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messenger rode up. “Uriangkatai wants the samurai tuman ready for an immediate attack.”

Another message came from Uriangkatai a moment later. “You are to move forward now towards the enemy’s right wing. The direction of the battle has shifted. Arghun Baghadur is directly west of here, and the enemy centre is to the northwest. Advance regardless of what happens and make no feigned retreats.”

“Arghun was north of us,” said Yukio. “Now he’s west of us. They’re trying to circle around us and sweep down on us. It’s his turn to try a tulughma.”

The samurai surged forward in a tight line, horses shoulder-toshoulder, at Yukio’s command. Looking back and gauging the distance from one end of the line to the other, Jebu could see that the line was not as long as it would have been this morning. They must have lost at least a third of their men.

The grassland over which they rode was littered with the bodies of men and horses, motionless and dust covered, as if they had been dead a long time. As they lay, dark lumps in the tall grass, it was impossible to tell whose side they had fought on.

They saw the enemy ahead, a black mass on the horizon, lances waving in the air like blades of grass. Jebu squinted. It hurt his eyes to look at the opposing line. They were riding into the sun now. That gave them an advantage. He readied himself for the killing rain of arrows that would come from the long-range, heavy bows of Arghun’s cavalry. Yukio called an order to his own men to load and prepare to fire. The order was transmitted by horn signal down the samurai line.

How different is the way we fight now, Jebu thought. No more individual samurai riding out to find somebody of good family on the other side to challenge to single combat. We manoeuvre in masses with all the precision of the Mongols themselves. We’ve learned from them-those of us who are still alive.

He kicked his horse into a fast trot. The distance between Arghun’s line and their own had halved since they first saw the enemy. The arrows would start flying at any moment now. They were almost within bow shot.

The enemy horsemen wheeled and began riding away. Now would come the deadly flight of arrows fired while retreating. How many battles had these mounted archers won while seeming to run away? Unable to use a bow, Jebu drew his Zinja sword and waved it in the air above his head, yelling wordlessly, just to do something. The dust was so thick, his shout ended in a cough.

Still no arrows, except a few random, accidental ones that hit no one. The dark body of Arghun’s riders had turned and were leading the samurai and the rest of the left wing-Jebu could see Uriangkatai’s Banners stretched out over the plain to his left-to the north. Supposedly Arik Buka’s centre lay that way.

The grass thinned out and the dust grew thicker. The rolling plains turned into waves of dunes stretching towards the northern horizon. The horses’ hooves slid in the sand. They were in the Gobi itself now.

There were more bodies than ever on the ground. This must have been where the fighting was heaviest this morning. Jebu had to whip his pony to keep it trotting straight ahead. It kept trying to change direction to avoid stepping on bodies. Step on them, Jebu thought. They won’t feel it.

“This must be an ambush,” he called, forcing his mount into a neckand-neck gallop with Yukio’s.

“Look at that,” said Yukio. Jebu saw it a moment later, gleaming white and gold in the afternoon sun, looming above the undulating horizon. Kublai’s elephant-borne tower. Before the tower came line after line of horsemen, sweeping over the desert, their ranks slightly curved like the sabre blades.

“It’s Arghun who’s in a trap,” Yukio cried. “Kublai’s centre is going to fall upon him.”

But Kublai’s horsemen did not attack Arghun’s cavalry. Both groups formed into two wings and thundered together over the horizon.

Uriangkatai galloped up, followed by a wedge of guards. “I’m delivering this order personally to make sure you understand,” the heavyset orkhon said. His face was flushed with excitement. “You are not to attack any of Arghun’s units. Do you understand? No fighting with Arghun.”

“What’s happening?” asked Yukio.

“The Great Khan has won Arghun over to our side. They’re attacking Arik Buka right now. We’ve won. Arik Buka is finished.” He jerked his reins and started to ride off in the direction he had come from.

“What are we to do?” Yukio called after him. But Uriangkatai was too far away to hear or reply.

Jebu said, “We should join the rest of the Great Khan’s forces and attack Arik Buka.”

“But that means joining Arghun and his men,” said Yukio. “We can’t go near them.”

Jebu shrugged. “It would be a shame if Arghun were in at the kill, and we, who have followed Kublai since he proclaimed himself Great Khan, were not.”

Yukio nodded and gave the order to follow Arghun’s Banners over the sand dunes. The standard-bearer drew abreast of Yukio and Jebu, and the samurai followed the White Dragon banner. Yukio summoned his hundred-commanders, and as they rode together he explained Arghun’s defection from Arik Buka’s army. He gave orders that none of Arghun’s men, where they could be recognized, were to be attacked.

They crested a dune and Jebu was surprised at the sight spread below. He had expected to find butchery in progress in the valley beyond. Arghun’s heavy cavalry and Kublai’s centre troops engaged with Arik Buka’s centre and left. Instead, there were only heaps of dead and wounded men and horses, with bands of foot soldiers going among them and sending some into the next world while aiding others. The battle had passed this way and moved on. Mongol warfare never stayed long in one place. Kublai’s elephants and tower were already on the next hill, and as Jebu watched they sank below the horizon. The sun, too, was sinking.

A troop of riders came over the north side of the valley, their horses at a walk, returning from the direction of the battle. The riders were silent. More and more of them topped the ridge. It was at least a whole tuman. Erom the look of the steel armour of men and horses, it was one of Arghun’s Banners.

“Why aren’t they going after Arik Buka?” said Yukio.

A leader rode out before the heavy tuman flanked by a small group of officers. A standard-bearer held up a pole adorned with yak horns and horsetails. The leader came on at a trot, as if to parley. Yukio held up his hand to halt his own men.

The leader opposite them leaned forward in his saddle. The men behind them had their bows out. A chill spread across Jebu’s back. He recognized the broad face with the long grey moustache.

“It’s Torluk,” Jebu said to Yukio in a low voice. Even as he spoke, Torluk raised his arm and brought it down in a chopping motion. The archers behind him raised their bows and fired.

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was no time to see how many samurai, all unprepared, fell under that volley. Torluk drew his sabre from behind his back and with a wild bellow kicked his grey horse into a gallop straight at Jebu. Jebu lowered his lance, bracing it against his right side, steadying it with his nearly useless left arm.

Torluk shifted in the saddle to avoid a straight-on impact with the lance. The point slid off the curve of his steel breastplate. Roaring, the Mongol tumanbashi swung his sabre at Jebu’s head. Jebu caught the blade on his lance pole. The sabre cut the lance in two but stopped short of hitting Jebu.

Jebu gripped the front half of the lance with his right hand. Like all Mongol lances, it had a hook just behind the point. He swung the hook and caught the armhole of Torluk’s breastplate. Detached, Jebu’s mind observed with wonder how well the Self defended him. Torluk went one way as his horse went the other. The Mongol crashed to the ground on his stomach. Jebu let go of the broken lance and let it fall with Torluk. He drew his sword.

Momentarily unthreatened, Jebu felt one with the pattern of battle that cast a network over the valley. Everywhere he looked, horsemen were locked in single combat. The Mongols had abandoned their usual style of fighting in masses with bow and arrow from a distance, and had closed with the samurai. They’re trying to wipe us out, he thought. Arghun had sent a whole tuman, ten thousand men, not just to kill Jebu, but to destroy all the samurai.

Still, he felt light, free from fear. He felt marvellous. He would act, he would fight. He didn’t care whether he won or lost, lived or died. Even the pain in his arm did not bother him.

A huge warrior thundered down on him, swinging the iron ball of a mace at his head. Jebu had just time to bring up his sword. The handle of the mace cut itself in two against the edge of the Zinja sword. The heavy ball, undeflected, crashed against Jebu’s helmet. He felt no pain.

Jebu felt much pain when he came to. His face was pressed into the sand, covered with dust, and more dust clogged his nostrils. Shafts of agony shot through his back and chest with every breath. He must have been trampled by horses. His Zinja training kept him motionless, barely breathing.

No light penetrated his closed eyelids. It must be night, he thought. He heard the clip-clop of hooves walking slowly, the crunching steps and low voices of men. He heard the sounds he always heard after a battle, mostly the cries and groans of the wounded. Bodies that had been young, strong and healthy a few hours ago, now ruined. The battle was either over or had moved to another part of the field.

He moved his consciousness slowly from one part of his body to another, starting with his toes and working upwards over his legs, his torso, his arms and his head. An ability to diagnose one’s own wounds was a basic Zinja skill. He let himself breathe a little more deeply. He could detect no bubbling sound in his chest. He was fairly certain there were ribs broken, but they had not pierced his lungs, the most dangerous possibility.

Nearby there were screams, shouts of rage, the thunk of a sword chopping through flesh and bone. The killer squads were going through the field executing wounded enemies. A voice crazed with pain babbled in the language of the Sunrise Land. Again the chopping sound and the voice was still.

They must be Torluk’s men, doing the killing. They were coming closer. His hands were empty. He had to find a weapon. Every muscle in his body ached to move. Stop this, he told himself. Stop thinking, stop wanting. Rely on the Self. With armed enemies walking towards him it was difficult, but he made his mind a blank and kept still.

Then they were standing over him. “Recognize that grey robe over the armour? It’s the monk, all right. The one the tumanbashi wants.”

“He looks dead,” said another voice.

Eingertips felt Jebu’s neck for a pulse. Instantly, still without thinking, he grabbed the hand touching him, heaved up with his back, and threw the man forward over his head. Only then did he realize he had used his wounded left arm. He grabbed for the sword arm, sprang to his feet, and stamped on the man’s arm, breaking it and freeing the sabre.

As he seized the sabre and raised it to protect himself, he

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