by Troy Denning
“The enemy’s nose is sharper than you think,” Batu retorted. “He has already smelled the trap, and he is stealing the bait while we watch.” Batu looked at his fellow generals. “If the horsewarriors are such fools, wouldn’t they have committed themselves by now?”
Neither general answered. They were unwilling to contradict the logic of their young peer, yet unwilling to support him. The Minister of War disagreed with Batu, and the older generals knew it would not be prudent to contradict their superior. As the two men looked away, Batu recognized their caution and realized that he could expect no help from them. He wondered if they would prove as unsupportive on the battlefield.
For a moment, the minister regarded Shengti and Ching Tung thoughtfully. Finally, turning back to Batu, he said, “It is possible that you are correct, General. If there is not enough bait, the rat may smell the trap. So we will increase his temptation.”
The concession surprised Batu, and he wondered if it should have. Although it was apparent that the minister lacked battlefield experience, it was equally obvious that only a shrewd politician could have reached such a high post. It seemed to the young general that Kwan had interpreted Shengti’s and Ching Tung’s silence for what it was. Batu allowed himself the vague hope that Kwan’s supervision would not result in a disaster after all.
While the young general considered him, Kwan studied the scrying basin. Finally, the old man pointed a yellow-nailed finger to where the end of the archer’s line met the river. “General Batu, take your army and reinforce your archers,” the minister said. “Anchor your line here, at the river, and deploy as if expecting a frontal attack. Leave your western flank exposed.”
A knot of anger formed in Batu’s heart. He openly frowned at the minister, hardly able to believe what he had heard. “If I do that, the barbarian cavalry will ride down the line and drive my army into the river.”
“Exactly,” Kwan said, pulling his gray lips into a thin smile.
Shengti studied the scrying basin for a moment, then said, “A brilliant plan, Minister! The sloppy deployment will lure the enemy into full commitment. As the barbarians roll up Batu’s flank, my army—along with the Army of Ching Tung, of course—will charge over the hill and smash them.”
The ancient minister smiled warmly at Shengti. “You are very astute,” he said. “Your future will have many bright days.”
And my future will be very short, Batu thought. Shengti had neglected to mention the most clever part of Kwan’s plan: a troublesome subordinate would be destroyed. Even if Batu did not perish during the slaughter, the stigma of losing an entire army would destroy his career.
Still, even knowing the consequences, Batu’s instinct was to follow the order without question. To his way of thinking, soldiers were dead men. Their commanders simply allowed them to walk the land of the living until their bodies were needed in combat. In that respect, Batu considered himself no different from any other soldier, and if Kwan ordered him to meet the enemy naked and alone, he would be obliged to do so.
Still, a soldier was entitled to the hope of a glorious end. The young general could see no glory in allowing the horsewarriors to slaughter his army like so many swine, especially when Kwan had not taken the time to scout the enemy and could not be certain that anything useful would come of the sacrifice. Hoping to convince the generals from Shengti and Ching Tung to come to his aid, Batu decided to point out Kwan’s sloppy preparations.
“While your plan has many things to recommend it, Minister,” he began, “I must point out that it may result in the destruction of my army without accomplishing the emperor’s will.”
Kwan settled back into his chair, placing his elbows on the armrests and lacing his fingers in front of his body. “Please proceed, General,” he said, looking Batu in the eye with a milky but steady gaze. “I’m sure we’re all interested in your opinion.”
The general from Chukei looked at his two peers. They stood well away, their expressionless attention politely fixed on his face. After taking a deep breath, Batu turned back to Kwan. The minister had shifted his gaze to a space just over his subordinate’s head.
“You’re underestimating the barbarian’s strength and sophistication,” Batu said. “By exposing my army’s flank, you’re assuring its pointless destruction.”
The minister’s expression did not change. He simply sat quietly, waiting for his subordinate to continue, as if what he had said so far was of no consequence.
Batu pointed toward the battlefield. “You’re assuming the barbarians have no plans of their own, and that they’ll walk blindly into any trap you lay.” The young general waved his hand at his two peers. “If the enemy outnumbers us, its flank guard will engage the armies of Shengti and Ching Tung on the hilltop. They’ll never reach the battlefield.”
Kwan remained motionless and silent, his attention fixed somewhere behind Batu’s head. At first, the young general wondered if the minister had heard a single word. Finally, however, he realized that what Kwan had or had not heard did not matter. Batu had secured his superior’s animosity when he had dared to disagree with him. It appeared that Kwan’s retaliation would be swift and ruinous.
Realizing that more hasty words would only make the situation worse, the general from Chukei held his tongue and tried to think of a way out of his difficulty. Fortunately, if all Kwan wanted was to be rid of him, Batu thought that he could salvage a respectable death from his predicament.
Bowing very low, Batu said, “Minister, I have asked many impertinent questions, and for that I deserve punishment. But no soldier deserves a worthless death. Allow me to probe the enemy’s strength, so that you will know exactly what Shou Lung faces.”
For the first time since Batu had begun his protest, Kwan looked directly at him. The minister’s expression seemed almost sympathetic. Speaking very slowly and earnestly, the old man began, “General Batu, we have no need to waste time probing that band of thieves. As for any punishment you may deserve, my decision is strictly a military one. It has nothing to do with your imagined rivalries.”
Batu could hardly believe what the minister was saying, especially with such an honest expression. If Kwan were lying, he was the best liar the general had ever met. If the old man was sincere, he was the biggest fool Batu had ever encountered.
Before Batu could respond, the minister continued. “Now, tell me why you believe there are so many sophisticated savages out there.”
A lump rose in Batu’s throat. The little information he had about the barbarians was far from what could be considered solid or reliable, but he felt confident it surpassed what anyone else in the tent had gathered.
“First,” Batu began, “let’s consider the enemy’s strength. We know that there are at least one hundred thousand barbarians, for it would have required that many to destroy the Army of Mai Yuan. Eyewitness accounts of the battle suggest the actual numbers are far greater.”
“An army looks much larger when it’s overrunning you,” the general from Ching Tung objected. “Those reports are exaggerated.”
“Are they?” Batu asked. “For several years now, there have been rumors that Yamun Khahan has been uniting the horse tribes. If this is true, and what we learned at the council in Semphar suggests it is, the barbarians could be fielding close to two hundred thousand troops.”
Ching Tung scoffed. “Two hundred thousand! I doubt there are that many men in all the horse tribes together.”
“How many miles of horse tribe border do you patrol?” Batu asked, eyeing the other general sharply.
Raising a hand to silence Ching Tung, Kwan intervened. “No one will contest that you patrol more horse tribe border than any of us, General Batu. Please proceed.”
“For hundreds of years, tribes of horse barbarians have been crossing the Chukei border to plunder. Their raiding parties have always been small, so we’ve never had trouble chasing them out. Note that I did not say tracking them down. The barbarians have always been cunning thieves,
and more often than not it’s all we can do to drive these bands out of the province. When we do catch them, they fight hard and shrewdly, and they never expect or give mercy.”
“Yes, we know this. What is your point?” Kwan pressed, shifting in his chair impatiently.
Batu hesitated. This next point was his most critical, and it was the one most likely to bring ridicule down on his head. Nevertheless, if he stood any chance of convincing his peers not to dismiss the barbarians lightly, it was a point he had to make.
After a deep breath, he continued. “You may have noticed the resemblance between the barbarians and myself.”
Ching Tung snorted. “How could we miss it?”
Batu suppressed a heated reply. Instead, he said, “My great-grandfather was a Tuigan, as the barbarians call themselves. He settled in the province of Chukei after his clan was destroyed in a tribal war.”
“How bold of you to admit it,” Shengti said.
The condescension in Shengti’s voice was nothing new to the general. Although most Shou prided themselves on lack of prejudice, they made no secret of the fact that they considered all other cultures inferior to their own. As a result, they could not help but look down on those who appeared to be anything less than full-blooded Shou.
The general continued. “While I was growing up, my great-grandfather spent hours telling me stories of life among the nomads. Of course, I can’t remember all his tales, but what I do remember is frightening.”
“Such as?” Kwan asked. His attention remained fixed on Batu, but it was difficult for the young general to tell whether the minister was genuinely interested or just humoring a condemned man.
“Tuigan tribes are devoted to one thing and one thing only: making war. Their children ride horses before they can walk, and fire bows at full gallop before their beards start to grow. When they’re not at war with civilized lands, they’re fighting clan feuds so bloody that whole tribes are slaughtered. For fun, they gather hundreds of warriors and massacre every living beast within ten square miles.”
“Brawlers and hunters are a poor match for trained soldiers,” Ching Tung interrupted.
“You have heard my words, but have you been listening, General?” Batu asked, motioning at Ching Tung sharply. “I am saying that our enemies are born killers with no concept of mercy or surrender. If someone has trained them, given them focus, Shou Lung is in much greater danger than it has ever been in before.”
Ching Tung sneered. “Trained armies cannot be made from murdering scum—”
The ancient minister raised his hand for silence, then turned to Batu. “What would you suggest, General?”
“That we proceed with more caution on our first engagement,” Batu responded. “Setting traps is fine, provided you know what you are hunting. But the man who sets a fox snare and catches a bear may be the one who gets skinned.”
“So what would you suggest?” Kwan asked.
Delighted and surprised by Kwan’s unexpected solicitation of his opinion, Batu answered rapidly and enthusiastically, “A series of probing attacks, followed by rapid withdrawals, at least until we know the size and nature of our enemy.”
Kwan nodded, then stroked his beard thoughtfully. Finally, he pushed himself out of his chair and squinted into Batu’s eyes. “I thought as much,” he said. “You speak to us of rumors and hunting parties, then tell us we should withdraw to a safe distance while the enemy burns our fields and sacks our villages. What you propose is not the way of an imperial officer, General Batu. An imperial officer’s way is to meet Shou Lung’s enemies and crush them in the name of the emperor!”
Batu stared into the minister’s eyes for several seconds, but knew he could not make the heat of his anger felt through the milky film that shielded Kwan’s eyes from reality. Finally, the general said, “Smashed armies crush no enemies, Minister.”
Kwan’s face grew red, and his wrinkles squirmed like worms. For an instant, Batu thought the old man would erupt into a fit of screaming, but the minister slowly regained control of himself. After a moment, in a carefully measured voice, Kwan asked, “Will you lead your army into battle, General Batu, or must I find a loyal soldier to take your place?”
Batu answered immediately. “I’ll go. If my army is to perish, then I will be the one who leads it to its destruction.”
As suddenly as it had contorted, Kwan’s face relaxed, and the minister tottered over to the young general’s side. He laid a shriveled hand on Batu’s shoulder. “Good,” he said. “My plan will work. Before you realize what is happening, we’ll charge down the hill and this band of thieves will trouble the emperor’s sleep no longer. You’ll see.”
2
The Sorghum Field
Batu stood, calm and motionless, midway up the hill that marked the trampled field’s southern border. The air carried the sweet, grassy smell of young sorghum and the coppery odor of fresh blood. Overhead, the sky spirits were sweeping away the clouds on a cool breeze, and the sun cast a keen light over the field. The general felt lively and limber, his tao sword hanging lightly in its scabbard of manta skin. The letter he had written to his wife was in his pocket, ready for the messenger. Today was a fine day to die, the best he had seen in many years.
A young, beardless Shou stepped to Batu’s side and bowed. “General, your army is deployed.”
The speaker was Batu’s adjutant, a junior officer named Pe Nii-Qwoh. The adjutant wore a complete suit of k’ai, armor consisting of hundreds of metal plates sewn between two layers of heavy silk. The velvet-trimmed suit had been brocaded with brightly colored serpents, tigers, and phoenixes. His helmet plume consisted of two kingfisher feathers with a pair of fighting dragons carefully embroidered into the feather vanes.
In sharp contrast, Batu’s battle dress consisted only of his drab, rhinoceros-hide chia. As a general, he rarely engaged in hand-to-hand fighting and had no use for such heavy armor. The weight of a k’ai suit would only fatigue him during the battle without providing much benefit.
The general’s disdain for heavy armor wasn’t uncommon. Farther down the hill were twenty lean men wearing no armor at all. They stood at attention, their eyes fixed on Pe and Batu. The men were the runners who carried orders from the general to his subordinate commanders.
The messengers reminded Batu of his letter to Wu, and he removed it from his pocket. He started to give it to Pe, then decided to read it one last time.
Wu, it began simply, We have met the barbarians and are preparing for battle. They promise to be a fine enemy. Although Kwan Chan Sen refuses to admit it, there will certainly be many illustrious battles in this war.
However, I fear the best of them will be fought without me. My loose tongue has offended the minister, and he has sent my army to perish ignominiously. May he spend eternity lying face down in wet sand. Death is too good for the fool who deprives me of fighting in this magnificent war!
Enough of my troubles. You know where our gold is hidden, so you will not suffer for my absence. Our time together has been blessed, and you have provided me with a beautiful daughter and a strong son. I will miss them both. You have been a good wife, and I depart in comfort, knowing you would never dishonor my memory by taking a lover.
Your worthy husband, Min Ho.
Satisfied that the letter said everything he meant it to, Batu folded it and gave it to his subordinate. “For the messenger,” he said.
Pe bowed and accepted the paper. He did not ask where to send it, for the letter was an old ritual. In their marriage vows, Lady Wu had made Batu promise to write her before each battle. So far, it was a promise Batu had kept faithfully, as he had all the other vows he had ever taken.
Pe withdrew a similar paper from his own pocket. The young officer did not usually write his parents before battle. On Batu’s suggestion, he had made today an exception.
As his adjutant took the letters down to a runner, the general studied the scene in front of him. From the hillside, he could oversee the entire battle. Th
e field was larger than Batu had guessed from the scrying basin. It was in a valley located between two small hills. Batu stood on one of them, and the other was six hundred yards to the north. At that moment, the general would have given the lives of a hundred pengs to know what was hiding behind the northern hill.
On the east, the field was entirely bordered by the river. One thousand yards from the water, the western edge faded into weeds and wild grasses. Judging by the sorghum field’s size, it belonged to some wealthy landlord who employed an entire village to cultivate it.
Pe returned. Glancing down at Batu’s army, he asked, “Do you wish to make any adjustments?”
Batu smiled and studied his adjutant’s concerned face. “Pe, if you don’t speak openly today, you never will.”
The adjutant returned Batu’s smile with a tense grin. “Please forgive me, my general,” he said. “I was wondering how you intend to cover the flank.”
Pe pointed at the western edge of the field. Then, as if Batu could have possibly missed the source of his concern, he said, “It remains unguarded.”
Batu grinned. Even when ordered to speak frankly, the boy could not help but couch his criticism in the most inoffensive language possible.
“General?” Pe asked anxiously. “Any adjustments?”
Raising a hand to quiet his adjutant, Batu surveyed his army’s deployment. He had pulled the surviving archers off the front line and stationed them nearby, where they could tend to their wounds until the battle grew desperate. Below the archers, five hundred cavalrymen stood with their horses, nervously rubbing their mounts’ necks or feeding them young blades of trampled sorghum. Batu had often wished for more cavalry, and could certainly have used them today, but Shou Lung’s ancient grain fields produced barely enough food to feed the country’s human population. A large cavalry was a luxury the army had not enjoyed for nearly a century.
