Shike, Robert J. Shea [ebook reader that looks like a book TXT] 📗

“I am not frightened,” said Jebu, “but I am amazed.”

“I’m frightened,” said Moko. “Even one warrior frightens me. Here there are as many warriors as there are raindrops in a tai-phun.”

“We will try to blow this tai-phun back where it came from,” said Yukio. He was his usual cheerful self, but Jebu suspected he spoke with more confidence than he felt.

On and on the Mongols came. The thunder of their horses’ hooves filled land and sky. Their advance guard was now a short ride from the two lakes, Rong hu and Shan hu, that formed the southern side of the moat around Kweilin’s walls. They were heading straight for the Green Belt Bridge, the one bridge that Yukio had left standing. The wooden bridge divided the two lakes and led to the fortified south gate of the city. All the other bridges had been destroyed and the other gates, except for the river gate, walled up.

As he watched the Mongols, Jebu remembered a day years ago when he had stood with Yukio’s father, Domei, on the wall of the Imperial Palace in Heian Kyo, watching the glittering advance of the Takashi. Would this day end as disastrously as that one had? He hoped not, and reminded himself that a Zinja does not hope.

Jebu felt a special excitement that he could not share with his comrades. These were his father’s people. Until now the only Mongol he had seen was Arghun Baghadur. He strained his eyes to capture every detail of the dress, appearance and manner of the warriors swarming over the hills south of Kweilin. His first impression was one of fur and leather, slitted eyes and brown faces that preserved, as they rode, an implacable silence.

Jebu said, “I would advise that, for the spirits of our men and the spirits of the people of this city, we ride out and attack the Mongols before they get into position.”

Yukio nodded. “Let’s give them a taste of what they can expect from us.”

Yukio called his samurai together at the base of the city wall. Eour times the height of a man, the wall was built of yellow rock quarried from the limestone hills around Kweilin. The gates consisted of an inner and outer set of doors made of huge logs reinforced with iron bands. Square stone towers guarded either side of the gateway.

Besides the thousand men he had brought with him, Yukio had been placed in charge of two thousand Chinese troops. Twice that many civilians could be armed from the city’s arsenal and pressed into service if need be. Yukio called only the samurai for this first sally, directing the other troops to man the walls. All mounted, all in full armour, the samurai crowded into the paved staging area behind the south gate.

Observers on the walls reported that the Mongols had reached the two lakes and were lining up facing the south wall. Yukio ordered the gates opened. With Yukio and Jebu leading the way, followed by a bannerman bearing the White Dragon, the samurai rode five abreast, at a trot, on to the bridge. Their taiko drummers beat out a rising, angry rhythm.

As he looked at the line of warriors facing him, Jebu could not see the Mongols-his people-clearly. They were mostly heavy framed, bigger than the samurai. Their faces were dark, burnt by sun and wind. They all wore moustaches with drooping wings, and their hair, where it protruded from under their helmets, was braided. Most of them had black hair, but here and there Jebu saw a red beard and moustache. Their eyes were narrow, the eyes of men who had spent their lives squinting into the sun.

Yukio drew his long, gleaming sword and spurred his horse to a gallop. Jebu did the same, and the wooden bridge quivered as the samurai behind them picked up the pace. The samurai shouted their battle cry, “Muratomo!,” at the motionless Mongols. Jebu looked over his shoulder and saw a thicket of steel blades behind him. But about half of Yukio’s men were still inside the city gate.

Jebu heard three notes of a horn, a Mongol signal. Now, he thought, they would attack. But those facing him wheeled in unison and rode away from the edge of the lakes, leaving a broad open space on the far end of the bridge to invite Yukio’s warriors.

Over the clamour of the samurai charge, Yukio called, “Try to set fire to their siege engines.”

Jebu was remembering that other battle, long ago, when he watched the retreating Kiyosi lead the Takashi out of the grounds of the Imperial Palace, pursued by the Muratomo.

“Yukio,” he called. “It’s a trap.”

“I can’t stop them now.”

Jebu whipped his horse to a burst of speed that carried him to the end of the bridge well ahead of Yukio. He pulled the big brown Chinese stallion to a sliding stop and swung him athwart the path of the charging samurai. He stood in his stirrups so Yukio’s men could see him, and held up his arms in a halting gesture. A Mongol arrow shot past his neck.

Crying out to his men to stop their charge, Yukio pulled his horse up short. The riders immediately following him responded to his command, and the word was relayed in shouts back along the bridge. But the milling mass of leading horses and men crashed into Jebu’s stallion, and Jebu fell to the wooden planking.

There came two long blasts on the Mongol horn. Almost at once arrows were raining down. The Mongols, still riding away from the moat, had turned in their saddles and were shooting back at the samurai. Jebu’s horse screamed and reared as a dozen steel-tipped arrows thudded into its side.

Jebu grabbed Yukio’s arm and pulled him out of his saddle. Using the dying horses as cover, they watched the slaughter of their men. Three Mongol arrows had embedded themselves in Jebu’s armor. He broke off their shafts. The Mongols had stopped and turned to face the city. Again and again they fired volleys at the men on the bridge from their short, powerful, double-curved bows.

The man carrying the White Dragon banner had fallen. Even though it made him a special target, Yukio picked up the banner and ran with it back over the bridge to the gate. Seeing the banner, the samurai began to fall back. Jebu and Yukio stumbled over dying horses and men. The two lakes were stained crimson and filled with bodies. The arrows fell upon them in clouds. Now all the surviving samurai were rushing pell-mell for the south gate.

One mounted man galloped past Yukio and Jebu in the opposite direction, his eyes wild, his face a furious red. Yukio tried to stop him, but the warrior didn’t even notice his leader as he charged by.

The Mongol horn sounded a single note, and the arrows stopped.

Standing up in his stirrups, the lone samurai shouted into the sudden silence, “Ho! I am Sakamoto Michihiko of Owara, descended in the tenth generation from Abe Yoritoki, the renowned warrior.”

Yukio had paused to watch Michihiko. Pushing him fiercely, Jebu got him moving again.

The next Mongol signal was a braying fanfare. In spite of his Zinja training Jebu felt a shudder of fear at what happened next. Like an avalanche the Mongol cavalry rode at full gallop towards the Green Belt Bridge. Silent before, now they screamed like madmen, their faces distorted into masks of fury. Waving their sabres, they bore down on the lone samurai.

With as much deliberation as if he were at archery practice, Michihiko drew his bow, which was taller than a man, and fired a fourteen-hand arrow at the first Mongol in the wedge. The nomad fell from his horse, pierced through the eye. Michihiko fired one arrow after another at the charging warriors. He was a good shot, and soon fallen men and riderless horses were slowing the Mongol rush.

But now the Mongols were on Michihiko. Throwing down his bow, he had drawn his long sword. The blade rang against the curved swords of the Mongols. Jebu saw a Mongol sword break in two. At least our swordsmiths are better than theirs, he thought.

The Mongols encircling Michihiko drew back. One of them spun a looped rope over his head and with a flick of his wrist snaked it at the samurai. Another rope dropped over his head. He was trussed, his arms pinned. He was trying to cut himself free when the Mongols yanked him from his horse and he fell heavily to the bridge. Their shrill laughter rang out over the two lakes. They closed in, and a dozen lance points stabbed Michihiko’s writhing body.

Yukio kept his eyes fixed on the scene. “An indecent death for a brave warrior. Barbarian butchers.”

Most of the samurai were safely within the city wall. Inside the gate Moko was waiting with a lighted oil lamp. Jebu took it from him and went back to the bridge.

A Mongol raised Michihiko’s head on the end of a spear. They shouted triumphantly, high-pitched war cries, as if killing this one man had been a great victory.

“They probably think he was our mightiest fighter,” said Yukio. “They don’t know he was just one samurai who thought today would be a good day to die.”

Like the Zinja, the samurai had learned to see death as no evil, Jebu thought. But unlike the Zinja, some of them actually saw it as good. They rushed to embrace it.

Now the Mongols were galloping across the bridge, racing to stop the gates from being closed. “Stand back,” Jebu said to Yukio.

Into the oil lamp’s flame he plunged the end of a string that had been rubbed with the explosive black powder of the Chinese. A hissing spark ran down the string and branched out in several directions along the bridge. Jebu and Yukio darted behind the great wood and iron doors.

The instant the gates boomed shut there came a tremendous thunderclap. Too late, Yukio put his hands over his ears. Jebu, his own ears ringing, beckoned, and the two of them ran up the stone stairs leading to the parapet.

“Look what we’ve done,” Jebu said.

A grey cloud of stinking smoke hung over Rong hu and Shan hu. The Green Belt Bridge, except for a few smouldering, blackened stumps of pilings, was entirely gone. The water was full of Mongols and their horses, many of them dead or badly wounded, a few struggling to swim to shore.

“That repays them,” said Jebu.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Yukio. “They can lose all those men and not miss them. For us, to lose two hundred men is to lose one out of every five. And we’ve lost that many, I’m sure, in our very first battle.” He laughed bitterly. “I ought to cut my belly open to make up for it.”

Jebu said, “It was my suggestion to launch an immediate attack.”

Yukio’s large eyes were liquid with sadness. “I gave the order. And if you had not stopped our charge when you did, the Mongols would have annihilated us. You also suggested using the thunder-andlightning powder to destroy the bridge.”

“Moko learned about the powder from the Chinese engineers.” Jebu found that he had no regrets about the disastrous attack, but he wanted to help his friend. He put his hand on Yukio’s armoured sleeve.

“We Zinja say that to act is within the power of every person. To guarantee the success of an act is not under anyone’s control. So, if you are victorious, do not be elated. If you are defeated do not be downcast. A warrior who cares too much about winning or losing is worthless. I have thought several times today of your father and the last day of