Dragonwall (3 page)

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. The 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.

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.