Shike by Robert J. Shea (classic children's novels txt) 📖

had gathered his strength, he brought Sametono to Dazaifu in a carriage. They arrived in the middle of the night, Sametono sound asleep and unwakeable. Taniko put her foster son in the care of priests and took Jebu to her bedchamber, where he collapsed, exhausted, and went to sleep immediately, while Taniko lay awake most of the night, weeping over the news that Moko had been killed.

Now her arms went around him in the darkness and she pressed her wet face against his. “You brought Sametono back out of the very heart of hell. You have given me back my life. I did not think I could love you more than I did already, but I find that love grows deeper, like enlightenment.”

“And I love you more every day and every night,” Jebu said, holding her tightly.

A maidservant knocked at the bedchamber door. “My lady, there is a messenger from Hakata for Shik�� Jebu.”

“They do not even pretend not to know you are here any more,” said Taniko. “I’m afraid our love is no longer a secret anywhere.”

The messenger was from Miura Zumiyoshi. Even though the storm was still battering Hakata Bay, the defence command had decided to launch an attack on the Mongol beachhead at Hakata. Yesterday they had seen countless Mongols and Chinese swimming or riding out to their junks, fearing they would be left behind by the fleet retreating from the tai-phun. Overloaded junks had turned belly-up in the water, others had been the scene of battles as those on board tried to prevent any more from crowding on. The men who had decided to stay on shore were shooting arrows and even missiles from siege machines at their retreating comrades. The messenger’s account reminded Jebu of the Takashi rout at Ichinotani. Now the Mongol beachhead was undermanned and would be vulnerable. No one knew what had happened to the Mongol fleet. After the storm passed on, they might be back. The time to destroy their forces on land was now. Perhaps the Mongols at Hakata could be persuaded to surrender, and Jebu was needed as one of the few warriors who could speak Mongolian.

His armour, he thought, was probably lost in the wreckage of the camp at Hakozaki. Taniko helped him find an old corselet and shoulder guards in the Dazaifu government’s armoury, as well as a naginata in good condition. Jebu covered himself with a straw hat and a straw raincoat. He said goodbye to Taniko and rode off westwards with the messenger.

It was early afternoon, the hour of the horse, when the first samurai leaned their scaling ladders against the shiny-wet black stones of the wall around Hakata and started to climb. The invaders put up a feeble defence, dumping rocks and throwing spears down at the climbing warriors. But it was too late for that. Jebu glimpsed some fighting on top of the wall, and soon after a gate swung open and the several thousand samurai Zumiyoshi had gathered for this assault trotted heavily through the mud and into the ruined town.

Within, all was grey-black, the grey of ashes. The town had been levelled by fire. Remains of walls and blackened stone statues rose above the expanse of charred wreckage. The first group of invaders they encountered had thrown down their weapons and were kneeling in the downpour when they approached. The samurai brandished their swords and awaited the order to start taking heads. Jebu questioned a middle-aged man whose rain-soaked robes looked as if they might once have been a splendid officer’s uniform. They were Chinese, he told Jebu. They had been forced to come here under threat of death to themselves and their families. They had no quarrel with the noble warriors of the Sunrise Land. They begged for mercy.

“We always kill prisoners,” Zumiyoshi said, when Jebu pleaded for the Chinese.

“They did not willingly take up arms against us,” Jebu said. “The true samurai is compassionate to the unfortunate, and these are here only through misfortune. These Chinese are highly skilled, hardworking and civilised people. It would be a terrible waste to kill them.”

“In short,” said Zumiyoshi, “they’ll make good slaves. The Bakufu will have little land to give away to reward our victorious warriors. In place of land we can give away free labour. Round them up and march them off to Hakozaki.” That wasn’t what I meant, Jebu thought, but life on those terms might be better for these men than death out of hand.

Bodies were everywhere. Lying in the muddy ashes they were hardly recognizable as human. Eew were civilians because most of the people of the harbour towns had been evacuated when the Mongol fleet arrived. Many of the samurai dead were found with their armour stripped off, hands tied behind their backs and Mongol arrow wounds in their bodies, the arrows themselves having been retrieved. That their helpless comrades had been slaughtered angered the samurai, even though they would have done the same to any Mongols they captured.

Several hundred Koreans also surrendered. They were even more vociferous in denouncing their Mongol overlords. The surviving Mongols, they informed the samurai, were planning to make a last stand on the west side of the ruined town, close to the water in case their fleet should come back.

“These Koreans would have loved nothing better than to conquer us,” said Zumiyoshi sourly. “They provided the ships and seamen for two invasion fleets. They’ve always hated us.” Once again, though, Jebu’s arguments prevailed. The prisoners would be more useful alive.

The Mongols, when they came upon them, were crouched in the rain in wet brown rows, spears and swords ready, taking advantage of what little cover was provided by the broken walls of a temple. There were over a thousand of them, those who had stayed behind or been left behind when the invasion fleet fled the storm.

“We’ll lose many men finishing them off,” said Jebu.

“Our men want to draw blood today,” Zumiyoshi growled. “They’re angry, they’ve come out here in this storm to fight, and it’s Mongols they want to kill.”

“I came out in this storm because I can speak to the Mongols and might persuade them to surrender,” Jebu said. “General, it’s one of the oldest military principles never to attack a cornered enemy. It’s too costly.”

“Go ahead, then.” Zumiyoshi turned away in disgust.

Jebu selected a spot halfway between the samurai and the Mongols. He planted his naginata in the ground and tried to think of arguments that might move the invaders.

“We know how to honour a brave foe,” he said. “It is a waste of your lives for you to fight on. The storm has destroyed your fleet. You are the last of your army left on our shores. We are willing to accept your honourable surrender. It is no disgrace. It is foolish to shed blood for no purpose.”

Someone called out, “You will make slaves of us. We would rather be dead.” A spear, well aimed and thrown hard, came whistling through the rain. Jebu deflected it with his naginata. More spears flew. Now, behind him, he heard the battle shout of the samurai. They ran past him, slogging through the wet grey ashes, rank after rank, swords and naginatas at the ready.

In man-to-man, hand-to-hand combat the fighting style of the samurai was far superior. Without their horses, with their bows and arrows made useless by wind and rain, the Mongols were outmatched. And they were outnumbered. Samurai swords rose and fell like farmers’ sickles in a field ripe for harvest. Jebu had no stomach for fighting today, and he certainly wasn’t needed. Sickened though he was by the killing, he stood where he was and watched.

In the centre of the Mongol square, standing on a little hill of rubble, stood a familiar grey-bearded figure shouting orders and encouragement-Torluk. Jebu remembered hearing that Torluk had been put in charge of the Chinese troops and the South of the Yang-Tze Eleet. He must have taken personal command of this all-important beachhead and now intended to die defending it. Using the pole end of his naginata as a flail, Jebu plunged into the fight. He pushed men aside right and left until at last he was in the front rank of samurai.

“Torluk,” he called. “Torluk, come to me.”

Torluk’s eyes met his in shocked recognition. With a roar, the old Mongol was off his mound and charging at Jebu, swinging his sabre. Jebu thrust his naginata to a startled samurai near by and awaited Torluk’s rush with his open hands held out before him.

Suspecting a trick, Torluk checked his rush and began circling Jebu slowly. Age, Jebu saw, had affected Torluk more than it had Arghun. His movements were slower, less certain than they had been. A flicker of superstitious fear crossed his face.

“So, you still live,” said Torluk. “I had heard you were alive, but I could not believe it.”

“Yes, I am alive, and your master, Arghun, is dead,” said Jebu. Something-fear, grief?-crossed Torluk’s bearded face, then was pushed back by the determined, concentrated stare of the professional fighting man.

“And now you mean to kill me and complete your revenge?”

Jebu laughed. “You wish to die in combat, of course, but I have a crueller fate than that in mind for you.”

At that, Torluk charged, raising his blade and bringing it down at Jebu’s neck. Jebu swung his body to Torluk’s right, so that the Mongol commander brushed past him, the sabre grazing Jebu’s chest. Jebu seized Torluk’s extended sword arm in a grip that twisted the wrist, leading the grey-bearded man around him, slowly applying more and more pressure to force him to drop the sword. Torluk pivoted in Jebu’s grip, swinging behind him. Over his shoulder Jebu caught a glimpse of a dagger in Torluk’s left hand just before the point of the blade struck Jebu’s corselet, failing to penetrate. Jebu got his shoulder under Torluk and threw him through the air, to land on his back with a thud. While Torluk lay stunned, Jebu tore the weapons from his hands and bound him quickly with his own rawhide lariat.

Samurai and Mongols were fighting all around him. Jebu turned away in despair. It was as he had warned Zumiyoshi; killing off the last Mongols would be costly. Even though the samurai outnumbered the Mongols and were their superiors in combat skills, every Mongol who died was managing to take at least one samurai with him. They were fighting with the strength of those who already count themselves dead. The circle of fighting warriors grew smaller and smaller. It was surrounded by a much larger circle of the dead. Samurai and Mongol lay side by side in death as they never could have done in life. Oceans of blood, thought Jebu. Oceans of blood.

When Jebu dragged the captive Torluk to him, Zumiyoshi said, “Now I see why these barbarous warriors coming out of a desert place have conquered half the world. They have true fighting spirit. You can’t tell that about a man until his back is to the wall. Who have we here?”

“The commander of this beachhead, tarkhan Torluk,” said Jebu. “Now that we have their leader, perhaps the rest of them will surrender.”

Torluk understood the language of the Sunrise Land and spoke it, though with an accent. “It has been my misfortune to be captured, though I hoped to die in combat. These, my fighting men, will never surrender. And our desert lands will breed tens of thousands more warriors. Do not think that you samurai have won a final victory today. When news of our deaths reaches the ears of Kublai Khan his rage will be as terrible as this tai-phun. We will come again. We will come again and again until we are victorious.”

“We never give up either, friend,”