rolled off his head a little way. To the right, the guard was sat on the ground, his back resting against the tent. In his hands, he cradled an empty cup.
“A simple drug to put them to sleep. They’ll wake up with a mighty headache,” Xióngmāo said to him. “This way, to the horses.”
As they crept through the quiet camp, the gloom of night stealing colour and deepening shadows, Zhou could, for the first time, see the place where he had been kept captive. Large circular tents were laid out in haphazard fashion and no two doors faced the same direction. Each tent was different too. Not in their shape, the circular walls with the low conical roof were everywhere, but in the decoration around the walls and on the roofs. Though the colours were difficult to make out, the bold patterns, roof edging designs and tassels were clearly visible.
Xióngmāo raised a hand and they stopped moving. From the right, the sound of Mongol voices drifted down the winding pathway between the tents. Zhou held his breath and waited, trusting in Xióngmāo to make the decision to move on, fight or flee. The mere fact that she had found him, in a tent amongst other tents, in a Mongol camp that despite the bulk of the army having left was still much larger than he had expected, was enough of a miracle that he was content to follow her lead without any concern.
The voices died away and she waved him on. They crept forward, past more tents, stopping three more times as voices wended their way through the camp. Passing one tent, a dog started to yap. This was followed by a squeal, a whine and an angry voice.
They found the corral of horses on the outskirts of the camp. The horses were smaller than those favoured by the empire forces, but Zhou had seen, first hand, how fast they could ride and how well the Mongol warriors controlled them whilst still being able to employ their bows. The beasts nickered and whinnied as Zhou and Xióngmāo passed down their lines.
“Xióngmāo,” he whispered, “just choose a horse and let’s get away from here.”
She turned to him and he took his first real look at the outfit she was wearing. Gone were the loose robes she had favoured on the mountain, gone was the leather armour she had worn on the Wall, instead she was dressed in tunic that buttoned up at the front and a long skirt that reached to the ground. Around her waist a simple piece of material had been wrapped many times to create a belt and on her head a scarf was held in place by clips. The scarf covered her hair and flowed down her back, almost to the waist belt.
“The horses won’t just run for anyone. I’ve spent two days preparing this, getting to know the horses and having them get used me. You’ve seen how the Mongols treat their horses, like they are family. There has to be trust between horse and rider for them to do what they do in battle.”
“What about me? I have not prepared a horse,” Zhou said.
“As long as I lead the way, you will be fine. Once we clear the camp and find somewhere safe, we can retrain the horse.”
“What about guards?”
“They’re all asleep, I hope,” Xióngmāo said. “The ones we want are down here.”
A few moments later, she was walking up to a horse that, to Zhou, looked no different than any of the other hundred or so other beasts in the corral. He watched her lift a hand to the horse’s face and stroke it lightly. She did the same to the horse next to it. Both animals seemed to recognise her and they nuzzled at her hands.
“Here you go,” she said to them, dipping her hands into her belt and pulling out something that both horses took from her hands with wide lips and long tongues. “Honeyed dates,” she explained. “Help me with the blankets and saddles.”
“Where did these come from?” Zhou asked as he laid the thick woollen blanket across his horse’s back and then, with a struggle, lifted the split-wooden framed saddle into place.
“I told you I had to prepare the horses,” Xióngmāo said. “Part of that was preparing some saddles too. Rescuing you was not a simple matter of riding in, fighting all the warriors and riding out.”
Zhou bent down, under the horse’s belly and chest to tie the straps tight. The saddle slipping as they rode away would put their escape in jeopardy as well as being deeply embarrassing in front of Xióngmāo.
“Ready,” Zhou said.
“Good,” she answered. “We will lead the horses for a while. There are a few hours till dawn and there is no need to risk the horses over uneven ground or to make enough noise to wake the camp. Once it is light enough, we’ll mount up and head for supplies I have hidden.”
He watched her untie the horse from the line and did the same. The horse was reluctant to move for him, but once Xióngmāo’s moved, it followed without a qualm.
Chapter 14
“Archers,” Haung called, “pick your targets and loose.”
The Mongols had woken in the morning to a field of death. To the left, ten Mongol warriors lay on blood-soaked grass. Some were facing the sky, others face down. One had only his bottom half sticking up and out from a pit. Against the numbers of the Mongol army the ten were nothing.
On the right, Enlai’s night time work was visible. The Taiji had made a statement of each of his kills. One warrior was sat, cross-legged, as if meditating, the man’s weapon stabbed into the ground holding him upright. Another warrior had been laid out on the ground, his own weapon standing proud from his chest. A third was in two pieces, separated at the waist.
“Was killing them not enough?” Gongliang had asked.
“We are fighting for our lives,” Enlai said, placing the stress on the ‘our’, “and we must use every advantage or tactic we can. Fear and anger are just that. I want them to know we are not scared, that we can strike at them wherever and whenever we want to. That I had time to do those things and not be seen or heard, is a message to them. What they do with it is up to them, but we can play on it. Half of all battles are won or lost before the first swing of a sword.”
The Taiji had spoken without anger, but then turned and walked away from the Engineer shaking
his head.
Now the Mongols were trying to recover their dead and Haung was stopping them. Battle was anything but glorious. There was no honour to be found in battle, only death. The lessons of Wubei were forever in his memory. The destruction and the waste, the base emotions of men who survived and the horror of those that revelled in it.
Empire archers were picking and choosing their targets carefully. None were the equal of Master Yu, but enough arrows flew that the Mongols were dissuaded from collecting the bodies of their fallen. Every obstacle, body, arrow or pit, was another distraction, another means of slowing the Mongols down. Every advantage was one to be welcomed. He hated it.
As Haung watched, the front rank of the Mongol army formed up. At the Wall, the Mongols had used a mounted charge to rake the wall with arrows, forcing Empire soldiers to duck behind the battlements, whilst those on foot had approached with ladders. Now, here at the city, the fear of pits had forced them to change their tactics.
The Mongols lined up, a warrior with a shield next to one of their archers. The shield would provide cover as they moved forward. The archers doing their best to distract, or kill, the Empire soldiers on the wall. However, Haung thought, men on foot are a lot slower and easier to hit than those on horseback.
“Here we go,” Haung said. “Gongliang, are your men ready?”
“They are, General. The signal was seen this morning and we are ready to give them the order,” Gongliang replied. “The sooner it is done, the better. It will take time to reach its full height.
“I understand.” Haung rubbed his thumb on the grip of his sword. “I don’t want to show our hand too soon though, I think there are more advantages to be wrung out of this plan of yours.”
“Another battle, Haung. Life is certainly interesting around you,” Gang said as he strolled along the wall, appearing unconcerned by the massed Mongol army. The large warrior had his hammer resting over his shoulder, the great studded ball on the end looked clean and polished. In his wake, the strange Fang-shi, Gan Ji, followed, staring at the floor.
