Soon the wagon load of troops was alight. Not one of them made any attempt to run away, or evade the killing flames. It was supernatural.
A gust of wind blew up, dispersing the black fiery cloud but fanning the hot flames. The fire spread rapidly to the other wagons.
Was it mass suicide? Now, hundreds of troops were alight and scores of wagons were ablaze, sending billowing black fumes into the scalding air.
Bolin scratched his chin and gasped, “That’s uncanny.”
“Sorcery more like,” Wen snapped. “Come on. You don’t need yin-yang eyes to see what’s really happening.”
“Oh-ho!” Bolin stammered. “I may be the new Dragon Master, but I’m struggling to reproduce my predecessor’s insight. Please, help me, Master Wen.”
“All right,” Wen scolded him. “The troops are not real. My guess is they’re paper models. I’d wager a roll of the dice that their weapons are as wooden as their courage. The whole thing’s a ruse. The Mongols are experts at that,” he added with a disparaging air.
“I should have known,” Bolin tutted.
“Listen,” Master Wen said, puffing and blowing in the ambient heat. “What’s the easiest way to take a monumental fortress like Shanhaiguan? Simple, persuade someone on the inside to open the gates. That’s the art of war. The show of force of the troops in the wagons was a contrivance. And those camp fires we saw on the horizon? I doubt there was one real soldier next to them. My guess is that they were pure theatre, for our benefit. Dragon Master Wing would have deciphered that on his own and without my help. You’ve a way to go to catch him up.”
Bolin bit his lip and said, “Give me time. I have confidence in my ability to succeed.”
Feng was exuberant. The new recruits let out a huge cheer, more of relief than victory. The Mongol infantry reinforcements were no more. The paper soldiers were burnt to a cinder.
“I’ve never seen the like of it, in all my years campaigning.” Tung scoffed, as his guards and soldiers embraced one another.
“It’s not over yet,” Gang murmured.
“Why’s that?” Feng asked.
“Look,” Gang jabbed his finger at burnt out wagons, splattered corpses and the bloody detritus and broken dreams of war.
The remaining Mongol reinforcements – their cavalry – were forming up in four lines, each several hundred men long, which stretched like a curtain across the neck of land.
“What are they doing?” Feng blurted out.
Tung scoffed at the manoeuvre, “You watch. I bet they’re going to charge.”
Feng slapped his thigh. “I’ve seen some tricks today, but this one takes the prize. A cavalry unit is going to charge a fortress surrounded by a moat? I don’t believe it.”
The officers were clapping each other on the back, tears of joy streaming down their faces. It was hilarious. Despite that, the cavalry was on the move, a sedentary walk at first.
“Oh, here they come,” Tung said, bent double with laughter.
Feng looked again. They were coming.
Ai yi yi! This was ridiculous. Feng couldn’t take his eyes off them. Their walk became a trot, then a canter. Soon the Mongol force was heading their way, pennants held high, weapons at the ready, the men seemingly fixed on one last unbridled attack.
“Wait a moment,” Tung said, shaking his head. “They can’t be, can they?”
The cavalry wore an air of impending menace and the canter had become a charge. The horses snorting and panting, heads down, riders bent low and not a saddle in sight. They were about a li and a half out from the fortress and at full pelt.
“They’re doing it,” Feng stammered. “They’re really going to charge the fortress.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Tung declared, all pompous. “How can horses charge the Great Wall of Ten Thousand Li? It doesn’t happen.”
“Beg to differ,” Gang said, smarmy to the last.
“Wait a moment,” Feng said. “Look at the riders’ pennants.”
“What about them?” Tung snapped.
“They ride like devils, but the pennants are not moving.”
“By Heavens,” Tung slapped his forehead with his palm. “They’re phantoms.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Gang said, his words as sharp as a Mongol blade.
The horses, now at full gallop, approached the ground about hundred paces from the fortress, where the wagons with their straw soldiers lay in a splendid morass of wooden struts, charcoal wheels and burnt out planks of wood. Normal horses would have become ensnared on the scattered debris, but the Mongol ghost cavalry rode roughshod over it as if it wasn’t there.
“You know what this means,” Tung grunted. “They’re going to ride right through the walls.”
“Just like the pack of blue wolves,” Feng cried.
From the walkway, pushing the cart carrying Wing’s body. Bolin watched the cavalry advance. They were four lines deep. They raced like demons out of hell. With one hand on the reins and the other holding a sword aloft, the riders yelled, “For the Blue Wolf.”
Bolin murmured, “Heaven save us!”
As he spoke those prophetic words, the words of a summoning, strands of subtle ch’i oozed out of the Zhendong Gate, forming another wall, this one of yellow spectral energy. The ghostly force spread along the length of the five towers facing the might of the cavalry charge. It thickened into an etheric skin that eventually extended beyond the moat.
Bolin had a benign feeling about this strange mist. The Chinese army, so long hard up against the Mongol attack, stood in awe and wonder as this spectral fog embraced the eastern wall of the fortress in a swathe of golden ch’i.
Time seemed to move slowly.
Below the Zhendong Gate, amidst the carnage outside the drawbridge, a golden tentacle extended out of the mist and formed into… was that an arm? Yes, it was. An arm reached out of the mist towards the battlefield, and it wielded a builder’s hoe. Another arm appeared, this one wielding a rake, then another with a shovel. Another appeared holding a whip, then more arms bearing spikes, spades and bolsters for packing the hardened earth, a trowel, shears, plungers. There were hundreds of them. In the next moment, a foot appeared and then a midriff, a torso and finally, the whole man; a peasant wearing a pair of rugged sandals, baggy trousers, a sleeve-less smock and a crude head scarf.
This first ghost, the leader, was a man who held his head at a strange angle. It was as if his head was twisted to the left. To face forward, he stood with his right shoulder to the front. He was followed by thousands of ethereal workers, emerging out of the golden mist. All of them thrust their rakes and spades and trowels into the air, their mouths open in a collective silent roar of defiance.
The leader brandished his hoe, cajoling his makeshift army to fight. Bolin heard a boy’s plaintive yell.
“Father!”
Ru’s cry of awe and elation echoed around the rooftops of Shanhaiguan, into the sky and around the very caverns of Heaven.
Heng’s spectral army prepared to defy the oncoming riders, and wielded their tools and hoes and makeshift weapons above their heads like they were the sharpest sabres in all of the Zhongguo. Ducking down on their haunches, they waited while the hooves thundered towards them. Spectral dust billowed around them, choking their throats. Their enemy’s fierce cries of hate filled the fractious air.
Heng delayed until the horses were right on top of them. Together, with a huge effort, the workers simultaneously forced their rudimentary weapons through the horses’ exposed undersides, up through their carcasses, until they pierced the riders’ hearts and souls.
With fearsome bravery, Heng’s peasant army held the line as hundreds of Mongol ghosts perished for the very last time. A pernicious cloud of death filled the air. Carnage abounded and horses were upended. In a fleeting moment, a victory charge had become a prodigiou
s descent into hell.
Bolin, the new Dragon Master, had a strong inkling how this had come about. By removing the horseshoes from the Jade Chamber and by renewing the Elemental Altar, he had allowed remnants of the Laolong to re-occupy a section of the wall by the five towers. The Laolong then did what it did best – repel the barbarian invader.
The Mongol men and pennants and uniforms and pikes and swords and horses, the whole awful phantom edifice, began to evaporate. Like swathes of mist dispersed by the warmth of the sun’s rays, soon enough, it was gone, returned to the ether from which it had come.
The ghosts of the dead workers had saved the day. The Zhongguo was safe. The huge cheers along the ramparts reached into the Jasper Pool, the abode of the gods in Heaven.
Heng bowed to his fellow ghost soldiers. Along the entire line of the wall, the victorious peasant workers gathered their tools and re-formed their immaculate infantry lines. Without breaking stride, they followed Heng back into the golden mist from whence they’d come.
When they’d died in the construction of the wall, when they’d sacrificed their lives for the Zhongguo, no one had remembered them.
From that day on, no one would forget them – not Bolin and certainly not Ru.
Luli was frantic now trying to find her son. When she arrived at the prison, the main gate was wide open. With not a guard in sight, she tip-toed down the steps and into the cells. The silence was harrowing, the smell even worse.
The door to Ru’s cell was flung open… and he wasn’t there. All the cells were empty. The prisoners must have turned on the guards and grabbed the keys. Ru was free! Or had he been caught? Either way, she was petrified for his future.
Back at street level, loud cheer echoed along the ramparts. She ran to the main prison gate, where she found the street crowded with men rushing towards the wall.
“What’s happening?” She grabbed an old soldier by the arm.
“Ah. We are deserters no more!” the fellow cried, showing more defiance than teeth. “News of our great victory brought us a change of heart, so we’re returning to our posts.”
“We’ve beaten the mutton-eaters,” another soldier’s song filled the air.
Luli was swept along with the heady crowd towards the Zhendong Gate. In the square by the Bell and Drum Tower, people were singing and dancing. The Duke’s Mummers performed acrobatics on the stage and the musicians struck up a jaunty, patriotic tune. Stilt walkers strode like giants of old across the square.
So much for the celebrations, but where was Ru?
The returning troops ran up the ramps to the five towers, impressing Feng with their alacrity. There, they rejoined the brave but decimated ranks of the rest of the army. Together, they stood shoulder to shoulder in protection of the Zhongguo.
The sound of a brass trumpet split the battlefield in two. It resonated over the Shanhaiguan Fortress and all the way to the yurts of old Karakorum. The great Mongol general Subutai would have turned in his grave. Kublai would have shed a silent tear. Genghis would have turned away in disgust.
It was the sound of the death knell of the Mongol attack.
“They’re retreating,” Feng cried, pointing at the Mongols running down the coast road.
“A great victory, but at such a cost,” Tung claimed. As he spoke, a Mongol arrow, unleashed by a retreating archer, thudded into the commandant’s shoulder, sending him hurtling backwards. He skidded across the walkway and his head hit the other side of the rim of the wall, knocking him out.
“Get him to the infirmary,” Feng ordered. A knot of soldiers wheeled up a cart and loaded the commandant onto it.
“In his absence, who is in charge, Captain Feng?” one of the officers asked.
“I am,” Renshu said, stepping forward.
“Major,” Feng said, “shall I prepare a force to give chase? We are nearly back to our full complement. We can finish off the mutton-eaters once and for all.”
The major declined. “No!” He thundered. “Give chase and they’ll lead us into a trap. The false retreat is a classic Mongol tactic. Besides, never stop an army on its way home.”
“But—,” Feng stammered and then held his peace. What a weird decision. The Mongols were a defeated, desultory rabble. Now was the time to destroy them. If it had been the other way around, the Mongols would have shown no mercy.
“You question my command?” Renshu thundered, glaring at Feng.
“No, Major.” Feng held his peace. Even so, the major’s decision was cowardly and inept.
Across the square by the Bell and Drum Tower, the cries of victory and the persistent drum rolls resounded around the fortress. The musicians strummed and piped the town from the sickness of defeat and desertion to the health of victory and reunion. While folk danced and sang in the streets, Feng felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
“What? Oh, Bao, it’s you,” he said. “Come to join the celebrations?”
“No. You are to come with us.” Bao wore a deep frown and was accompanied by two steely-eyed constables.
Feng grew suspicious. “What’s this about? We’re free men now.”
It was obvious that Bao didn’t think so, because he scowled, “Constables, seize him.”
They grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him off the ground.
“Put me down. Where are you taking me?”
“To the punishment yard, you are under arrest,” Bao snarled, spitting into his face. “You and your other conspirators will account for your crimes. By order of the county magistrate.”
Across the way, constables were arresting Ru and Suitong.
“Hey, you, stop that!” One Hand objected. “That Tung fellow promised us freedom in return…”
“…Arrest him too,” Bao interrupted. They did.
Not only did Feng have a pretty good idea what was going to happen next, he also knew that this was a purge.
CHAPTER 53
The Punishment Yard
How marvellous is the Creator!
What will you be sent back as next?
Will you return as a rat’s liver?
Or come back as a fly’s wing?
THE BOOK OF CHUANG TZU
Walking into the punishment yard, Gang was at the end of his tether. Altan’s master plan had unravelled before his eyes. Sheng and Qiang were to blame. It was their dismal failure to blow up the Zhendong Gate that had led to the Mongols’ abject defeat. What had happened to them? Well, it didn’t matter anymore. It was too late. The Mongol threat had flared, burned brightly for a while and turned to ash.
One phoenix remained. Revenge – bloody, merciless revenge.
To his immense satisfaction, Gang found that Bao had prepared the punishments with his usual relish and forethought. His assistant had brought several stocks, a selection of very sharp knives and a variety of other torture implements, ready for the infliction of an indecent amount of pain.
A high attendance in the yard showed a keen and dedicated sense of justice amongst the populace. The gods would appreciate that. As soon as the Mongol retreat had sounded, Gang sought to assuage his anger, sending out runners across the length and breadth of Shanhaiguan to promote the event.
This would be a fitting finale to an eventful day – and all because of karma. With almost the last arrow of the battle, the commandant had been removed from the garrison leadership, clearing the way for Gang and Renshu to wreak havoc amidst the ruins.
The seating in the yard was two-thirds full. Aside from the usual coterie of Shanhaiguan lictors and hangers-on, there were the regular thugs and brutes. In the far corner of the yard, he noticed an untidy knot of beggars, thieves and other reprobates, singing loudly and out of tune on last night’s wine. Amongst the sea of faces he noticed the Beggar King. Although today he was dressed differently – no tattered black turban.
The remaining seats filled up with
more inebriates. Despite, or perhaps because of, the early hour – it was around the middle of the day – they had deigned to vacate their precious stools in the White Mulberry Inn, at least for now. They desired a performance, in which the currency was pain. Who was he to deny them the delightful prospect of freshly-spilt human blood?
The punishment yard was Gang’s favourite place – not only in Shanhaiguan, but in the whole of the Zhongguo. He dreamt about it, he revered and idolised it. To participate in and witness acts of gratuitous violence was more than a pleasure; it was a prelude to ecstasy.
“Here they come,” a runner announced, bringing his reverie to an abrupt end.
The unmistakeable appearance of Thousand Cuts Liu at the entrance to the punishment yard was greeted with a wave of high acclaim. Behind him, neatly tied to a leash, were three pieces of dog’s excrement, their names: Feng, Ru and Suitong. Liu led them past Gang and towards the dock. They each wore this wonderful look of aggrieved injustice mixed with bewilderment.
Liu tugged on the leash to spur them on but just when it was going so swimmingly to plan, Ru sat down and refused to stand up again, despite Liu’s best endeavours to drag him along the ground.
“Ru,” Feng said with obvious anxiety. “Get up, will you? Or Liu will beat us to pulp.”
“What’s the matter, little man, lost your toy soldier?” Liu didn’t hold back the scorn.
Gang bestowed this pathetic scene a wry, satisfied smile. The darling mother had to turn up eventually. After all, this absurd theatre was partly for her benefit.
“Ru, you dog’s breath,” Suitong said, elegantly wiping his nose with his sleeve and spitting on the ground. He waved his stub hand in Ru’s face, “Don’t make it any worse than it already is.”
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