The Old Dragon's Head

by Justin Newland

  Keeping out of sight, she watched as the black turban grabbed Big Qiang around the throat and the two tussled in the alley. It took four men to subdue Sheng, who fought like a tiger. Rosemary and Thyme got on with more important things like carrot munching.

  Luli could wait no longer. She turned and ran, taking the long way around.

  Ru needed her more than Rosemary and Thyme.

  CHAPTER 52

  The Mongol Scourge

  Do not stop an army on its way home.

  THE ART OF WAR

  From atop the Zhendong Gate, the cry rang out, “The Mongols are coming.”

  Gang was excited, the decisive moment had come. Advancing towards the fortress, hundreds of Blue Wolf banners fluttered in the breeze.

  From the top of the Bell and Drum Tower, a series of tumultuous drum rolls announced the enemies’ advance to the Chinese army and, Gang hoped, to his associates, Qiang and Sheng. When they had met the day before, Gang had reminded them of the plan, ‘Wait for the drum roll signalling the Mongol advance. That’s your signal to move the cart of explosives to the Zhendong Gate. Leave it in the middle of the arched tunnel and blow the gate, the tower and the drawbridge to dust. The Mongols must have unrestricted entry to the fortress.’

  While he waited for Sheng and Qiang, he watched Commandant Tung gather the scattered remnants of his forces, basically those foolish enough not to have already fled the battlement, the fortress and if they could, the world. Tung positioned the swordsmen along the wall road and the archers in the five towers facing the barbarian foe. He held the cavalry in reserve, as if that would do him any good at all. Besides, they wouldn’t hold out for long, not after the Zhendong Gate blew up.

  The approach of the Mongol host was slow, giving him ample time to admire the perfection of Altan’s timing. The blue wolves’ assault had softened up the troops, planting an enduring fear amongst the poor wretches. Now, it was a question of prodding that naked fear with a sustained assault. Altan never failed to impress. The man was in touch with his inner Tao. Not so the guard standing opposite Gang on the ramparts – he was anxiously peering up the coast road, waiting for the final assault.

  “The Mongols are strangers to mercy,” he whispered in the guard’s ear. The man’s face went as white as the snows on the peaks of the Yanshan. Well, Gang was just telling him the truth, warning him what was coming his way. The guard didn’t see it like that, because his eyes almost popped out of his head and his mouth drew back in terror. The man jettisoned his spear, which clattered into the stone wall, next to Tung’s boot. Discarding a weapon was a serious dereliction of duty. The guard knew that. So did Tung. Gang smiled – he’d prompted the desertion quicker than he’d hoped.

  The guard ran down the ramp, arms gesticulating and screaming profanities into the unforgiving air. Then another guard threw down his sword and his courage and, shouting curses of hell fire, chased after the first. Scores more deserted their posts, ditching their sabres and their pikes and joining the frenetic race for freedom.

  Freedom from what? Gang wondered. From the blue wolves? They hadn’t seen one for some time, so perhaps Altan had called them off. From themselves? No. Gang had learnt that people carried their demons with them with tender devotion. From servitude? That depended on Tung’s response, which was a sharp retort, “Bowmen. Arrows to the ready.”

  A detachment of bowmen advanced to the edge of the battlements and took deadly aim at the clutch of fugitives.

  “Loose,” Tung commanded. The bowmen unleashed their killing arrows, raining death into the backs of the deserters.

  Amidst a deathly silence, the commandant yelled across the ramparts, “Clear away the dead. And if anyone else wants to desert; please, go ahead. You know what fate awaits you.” No one took him up on his generous offer.

  Renshu reported from the Laolongtou.

  “Major, I called you back here because we need to prepare for the attack. How many do the Mongols’ number?”

  “I would estimate ten thousand,” the major replied, scratching his chin, “consisting of units of cavalry, infantry and siege machines.”

  That appeared a gross overestimate and Gang assumed the major was exaggerating the Mongols’ strength to undermine Chinese morale.

  “That’s a strong force,” Tung replied, his tone weary and exhausted. “We oppose them with an army low on morale and depleted by desertions. I’ve sent runners to the prince for reinforcements, which I pray will arrive soon. Until then, we need to augment our forces with as many men as possible.”

  “What do you have in mind?” the major asked.

  “This is what I want you to do…” the commandant replied.

  Feng stood in the square by the Drum and Bell Tower. He fingered the long gash down his cheek, which had just begun to grow a scab. But despite the pain, and after so many days cooped up in the darkness, the fresh air, open space and the dim rays of the morning sun felt sublime. Wearing ankle shackles, he was lined up with the other prisoners. He had no idea why. From the resounding drums and the red flag above the Yamen, he did know that the Mongols were advancing.

  Opposite them on the square, their ranks were swelled by civilians from all walks of life – shopkeepers, scribes, silk merchants, cooks, waiters, officials, runners and administrators.

  With the civilians lined up on one side and Thousand Cuts Liu guarding the prisoners on the other, they were separated by the podium, where the commandant was in deep discussion with Major Renshu and Magistrate Gang.

  Feng heard the major ask, “What a rabble. Are you going to rely on these vermin?”

  “How dare you question my command? I’ll deal with you later,” the commandant retorted and strode to the edge of the podium.

  “Prisoners,” Tung addressed them. “An attack is imminent. Many civilians are going to fight, but we need more brave men. Fight the Mongol today and tomorrow I’ll grant you a full pardon.”

  This was karma all right. Feng was ecstatic. Even Ru broke into a half-smile. The prisoners slapped each other on the back.

  “Take a step forward if you agree,” Tung said.

  That step was lighter than a feather. To a man, they took that small step into a huge freedom. Suitong hobbled in last of all.

  “Good,” Tung said. “Liu, remove all the shackles.”

  Feng could finally stretch his legs. No more shuffling along like an old man. What a relief.

  “Commandant,” the major said to him.

  The magistrate piped up with his complaints, “Do you know what you’re doing? These reprobates will sooner make a run for it or cut your throat, than fight the Mongols. And this boy Ru. He’s due in the punishment yard later today and until then I want him back in prison. Withdraw him from this rash and ill-considered plan of yours, otherwise he’ll abscond as sure as night follows day.”

  Tung glared back at him. “You’re worse than the major! Do you want the Zhongguo to fall? Do you want the dark days of the Mongol Dynasty to return? Because your words suggest that you do. So be careful both of you, or I’ll arrest you for treason. Is that understood?”

  Tung was quaking with anger. To Feng’s astonishment, the commandant called for him. Was he going to arrest him as a traitor? Should he try and make a run for it? His mind was buzzing and his legs were so unaccustomed to walking without iron shackles, he stumbled awkwardly over to the podium.

  “Yes, Commandant Tung,” he stammered.

  “You have passed the Jinshi examinations,” the commandant said through gritted teeth. This was a surprise, he had not expected compliments.

  “I need an educated man like you to keep this mob in order,” Tung continued. “I am short of officers. I am going to enlist you as Captain.”

  “Captain? Are you sure?” He could not believe his ears. His head was spinning so hard his ears nearly flew off. Karma was shining on him, until…

&nb
sp; Gang yelled, “Commandant! Stop. You can’t do this.”

  “You again?” the commandant scolded. “What now?”

  “This man is a traitor,” Gang claimed. “He’ll sooner sell you to the Mongols than serve the Zhongguo.”

  “No, he’s not,” Tung said. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

  This was an extraordinary confrontation between the most senior civil official and his military counterpart. Tung opened a scroll and announced, “I have a letter here from Tiande, the great General Xu Da.”

  Feng recognised a copy of the letter which Gang had taken from him. How on earth had the commandant acquired it?

  The commandant waved it in the air, saying, “This letter confirms the truth. Warriors of the Zhongguo, I present to you General Xu Da’s missing son, who you know as Feng, but who is now Captain Xu Yingxu!”

  The commandant raised Feng’s hand above his head. The crowd responded with unabashed enthusiasm. Feng had not expected this. He felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. In a moment, his position was rightfully restored – and more. At last, someone had trusted him.

  With a lump in his throat, he said, “Thank you, I am honoured.”

  “Now, pick up your weapons,” Tung thundered. “And fight like dragons.”

  “Like dragons!” the men responded, piercing the air with halberd, sword and pike.

  The recruits hurried to their places. Feng felt a shiver of power course through his veins. For the first time since Park’s death, he felt like a man again, helped in no small part by the wave of respect from his peers.

  The Mongol attack was heralded by the loud thumping of drums and percussive clashing of cymbals. Feng could barely hear himself think, but then again, that was the purpose of the clamour.

  With the noise circling like vultures around the battlements, the Mongols wheeled up their huge catapults and launched burning missiles into the sky. The first incendiary traced a fiery arc over the Zhendong Gate, landing on top of the podium at the base of the Bell and Drum Tower. With One Hand Zhou directing affairs, the dousing teams brought the fire under control. Another incendiary smashed into the upper reaches of the Zhendong Tower itself, spreading fiery embers into the morning air and panic into the bowels of the men. The water teams rushed to douse the flames, as the battle of the elements continued.

  Two lines of heavy oxen pulled forward a siege engine, a huge wheeled contraption of tethered bamboo struts, poles and planks, followed by troops carrying ladders, ropes, harnesses and tackle for scaling the walls.

  “Make ready to repel the attack,” Tung yelled above the blistering noise of battle. Mongol archers sent over a hail of arrows, some of them fire arrows, others no doubt bearing the unwelcome gift of poison. One flew by so close to him that Feng felt it brush past his ear and clatter into the wall behind him. Thank Heavens for karma.

  Tung deployed the catapults, launching dragon sticks, ox-bow lances and tiger bombs into the midst of the enemy van, creating havoc with explosions, maiming and wounding the foe.

  Risking life and limb, a detachment of Mongols bridged the moat by the Zhendong Gate with thick planks of wood and then wheeled up a great battering ram. Time and again, they smashed it into the drawbridge, which began to buckle under the heavy assault. The Mongol archers protected their precarious position by firing volleys of arrows high into the morning sky that dropped down like killing rain upon the Chinese troops.

  Along the length and breadth of the walls the Mongols scaled bamboo ladders like monkeys. In bloody hand-to-hand combat, the fighting breached the top of the wall. Scores of Mongol warriors leapt over the parapet and onto the battlement walkway.

  Feng was on the front line, encouraging every last morsel of bravery from both veterans and recruits alike. With his life and reputation intact again, he felt invincible. Fearless for his own safety, he threw himself into the thick of the action, killing the Blue Wolf foe with his captain’s rapier. When he lost his weapon, he grabbed a Mongol by the throat and throttled him. The man – no, he was barely a boy – dropped to the floor like a sack of rice. Then Feng kicked a ladder from the battlements, the soldiers on it toppling backwards and crashing into the hard, unforgiving earth.

  Bolin and Master Wen made slow progress along the wall road from the Laolongtou. With the battle raging in full view, the guards at the Ninghai City Fortress nervously examined his identity tablet. The captain of the guard prodded the carpet gingerly and muttered,

  “Wing’s body? Found just like that? After twenty years of searching? That’s impossible.”

  Wen’s strong and sturdy presence yielded all the reassurance they needed.

  From his position on the wall road, a couple of li from the Shanhaiguan Fortress, Bolin was afforded a natural vantage point overlooking the dispositions of the Mongol forces. By his reckoning, only about a one tenth – about five hundred – were engaged in armed combat, with the remaining nine tenths held in reserve. That seemed like an unusual tactic. He was no military expert, but he thought those numbers ought to have been the other way around.

  He took a closer look at the Mongol army. Hundreds of open wagons carrying soldiers facing each other in two rows, clinging on to their lances and pikes, waited to be called into the fray. On the far side of the battlefield, near the foothills of the Yanshan Mountains and beyond the infantry wagons, were several large detachments of Mongol cavalry.

  On the exposed wall road, Bolin felt the wind gust in from the west. He rubbed and blew warm air into his hands. Beyond the fortress, in the foothills of the Yanshan, the temple still smouldered, the pagoda pumping black smoke into the air.

  Above the Zhendong Gate, Feng and his cohorts were locked in close combat and were leaping around the battlements like they were going to repel the Mongols single-handedly. Feng was the undisputed Captain of the Wall. His hands were covered in sticky, wet blood.

  Tung killed one attacker with a rapier thrust to the stomach and ripped off another’s head with a single fierce blow.

  With his single leg and single arm, Suitong had managed to climb up on the battlements and jump onto the shoulders of a Mongol intruder. While he mashed the mutton eater with his stub hand, Ru helped out by bashing the enemy’s head in with the broken half of a halberd.

  The fighting was fierce and unrelenting at all of the five towers facing the barbarian. The air was thick with smoke and cries of death. The stench of blood was obnoxious. Crimson rivulets ran down the Zhendong ramp, making it slippery for the soldiers, medical staff and animals going back and forth. There were bodies, limbs, hats, stray footwear, broken swords, discarded rapiers, strewn along the road wall, Chinese and Mongol, dead and wounded.

  The battle was in flux; hundreds of men locked in close combat, cries of pain and victory filling the vortices of hot swirling air.

  As the Mongol van battered the drawbridge, Gang was fretting.

  Where were Sheng and Qiang? The dog’s heads were meant to have blown the gate by now. He trudged down the steps of the Zhendong Gate to look for himself. Nothing. Not a cart in sight. He was livid.

  And he was still seething about Ru and Captain Feng. Hah! Employing prisoners as soldiers! He had never heard the like of it. And how had the commandant obtained the general’s letter? However it had happened, Tung had it now and everyone knew who Feng was. Well, it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference because he, Gang, could control the elements. He could still take his revenge on that piece of fowl dropping, Feng.

  Altan and his makeshift army couldn’t sustain the scale of the assault for much longer. They were up against an ancient, monumental opponent – the Great Wall. It would take some breaching. In the attempt, the Mongols were suffering heavy losses. If the drawbridge wasn’t blown soon, they would break themselves on the wall.

  Sensing the vapours of victory, a Mongol deputation strode up the Zhendong Gate with a message. />
  In the midst of a lull in the battle, the messenger cried, “Surrender! Open the gates. And we will give you back your lives.”

  “What are we going to do?” Feng asked. He already knew the answer.

  Tung asked the major, “What’s your assessment?”

  Renshu took a deep breath and said, “The Mongols are swarming over our walls. Though we’ve repulsed their ladders, many of our veterans have given up their lives. Their battering ram is on the verge of breaching the drawbridge. It’s only a matter of time before they run amuck. Then they will deploy their reserves, which are as numerous as the grass on the plain and we’ll be hard pressed to keep them out. In short, our situation is volatile and precarious.”

  “Your recommendation?”

  “Accept their terms. Lower the drawbridge and open the inner gate.”

  “What? Surrender? Never!” Tung scoffed.

  “They won’t give us another opportunity,” Renshu reminded him.

  “Do you think I don’t know that already?” Tung thundered. “The deceptive feint is their favourite military tactic. If we surrender, they’ll murder us all and pile up our skulls in a pyramid outside the gates. No. We fight to the death.”

  Bolin was passing the Jingbian Tower, the most southerly of the five gates on the Shanhaiguan Fortress. With only one or two more li to the Zhendong, he glanced into the sky and noticed a strange phenomenon – a black cloud of fiery dust and embers blowing over the fortress. It drifted over the battlefield and headed towards where the Mongol reinforcements were drawn up.

  Then one hot ember dropped out of the cloud and onto a wagon carrying Mongol troops. Despite being some distance away, Bolin saw it drop onto a soldier’s uniform, which caught fire. Next, the man’s trousers were ablaze. The strangest thing was that he didn’t move. He just sat there, like he expected someone was going to extinguish it. In moments, the flames engulfed the man completely. It was the most unnerving thing Bolin had ever seen. The soldier was burning alive, without as much as a scream. Even more incredible, none of the troops in the same wagon moved one hair’s breadth to help him or fetch water.