Dragonwall

by Troy Denning

  Thirty yards in front of the cavalry was the feng-li lang, the ritual supervisor assigned to Batu from the Rites Section of the Ministry of War. The feng-li lang was supposedly a shaman who could communicate with the spirit world, but Batu had yet to see the man procure the aid of any spirits.

  The feng-li lang and his assistant were digging a six-foot-deep hole in the field’s sandy, yellow soil. Though Batu did not understand the purpose of the hole, he knew that the pair was preparing a ceremony to ask for the favor of the spirits dwelling in the battlefield. Batu had his doubts about the value of nature magic, but the pengs clearly did not share his skepticism. In order to lift the morale of his troops, the general participated in the feng-li lang’s pre-battle rites whenever possible.

  In the center of the sorghum field were thirty-five hundred infantrymen. They were standing in a double rank along the same line the archers had occupied during the initial skirmish. The common soldiers carried standard imperial-issue crossbows. Straight, double-bladed swords, called chiens, hung at their belts. For armor, the pengs relied on lun’kia corselets and plain leather chous. The officers were all attired comparably to Pe, with brightly decorated suits of plated k’ai and plumed helmets.

  As Pe had observed, the left end of the infantry flank was open to attack. Normally, Batu would take advantage of some terrain feature to protect this vulnerable area, or at least he would cover it with a contingent of archers or cavalry. But Kwan’s orders were clear, and the general was too good an officer to disobey. Even a bad plan was better than a broken plan, which was what they would have if Batu did not do as instructed.

  Batu ran his eyes down the length of the line, studying the route he expected the enemy cavalry to follow. As the enemy charged, the pengs on the left flank would fall, leaving other men exposed. Batu would supply some covering fire with his archers, and his cavalry would mount a counterattack that might slow the charge for a few moments. Still, the Tuigan horsewarriors would smash the line, killing all thirty-five hundred infantrymen.

  Batu considered the possibility of issuing an order he had never before given: retreat. If his troops fell back before the charging Tuigan, his army stood a better chance of remaining intact. The reprieve would be a short one, the general knew. As the line curled back on itself, his entire force would be trapped in the reeds along the riverbank.

  “And then the slaughter would begin,” Batu whispered to himself, picturing the rushing floodwaters red and choked with the bodies of his soldiers.

  “Forgive me, General. I didn’t hear your order,” Pe said.

  “It wasn’t an order,” Batu responded, still eyeing the rushes and the river. “I said, ‘And then the slaughter would begin.…’ ” The general stopped, still picturing his army floating down the river—but this time, they were alive. “Unless we can walk on water.”

  Pe frowned. “Walk on water?”

  Batu did not have an opportunity to explain. The feng-li lang’s assistant arrived, his crimson robe soiled from digging. Bowing to Batu, the boy said, “General, my master requests your presence at the offering.”

  “Tell the feng-li lang that I don’t have time,” Batu replied tersely, still studying the marsh along the riverbank.

  The assistant’s jaw dropped. “General, if the earth spirits are not appeased, they will resent having blood spilled on their home.”

  Pointing at the flooded river, Batu said, “I don’t care about earth spirits. Those are the spirits we must appease.”

  The boy frowned in puzzlement. “But—”

  “Don’t question me,” Batu said. “Just tell your master to make his offering to the river dragon.”

  When the assistant did not obey immediately, Batu roared, “You have your orders, boy!”

  As the youth scrambled down the hill, Batu turned to his adjutant and pointed to the marsh. “Send the cavalry and the archers into those rushes. Until the battle begins, they are to busy themselves cutting man-sized bundles of reeds. Tell them to make certain the bundles are tied together securely.”

  Pe furrowed his brow, but, after the treatment the feng-li lang’s assistant had just received, he did not risk questioning Batu. “Yes, General.”

  “Next, get out of your k’ai. Leave it on the ground. We don’t have time to send it to the baggage train.”

  “This armor has been in my family for three hundred years!” Pe cried.

  “I don’t care if it’s been in your family for three thousand years,” Batu snapped. “Do as I order.”

  “I can’t,” Pe said, looking away. “It would disgrace my ancestors.”

  “And execution would not?” Batu retorted, touching the hilt of his sword.

  Pe glanced at Batu’s hand, then met his commander’s gaze squarely. “My honor is more important than my life, General.”

  “Then do not stain it by disobeying me,” Batu replied, moving his hand away from his hilt. As if Pe had never refused the command, he continued. “Send orders to the line officers to remove their k’ai as well. They are not to resist a flank attack. When it comes, they are to retreat to the marsh. We will move our command post down there, which is where they will receive their new directives.”

  Pe looked at the reed bed and frowned. “We’ll be trapped against the river!”

  Batu smiled. “That is why you and the other officers must remove your k’ai.”

  Pe lifted his brow in sudden comprehension, then grimaced in concern. “General, the river is flooding. You’d be mad to ford it under pursuit!”

  “Let us hope the barbarians believe the same thing,” Batu replied. “Give the orders to the runners, then wait for me at the marsh.”

  Pe started to bow, but Batu caught him by the shoulder. “One more thing. In case their k’ai has also been in their families for three hundred years, remind the officers that my orders must be followed. Anyone who disobeys will be remembered as a traitor, not as a hero.”

  “Yes, General,” Pe replied, finishing his bow and turning to the messengers. His attitude no longer seemed defiant, but Batu knew his adjutant was far from happy about the commands he had been given.

  As six runners relayed the orders to the field officers, Pe headed for the reed bed. The general stayed on the hill a while longer to observe the adjustments. When the archers and cavalry left their positions, hundreds of baffled faces glanced up toward him. Batu thought the cavalry and archers probably realized that they had been assigned to prepare a retreat. What they could not understand, he imagined, was why. In the eight years Batu had commanded the Army of Chukei, it had never retreated. But it had never faced a capable enemy, or been used to bait an ill-prepared trap before either.

  The general knew that Kwan might be correct and the Tuigan force might amount to no more than fifteen or twenty thousand untrained men. Still, everything he knew about the enemy, as little as it was, suggested otherwise. Only a leader of considerable intelligence and cunning could have breached the Dragonwall. After that, it would have required a large force to annihilate the Army of Mai Yuan, to say nothing of exploiting the victory by ravaging the countryside for hundreds of miles around. The most convincing evidence of the enemy’s competence was the fact that there would be a battle today. Only a well-organized war machine could have been ready to attack less than two weeks after smashing the Dragonwall and the Army of Mai Yuan.

  It was the kind of fight Batu had been hoping for all his life, and the prospect of its impending commencement made his stomach flutter with delight. The general from Chukei had always dreamed of winning what he thought of as “the illustrious battle,” a desperate engagement against a cunning and powerful enemy. Of course, Batu had not expected his own commander to be the reason his situation was desperate, and he did not think that retreating could be considered illustrious. But if his plan worked, Batu hoped to preserve enough of his army to fulfill his dream another day.

  After the archers and cavalry left for the reed bed, the infantry officers began removing their k’ai and
stacking the various pieces in neat piles. They stared at Batu with expressions he could not see from such a distance, but which he imagined ranged from simple anger to outright hatred. Without exception, he was sure each officer would rather have died than dishonor his family. The general was also sure the officers would do as ordered, for disobeying a direct order would be treason, a stigma far worse than dishonor.

  Nevertheless, the general could understand their anger. Like them, he valued his honor more than his life, but he could not allow them the luxury of keeping their heirlooms. Without its officers, an army was no more than a jumble of armed men, and any officer wearing k’ai was sure to perish in the retreat Batu was planning.

  A dark band appeared atop the opposite hill. From this distance, it was impossible to see individual figures. What Batu could see, however, was that the line consisted of two or three thousand horses. The alarm went up from his lookouts. His troops prepared for combat, making last-minute prayers to Chueh and Hsu, the gods of the constellations governing crossbows and swords.

  For his part, Batu merely prayed that Kwan and the others were watching the scrying bowl.

  The distant rumble of drums rolled across the field and the line advanced slowly. The drums, Batu realized, were used to coordinate the enemy’s maneuvers. He stayed on the hill while the horsemen advanced another hundred yards. The drums boomed again, and the enemy broke into a trot. A ridge of tiny spikes protruded from their line like the spines on a swordfish’s dorsal fin. This charge, Batu realized, would be a real one. The spikes could only be lances, and lances meant the Tuigan intended to fight at close range.

  What Batu did not understand was why the barbarians were approaching frontally. No tactician could miss the exposed flank. It was possible, the general realized, that the enemy had guessed that this was a trap. If that were the case, he did not understand why they were attacking at all. Yet, the only other explanation was that the enemy was as foolish as Kwan suggested. That was a possibility Batu preferred to ignore, for it would mean he had sacrificed his career for nothing. More important, it was dangerous to belittle one’s adversaries. As the ancient general Sin Kow had written, “The man who does not respect his foe soon feels the heel of the enemy’s boot.” Batu’s own experiences bore out Sin Kow’s words.

  The drums sounded again and the Tuigan horses broke into a canter. Batu decided to send a message to his officers warning that the frontal attack might be a diversion. Since Pe was already down at the marsh, Batu went to the runners’ station. There he sent six runners to issue the warning, cautioning his officers to stay in position until attacked on the exposed flank. After the runners had left, he sent the remainder of the messengers to Pe. He lingered on the hill several moments longer, then followed.

  By the time he reached the tall stalks at the edge of the rushes, the barbarians had closed to three hundred yards. The drums broke into a constant roll, and the enemy burst into a gallop. The general remembered that he had not helped to appease the river dragon. He hoped the river spirit, if it really existed, would be satisfied with the feng-li lang’s ceremony alone.

  Pe stepped out of the reeds, a half-dozen messengers at his back. “Every archer and horseman has made three bundles,” the adjutant reported. “Their officers wish to know if they should take up their weapons now.”

  “No,” the general replied, his eyes locked on the barbarian charge. “Have them continue making bundles until I give the order to stop.”

  Pe arched his eyebrows, but immediately turned and relayed the message.

  As the enemy charge advanced, Batu watched the wall of flashing silver and dark flesh with a mixture of awe and horror. The Tuigan rode like spirits, remaining balanced despite bone-jarring jostles and jolts as their mounts leaped across the field. In their left hands, the warriors held iron-tipped lances, and in their right they held curved sabers. The reins hung loose over the necks of their horses. The riders used their knees to direct their beasts and screamed blood-chilling war cries that drowned out even the constant tumult of the drums.

  In groups of twenty or forty, Batu’s men began firing volleys of crossbow quarrels into the charging enemy. Dozens of the deadly bolts found their marks. Barbarians dropped out of their saddles, and wounded horses stumbled and fell behind their thundering fellows.

  After they fired, the crossbowmen did not reload, for the enemy was coming too fast. Instead, they pulled their shields off their backs and drew their chiens, then waited in tense silence. Within a few seconds, every Shou had fired. Each man, shield and sword in hand, now awaited the enemy charge.

  Batu’s crossbowmen had inflicted heavy casualties. Seven hundred barbarians lay in the field, wounded or dying, but the charge continued. The horsewarriors barely seemed to notice their losses.

  Batu now regretted placing his archers in the marsh. Had he expected a frontal assault, he would have spread them along the hill. Two hundred and fifty men could hardly have halted the charge, but their rapid fire would have given the horsemen something to think about besides the wretched pengs crouching behind their shields.

  The cavalry hit the wall of infantry. A sharp, deafening crack echoed off the hills flanking the field. Screams of anger and pain rang out along the line. Agonized whinnies seemed to tremble through the ground. The odor of blood and manure and opened entrails filled the air. Bodies fell.

  Through it all, the enemy drums pounded in a crashing, peculiar cadence that filled Batu’s head and made it difficult to think. Like the other Tuigan, the thirty drummers were mounted, but they had stopped twenty-five yards from the battle line. Each man had two drums tied together and slung across his horse in front of the saddle. The drummers beat the skins of their instruments with heavy batons in a crazed, irregular rhythm. Unlike the other horsewarriors, the drummers wore heavy armor similar to the suit Pe had abandoned.

  Batu grabbed his adjutant’s shoulder, then, yelling into Pe’s ear, said, “Order our archers to shoot the drummers!”

  Pe nodded, then repeated the order to make sure he had understood correctly.

  As his adjutant relayed the command, the general glanced at the hilltop behind him. There was no sign of reinforcements. The enemy had not attacked as Kwan had expected, and Batu did not doubt the entire Army of Chukei would perish before the minister admitted his plan needed adjustment.

  Still standing at the edge of the marsh, the general returned his gaze to the battle. He was surprised at the number of Shou soldiers who still stood and now fought with their long chiens. Holding their shields overhead, they used the ferocious cutting power of their swords to chop barbarians or, when pressed, to lop off horses’ legs.

  For their part, the Tuigan had discarded their lances. Their horses danced in circles as they slashed at infantrymen with curved blades, meeting with too much success for Batu’s liking. From their mounted positions, the barbarians had little trouble beating down, or splintering entirely, the wooden shields of the Shou infantry.

  Batu’s archers appeared at the edge of the reed bed, twenty yards to the general’s right. Two hundred arrows sailed through the air. The closest drummers slid from their saddles, sprouting three or four shafts each. Farther away, beyond the range at which the arrows could penetrate armor, the drummers found themselves struggling with wounded horses. In two cases, they were beating punctured drumheads.

  What happened next amazed Batu. As the nearby drums fell silent, many Tuigan disengaged and turned back the way they had come. Farther away, where the untouched drums were still audible, the Tuigan were confused. Some disengaged and rode away. Others seemed bewildered and met quick deaths as they were overwhelmed by suddenly superior Shou numbers.

  Realizing that a pause in the drum clamor was the barbarian signal to break off, Batu made a quick decision. He waved his archers forward, pointing at the far drummers. “After them!” he cried, far from sure that his words could be heard, but confident his gesture’s meaning was clear.

  The archery officer immediately l
ed his men forward at a sprint. By sending archers into the melee, Batu was placing them in severe danger. Bows could not parry swords, and the archers were not trained in hand-to-hand combat. That was a sacrifice he would have to make. He could not stand by and watch the enemy destroy his entire command, even if that was what Kwan wanted.

  As Batu had expected, the archers did not reach the surviving drummers all at once. The nearest drummers fell first, leaving the barbarians even more confused. As some of the horsewarriors retreated, Batu’s infantrymen overwhelmed the others. The archers continued forward, pausing to fire at drummers whenever they had a shot. The enemy riders went to extra lengths to attack the Shou bowmen, even at the peril of their own lives. A dozen archers fell for every ten yards the group advanced. Nevertheless, Batu’s plan worked. Within minutes, the barbarian cavalry had withdrawn or lay hacked and mutilated along the battle line.

  A calm fell over the battlefield. With the air filled by the rank smell of death and the cries of wounded men and horses, the lull was more sickening than peaceful. The Shou infantry stayed on the line, breaking formation only to help the wounded and gather barbarian survivors into groups of prisoners.

  Batu looked again toward the hilltop. There was still no sign of reinforcements. The general knew that the Army of Chukei’s role as bait was not yet finished.

  He turned to his adjutant and pointed at the body-littered field. “Send a runner down the line. Officers must reform their units, detailing only one man in ten to aid the wounded. Take no prisoners. If a barbarian can lift a sword, slay him.”

  Pe frowned at the harshness of the command, but simply said, “It will be done.” He turned to obey.

  Batu caught his adjutant’s shoulder. “One more thing: recall what is left of the archers. Remind me to write the emperor commending their courage.”

  The young man’s eyes lit. “Then we are going to survive the battle, my general?”

  Batu looked at his army’s butchered line. “The rest of this war will be too marvelous to miss, Pe.”