The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3)

by G R Matthews

  “Same battle, different wall,” Haung said.

  “Every battle is the same.” Liu had followed Gang along the wall, twin axes tucked through his belt and thick clothes wrapped round his thin frame. “You must defeat your own fear first before you can defeat the man in front of you.”

  Haung settled for a grunt of acknowledgement. There was no denying Liu’s thoughtful wisdom, but in the minutes before battle was not the time to hear it, Haung thought. “How is our Fang-shi this morning?”

  “Gan Ji, tell the general how you are this morning,” Gang nodded in the thin man’s direction as he issued the instruction. The only response from the magician was a shuffle of his feet and a barely perceptible nod. “Funny thing is, I couldn’t get him to shut up last night. Books, reading, more books, have I read this, have I read that, it really is most interesting... on and on till the small hours. Off the topic of books and he doesn’t say a word.”

  “He may prove to be useful yet,” Haung said with a great deal more hope in his voice than he actually felt. “Take up your positions and try not to get yourselves killed.”

  “Ha,” Gang laughed. “This lot won’t get anywhere near me.”

  “A fact, I am sure, they are all grateful for,” Liu said, moving away, towards his section of the wall and troops before Gang could respond.

  Haung laughed at the dumbfounded expression on Gang’s face. The man was loud, bullish and indelicate, but also easy to like. The troops, Haung knew, adored the large warrior and considered it lucky to fight close to him. Liu was quieter, an aura of competence and tireless grace surrounded him. The troops of his section respected him, they followed his commands without delay or argument. Two different warriors with different styles of leadership, both effective in their own way.

  The troops followed Gongliang because he was one of them, an army man. His career had begun in the army and it would likely finish there when the man retired. They had spoken, during the battle on the Wall and on the journey south, of his desire to research and develop the use of the powder. The idea of being a sage, a wise man, appealed to Gongliang and Haung had noted the light that appeared in his eyes whenever he spoke of inventing new things. The man found joy in knowledge, but he was also a soldier who knew how to fight and a parent who wanted to see his children again. A desire Haung shared.

  Then there was Enlai. The troops had taken to him in much the same way that people respect a fire. It keeps you warm but get too close and you will catch fire, be burned and killed. He had refused Haung’s offer of a section of wall to command, preferring, the Taiji had said, to be wherever he was needed most. Of them all, the one with whom Haung should have the most in common, he knew the least. Did the man have a family? A wife and children? Where was his home? And, why had he been on the Wall at all?

  And why is it, every time I am about to fight a battle I get swamped with questions I cannot answer, Haung thought. To distract myself from the fear, he answered his own question.

  A great cheer erupted from the Mongols and they rushed forward. A ragged line of leather and fur armoured warriors. The shield warriors did not stop to guard the archers, they raced for the wall waving swords and axes high above their heads. The Mongol archers, stopped, drew, released and ran again, falling behind those who were meant to protect them. The first volley of enemy arrows fell far short of the wall, but it would not be long before they reached the top and started to kill Empire soldiers.

  On the wall, the shouted commands of the officers sent an answering volley of Empire arrows. They rose into the grey sky like a cavorting flock of starlings, too numerous to count, only visible as a whole body, and plummeted towards the advancing Mongols. The added height from the wall increased the range of Empire bows and the arrows struck shields, armour and flesh.

  Screams rose into the air as the Mongol warriors discovered more pits in the ground. The sharp wooden spikes at the bottom of the shallow pits were driven through feet, legs and torsos. Those behind did not stop, they simply trampled the fallen warriors ahead of them. The bodies of the dead and dying providing safe passage across the pits.

  “I didn’t think of that,” Gongliang said.

  “I don’t think anyone should have,” Haung answered.

  Another volley from the Mongol archers stretched out towards the wall. Most clattered against the stones and fell harmlessly to the earth. A few reached the top and were stopped by the shields of the Empire soldiers. The response was another swarm of arrows and, now that the Mongols were closer to the wall and in range, the click-clack of crossbow bolts being loosed. Men fell in their hundreds but still the Mongols came on.

  “Down,” Gongliang shouted.

  Mongol arrows now flew to the top of the wall and over. Empire soldiers ducked behind the merlons, stepping out only to loose arrows or bolts before finding the safety of thick stone.

  Now that they had found their range, the Mongol arrows changed. They still sought out Empire flesh with the sharp tipped arrows, but added in were arrows that flamed into the sky and descended on the homes of the city dwellers. Slate roofs of the rich homes were safe, the arrows bounced off and the fire teams that Gongliang had organised quickly put them out. The thatch roofs of the poorer homes were not so lucky. The citizens had done what they could and doused their roofs in water that morning, but there was no way to ensure the dry straw would not catch. And it did. Great billowing clouds and columns of smoke and steam rose into the morning air.

  There was a scream to the right and snapping his gaze in that direction, Haung saw Gang was wrestling with the Fang-shi. The thin man was doing his best to tear himself away from the much larger warrior. More arrows flew over the top of the wall, trailing tendrils of black smoke and they seemed to send the magician into further fits of panic. Two more soldiers grabbed the thin magician’s legs and brought him to the ground where he continued to thrash about.

  “What is that about?” Gongliang said.

  “I am not sure, but that magician is a liability on the wall. He will cause panic and distract the soldiers. Gang needs to get him away,” Haung said. Moving away from the merlon which he had his back against and down the wall was just inviting trouble. Jiao would never forgive him if he put himself at further risk. Gang could handle the magician, Haung was sure.

  He continued to watch the drama play out on the wall. Gang wrapped his thick arms around the magician and was speaking into the man’s ears. Still the Fang-shi tried to fight and escape, but the more Gang talked, the weaker the struggles became and abruptly ceased. The magician seemed to go still, all his muscles tensed, for a moment and he twisted his head to look into Gang’s face. The large warrior nodded once, and it was returned by the magician.

  Gang released his hold and Gan Ji did not, as Haung had half-expected, bolt from the wall. Instead the magician dragged himself to the merlon and into a sitting position. As Haung continued to observe, the man dipped a hand into his robes and pulled out a crumpled sheaf of papers which he placed on the floor. From a pocket came a brush and pot of ink. The magician opened the ink pot, spat into it and swirled the brush around, coating the hairs in the now liquid ink. With rapid strokes the Fang-shi moved the brush over the first piece of paper, then did the same with the two below.

  There was a rapid conversation between magician and warrior which resulted in Gang calling over two soldiers with shields. These were raised into the embrasure, providing more cover for the Fang-shi who rose to stand behind them. Once in position, the man crumpled up the first piece of paper and threw it high into the sky. Haung could not hear what was said but the paper flashed yellow and orange, transforming into a ball of incandescent flame which, at a wave of the magician’s arm, sped down into the midst of the advancing Mongols.

  The explosion was loud, a booming thunder and a rumbling of echoes. Mongol warriors were thrown from their feet and those on the edge of the blast caught fire. Their fur-lined armour burned and they screamed in panic.

  Two more balls of fire
were thrown by the Fang-shi and caused the same effect on the enemy who were struck. Now though, they had discovered where the magic was coming from and archers directed their arrows in that direction.

  “Seems we have a useful Fang-shi after all,” Gongliang said.

  “Twenty more and we would have a chance,” Haung said. “Not that I am bitter, but I think we can expect the Mongol magicians to retaliate at some point.”

  “Ladders,” one of the soldiers shouted a moment before the wooden supports crested the wall.

  “Push to side, to the side.” Gongliang stood and shouted the orders.

  Haung drew his Jian sword and prepared to fight, slipping into the quiet of his mind with an ease which had eluded him at the beginning of his training but now was as natural as breathing.

  The storm of arrows from the Mongols ceased and the first enemy warrior reached the top of the wall. Haung’s sword sliced across the man’s neck, slipping between the helm and neck guard. The body toppled off the ladder, taking the man below with it. The soldier next to him, armed with a spear, planted his weapon on the ladder and pushed. Haung added his strength and the ladder fell to the side.

  Along the wall, the same thing happened. Ladders that reached the wall were pushed to the side and Mongol warriors fell. As yet, none had set foot upon the wall, but it was a matter of time only. The wall was not high enough, the climb too quick, and the defenders vulnerable to Mongol marksmen as they tried to tip the ladders.

  It was Liu’s section that broke first. A cheer went up from the Mongol warriors that crested the wall and took their first steps in the city. More followed them and the Empire soldiers fell back, granting the enemy a foothold.

  “Now, Gongliang, signal the men now.”

  Haung raced down the wall towards the Mongols as Gongliang headed in the opposite direction. Liu was fighting and encouraging his troops, but it was clear they were being pushed further back. The tall man’s axes were a whirlwind, a blur, rising and falling, twisting, parrying, blocking and hacking. Mongol warriors who stood against him died, but either side the militia and empire soldiers were falling.

  Then Enlai was there and, for all their speed, Liu’s axes looked slow compared to his sword. It was impossible to follow the flow of the Taiji’s blade, it wove a silver mist amongst the Mongols that was soon tinged with red. The enemy fell back, their dead littered the wall and their confidence dwindled as the empire soldier’s grew.

  Haung let the quiet wash him away as he entered the battle at Enlai’s side. There was no communication between the two, just an unconscious reaction to the battle, to the strikes each made, to the deflections and to the movement of the Mongols.

  The explosion of thunder seemed to come from just a pace or two behind him. The wave of wind and dust battered him as, all around, the soldiers, Empire and Mongol alike, fell to the floor. Only Haung and Enlai remained standing. The first explosion was followed by another, then another, a ripple of detonations that were followed by the creak, snap and crack of the land coming apart.

  Through the haze of dust Haung watched the eastern river cliff fall. Stones tumbled. A few at first then more, gathering pace, bouncing, leaping and at last falling into the river creating tall fountains of water. As more boulders fell, the water ceased spraying as boulder fell onto boulder. The dam grew, stretching across the whole of the river, diverting its path, and joining with the rubble wall that already blocked the road.

  “Gongliang?” Enlai said, absently stabbing his sword into the chest of a Mongol warrior who tried to rise.

  “Gongliang,” Haung answered.

  Chapter 15

  When the first rays of dawn crested the eastern horizon they mounted the horses. Xióngmāo did so gracefully and without effort. Zhou struggled. His legs were stiff from lack of sleep and traipsing across the plains of grass for the past few hours. With one foot in the stirrup, he attempted to swing his other over the back of the horse. As he shifted his weight to do so, the horse danced away, dragging him with in an undignified hopping manoeuvre that maintained his balance but destroyed his dignity.

  Xióngmāo laughed. “You can ride a horse?”

  “Yes, of course I can,” he said. “I don’t think this horse is happy with me for disturbing its sleep.”

  Xióngmāo turned her own horse and walked it up beside Zhou’s. She reached down and stroked his horses’s jaw for a moment, then fed it another date. “Try now.”

  Zhou grabbed the high pommel, moved his weight onto the stirrup, jumped and pulled himself up. His trailing leg swung over the cantle and he settled into the saddle, finding the other stirrup with his foot to stabilise himself. He felt a grin split his face. Xióngmāo laughed again.

  “Come on,” she said when her laughter died down. “We have a few hours start over them, but they know the steppes and are good trackers. If we keep moving we should reach the supplies by midday. They’ll be riding hard and swapping mounts. We have to protect and care for our horses. It is going to be close.”

  The small Wu led the way and Zhou’s horse followed along. The relief of being off of his feet was short lived as the inside of his thighs and legs began to voice their own complaints. His spine soon joined the chorus of unhappiness. To take his mind off the pain, he gazed around at the landscape.

  At the academy, where he had learned to read, write and understand the precepts and wisdom of Kǒng Zǐ, they had taught lessons about the known world. The countries to the west, such as Yìndù, and to the east across the sea, like Rìběn, with whom the Empire was alternatively trading or at war with. To the north, the Wall and the savages of whom little was known and taught. The land, it had been said, consisted of flat plains that stretched forever, where nothing was grown, mined or produced except for barbarian killers. Hence the building of the Wall to keep civilisation safe from the raiders who would rather kill and steal than learn to be part of the great Empire.

  It was not like that though. From the very little Zhou had gleaned from his conversations with Xióngmāo in the refugee town and his time as a prisoner in the Mongol camp, a different picture had overlain the one created by his teachers.

  The refugees were little different to the poor of Wubei. They had their own struggles to survive, to earn money and find food to eat. Every mother cared for their children and the men, the very young or the very old he had encountered in the town, still sought to protect their families. The language was different, but there were places in the Empire where other languages were spoken, where other dialects made even the same language difficult to understand. The food was different, simple and unrefined, single flavours rather than a complex series of tastes across the tongue. They still ate rice and meat, still drank water and wine.

  The landscape was not that which his teachers had shown him on the maps. There were hills and valleys, not the sweeping majesty of the mountains and gorges of the northern empire, but it was far from the level, flat land he had expected. There were rivers too, small and thin, carrying little water though they ran slow and clear.

  The morning wore on and the pain in his legs and spine was numbed by the constant repetitive steps of the beast below him. Climbing off the horse would not be pleasant, nor would putting weight on his legs. When his father had taught him to ride, all those years ago, he had not stayed in the saddle long enough to become saddle sore. He had heard about it from the grooms and other riders. Horror stories, to frighten children and amuse adults, of walking with bowed legs for weeks after. Zhou knew them now for what they were, but he expected the pain nonetheless.

  They rode up another hill and descended the lee slope, out of the wind for a time, and there something that he had not realised, until that moment, he had not seen since the journey began, a tree.

  It was tall, perhaps three or four times his height, and its trunk was smooth, bare of branches, to a level above his head. Where the few branches grew from the trunk they were thin, spindly, none carrying more than a few yellow leaves which curved up towards
the end to point up at the grey sky.

  “We’re here,” Xióngmāo said.

  “Where?”

  “The place where I hid the supplies,” she answered.

  “Why here?”

  “I needed a landmark to find them again. You have seen the plains, there is not a lot out here to guide and locate yourself. I was told about the tree and it was suggested that this was a good place to choose.” Xióngmāo guided her horse down to the tree and dismounted with the same grace she had displayed mounting it.

  Zhou followed and bringing his horse to a halt, attempted to swing his leg over the cantle. It refused to move. Trying again, his muscles complained at the demands. He leaned to the left, hoping his weight would drag his foot clear of the stirrup, which it did. His supporting leg decided it was unwilling to take the burden of his whole body and gave way.

  Turning at the last moment, he landed on his back. Breath exploded from his lungs and his head hit the thankfully, cushioning grass with enough force to make red and orange blotches dance in his eyes. Despite the impact, the ground felt a great deal more comfortable than being on the horse and he was tempted to close his eyes and sleep.

  “Get up and walk around,” Xióngmāo said. “You need to get the blood flowing again. We have a long ride ahead of us and we will need to rest the horses every hour or two. You’ll need to protect your legs, we’ll be doing a lot of walking.”

  Zhou struggled to his feet, his knee’s creaked, hips popped and muscles screamed at him. The first steps he took were those of a toddler, stiff legs, little balance, more a totter than a stride. He put a hand in the small of his back and pushed, attempting to straighten his spine. The effort drew a groan from deep in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he saw Xióngmāo shake her head. Determined not to embarrass himself further he kept moving. Each step was a little easier, the thick muscles in his thighs grudgingly obeyed his commands though they let him know on every step they were doing so under protest.