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

in the east. Scouts rode back to the advancing front ranks to report campfires beyond the hills to the north. Coloured lanterns, shielded so they could only be seen from one direction, signalled the Banners to halt.

Arik Buka was caught. His back was to the desert.

The yurts stopped rolling, holy men stepped forth. Shamans sacrificed sheep, Buddhist lamas spun their prayer wheels, Nestorian Christian priests chanted half-forgotten Latin over portable altars, and muezzins called their faithful to prayer. Men of every faith and of no faith at all, men of every nation from the rising to the setting of the sun, prepared their minds and bodies for battle.

In the left wing, so far across the steppes from the centre of the arm that they could not see it, rode the samurai under the command of Muratomo no Yukio, beneath the standard of the orkhon Uriangkatai. As the first sliver of crimson broke the flat line of the horizon, the samurai dismounted and bowed deeply from the waist towards the sun, towards the Sacred Islands, towards the Emperor. Glancing at Yukio, Jebu saw that his friend’s eyes were glistening with tears.

Some groups of samurai performed Shinto rites of purification while others listened to the chanting of Tibetan lamas, whose words meant nothing to them but whose ceremonies gave comfort.

For those who wished, Taitaro held the Zinja equivalent of a service. It was more a philosophical discourse than a religious ritual. Taitaro repeated the sayings that had given the Zinja courage since the founding of the Order. “Your armour is your mind … Act, and do not concern yourself with results … Death is neither good nor evil.”

Yukio and Jebu went to confer with the general, Uriangkatai. The orkhon was a big man, as tall as Jebu and broader. He had gathered his tumanbashis under his standard, an iron spear with a collar made of long white horsehairs.

“Our wing will attack first,” said Uriangkatai. “We face their right wing, commanded by Arghun Baghadur.”

Jebu and Yukio looked at each other.

“What is it?”

“We fought Arghun at Kweilin four years ago,” Jebu answered, “when we were serving the Sung Emperor.”

Uriangkatai grunted. “Now you fight for a better master and he for a worse. The Great Khan has chosen to try the tulughma, the standard sweep. It’s a tactic Arik Buka knows as well as we do, but he may be drawn to attack us anyway, because he has the desert behind him and nowhere to go but forward. Also, we’ve taken him by surprise, and he may not be aware of how strong we are. Our right wing under Bayan will lie back while the centre under the Great Khan will strike at Arik Buka’s centre. The Great Khan will retreat, seemingly driven back by Arik Buka’s resistance.” Suddenly Jebu was reminded that Uriangkatai, ten years older than he, was the son of Subotai Baghadur, a companion of Genghis Khan’s youth who became his greatest general, a master of strategy second only to the Conqueror himself.

A tumanbashi asked, “What if Arik Buka’s right attacks the Great Khan?”

“It’s our job to keep their right wing occupied. When we attack Arghun, we can expect him to retreat. Remember, they’re heavy cavalry. Their bows will have much longer range than ours. We’ll take a lot of punishment before we can give any back. Get them moving away from us, then turn and run yourselves. Get them to chase us. That’s all we have to do. Meanwhile, if Arik Buka’s centre and left wing advance against the Great Khan, Bayan with all the heavy tumans will sweep around Arik Buka’s flank, envelop it and crush it. Then Kublai Khan will hit them with all the strength of his centre, war elephants and all.”

Jebu remembered a battle long ago at the Imperial Palace in Heian Kyo when Kiyosi’s Red Dragon helmet led the feigned retreat.

“The Great Khan has promised that all the treasures piled up in Karakorum will be divided among his horde,” Uriangkatai said. “That’s more than fifty years’ accumulated loot. If we win this, each man will be a khan in his own right.”

“Generals always make everything sound easy,” Yukio said as they rode back to their own ranks on their Mongol ponies. Most of the big Chinese horses on which they had left Kweilin had long since been lost, but Kublai Khan had issued them new horses from a seemingly endless supply. The steppe ponies could cover more ground, faster, than any horses in the world.

The sun was well above the horizon now. The samurai were in the vanguard of the left wing. Uriangkatai always put them in the vanguard. It was where they wanted to be. Yukio had tumanbashi status even though he commanded far fewer than ten thousand men.

Of the original thousand samurai who had come with Yukio to China only about half were left. But there were over two thousand men fighting under Yukio, the balance made up of Chinese as well as Turks, Tartars, Tibetans, Koreans and Arabs who had joined them in the last four years.

Jebu felt the hollow sensation in his stomach that always preceded a battle. He took his position out in front of the first rank of riders. Yukio rode up and down the line, saying cheerful things, making everything sound easy. To Jebu’s right rode a standard-bearer holding up a square of gold silk on which was painted a White Dragon.

The horns brayed, the saddle drums rumbled, and the samurai began to move forward. Jebu tested his mount’s responsiveness to knee pressure as they trotted over the tall grass, letting the reins dangle and making the pony veer to the right, then the left as he drew his bow from his saddle case and checked its tension, pulling lightly on the string.

He mounted a rise and drew in his breath sharply. A vast carpet of white flowers with red centres filled the shallow valley before him. In the morning sun the flowers were dazzling. He had often wondered why a day of battle would sometimes be so beautiful that it was hard to think of killing or of facing your own death. Why was the world of men not more often reflected in the world around them? Today would then be a gloomy, foreboding day. Or contrariwise, why were men rarely as beautiful as the world of sun and flowers?

His horse glided through the white field and up the other side of the valley. There was the enemy. At first they were only a dust cloud on the horizon, then a long black line of horsemen brandishing lances. Rank after rank of mounted men poured towards them over the rolling meadow. Jebu felt his body bracing itself for the shock. These were heavy cavalry, and they were not retreating.

The arrows began to fly. Jebu heard screams from behind him. Some arrows whistled overhead from his side, but they fell far short of the oncoming riders.

Somewhere in those mounted ranks coming towards him was Arghun. Maybe they would meet today and settle what was between them.

“Forward at the gallop,” called Yukio, riding on Jebu’s right. The horns transmitted the order, and Jebu’s pony and all the others along the line picked up the pace. It was the only way to get within range quickly.

But, inevitably, the attackers wheeled and began riding off in the opposite direction. In his frustration, Jebu wanted to try a shot, but he remembered the Zinja maxim, make every arrow count.

Now Arik Buka’s heavy cavalrymen turned to their saddles and shot at the samurai over the rears of their horses. Men and ponies fell, screaming, all over the rolling grasslands. The devastating volley tore huge gaps in the samurai ranks.

An arrow thudded into his horse’s chest. The animal fell to its knees, and Jebu flew over its head. He pulled himself into a ball in mid air. He hit the ground on his shoulders, his armour rattling, and lay on his back for a moment, stunned. Then he rolled over on his stomach and raised his head cautiously, peering through the grass.

The enemy had turned again and were coming back. Six horsemen were coming directly at him. He could feel the beat of their hooves through the soft earth under him. There was no place to hide. He decided to play dead, rolling on his side so he would be able to see.

He was surrounded by a rampart of tall grey-green grass. One of the white flowers hung directly over his head. It had no smell. They were upon him. Through half-closed eyes he saw one rider coming at him, lance lowered. To make sure he was dead.

Jebu grabbed the lance and jammed its point into the earth, hard and fast. The rider, still holding tight to the lance, was vaulted out of his saddle. He hit the ground with a crash of his steel breastplate, while his riderless horse ran on, following the others.

The man was lying on the ground, groaning. Jebu crawled over to him and smashed his windpipe with the edge of his hand. He muttered the Prayer to a Eallen Enemy while looking around wildly to see where the other horsemen were. They were wheeling around now to see what had happened. Crouching, Jebu ran to his dead horse and pulled his bow out of his saddle case. He fired an armour-piercing arrow at one rider, who took it through the breastplate and pitched out of the saddle. Another arrow caught a man in the right shoulder, making him drop his lance and ride off. Now the three remaining warriors had their heavy crossbows out and were shooting at him. He lay behind the body of his horse, using it as a shield.

A pair of riders galloped to either side of Jebu’s dead horse. Mongols never jumped their horses. Two lance points stabbed at him. He rolled away from one, but the other caught him on the unprotected inner side of his arm and tore through his left bicep. Jebu grabbed the lance as he had before, but this rider brought his horse to an instant stop. He pushed the lance point deeper into Jebu’s arm, tearing through muscle, trying to pin him to the dirt.

Jebu reached into his armour-robe. Luckily the blow gun was on the left side. One dart was already in place. Jebu flicked the plugs at either end away with his right thumb, put the tube to his lips, and sent a poisoned dart into his enemy’s throat. The man clawed at the dart, letting go of his lance. He had barely pulled the dart out and thrown it to the ground when the poison began to take effect. He toppled out of his saddle and went into convulsions.

The dying man’s pony danced nervously but did not run away. Jebu was in the saddle in two jumps and had the Mongol’s bow out of its case, while his eyes searched the field for the two other cavalrymen. They came at him together, charging him with wild, warbling cries, sabres waving. His left arm was too badly hurt for him to draw the bow. He decided to try to outrun them.

He had no choice but to head in the least promising direction, north, towards the Gobi. A cold wind bit into his face, a strangely cold wind for midsummer. Round yellow and purple clouds towered above the horizon. Dust stung his eyes. He pulled his headcloth around to cover most of his face. The two horsemen pursuing him were gaining on him. The dust blowing in the air got thicker as he galloped northwards. Soon it was all around him in a seething yellow cloud. He could no longer see. But his pursuers couldn’t see him, either.

He turned his horse to