The Blue Mountain (The Forbidden List Book 2) (25 page)

Haung saw the horses begin their race towards the wall once more. It was more of a symbolic attack than anything serious. One line of horse archers and two volleys of arrows would only catch out the unprepared. No, the real battle would begin when all the posturing was done. On both sides. When the siege engines and ladders were brought up, if they had them. Of course they have them, he corrected himself. An army this organised would be ready for this battle. They had ladders at least, he was sure of it.

The Mongols drew back their strings, ready to loose the arrows. Haung rubbed the necklace under his armour. The leather was too thick to feel the outlines and inscriptions. It did not matter as memory and training took over. He descended into the quiet.

The horses slowed, hooves hanging too long in the air. Clouds of mist from the animals’ nostrils, swirling in the air, each twist and turn easy to follow. The Mongols released their arrows, already reaching to their quiver for another. It was an ingrained, muscle memory. Haung could see that, in their own way, they had settled into the quiet where the subconscious takes over. One flight was still in the air as they drew another notch to the bow string.

He saw the arrows reach up towards the wall, predicted their paths. He discounted many. Those that would fly over his head, those that would strike the stone wall. He tracked arrows that would find their mark in the flesh of the soldiers too slow to duck. There was nothing he could do for them. Amongst the flight he picked out the one threat. He watched it come.

A sharp, diamond shaped head, not barbed, attached to a thin round shaft by tight wound cord and painted with black resin. The wood flexed and bent as the arrow flew. The fletching, made of coloured and trimmed feathers, caused the missile to spin. It was narrow and, in the early light, hard to see.

Even now, before his personal arrow had reached the top of the wall, others had flown over or, by the cries, found their mark. His still flew and awareness of the others faded away. Him, the arrow and the archer, ready to loose another.

He exhaled. Right hand snapping up and catching the arrow just past the sharp tip, friction warming his palm as he clamped down. On the ball of his left foot he pivoted a full circle, robbing the arrow of its momentum, converting it to another trajectory. As his right foot stamped down to reverse the spin he lifted the arrow high into the air, the metal head dragging the tip down as it began to fall. The same hand found the hilt of
Jian
sword and started to draw it as he moved into the opposite spin. It cleared the scabbard and rose, held flat side vertical to the direction of the spin. The arrow was where he knew it would be. His arm surged with speed and power, the sword blade slapping the blunt nock end and sending it speeding back towards its originator.

The arrow passed its mate on the way and took the horse archer in the throat. The Mongol pitched off his horse and tumbled to a rest on the ground before the wall. Haung watched him fall and, with an absent slice, cut the other arrow from the air. The rider-less horse carried along the path its owner had intended, galloping back to the line of Mongol troops alongside the others.

“If they come again,” he said, letting the quiet slip away, “let’s make sure we can hit them back.”

“Colonel, I did not order you to kill a man,” the general raged. “There was a chance that we could negotiate. We could talk, stall a little and gain some time.”

“Time, General? Time for what? The wall has stood for centuries and has been garrisoned for almost as long. You said it yourself. It is time for the wall to do its job.” Haung sheathed his sword, sliding it into place with a solid click.

The general stood stock still. Beads of sweat covered his face and it looked as though he was having trouble breathing. His head twitched. A glance over his shoulder towards the tower then back to Haung and the group. Haung waited for his senior officer to speak.

“Colonel,” the general finally said, “bring up the crossbowmen. If they ride again, I want them full of bolts before they can loose a single arrow at the wall.”

Haung smiled in return. “Yes, sir.”

“Finally,” Gang grumbled.

“Patience is as much a weapon as your hammer,” Liu said. “One you’ve never used, I would suggest.”

“You cannot hit someone with patience,” the bull-necked fighter spat.

“The point is that sometimes you don’t need to,” Liu said. “Here they come again.”

“Crossbows,” Haung shouted and the order was repeated along the wall. It was accompanied by the rapid tramp of feet and the creaking of wood as crossbow arms were pulled back and bolts put in place. “Stand ready.”

The Mongol horse archers raced towards the wall and, as before, drew arrows to their bows.

“Loose,” Haung’s shout was followed by a staccato clack of crossbows being released. “Second rank, step up.”

The short bolts flew towards the Mongols. Like any army, any trained body of men, there were some who were good and accurate and some who were not. The Empire army relied on numbers to combat the inaccuracies. In this instance, it worked as intended.

Many bolts missed, succeeding only in peppering the ground with short sticks and small white feathers. Others struck true. The Mongols, to a man, were thrown from their horses before they could loose a single arrow. They did not have time to scream. The horses, however, did. They squealed in agony. They fell to the ground, tumbling, rolling and crushing their riders. A few still ran on, but not a single horse did so uninjured. Those beasts that could, limped back to the lines, acting on training and instinct. The rest, the horses that could no longer stand, thrashed about on the grass before the wall.

“Please,” Xióngmāo said, “kill them.”

Haung looked down at the woman and saw the tears in her eyes. He nodded.

“Marksman,” Haung called once more. “Loose when ready.”

There was quiet for a few seconds then the sound of one crossbow releasing its bolt, then another and another. The squeals stopped. Haung turned his gaze to the new front rank of the Mongol army. They had not moved, but waited for the injured horses to return to them. When they did, a warrior would dismount his own horse, grip the injured beast by the head and twist its neck to bring it to the ground. Once the horse was in position, the Mongol drew a dagger across the horse’s throat. The stricken beasts kicked the ground and then lay still.

“Do you think they’ll send more?” Liu asked.

“No, next time they’ll all come,” Gang answered and Haung noticed the general nodding his agreement.

“It will take them a little time to organise,” the general said. “Enlai ask all the
JunFu
to report to the tower for orders. Have them leave instructions for all the men to be fed. It is going to be a long day. Colonel, Are you coming?”

“General?” Haung asked, surprised.

“You are the rank of
Jinzhou
which, technically, makes you the third highest ranked soldier in this army. Only my
Tongjun
is of higher rank and his role will be mostly to organise the shifts and see men sent to the wall when required. Which makes, though I am sure the Emperor could not have intended this, you second in command on the wall. You best hear the plans and know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Haung said in an even tone though his heartbeat quickened and his stomach fluttered.

“We are coming too,” the Wubei man said.

The general looked at the two
Wu
and sighed, “Of course.”

* * *

“There is not much to speak of,” the General of the Wall began. “We have trained a long time for this and, now it is here, I expect you all to fulfil your roles with honour.”

Haung stood at the map table and listened. The map table was exactly that, a table with maps inlaid in the wood. The first map, around the rim, showed the whole length of the wall from the coast in the east to the impassable mountains in the west that marked the furthest extent of the Empire. The second map, much larger and taking up the centre panel of the table, detailed the wall section directly outside the tower. He knew there were similar tables in every tower, each one commanded by a
JunFu
.

Small clay figurines had been placed on the map to indicate the positions of Empire soldiers and enemy troops. When a new report was rushed in by the administrators, all of whom now wore a weapon on their belt and sported a leather tunic over their robes, a figurine would be moved.

“They are setting up camp,” said one of the
JunFu
, pointing at a concentration of figurines amongst the enemy and waving a report he had just been handed.

“Perhaps they will spend the day preparing,” said a second officer.

“And wearing us down with anticipation?” the general said. “No, if that had been their plan they would not have sent those archers against the wall.”

“Perhaps, that is a custom?” Master Shen said from his seat at the table. He was the only one sitting down and, to Haung’s eyes, looked exhausted.

“It is,” Xióngmāo said. “Warriors wanting to prove themselves men and claim a wife can do so in battle. Amongst the tribes it is usual for the unmarried men to challenge each other before battle begins.”

“You mean they were children?” the Wubei diplomat said and a stricken look passed across his face.

“Thirteen to sixteen would be my guess. Men grow up quickly on the steppes. Life is difficult and short,” Xióngmāo answered.

“They were the inexperienced soldiers,” Haung leant forward on the table. “The next attack will be from the seasoned and practised warriors?”

“They will not wait long. It is not the Mongol way. Attack, strike and pull back is their normal strategy,” she said.

“You seem to know a lot about them,” Master Shen said with a sneer on his lips.

“I told you, I lived amongst them for a time,” she explained.

“Perhaps you are a spy?” Shen said.

Haung stood still, waiting to see who would react to the accusation. The only person who moved was Corporal Enlai, who had entered moments ago. He took two steps and placed himself a little behind and to the side the magician. Haung stared at the corporal, trying to catch his gaze, but the man was looking elsewhere. He followed Enlai’s eyes and saw that he was watching Xióngmāo. No one else in the room seemed to have noticed anything but the insult the magician had delivered.

They all started to speak at once, questioning each other and giving voice to their concerns. Zhou was the loudest, leaning over the table and pointing a threatening finger at the sorcerer. Haung could not move, could not drag his gaze away from the three way stand-off around the table. Shen’s eyes were marble hard and focused purely on Xióngmāo. Her eyes reflected the magician’s gaze, but where his expressed barely contained rage, hers were a calm sea.

Enlai’s hand had reached across his waist towards the dagger sheathed there. Haung wanted to speak, wanted to raise a hand, to stop Enlai from drawing that knife, to find out why he was willing to kill for the lady. Once the dagger cleared its sheaf, there would be no hope. A bared blade in the tower room was a death sentence for any soldier.

This Shen was not the magician he had been trained by. That man had been calm and in control. He had been wise, patient and diligent. Ever since the
Wu
had shown up, he had changed. Another concern to add to Haung’s growing list. There was also the matter of the man’s magic, which Haung knew to be potent. The training he had received from Shen had focused around defence and attack. If Enlai drew that blade and stabbed the magician the most likely outcome was Enlai’s death. Shen would not do anything until his spells of protection went off.

The arguments around the three still raged on. Haung forced his body to move. As he did, he noticed Xióngmāo tilt her head slightly and Enlai stepped back, away from the magician. The moment passed.

“Shen,” Xióngmāo spoke into a moment of calm, a fragment of time when everyone was taking a new breath, “that was beneath you.”

“General, can we expect reinforcements from the Emperor or the other towers?” Haung asked, more to deflect any further arguments than anything else.

“Haung, we have been over this already. The answer remains no,” the general said. “Now would seem a good opportunity to return to your men and check on preparations. If they have not attacked before midday we will rotate the shifts and give the men on the wall a chance to eat.”

“General, it would be good to know that, should we need it, we can call on aid from the towers or the Emperor,” Haung asked again.

The general frowned and shared a quick glance with Shen who shook his head. “Colonel, we are fully capable of dealing with this threat. You have your orders. Dismissed.”

“Here they come,” the shout carried from the tower lookout down to Zhou on the wall.

“There is still time, go to the tower,” Zhou said to Xióngmāo and, as he had expected, she shook her head. “They’ll use archers to keep our heads down and then send in the siege engines.”

“Ladders,” Xióngmāo said.

“Sorry?”

“Ladders. Transporting siege engines across the steppes is too slow for their liking. Also, the supply of wood is limited in many areas,” she explained. “They prefer ladders. At least, when they pillaged the Empire that is what they used.”

Zhou looked at her and, not for the first time, remembered she had lived many more lifetimes than he had.

“You may want to duck,” she smiled at him as the first arrows, loosed too soon by the over eager amongst the attackers, hit the wall below.

Zhou hunkered down by the parapet next to her. Gang and Liu did the same a few crenels away. The general stayed standing as did Haung, but they were covered by the shields of soldiers tasked to keep them safe.

“I hate this bit,” Gang shouted above the patter of arrows hitting the wall.

Zhou kept his head down and fought back the memories of the attack on Wubei. He gripped the smooth warm wood of the staff and tried to take deep breaths. It was not the fear he battled but anger and rage. The blue thread pulsed, calling, inviting him to battle. On its very edge, the blue had taken on a greenish hue.

“Remain calm,” Xióngmāo said and put her hand over his. “Remember to call the spirit only when you need it. Use it and control it, control yourself.”

He looked into her dark eyes and saw little blue flecks of spirit. She had already called her spirit, but it was different to his. More thoughtful, slower, wise and grounded. His spirit enjoyed the hunt, lived for it, and revelled in it. He breathed in, as deep and slow as he could.

“Crossbows,” the general ordered. There was a shockwave of noise when the bows released their bolts, followed by the soggy thump of metal striking flesh. A great sigh flowed over the wall as the first rank of Mongol soldiers collapsed to the ground and were trampled by those who followed. “Second rank.”

“The
Fang-Shi
?” Haung’s voice shouted over the sounds of battle.

“Not yet. Not on the first attack,” the general shouted back. “
JunFu
Gongliang, let us see if we can distract them a bit.”

“Yes, sir,” shouted Gongliang. He was dressed in full armour with the addition of a gauze strip covering the lower half of his face. Zhou watched him wave a group of men, all dressed in the same armour and gauze, forward. Each carried a ball, about the size of two fists held together, by a short chain. On one side of the ball was a long piece of string.

“I hope they have finally got these to work,” Xióngmāo said.

“What are they?” Zhou asked as the men offered up the string to Gongliang.

“
Yān Qiú
,” she said. “Watch.”

The
JunFu
took a small ember and blew on it, bringing it back to life. On this ember the soldiers lit the string which sputtered as it burnt. Little sparks flew from the wick as it burnt down towards the ball. After each was alight, the soldiers began twirling the balls around by the chains. Faster and faster, until there was a continuous circle of sparks. They stepped forward and sent the glowing, spinning orbs out and over the wall. One of the soldiers stumbled back from his throw, an arrow through his arm.

The
Yān Qiú
descended into the midst of the advancing Mongols. There was no immediate effect and the enemy advanced closer to the wall. Then came four earth shattering claps of thunder and two more a moment later. Mongol soldiers were tossed into the air by the explosions. The advance, on that small section of land before the wall, wavered and faltered. Smoke began to drift between the enemy ranks, merging into in clouds. Within those thin veils of mist the Mongol soldiers began to drop their weapons, grasp their throats, tear at their eyes, choke, fall and die.

“Crossbows,” the general ordered and another wave of bolts flew from the wall. “Gongliang, go and see what your men can do along the wall.”

The
JunFu
bowed and, gesturing for his men to follow, headed off.

* * *

The top of the ladder hit the wall and the soldier next to Zhou pushed it away with the butt of his spear. He had to lean out over the wall to tip it backwards. The Mongols who had started to climb fell to the ground, but the drop was not high. Zhou could do nothing but watch as a soldier was struck in the chest by a Mongol arrow and pitch forward over the wall. The man’s boots scraped the wall as he fell.

“Push to the side,” Haung was shouting. “To the side.”

More ladders hit the wall in rapid succession. Zhou moved out from behind the parapet, grabbed the nearest ladder and pushed. It was surprisingly easy. A quick thrust and it fell away to the left. He ducked back into cover before an arrow could find him.

“Keep pushing,” the general shouted to the troops. “If the best they have got are ladders we do not have much to worry about.”

“They do have a lot of ladders though,” Zhou muttered.

More arrows arced over the wall and fell into the camp beyond. Empire soldiers ducked behind the stonework and then returned to their pushing. No matter how many ladders they pushed, more were raised and more Empire soldiers fell, their armour pierced by Mongol arrows. The enemy had not yet reached the top of a ladder, but Zhou could see they were getting closer.

“Gongliang,” the general called. “A few more
Yān Qiú
, if you please. Closer to the wall this time. Let us see if we can take out a few ladders as well.”

“Of course, General,” and the small team repeated the lighting procedure behind their large portable wooden wall. This time, instead of holding the fizzling orbs by their chains, the men held them as they would a child’s ball. Rather than spinning them around, they crept up to the parapet and with a gentle toss pitched them over the wall. Zhou felt the explosions rumble through the wall before he heard them.

“As before, Gongliang, do the same in the other sections of the wall. We need to give them pause,” the general said.

“Of course, General. However, we should consider rationing the use of the
Yān Qiú
. I have a team making more in the camp below but we do not have a large supply,” the officer replied.

“That is not the news I wished to hear,” the general said. “What of the other weapons?”

“Some are still experimental, General.”

“I don’t care,
JunFu
Gongliang, I want them ready as soon as possible,” the general’s voice cracked with command.

“Of course.” Gongliang bowed and then ordered his men to pick up the shield and follow  him along the wall.

There was a brief lull in the fighting below the wall before more ladders rose into view. Zhou watched the top of the closest ladder twitch and wobble with the weight of the climbers below. Always before, the six or seven times the ladders had gone up, the Mongols had stopped loosing arrows as their troops neared the top. This time there was no such sparing of their own soldiers and, as arrows clattered into the wall, a fur lined helmet peeked over the low stones between the parapets.

Zhou swung his staff even as the Empire soldier opposite stabbed with his sword. The force of the impact ran up his arm and the Mongol soldier pitched backwards off the ladder. There was no respite as another face appeared. This one was ready and blocked Zhou’s swing with an upraised shield. Sadly, for him, it left him open to the Empire soldier’s sword which smashed into his top lip and skidded off the bone, slicing open the cheek. The Mongol fell.

“They are gaining a foothold,” came a shout from further along the wall, though Zhou could not see who had shouted. It was accompanied by a cessation in the arrows. A sure sign, he thought, that the call was the truth. In front of him, a wave of Mongols poured over the walls.

The blue thread pulsed and he grabbed hold. The spirit flooded his body. Tired, aching muscles regained their vigour. The smell of blood, meat and death wetted his tongue. The cries of soldiers were clear in his ears.

“Finally,” he growled and, taking the staff in both hands, he plunged into the battle. The first Mongol he came up against swung a curved sword at his head. A downwards stroke that Zhou turned aside with his staff. He let the Mongol stagger forwards, off balance, and drove the butt end of the wooden weapon into his face. The soldier collapsed and Zhou leaped the falling body to tackle the next.

Either side, Empire soldiers were falling back. In the vision of the spirit, the combatants radiated light from the centre of their torso. The Mongols were easy to differentiate. They glowed a dirty, dull purple, not the pure crystal blue of the Empire men. Every man glowed to a degree, some more, some less. The purple glow vanished from the soldier whom he had killed. When an Empire man fell, his glow faded too.

There were other differences too. Zhou noted that Haung’s light was contained within the outline of his body. In others, the glow flowed from their body, creating an aura around them. Xióngmāo’s glow was the brightest of all. It filled her entirely and spread far beyond the limits of her body. The purest, brightest blue he had seen since the heart of the mountain. It was hard to look at for more than a moment. She moved in small little steps, always a movement ahead of her attackers. The general’s glow was diffuse and weak. He was surrounded by his own bodyguards who fought as one unit, each covering for the other.

Gang and Liu fought in separate knots of the enemy. Their glows pulsed in a constant, even rhythm. Gang’s was slow, Liu’s much quicker, but both matched their style of fighting. The slow hammer, swinging in great arcs, battering the Mongols, crushing them against the wall. Liu’s axes were always in motion, catching a sword one moment and then slicing through the unprotected legs of a Mongol, the other axe battling a different opponent.

Enlai’s light was the strangest of them all. It was there and it was pure blue, but it was so small, so contained within the centre of his body. A small pinprick of blue that shone brighter than anyone’s except Xióngmāo’s

Yet, despite all the skill shown by the Empire forces, Zhou could see they were being forced back from the parapets. They were ceding the control of the wall, being beaten back by sheer numbers. As they retreated, the light at the centre of each man dimmed. Zhou could smell the sour scent of fear and desperation. They were losing.

Then Xióngmāo was there, next to him, in the middle of the battle. Her face was calm and she stood still, ignoring the battle around her. From her centre, blue threads speared out. Not towards the enemy, but to the Empire soldiers. A thread for each. Every one pulsed and thickened, pouring energy into each man, strengthening, bolstering courage and determination. Only two remained unattached. Even so, Haung and Enlai fought in unison. Swords darting out, parrying away the attacks and stabbing into the weak spots of enemy soldiers. They killed every, and any, Mongol soldier who stood against them.

The Empire began to fight back. Each soldier moving in perfect synchronicity with those around him. Slicing and cutting where there were openings. Defending each other, parrying away blows that would have wounded another. They fought as one and the line steadied.

“I cannot do this for long,” Xióngmāo spoke in a calm, hollow voice. “Do something.”

Zhou jabbed his staff into the chest of the nearest Mongol, throwing him back into those behind and creating space to think. Xióngmāo was a fully trained, experienced
Wu
and Zhou knew that he was not. Close to two years ago he had been a diplomat seeking advancement, respect and riches. What could he do but keep on fighting as he had been?

“What?”

“Anything,” Xióngmāo’s voice was beginning to crack with effort. Her own light was dimming as she gave more and more of herself to the troops. “Quickly.”

The last time he had tried to use the spirit to accomplish anything but enhance his own physical strength and speed he had collapsed. Boqin had defeated whatever he instinctively tried to do, and Zhou had woken up days later as weak as a new-born kitten. Xióngmāo was a protector, it was clear from her time in the tent town before the walls of Yaart. Clearer still from the training that Boqin and she had given him on the Blue Mountain. That was not his way. Like the great bear, he was a hunter, a killer. Attack was always preferred to defence.

He let the Empire soldiers push past him, forming a wall of steel and leather that would, he hoped, keep him safe while he attempted something. Zhou gave the spirit everything, every part of his being, let it drown him. His vision changed, the outlines of people fell away, the wall disappeared and only the glows remained. Purple for the Mongol soldiers, blue for the Empire, a mix of green and blue for the vegetation. To the right, far away, the bright red of the Mongol magicians and swathe of crimson covering the land north of the wall.

But it was the dull purple in front of him that he focused upon, the blue spirit in every soldier battling the red. The colours swirled, twirled and danced around each other, two liquids, oil and water, occupying the same space but not mixing. Zhou’s spirit was not for defence. It cried out to attack and he did. Sharp spears of his own blue light flew, stabbing into the purple. The blue cut and sliced at the red, dicing it into smaller and smaller pieces.