He clenched his fist in pleasure as he heard the rippling snaps of his gunners. He had so few, but they were wonderful, fearsome weapons. That too was something he took to the Sung: vital knowledge of the enemy as well as ways to destroy him. A wolf would not stand against a man with a burning brand. Xuan knew he could be that weapon, if he had the time and space to plan.
He was jerked from his reverie by the shouting of his officers. They were pointing to the south and he shaded his eyes from the setting sun to look into the distance.
An army was approaching the border, barely two miles away. He could see huge fast-moving square formations pouring over the hills. Like wasps, the Sung regiments were reacting to the threat, he thought. Or answering the arrogance of a khan who had dared to enter their lands. As Xuan watched, concentrating, he began to realise that it was no minor force, no regional governor. The emperor himself would never leave his capital for the filthy business of warfare. It had to be one of his sons, perhaps even his heir. No one else could command so many. The squares layered the ground like a cloth pattern, each at least five thousand fresh men, well trained and supplied. Xuan tried to count them, but it was impossible with the dust and distance. The men around him were already jubilant, but he narrowed his eyes to think, staring around him at the Mongol forces who still growled at his heels.
If his cousin closed the border, he would not survive. Xuan scratched irritably at a line of sweat on his face, leaving a red mark from his fingernails. Surely they would not stand by and watch him killed? He did not know. He could not know. The tension made bile rise in his stomach as his horse brought him closer and closer, the calm centre of a whirling storm.
Taking a deep breath, Xuan summoned his generals and began to bark orders to them. The commands rippled out and the edges of his army hardened. Men carrying heavy shields raced into position, setting up a strong defence that would hold the Mongols long enough to reach the border. It was his last-ditch plan, just to survive, but at that point, it might also serve to keep as many soldiers alive as possible. He had fought a defensive battle for days. If the border was closed, he would have to turn at bay and strike down the khan. He had the numbers still and his men were hungry to give back the blows they had taken.
The thought was intoxicating and Xuan wondered if he should attack even if the border army opened to let him through. All he had wanted was to find safety with enough men to make him a powerful voice in the councils that would follow. Yet the Mongol khan remained outnumbered. The grubby Mongol shepherd would be dumbstruck and unnerved at the sight of so many pristine regiments.
The first Sung ranks had reached the border and halted, perfect lines of coloured armour and Sung banners streaming. As Xuan stared at them, he saw a puff of smoke in the line and heard a crack as a rock ball came flying over the grass. It hit no one, but the message was not for him. The Sung prince had brought cannon to the field, huge metal tubes on wheels that could smear a line of horses and men with a single shot. Let the khan digest that little detail.
Xuan's army marched on, his heart beating like a bird's as they approached the dark lines.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Khasar could hardly believe the size of the army that had raced to the Sung border, stretching back over the land. The southern nation had not had its battle of the Badger's Mouth, as the north had. Their emperor had not sent out armies and seen them battered, destroyed, routed. His soldiers had never run in terror from Mongol riders. Khasar hated them for their splendour and he wished again that Genghis was there, if only to see his brother's anger kindle at the sight.
The Sung lines stretched for miles, dwarfing the marching squares of their Chin cousins as they drifted in. Khasar saw the pace to the border had slowed. He wondered if the Chin emperor knew whether he would be allowed to escape or be turned away. That thought gave some hope, the only small comfort to be weighed against Khasar's fury and indignation. He had won the battle! The Chin regiments had fought to keep him away for days, but not once had they sallied out. They had only attacked when his men pierced their ranks. His tuman had soaked the ground in their blood, suffered explosions and storms of hot metal. His men had been burnt and broken, cut and maimed. They had earned the victory, and now it was to be snatched from them.
His reserve of two thousand were still fresh. Khasar sent up a flag signal to the camel riders keeping pace with him. The boys on the beasts rode with the naccara drums strapped on either side. All along the lines, they began a thunder, striking left and right with both hands. The armoured horses leapt forward at the signal and the warriors brought their heavy lances down slowly, balancing them in a casual display of strength and skill. The wall of riders matched the drums with a screaming roar from their throats that terrified their enemies.
Khasar's two thousand hit their full speed just twenty paces from the shaken Chin. The general had time to see some of them jam their long shields into the earth, but only a solid shield wall could have stopped his charge. Good officers would have halted them, mingled shields and pikemen together in an unbroken barrier. The emperor's men had to march, terrified.
The Mongol ponies had lightly armoured cloth covering their faces and chests. The warriors themselves wore layered scale armour and helmets, and carried lances and swords as well as saddlebags full of supplies. They crashed into the Chin lines like a mountain falling.
Khasar saw the closest ranks collapse, the men broken by lances and hooves. Some of the horses refused and whinnied in wild-eyed distress as their riders sawed at their mouths, shouting angrily as they brought them round again. Others plunged straight through the Chin, their lances snapping with the force of the strike. They tossed aside the broken hilts and followed with swords, using the muscles from twenty years of bow work to lay about them tirelessly, cutting down, always down, onto the snarling faces.
Khasar was spattered with warm red drops as his horse was killed and he jumped clear. He tasted someone's blood on his lips and he spat in disgust, ignoring the outstretched arm of one of his bondsmen as the man tried to grab him up into a saddle. His fury at the emperor's looming escape blurred his judgement. On foot, he stalked the enemy soldiers, his sword held low until they attacked. His counters were vicious and accurate, and as he strode forward with his men, the Chin backed away rather than engage him.
He could feel the sullen gaze of the emperor's soldiers, watching in silence as they marched away from him. Khasar grunted as he trapped his sword in a shield, leaving it and backhanding a soldier before snatching another one from the ground. Only then did he mount behind a warrior, to see what was happening.
In the distance, the front ranks of the Chin army had reached the Sung lines.
'Find me a horse,' Khasar shouted into the ear of the bondsman.
The man wheeled and rode out of the cup they had cut for themselves. It closed behind them, the battered shields rising once again.
Khasar looked for Ogedai, his blood cooling as he considered the threat. A child could have seen the position was hopeless. Faced with such an army, all the tumans could do was get clear. If the Sung regiments attacked, the Mongols would be forced away, routed on the border. The only choice was between a dignified retreat and running as if there were wolves after them. Khasar ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. There was no help for it. His back straight, Xuan trotted his horse towards the Sung line, flanked by three generals in ornate armour and cloaks. They were all dusty and tired, but Xuan rode as if there were no possibility of being turned away. He knew he had to be the first one there. Of course the Sung would refuse common soldiers the right to enter their realm. Only Xuan could shape the rules around him, as the reigning emperor. He was the Son of Heaven. It was a title without a nation, an emperor without cities, yet he kept his dignity as he reached the first line of soldiers.