Jade Empire

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘You realise we’ll probably all be dead long before the last cart crosses,’ Cinna said to his peer in low tones that obviously Aram hadn’t been meant to hear. Jiang simply threw the westerner a bleak expression.

  ‘Dev, Jai, go and supervise the search for weapons,’ Jiang said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go,’ agreed Cinna. They waited and watched until the two young Inda disappeared sullenly into the monastery proper.

  ‘Their pride is strong,’ General Jiang noted, nodding to Aram. ‘They are a credit to your blood. I will not let them fall now. Be confident. If the worst happens and we are overrun I shall make sure they are the first men back to you.’

  Aram nodded. He was less than convinced, in truth, but had no doubt that the general meant exactly what he said.

  ‘And we,’ Cinna said to Jiang, ‘need to decide on how best to try and hold them.’

  ‘I believe I know just the place,’ the easterner replied, as behind him men affixed their red demon masks.

  Chapter 22

  The wall crumbles.

  The man stands.

  The world turns.

  Unnamed poem by Ji Huong

  Jai was far from sure of the defensive value of his general’s chosen site, though Cinna had seemed satisfied. Just under two hundred paces into the jungle, close enough to still see the monastery in the distance, they prepared, some working feverishly while others waited, tense. They had been in position for less than a quarter of an hour and still the men were busy setting everything up as per the generals’ instructions.

  While the makeshift weapons were being found at the monastery and distributed, the men arming themselves and swapping items according to preference, the generals had sat together, hashing out their plans. Any time Dev or Jai had come close enough to join the conversation, they had been sent off into the monastery to source something the commanders thought they might need. In half an hour the men were as armed as they were going to be and the generals had given the order to move out.

  As they had left the monastery and moved back along the northern path towards the jungle and the approaching Faithful, already loaded carts were trundling south from the complex as fast as their drivers could move them. With luck they would manage to shift everything speedily and reduce the danger for the soldiers fighting to delay. It would be a close-run thing getting to the bridge ahead of the enemy, even at their best speed.

  The bridge. Damn it, but did not every evil in this world seem to revolve around a bridge?

  They had reached the general’s favoured location with precious little time to spare, if his father’s estimate of the enemy’s speed was correct, anyway.

  Here, the jungle path opened up. A tree to each side of the track had fallen sometime in the recent past, their trunks cut up and logged by the monastery’s people. In doing so they had been forced to clear much of the undergrowth, and so the path had been widened. Yet despite the disappearance of two trees there still remained a good canopy of green above, even if it was slightly lighter and higher here than elsewhere, and creepers and vines hung from the greenery, adding to the dappled effect of the light beneath.

  A hundred men drawn from both units were busy at work in the wide area, turning the two generals’ various curious plans into reality. It was truly fascinating to watch the red-clad demons of Jiang’s Crimson Guard working alongside Cinna’s blue and white elite bodyguard. The two units were so different in every way, and yet somehow, perhaps due to constant proximity to such flexible and accommodating generals, they seemed able to work together perfectly. Jai was impressed in particular with the Crimson Guard, who displayed considerably greater ability to think for themselves than the ordinary rank and file of the east. Every man had a place and a task, thanks to the organising abilities of the officers. The second rank of soldiers were the ones currently busy with those plans. The first rank remained at ease since they would be the front line of the fight and needed to be as rested as possible. The third rank were busy sharpening weapons in preparation.

  Three ranks of sixty men each, split into three further lines of twenty each. And they were all on foot. That decision had surprised Jai, but both generals had agreed that dismounted was the way to meet the fanatics. The soldiers worked among the trees ahead or waited nervously on the path, cleaning or sharpening, yet their eyes continually strayed from the repurposed tools in their hands to the deep, dark depths of the jungle to each side and back again. Logic said that the ghosts would not take them, else the enemy would not be coming for the same reason, but each man had heard the tales, and nerves are rarely quelled by logic.

  Three ranks of men were set to block the track where it narrowed after the wider section, totalling nine lines in all. The front two ranks were armed with makeshift spears of various kinds, for everyone knew the value of such a weapon against horses. Many were simple wooden staves that had been sharpened to a wicked point. Others were rakes and hoes that had had the heads removed or bent and sharpened. The third rank was armed with axes, long kitchen knives, batons and sickles. And each rank was formed of a mix of blue-and-white and red-masked warriors. Somehow, the need to rely upon makeshift weapons and native supplies in unfamiliar terrain had largely removed the differences between the two units. They were all learning a new way to fight together now. It was lucky that their masters were as shrewd and adaptable as they were. There was no reserve. If the enemy got past the ninth line – the third rank – they had lost, so there was no need for a reserve.

  One unit did remain behind them, though. Between there and the open land of the monastery fields, every man’s horse stood at the side of the path, gathered in groups of four. Each group held one rider, who kept the reins of the other three. As soon as that bell rang in the distance – and there were men positioned for hundreds of paces back along the road to make sure it did not go unheard – every man knew the score. Turn and run. Get to the nearest horse, mount up and race for the southern bridge. It was not an elegant retreat plan, but Cinna had learned from many years of war that a simple plan was more valuable any day than a clever one, when men were required to follow it in a panic.

  Other units waited too. But they were hidden. Prepared. The Sizhad’s men might be rabid and cocksure, but they were in for a few nasty surprises.

  Jai prepared himself and glanced across at Dev, who nodded. They had both been positioned with the third rank, in the ninth row and relatively safe from immediate danger. Dev held a hammer with a pointed hook, and Jai gripped a hatchet. Neither was expected to fight, and they knew it, which relieved Jai immensely. His brother had always been a thinker, not a fighter, and time had probably not changed that too much. The generals, who were currently busy out of sight, had made it perfectly clear that whatever happened, the brothers were to end the fight in the saddle and riding to join their father. Both had agreed. Given their oath, even. Yet just as Jai prepared himself, he could tell from Dev’s stance that his brother was ready to do exactly the same thing as him.

  Damn it, Dev, be careful…

  They were all expecting the warning, yet it still came as a shock to hear the whistle calling, shrilly, three times from the trees ahead.

  The Faithful were here.

  Jai and Dev began to push forward. The generals were out of sight, and even if they reappeared suddenly they would be far too busy right now to argue with the brothers over their position in the wall of men. Jai kept moving forward, pushing between soldiers who objected and argued in two different tongues until they realised who it was jostling them out of the way. There was value to senior rank, after all. He stopped somewhere in the middle and was relieved to see that Dev had done the same. There was no point in being at the front, when the best, largest men were there, prepared. But here in the third line of nine Jai passed his axe to a man, taking his sharpened staff, and sent him back. Jai might not be the man for the front line, but he was damn well going to lend his arm to the fight and not dither at the back, protected by his rank.r />
  Forward, he could see the open space. The wide area closed up again some sixty feet away, but the path ran on for that same distance again before curving to the right. The men ahead of the lines had now abandoned whatever preparations remained unfinished and were running back to grab their spears and fall in as the middle file. Jai let them pass as they lined up, ready, panting from their exertions.

  Once the last man had taken his position, the world went silent. Well, battle-silent, anyway. Battle silence is something unique, for it is actually full of noise. The snorting of horses and the jingle and clang and clonk of armour. The groans of men stretching. A cough and an occasional fart. No words, though. Every man was clinging to his innermost thoughts. Some men’s lips moved as they sent silent prayers to their favoured gods. Jai wondered idly whether their gods could hear, since they ruled far to the east and west and his own Inda gods might not let the prayers pass through. He smiled at his philosophical curiosity, but then the battle silence was broken as a new sound joined the symphony.

  The thunder of hooves.

  The Sizhad’s men rounded the corner at a good speed, but at the sight of the forces arrayed across the path ahead in clumps of blue and white or of red, they charged, ululating and whooping.

  Even over that thunder Jai could hear the distinctive sound of bladders and bowels giving way. It was something he had learned about war this past year. It mattered not how brave a man was, his digestive system would react to the terror of facing charging cavalry whether he willed it or not.

  Men tensed. Officers called out in both languages for their men to stay steady.

  ‘Watch ’em suffer,’ said the western captain.

  And they did.

  The riders had broken into a gallop at the sight of the defenders, and they had been so focused on their quarry that they had failed to spot the horrors awaiting them. In the strange, sun-dappled light it was hard to see them, of course, until it was too late.

  The front riders hit the first rope twenty paces before the widened area. It had been strung at the height of a horse’s upper legs and fastened to trees at either side with great care for tightness and security. The rope snapped with the enormous pressure anyway, but it was accompanied by the sound of numerous shearing bones, and horses, screaming, fell across the path, shattered legs thrashing, mouths foaming, eyes rolling. The riders behind the stricken front line fared no better. Half of them hit the thrashing mounds of men and beasts and added to the collection, falling and bellowing in shock. A number of them reacted swiftly and attempted to jump the havoc.

  It was these men who hit the second rope, which had been strung at neck height for a rider. Those men who were low enough to catch the rope themselves were thrown from their beasts. Where men had jumped higher in desperation, their horses caught the higher rope and were brought down to earth immediately, crashing to the ground on their sides and backs, legs breaking, men crushed under their weight.

  Still the wave of cavalry came. It was all happening so quickly that there was no chance for the riders behind to learn the fate of those in front before they too were in the thick of it. The third rope caught fewer men before it broke, but still ruined men and steeds alike, adding to the carnage on the ground.

  The charge had been broken. The imperial forces would still have to face the riders in vicious combat, but now they stood a chance. It was often the charge that made or broke a battle in its opening moves.

  The enemy riders came on, slowing now, moving with more care and alertness, looking for ropes across the path, watching where their horses trod, skirting the worst piles of writhing, shrieking flesh. It would be hard to see with the flickering, dancing patches of light and the creepers dangling from the canopy above, high enough not to disturb riders, but constantly distracting the attention, yet now the horsemen knew the ropes were there, they were watching.

  Of course, Cinna was brighter than that and, remembering his bridge-end ambush in those first days at Jalnapur, Jiang had deferred to him. The ropes the enemy were watching out for now were not there. Three was the maximum Cinna could imagine the riders falling for, and he had been exactly right.

  The riders came on into the open space, snarling and yipping, relieved that they had passed the ropes. Somewhere beyond the treeline, an unseen hand undid a knot and a cord slithered free.

  The fishing lines came down in a single jerking motion. Jai had thought the concept laughable when those sent to gather weapons had come back sheepishly with a huge bundle of fishing rods among them, but Cinna had immediately told them to find a length of cord and remove the trellises from the bean garden.

  The lines were virtually invisible in the flickering light beneath the canopy and the first thing the riders knew of their presence was when the wicked metal hooks caught in their faces, necks, hands and arms, tearing flesh with sharp, searing pains, only to swing free, coated with torn skin and blood, and circle to catch another rider. The horsemen howled in pain as they rode through a hundred hooks, swinging and scraping, ripping and gouging.

  It was far from a fatal trick, but it certainly slowed, distracted and maimed the riders. And unlike the ropes that broke on contact, these simply swung away, the damage done, and whirled to catch another rider. The advancing horsemen slowed again as they held up weapons and shields desperately trying to keep the swinging barbs away from their flesh, often failing in the process. Riders were now aware of the series of dreadful tricks and had begun to move out to the soft, grassy edge of that widened clearing in an attempt to skirt the swinging hooks.

  Desperation is, as Jai’s grandfather had once said, the greatest source of invention. Ropes and fishhooks, staves and tools were all the defenders had been able to gather from the monastery. Those, and the one last thing Cinna had told them to gather. The general had spotted a man carrying a large basket of crockery from one of the store sheds to load it into a cart, and had waved to the man and called him to stop. Dev and Jai, having just returned from locating ropes, had been sent to collect that basket and all other earthenware bowls, platters and cups in the monastery. Jai had snorted, at first thinking it a joke. Even after, he had assumed it a ploy of the generals to keep the brothers busy and out of the way.

  Now, though, he understood the method behind Cinna’s madness.

  As those men rode around the periphery of the open area, the crockery began to fly from hidden throwers within the vegetation to either side. A heavy earthenware bowl hit a rider full in the side of the face, sending him hurtling from his horse – the Inda did not use the good, stable four-horned saddle of the westerners or the stirrups of the easterners, but rode with just a blanket and reins for control. The man disappeared with a squawk and fell beneath the hooves of the other horses.

  It was the most peculiar missile barrage Jai had ever seen in battle, more reminiscent of an angry wife and a husband late home, but he had to give the general his due, for here and there riders were unhorsed or knocked senseless, their weapons battered from numb fingers with the hard missiles. And between the two beleaguered groups, slowing under the rain of heavy pots, the centre of the track was still filled with men howling as hooks tore at them.

  It was all ingenious, of course, and was having a noticeable effect, yet it was little more than a distraction and a method of slowing them down. The force was still coming. With the ropes now gone, they were jumping the fallen with relative ease. Fishing lines were being torn down and cast to the ground, and the barrage from the wings was changing direction, which meant that the generals’ men were running out of missiles. They were hurling the last few as they moved back, ready to retreat behind the wall of weapons on the path.

  And beyond the clearing, Jai could see still more men pouring around the bend in the track. He began to harbour the suspicion that his father’s scout had rather seriously underestimated enemy numbers.

  The Sizhad’s men hit the front line of the defenders at last, having navigated the various blows and hazards in the way. The missiles had
stopped, the hooks were almost all gone and the ropes had snapped, but the men now riding into the line of blue, white and red spear men were no longer howling their spirited war cries. They looked wary and beleaguered, and many bore cuts and gouges in their flesh, their pristine white clothes and turbans dotted and lined with crimson.

  Jai felt their whole force push back as the horsemen engaged, but it was a simple matter of pressure and weight, rather than the punching destruction of a full cavalry charge, from which the generals’ little tricks had saved them. The third line was slightly out of reach of the initial fighting, but Jai did his best, hefting his sharpened staff and attempting to jab it into the nearest white figure he could see between the bobbing heads of the first two lines. Then the killing began in earnest. The defenders might be armed with only sharpened staves, but these were the hardiest and best-trained veterans of two armies, and every blow was made to count, points slamming into men and horses repeatedly, ripped back out carefully and then slammed forth once more, dripping gore, to seek a new target. Horses reared and screamed, and men cried out and tumbled back into the press.

  But it was far from one-sided. The zealots had neither the training nor the discipline of the two bodyguard units, but what they lacked in those departments they more than made up for in determination and desire, and unlike the makeshift spears, their weapons were keen and dangerous, designed for killing. Here and there Jai heard a curse that surprised him coming from a supposed force of religious fanatics, and he had to remind himself that many of these white-clad lunatics had been drawn from the bandit forces of the northern mountains and would be of rough and uncultured stock. Men and horses fell repeatedly, the cries of both intermingled in the symphony of war.

  Jai realised suddenly how quickly they were being destroyed as his makeshift spear was knocked aside by a sword and he fought to bring it back to bear. The front line of spear men was almost gone already and the second line was already in trouble. Risking his life, Jai turned his head for a moment, attempting to locate Dev in the press at the far side, but his brother was lost in the sea of heads and bodies and wavering spear tips. Then, momentarily, he caught a glimpse of his brother, fighting like a maniac. No glorious elegant forms from an academy, but the simple, mechanical butchery he had seen so well practised by Cinna’s army at Jalnapur. It seemed that Dev had closed the martial gap between them somewhat over the years. Feeling a little more confidence in his brother’s chances, he tore his attention back to the task at hand just in time as a sword lashed out and he was forced to duck to one side. He jabbed lower with the spear and felt it sink into flesh at the horse’s shoulder. The beast reared but the rider controlled it, and as it came down again, the hooves caught the man in front of Jai. The man’s head shattered under the powerful hooves and Jai was caught in a fine spray that made his gorge rise. He was now the front line. For a moment he wondered why he had been so foolhardy as to disobey orders and move forward. It now seemed such folly. What had appeared to be a relatively secure third-line place had become the front in a matter of heartbeats. The number of white-garbed men and beasts that had fallen to the spears was scant consolation.