The action bit away a piece of his control and he snapped an order to the two thousand warriors with him.
'Ride forward, with me. We do no good here and the khan is in the field.'
He cantered to just a hundred paces behind the enemy, looking for the best place and opportunity to strike. He sat as tall as he could in the saddle, staring into the distance in the hope of seeing the emperor's own bannermen. They would be somewhere close to the heart of the massed ranks, he was certain, a barrier of men, horses and metal to bring just one desperate ruler to safety. Khasar wiped his sword clean on a rag before sheathing it. His men picked their targets and sent shafts into the Chin soldiers with pitiless accuracy. It was hard to hold himself back and his control was wearing thin. Ogedai's charge had brought him past the outer lines of pikemen. The Chin regiments were disciplined, but discipline alone could not win the day. Though they did not break, they were cut down by the marauding horsemen. Their lines were sundered, driven back or reduced to cores and knots of struggling men to be spitted on shafts.
Horns sounded in the Chin ranks and ten thousand swordsmen drew their blades and charged, screaming defiance. They ran into a constant barrage of arrows, shot from close range. The front lines were ground down and trampled. They ran forward as a mass, then each rank found themselves in twos, threes and lonely dozens, facing the swords of horsemen. Seeing such a slaughter, those behind hesitated as the Mongols came lunging forward in a line. In a few heartbeats, they accelerated to a full gallop and struck the charge cleanly, unstoppably. The Chin lines crumpled further back.
Tolui saw his brother had gone deep into the enemy formations, the khan's wedge of bondsmen killing as if they thought they could win right through to the other side. He was in awe of Ogedai then. He had not expected to see him go insane on a battlefield, but there was no holding him back and his bondsmen were hard-pressed to keep up. Ogedai rode as if he was immortal and nothing touched him, though the air was filled with death and smoke.
Tolui had never before seen smoke on a battlefield. It was a new element and his men hated to see it drifting towards them. He was becoming used to the strange odour, but the thunderous cracks and thumps were some of the most terrifying moments he had ever known. He could not hold back, not with Ogedai moving into the mass. The frustration of being unable to prevent the drift south was telling on all of them. It was close to becoming a chaotic brawl, with the Mongol advantages of speed and accuracy sacrificed to vengeful fury.
Tolui directed his minghaan officers to protect the khan, moving swiftly to bolster Ogedai's flanks and widen the wedge he pressed into the Chin army. He felt a surge of pride as his son Mongke passed on the order to his thousand and they followed him without hesitation. There had been few occasions when Genghis rode to war with his sons. Amidst the fear for Mongke's safety, Tolui could grin with pleasure at seeing such a strong young man. Sorhatani would be proud when he told her.
The rolling smoke cleared again and Tolui expected another wave of thunder to follow. He was closer by then and the Chin army was spiralling around his men, moving south, always south. Tolui cursed them as a Chin soldier passed almost under his horse's head blindly, trying to stay in marching rank. Tolui killed him with a brief thrust from above, choosing a point on the neck where armour did not protect him.
He looked up and found hundreds more marching rapidly towards his position. They were armoured like common soldiers, but each carried a black iron tube. He saw they struggled with the weight, but they strode closer with a strange confidence. Their officers barked orders to load and brace. Tolui knew instinctively that he should not give them time.
Tolui bawled his own orders, his voice already hoarse. A thousand of his men turned to charge the new threat, letting Ogedai's wedge move on without them. They followed their general without hesitation, swinging swords and loosing arrows at anything in his path.
The Chin soldiers were hacked down as they struggled with fuses and iron tubes. Some were crushed by horses, others died as they pressed a spluttering taper to the weapon. Many of the tubes fell to the ground and, in response, Mongol warriors yanked their mounts away or even threw themselves on top with their eyes tightly shut.
They did not catch them all. A rattle of lighter cracks sounded, rippling across the lines. Tolui saw a man snatched away from him, torn from his saddle before he could even cry out. Another horse crashed to its knees, its chest running with blood. The sound was appalling and then the smoke rolled in a great grey wave and they were blind. Tolui laid about him with his sword until it snapped and he stared at the hilt in disbelief. Something fell against him, whether an enemy or one of his own men he did not know. He felt the life go out of his mount and staggered clear before it could roll on him. He drew a long knife from his boot, holding it high as he limped across the smoking ground. More of the strange cracks sounded around him as the tubes fired their load of stone and iron, some of them spinning uselessly on the ground as their owners lay dead.
Tolui did not know how long they had been fighting. In the thick smoke, he was almost overwhelmed with fear. He calmed himself with calculations, forcing his mind to work amidst the noise and chaos. The Chin army could reach the border by sunset. It lay no more than a few miles to the south by then, but they had suffered and died for every step. As the smoke cleared, Tolui darted one look at the sun, seeing it closer to the horizon as if it had dropped while he was wreathed in smoke. He could hardly believe it as he grabbed a riderless horse and held the reins while he searched the ground for a good sword. The grass was slick and bloody as he walked. His stomach heaved at the stench of bowels and death mingled with burnt black powder, a bitter combination he never wanted to know again. Xuan, the Son of Heaven, rode untouched by bloodshed, though he could smell the odour of gunpowder in the evening air. Around him the Mongol tumans tore and screeched at his noble soldiers, ripping at them with teeth and iron. Xuan's face was cold as he stared south above their heads. He could see the border, but he did not think the Mongols would hold back as he passed the simple stone temple that marked the boundary between two nations. By some chance, the Chin army had wound its way back onto the main road. The white stone building was a distant speck, an oasis of peace with clashing armies converging on it.
Xuan sweated in his armour, shamed by the thought that he could race his mount alone along that road. His horse was a fine, cut stallion, but Xuan was not a fool. He could not enter Sung lands as a beggar. His army protected his body, but also the last wealth of the Chin kingdoms, in a thousand sacks and bags. His wives and children were there as well, hidden by the walls of iron and loyal men. He could not leave them to the mercies of the Mongol khan.
With his wealth, he would be welcomed by his cousin. With an army, he would have the Sung emperor's respect. He would have a place at the table of nobles as they planned a campaign to take back his ancestral lands.
Xuan winced at the thought. There was little love for his bloodline in the Sung court. The emperor, Lizong, was a man of his father's generation who viewed Chin territory as his own, claiming a mere error of history that it was not already his by right. There was a chance that Xuan was putting his hand into a rat hole by placing himself in Sung power. There was no other choice. Mongol goatherders strode his lands as if they owned them, peering into every storehouse, tallying the wealth of every village for taxes they would never know how to spend. The shame of it should have been overwhelming, but Xuan had never known peace. He had grown used to the humiliation of losing his kingdom piece by piece to an army of locusts and seeing his father's capital burn. Surely his Sung cousin would not underestimate the threat. Yet there had been conquerors before, tribal leaders who raised an army and then died. Their empires always fell apart, broken by the arrogance and weakness of lesser men. Xuan knew Emperor Lizong would be tempted to ignore them and simply wait for a century or two. He wiped sweat from his eyes, blinking at the sting of salt. Time cured so many ills in the world, but not these cursed tribesmen. The Mongols had lost their great conqueror at the height of his power and simply carried on, as if one man did not matter. Xuan did not know if it made them more civilised, or just a pack of wolves, with another taking the lead.