among them. He passed panting men, spattered in the blood of their enemies. They sat bowed over their saddle horns, resting their aching sword arms on the high pommel. Many of them called out to the ranks passing them, asking where they had been while the real work was being done. Their spirits were high and Bayar chuckled as he went through. The flame-light was increasing as more and more tents were set on fire. Ahead, he could see a mass of men, pressing desperately to get away from the dark line of horses. Bayar saw a pony without a rider and stopped briefly to let his unknown companion take the mount. There was a body nearby and he was delighted to find a quiver with half a dozen shafts. Jumping down briefly, he flipped the body over and took a long knife from the ground, though he could not find a sword. His rank had gone on without him and he trotted to keep up as the killing began again.
Kublai waited in an agony of suspense. He could hear the sounds of battle out there in the dark, the crash and scream of men and animals being killed. He had no way of knowing how Bayar was doing and wished for light as he had never wished for anything before. He wondered if the rockets could be fired together to light up a battlefield, but he had only a small store. The idea was tempting, however. It was one more thing to remember for the future.
‘That’s long enough,’ he said, almost to himself. He took another rocket from a roll of oilcloth and placed it in its cradle, pointing to the sky. As it lifted, it made a high whistling sound, similar to the shaped arrowhead the Mongols sometimes used. The tumans on his side of the river were ready for the signal and they began to ride to the ford. If the Sung still held their side, the tumans would be crossing without proper cover. His archers would send a hail across the banks, but in the darkness it would be impossible to aim. Kublai drew his sword, preferring to have its comforting weight in his hand.
His horse hit the waters of the fording place in the midst of thousands of others, all trying to make the crossing at a canter. Kublai felt his horse lurch into a hole and quickly sheathed his sword again rather than lose it. He needed both hands and he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment as he flailed about.
His horse was snorting and whinnying as it clambered up the far bank and plunged on with the rest. Kublai could not have controlled the animal if he’d wanted to and he found himself racing headlong towards the sounds of battle. All the plans he had made dissolved in confusion as he lost track of the position of the tumans, or even which way he was going. In the glow of burning tents, he could see a great mass of men. He only hoped he was not about to charge Bayar’s tumans. There was no point listening for Mongol voices or even the drummer boys. The noise of horses around him drowned all that out and he had somehow managed to get water in his ear during the crossing, so that he was deaf on one side.
Two hundred yards ahead of him, the first ranks off the river ford met the Sung soldiers streaming away from Bayar’s tumans. The Mongol warriors had not strung their bows for the crossing and they barely had time to draw swords before the forces crashed together. Kublai could not halt or turn aside. Held in the press of moving horses, he was moved inexorably forward. He tapped the side of his head to clear his ear and smelled blood strongly on the air. He was beginning to realise that, for all the benefits of a surprise night attack, the danger was complete chaos on both sides. He heard yelling voices ahead and the unmistakable sound of Mongol warriors cheering in triumph. Kublai tried to gauge how much of the night was left by the position of the moon and wondered vaguely where Uriang-Khadai had gone. He hadn’t seen his orlok since the first round of cannon-fire. The cheering intensified and he headed towards it, helped by the light of burning tents, the fire beginning to spread right across the river plain.
Kublai drew to a halt in the light of three burning carts piled against each other. With a rush of relief, he saw Bayar there, shouting commands and bringing some sense of order. When he saw Kublai, Bayar grinned and rode over to him.
‘Half of them have surrendered, at least,’ Bayar said. He stank of blood and fire, but he was jubilant. Kublai forced the cold face, remembering suddenly that he was meant to be a figure of distant and terrifying authority. Bayar didn’t seem to notice.
‘We’ve broken the back of their best regiments,’ Bayar went on, ‘and those that haven’t run have thrown down their weapons. Until the sun comes up, I won’t know the details, but I don’t think they’ll counter-attack tonight. You have the victory, my lord.’
Kublai sheathed his sword, still unblooded. He endured a sense of unreality as he stared around at the piles of dead men. It had worked, but his mind filled with a dozen things they could have done differently.
‘I want you to look into using signal rockets to light a battlefield,’ he said.
Bayar looked at him strangely. He saw a young man sitting with his hands relaxed on the pommel, his leggings soaked. As Kublai stared around him with interest, Bayar nodded.
‘Very well, my lord. I’ll start testing them tomorrow. I should finish herding the prisoners. We’re having to use their own clothes torn into strips to bind them.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ Kublai replied. He looked to the east, but there was no sign of dawn.
A thought struck him and he smiled in anticipation as he spoke again.
‘Send Orlok Uriang-Khadai to me. I would like to hear his assessment of the victory.’
Bayar smothered his own smile as he dipped his head.
‘Your will, my lord. I’ll send him to you as soon as I find him.’
The sun rose on a scene of complete devastation. In his imagination, Kublai could only compare it to the description he had read of the battle of Badger’s Mouth in northern Chin lands. Flies had gathered in their millions and there were too many dead soldiers to consider burying or even burning them. They could only be left behind for the sun to rot and dry.
For a time, dawn had brought some excitement as the remaining Sung regiments were hunted down and the Mongol families crossed the river with slow care. Tumans rode out with fresh quivers and overhauled the scattered enemy before the sun was fully up. Thousands more were forcibly returned to the river, stripped of weapons and armour, to be bound with the rest. Mongol women and children walked among them, come to see the fearsome men their husbands, brothers and fathers had defeated.
Yao Shu had remained behind in the main camp during the battle. He crossed the ford with the families when there was enough light to ride without falling in. By noon, he was at Kublai’s ger, set up at his order on the battle side. Chabi was already there, her eyes full of concern for her exhausted husband. She fussed around him, laying out fresh clothes and making enough food to feed whoever might come to speak with Kublai. Yao Shu nodded to her as he accepted a bowl of some stew and ate quickly rather than give offence. She watched until he had finished it all. Yao Shu sat on a low bed with scrolls of vellum waiting to be read to the khan and he could do nothing, say nothing, until he was given permission. Even after a battle, the rules of ger courtesy held firm.
Zhenjin entered at a run, skidding slightly as he came to a halt, his eyes large. Yao Shu smiled at the boy.
‘There are so many prisoners!’ Zhenjin said. ‘How did you beat them, father? I saw flashes and thunder all night. I didn’t sleep at all.’
‘He did sleep,’ Chabi murmured. ‘He snores like his father.’
Zhenjin turned a look of scorn on his mother.
‘I was too excited to sleep. I saw a man with his head cut off! How did we beat so many?’
‘Planning,’ Kublai replied. ‘Better plans and better men, Zhenjin. Ask Uriang-Khadai how we did it. He will tell you.’
The little boy looked up at his father in awe, but he shook his head.
‘He doesn’t like me to speak to him. He says I ask too many questions.’
‘You do,’ Chabi said. ‘Take a bowl and find somewhere else to eat it. Your father needs to speak to many of his men.’
‘I want to listen,’ the boy almost wailed. ‘I’ll be quiet, I promise.’
Chabi smacked his head and pressed a bowl into his hand. Zhenjin left with a furious glare that she ignored completely.
Kublai sat down and accepted his own bowl, finishing it quickly. When he was ready, Yao Shu read him the tallies of dead and maimed as well as the loot they had taken, his voice droning on in the thick air. After a time, Kublai waved him to a stop. His eyes felt gritty and swollen and his voice was hoarse.
‘Enough. I’m not taking it in. Come back in the evening, when I’ve rested.’
Yao Shu rose and bowed. He had trained Kublai from boyhood and he was uncertain how to show his pride in him. They had destroyed an army twice as large, on foreign ground. The news was already heading back to
