1
The Minister's Plan
The barbarian stood in his stirrups, nocking an arrow in his horn-and-wood bow. He was husky, with bandy legs well suited to clenching the sides of his horse. For armor, he wore only a greasy hauberk and a conical skullcap trimmed with matted fur. His dark, slitlike eyes sat over broad cheekbones. At the bottom of a flat nose, the rider's black mustache drooped over a frown that was both hungry and brutal. He breathed in shallow hisses timed to match the drumming of his mount's hooves.
As he studied the horsewarrior's visage, a sense of eagerness came over General Batu Min Ho. The general stood in his superior's roomy pavilion, over a mile away from the rider. Along with his commander, a sorcerer, and two of his peers, Batu was studying the enemy in a magic scrying basin. Physically, the barbarian looked no different from the thieving marauders who sporadically raided the general's home province, Chukei. Yet, there was a certain brutal discipline that branded the man a true soldier. At last, after twenty years of chasing down bands of nomad raiders, Batu knew he was about to fight a real war.
Batu forced himself to ignore his growing exhilaration and concentrate on the task at hand. Staring into the scrying basin, he felt as though he were looking into a mirror. Aside from the barbarian's heavy-boned stature and coarse mustache, the general and the rider might have been brothers. Like the horseman, Batu had dark eyes set wide over broad cheeks, a flat nose with flaring nostrils, and a powerful build. The pair was even dressed similarly, save that the general's chia, a long coat of rhinoceros-hide armor, was nowhere near as filthy as the rider's hauberk.
"So, our enemies are not blood-drinking devils, as the peasants would have us believe." The speaker was Kwan Chan Sen, Shou Lung's Minister of War, Third-Degree General, and Batu's immediate commander. An ancient man with skin as shriveled as a raisin's, Kwan wore his long white hair gathered into a warrior's topknot. A thin blue film dulled his black eyes, though the haze seemed to cause him no trouble seeing.
By personally taking the field against the barbarians, the old man had astonished his subordinates, including Batu. Kwan was rumored to be one hundred years old, and he looked every bit of his age. Nevertheless, he seemed remarkably robust and showed no sign of fatigue from the hardships of the trail.
Resting his milky eyes on Batu's face, the minister continued. "If we may judge by the enemy's semblance to General Batu, they are nothing but mortal men."
Batu frowned, uncertain as to whether the comment was a slight to his heritage or just an observation. An instant later, he decided the minister's intent did not matter.
Settling back into his chair, Kwan waved a liver-spotted hand at the basin. "We've seen enough of these thieves," he said, addressing his wu jen, the arrogant sorcerer who had not even bothered to introduce himself to Batu or the others. "Take it away."
As the wu jen reached for the bowl, Batu held out his hand. "Not yet, if it pleases the minister," he said, politely bowing to Kwan.
Batu's fellow commanders gave him a sidelong glance. He knew the other men only by the armies they commanded—Shengti and Ching Tung—but they made it clear that they felt it was not Batu's place to object. They were both first-degree generals, each commanding a full provincial army of ten thousand men. In addition, both Shengti and Ching Tung were close to sixty years old.
On the other hand, Batu was only thirty-eight, and, though he was also a first-degree general, he commanded an army of only five thousand men. In the hierarchy of first-degree generals, the young commander from Chukei clearly occupied the lowest station.
Nevertheless, Batu continued, "If it pleases Minister Kwan, we might benefit from seeing the skirmish line again."
Kwan twisted his wrinkles into a frown and glared at his subordinate. Finally, he pushed himself out of his chair and said, "As you wish, General."
Batu was well aware of the minister's displeasure, but he was determined not to allow an old man's peevishness to drive him into the fight prematurely. The surest way to turn a promising battle into an ignominious defeat was to move into combat poorly prepared.
The wu jen circled his bejeweled hand over the basin, muttering a few syllables in the mysterious language of sorcerers. As the barbarian's face faded, a field covered with green-and-yellow sorghum appeared. Along its southern edge, the field was bordered by a long, barren hillock. A small river, its banks covered with tall stands of reeds, bordered the northeastern and eastern edges. Swollen with the spring runoff from far-away mountains, the river was brown and swift.
The only visible Shou troops were Batu's thousand archers, who had formed a line stretching from the river to the opposite side of the field. Each man stood behind a chest-high shield and wore a lun'kia, a corselet that guarded his chest and stomach. Made of fifteen layers of paper and glue, the lun'kia was inexpensive and remarkably tough armor. The archers' heads were protected by chous, plain leather helmets with protective aprons that covered both the front and back of the neck.
Even through the scrying basin, Batu could hear the tension in his officers' voices as they shouted the command to nock arrows. The archers were unaccustomed to being left exposed, for in previous engagements the general had always supported them with infantry and his small contingent of cavalry. This time, the rest of Batu's army was hiding behind the hill, along with twenty thousand men from the armies of the other two provincial generals. These reinforcements were ready to charge over the hill at a moment's notice.
The archers were bait, and they knew it. If the battle proceeded according to Minister Kwan's plan, the barbarian cavalry would sweep down on them. As the horsewarriors massacred the archers, the twenty-four thousand reinforcements would rush over the hill and wipe out the invaders in one swift blow. The plan might have been a good one, had the horsemen been the unsophisticated savages Kwan imagined.
But the enemy showed no sign of taking the bait. So far, all they had done was ride forward and shoot a few arrows. When the archers returned fire, they always turned and fled.
As Batu and the others watched, a subdued and distant thunder rolled out of the scrying basin. A moment later, two thousand horsemen rode into view on the northern edge of the field, five hundred yards from the archers. At first, the dark line advanced at a canter. Then, at some unseen signal, all two thousand men urged their mounts into a full gallop.
The minister and the generals leaned closer to the scrying basin, watching intently. Two hundred and fifty yards out, the barbarians began shooting. Few of the shafts found their marks, for firing from a moving horse was difficult and the range was great. Still, Batu found it disturbing that any of his men fell, for he did not know a single Shou horseman who could boast of hitting such a distant target from a galloping mount.
Although they were equipped with five-foot t'ai po bows that could match the barbarians' range, Batu's archers held their fire. They had been trained not to waste arrows on unlikely shots and would not loose their bamboo shafts until the enemy had closed to one hundred yards. The horsemen continued to advance, pouring arrows at the Shou line in a haphazard fashion that, nevertheless, dropped more than a dozen of Batu's men.
Finally, the horsewarriors came into range. The Shou fired, and a gray blur obscured the scene. A thousand arrows sailed over the sorghum, finding their marks in the barbarian line. Riders tumbled from their saddles. Wounded horses stumbled, then crashed end-over-end as momentum carried them forward after their legs had gone limp.
Through the scrying basin, Batu heard the screams of dying men and the terrified shrieks of wounded horses. It was not a sound he enjoyed, but neither did it trouble him. He was a general, and generals could not allow themselves to be distressed by the sounds of death.
The Shou archers fired again. Another gray blur flashed across the field, then more shocked yells and frightened whinnies drifted out of the basin.
"Look!" said Shengti. "They're not breaking off!"
He was right. The barbarians had ridden through two volleys of arrows and were continuing their charge. Batu's stomach knotted just as if he were standing with his men.
"Shall we attack?" asked Ching Tung. He had already turned away from the scrying basin and was moving toward the door.
Noting that none of the riders were drawing their swords or lances, Batu grasped Ching Tung's shoulder. "No!"
As Ching Tung turned to face him, Batu continued, "They're only testing our formation's discipline. If they had intended to finish the charge, they would have drawn their melee weapons by now."
Ching Tung's eyes flashed. He started to say something spiteful, but the thunder in the scrying basin suddenly died. The resulting quiet drew all eyes back to the pool. The generals saw that the enemy horsemen had reigned their mounts to a halt at fifty yards. Batu would have given ten thousand silver coins to know how many more barbarians lurked out of the scrying basin's view. It was a question he knew would not be answered. Kwan's wu jen had already explained that his spell had a range of only two miles.
Another gray blur flashed over the field as the barbarian riders fired in unison. The Shou archers, who had been drawing swords and preparing to meet the charge, were not prepared for the attack. Dozens of arrows struck their marks with quiet thuds. Over a hundred men cried out and fell to the flurry.
Batu's troops were well disciplined, however, and a volley of Shou arrows answered a moment later. Another wave of terrible screams and whinnies followed, and the general from Chukei could almost smell the odor of fresh blood.
For several minutes, gray clouds of arrows flew back and forth as the two lines traded volleys. At such close range, arrows penetrated armor as easily as silk. Hundreds of Batu's men fell. Some remained silent and motionless, but most writhed about, screaming in pain and grasping at the feathered shafts lodged in their bodies.
After every volley, a few Shou survivors threw down their weapons and turned to flee. Without exception, they were met by officers who cut them down with taos, single-edged, square-tipped swords. Batu disliked seeing his officers dispatch his own men, but he detested watching soldiers under his command turn coward and flee. As far as he was concerned, those who dishonored him by running deserved to perish at the hands of their own officers.
Another Shou volley struck the barbarian line. Hundreds of men fell from their saddles or leaped away as their wounded horses dropped thrashing to the ground. Batu noticed that behind the enemy line, no officers waited to cut down cowards. There was no need. Despite the heavy casualties, not a single barbarian panicked or fled.
"The barbarians outnumber our archers two-to-one," observed Shengti. "Why don't they finish their charge?"
"Because they are unsophisticated savages who have never faced soldiers as disciplined as those in the Army of Chukei. They are frightened," Minister Kwan responded, gracing Batu with a commending smile.
Despite the compliment, the old man's rationalization alarmed Batu. If Kwan could not see that the enemy was as well disciplined as any Shou army, he was not fit for his position.
"Minister Kwan," Batu asked, "was the Army of Mai Yuan not disciplined?" He inclined his head slightly, trying to make his point seem a genuine question.
"The enemy took Mai Yuan by surprise," Kwan responded, an edge of irritation in his voice. "General Sung could not have known they would breach the Dragonwall."
"If I may," Batu responded, taking pains to keep his face relaxed and to conceal his growing vexation, "I would suggest that if the barbarians surprised Mai Yuan, they can also surprise us. It would be a mistake to underestimate their sophistication or their bravery."
The wrinkles on Kwan's brow gathered into an angry gnarl, and he glared at Batu with his cloudy eyes. "I can assure the young general that I would make no such mistake."
As Kwan spoke, the enemy cavalry wheeled about and rode for the far side of the field. When his officers showed the proper restraint and did not pursue, Batu breathed a sigh of relief. From the behavior of the barbarians, the young general suspected the horsewarriors were trying to lure his men into a trap.
More than three quarters of Batu's archers, over seven hundred and fifty, lay wounded or dead. As military protocol dictated, every third survivor tended to the injured, dragging those who could not walk away from the battle line. The other survivors stood ready, prepared in case the enemy suddenly returned. The number of casualties unsettled Batu, for the heavy losses reflected too well on the accuracy of the enemy bowmen. Nevertheless, he was also proud of his troops' bravery and discipline.
As the barbarian cavalry rode out of the scrying basin's range, Kwan pointed a wrinkled fingertip at the bowl. "Do you see, General Batu?" he asked. "There is no need to worry about the barbarians. They are frightened of your archers, and with good reason." The old man pointed to where the enemy horsewarriors had stopped and traded arrows with the Shou archers.
What Batu saw disappointed him. Dozens of injured barbarians were limping or crawling out of the field. Dazed and wounded horses hobbled about without direction. From beasts and riders too injured to move came a torpid chorus of groans and wails, and nearly two hundred enemy warriors did not move at all. Still, Batu estimated the invaders' casualties at under five hundred, less than two-thirds of his own. His men had not even given as good as they'd received.
"Your archers have been too devastating," Kwan continued, ignoring the scrying basin. "Send a runner. This time, your archers must let the barbarians complete the charge."
Batu's jaw dropped, for the minister was wasting what remained of his limited supply of archers. "Perhaps the minister's eyes are not as sharp as they once were," Batu said, barely able to keep his voice from trembling with anger. "Or he would have noticed that my archers did not stop the last charge, and could not stop the next one if the enemy walked their horses into battle!"
Kwan's response was measured and cool. "My eyes are sharp enough to know when we have the enemy in our grasp. Your pengs are a tribute to your discipline," the minister said. The term he used could mean weapon, common soldier, or both, reflecting the opinion that soldiers were weapons. "They deserve the empire's praise," Kwan added. "But if we send reinforcements now, my young general, the barbarians will smell our trap and flee. Without horses, we'll never catch them."
"The enemy's nose is sharper than you think," Batu retorted. "He has already smelled the trap, and he is stealing the bait while we watch." Batu looked at his fellow generals. "If the horsewarriors are such fools, wouldn't they have committed themselves by now?"
Neither general answered. They were unwilling to contradict the logic of their young peer, yet unwilling to support him. The Minister of War disagreed with Batu, and the older generals knew it would not be prudent to contradict their superior. As the two men looked away, Batu recognized their caution and realized that he could expect no help from them. He wondered if they would prove as unsupportive on the battlefield.
For a moment, the minister regarded Shengti and Ching Tung thoughtfully. Finally, turning back to Batu, he said, "It is possible that you are correct, General. If there is not enough bait, the rat may smell the trap. So we will increase his temptation."
The concession surprised Batu, and he wondered if it should have. Although it was apparent that the minister lacked battlefield experience, it was equally obvious that only a shrewd politician could have reached such a high post. It seemed to the young general that Kwan had interpreted Shengti's and Ching Tung's silence for what it was. Batu allowed himself the vague hope that Kwan's supervision would not result in a disaster after all.
While the young general considered him, Kwan studied the scrying basin. Finally, the old man pointed a yellow-nailed finger to where the end of the archer's line met the river. "General Batu, take your army and reinforce your archers," the minister said. "Anchor your line here, at the river, and deploy as if expecting a frontal attack. Leave your western flank exposed."
A knot of anger formed in Batu's heart. He openly frowned at the minister, hardly able to believe what he had heard. "If I do that, the barbarian cavalry will ride down the line and drive my army into the river."
"Exactly," Kwan said, pulling his gray lips into a thin smile.
Shengti studied the scrying basin for a moment, then said, "A brilliant plan, Minister! The sloppy deployment will lure the enemy into full commitment. As the barbarians roll up Batu's flank, my army—along with the Army of Ching Tung, of course—will charge over the hill and smash them."
The ancient minister smiled warmly at Shengti. "You are very astute," he said. "Your future will have many bright days."
And my future will be very short, Batu thought. Shengti had neglected to mention the most clever part of Kwan's plan: a troublesome subordinate would be destroyed. Even if Batu did not perish during the slaughter, the stigma of losing an entire army would destroy his career.
Still, even knowing the consequences, Batu's instinct was to follow the order without question. To his way of thinking, soldiers were dead men. Their commanders simply allowed them to walk the land of the living until their bodies were needed in combat. In that respect, Batu considered himself no different from any other soldier, and if Kwan ordered him to meet the enemy naked and alone, he would be obliged to do so.
Still, a soldier was entitled to the hope of a glorious end. The young general could see no glory in allowing the horse-warriors to slaughter his army like so many swine, especially when Kwan had not taken the time to scout the enemy and could not be certain that anything useful would come of the sacrifice. Hoping to convince the generals from Shengti and Ching Tung to come to his aid, Batu decided to point out Kwan's sloppy preparations.
"While your plan has many things to recommend it, Minister," he began, "I must point out that it may result in the destruction of my army without accomplishing the emperor's will."
Kwan settled back into his chair, placing his elbows on the armrests and lacing his fingers in front of his body. "Please proceed, General," he said, looking Batu in the eye with a milky but steady gaze. "I'm sure we're all interested in your opinion."
The general from Chukei looked at his two peers. They stood well away, their expressionless attention politely fixed on his face. After taking a deep breath, Batu turned back to Kwan. The minister had shifted his gaze to a space just over his subordinate's head.
"You're underestimating the barbarian's strength and sophistication," Batu said. "By exposing my army's flank, you're assuring its pointless destruction."
The minister's expression did not change. He simply sat quietly, waiting for his subordinate to continue, as if what he had said so far was of no consequence.
Batu pointed toward the battlefield. "You're assuming the barbarians have no plans of their own, and that they'll walk blindly into any trap you lay." The young general waved his hand at his two peers. "If the enemy outnumbers us, its flank guard will engage the armies of Shengti and Ching Tung on the hilltop. They'll never reach the battlefield."
Kwan remained motionless and silent, his attention fixed somewhere behind Batu's head. At first, the young general wondered if the minister had heard a single word. Finally, however, he realized that what Kwan had or had not heard did not matter. Batu had secured his superior's animosity when he had dared to disagree with him. It appeared that Kwan's retaliation would be swift and ruinous.
Realizing that more hasty words would only make the situation worse, the general from Chukei held his tongue and tried to think of a way out of his difficulty. Fortunately, if all Kwan wanted was to be rid of him, Batu thought that he could salvage a respectable death from his predicament.
Bowing very low, Batu said, "Minister, I have asked many impertinent questions, and for that I deserve punishment. But no soldier deserves a worthless death. Allow me to probe the enemy's strength, so that you will know exactly what Shou Lung faces."
For the first time since Batu had begun his protest, Kwan looked directly at him. The minister's expression seemed almost sympathetic. Speaking very slowly and earnestly, the old man began, "General Batu, we have no need to waste time probing that band of thieves. As for any punishment you may deserve, my decision is strictly a military one. It has nothing to do with your imagined rivalries."
Batu could hardly believe what the minister was saying, especially with such an honest expression. If Kwan were lying, he was the best liar the general had ever met. If the old man was sincere, he was the biggest fool Batu had ever encountered.
Before Batu could respond, the minister continued. "Now, tell me why you believe there are so many sophisticated savages out there."
A lump rose in Batu's throat. The little information he had about the barbarians was far from what could be considered solid or reliable, but he felt confident it surpassed what anyone else in the tent had gathered.
"First," Batu began, "let's consider the enemy's strength. We know that there are at least one hundred thousand barbarians, for it would have required that many to destroy the Army of Mai Yuan. Eyewitness accounts of the battle suggest the actual numbers are far greater."
"An army looks much larger when it's overrunning you," the general from Ching Tung objected. "Those reports are exaggerated."
"Are they?" Batu asked. "For several years now, there have been rumors that Yamun Khahan has been uniting the horse tribes. If this is true, and what we learned at the council in Semphar suggests it is, the barbarians could be fielding close to two hundred thousand troops."
Ching Tung scoffed. "Two hundred thousand! I doubt there are that many men in all the horse tribes together."
"How many miles of horse tribe border do you patrol?" Batu asked, eyeing the other general sharply.
Raising a hand to silence Ching Tung, Kwan intervened. "No one will contest that you patrol more horse tribe border than any of us, General Batu. Please proceed."
"For hundreds of years, tribes of horse barbarians have been crossing the Chukei border to plunder. Their raiding parties have always been small, so we've never had trouble chasing them out. Note that I did not say tracking them down. The barbarians have always been cunning thieves, and more often than not it's all we can do to drive these bands out of the province. When we do catch them, they fight hard and shrewdly, and they never expect or give mercy."
"Yes, we know this. What is your point?" Kwan pressed, shifting in his chair impatiently.
Batu hesitated. This next point was his most critical, and it was the one most likely to bring ridicule down on his head. Nevertheless, if he stood any chance of convincing his peers not to dismiss the barbarians lightly, it was a point he had to make.
After a deep breath, he continued. "You may have noticed the resemblance between the barbarians and myself."
Ching Tung snorted. "How could we miss it?"
Batu suppressed a heated reply. Instead, he said, "My great-grandfather was a Tuigan, as the barbarians call themselves. He settled in the province of Chukei after his clan was destroyed in a tribal war."
"How bold of you to admit it," Shengti said.
The condescension in Shengti's voice was nothing new to the general. Although most Shou prided themselves on lack of prejudice, they made no secret of the fact that they considered all other cultures inferior to their own. As a result, they could not help but look down on those who appeared to be anything less than full-blooded Shou.
The general continued. "While I was growing up, my great-grandfather spent hours telling me stories of life among the nomads. Of course, I can't remember all his tales, but what I do remember is frightening."
"Such as?" Kwan asked. His attention remained fixed on Batu, but it was difficult for the young general to tell whether the minister was genuinely interested or just humoring a condemned man.
"Tuigan tribes are devoted to one thing and one thing only: making war. Their children ride horses before they can walk, and fire bows at full gallop before their beards start to grow. When they're not at war with civilized lands, they're fighting clan feuds so bloody that whole tribes are slaughtered. For fun, they gather hundreds of warriors and massacre every living beast within ten square miles."
"Brawlers and hunters are a poor match for trained soldiers," Ching Tung interrupted.
"You have heard my words, but have you been listening, General?" Batu asked, motioning at Ching Tung sharply. "I am saying that our enemies are born killers with no concept of mercy or surrender. If someone has trained them, given them focus, Shou Lung is in much greater danger than it has ever been in before."
Ching Tung sneered. "Trained armies cannot be made from murdering scum—"
The ancient minister raised his hand for silence, then turned to Batu. "What would you suggest, General?"
"That we proceed with more caution on our first engagement," Batu responded. "Setting traps is fine, provided you know what you are hunting. But the man who sets a fox snare and catches a bear may be the one who gets skinned."
"So what would you suggest?" Kwan asked.
Delighted and surprised by Kwan's unexpected solicitation of his opinion, Batu answered rapidly and enthusiastically, "A series of probing attacks, followed by rapid withdrawals, at least until we know the size and nature of our enemy."
Kwan nodded, then stroked his beard thoughtfully. Finally, he pushed himself out of his chair and squinted into Batu's eyes. "I thought as much," he said. "You speak to us of rumors and hunting parties, then tell us we should withdraw to a safe distance while the enemy burns our fields and sacks our villages. What you propose is not the way of an imperial officer, General Batu. An imperial officer's way is to meet Shou Lung's enemies and crush them in the name of the emperor!"
Batu stared into the minister's eyes for several seconds, but knew he could not make the heat of his anger felt through the milky film that shielded Kwan's eyes from reality. Finally, the general said, "Smashed armies crush no enemies, Minister."
Kwan's face grew red, and his wrinkles squirmed like worms. For an instant, Batu thought the old man would erupt into a fit of screaming, but the minister slowly regained control of himself. After a moment, in a carefully measured voice, Kwan asked, "Will you lead your army into battle, General Batu, or must I find a loyal soldier to take your place?"
Batu answered immediately. "I'll go. If my army is to perish, then I will be the one who leads it to its destruction."
As suddenly as it had contorted, Kwan's face relaxed, and the minister tottered over to the young general's side. He laid a shriveled hand on Batu's shoulder. "Good," he said. "My plan will work. Before you realize what is happening, we'll charge down the hill and this band of thieves will trouble the emperor's sleep no longer. You'll see."

2
The Sorghum Field
Batu stood, calm and motionless, midway up the hill that marked the trampled field's southern border. The air carried the sweet, grassy smell of young sorghum and the coppery odor of fresh blood. Overhead, the sky spirits were sweeping away the clouds on a cool breeze, and the sun cast a keen light over the field. The general felt lively and limber, his tao sword hanging lightly in its scabbard of manta skin. The letter he had written to his wife was in his pocket, ready for the messenger. Today was a fine day to die, the best he had seen in many years.
A young, beardless Shou stepped to Batu's side and bowed. "General, your army is deployed."
The speaker was Batu's adjutant, a junior officer named Pe Nii-Qwoh. The adjutant wore a complete suit of k'ai, armor consisting of hundreds of metal plates sewn between two layers of heavy silk. The velvet-trimmed suit had been brocaded with brightly colored serpents, tigers, and phoenixes. His helmet plume consisted of two kingfisher feathers with a pair of fighting dragons carefully embroidered into the feather vanes.
In sharp contrast, Batu's battle dress consisted only of his drab, rhinoceros-hide chia. As a general, he rarely engaged in hand-to-hand fighting and had no use for such heavy armor. The weight of a k'ai suit would only fatigue him during the battle without providing much benefit.
The general's disdain for heavy armor wasn't uncommon.
Farther down the hill were twenty lean men wearing no armor at all. They stood at attention, their eyes fixed on Pe and Batu. The men were the runners who carried orders from the general to his subordinate commanders.
The messengers reminded Batu of his letter to Wu, and he removed it from his pocket. He started to give it to Pe, then decided to read it one last time.
Wu, it began simply, We have met the barbarians and are preparing for battle. They promise to be a fine enemy. Although Kwan Chan Sen refuses to admit it, there will certainly be many illustrious battles in this war.
However, I fear the best of them will be fought without me. My loose tongue has offended the minister, and he has sent my army to perish ignominiously. May he spend eternity lying face down in wet sand. Death is too good for the fool who deprives me of fighting in this magnificent war!
Enough of my troubles. You know where our gold is hidden, so you will not suffer for my absence. Our time together has been blessed, and you have provided me with a beautiful daughter and a strong son. I will miss them both. You have been a good wife, and I depart in comfort, knowing you would never dishonor my memory by taking a lover.
Your worthy husband, Min Ho.
Satisfied that the letter said everything he meant it to, Batu folded it and gave it to his subordinate. "For the messenger," he said.
Pe bowed and accepted the paper. He did not ask where to send it, for the letter was an old ritual. In their marriage vows, Lady Wu had made Batu promise to write her before each battle. So far, it was a promise Batu had kept faithfully, as he had all the other vows he had ever taken.
Pe withdrew a similar paper from his own pocket. The young officer did not usually write his parents before battle. On Batu's suggestion, he had made today an exception.
As his adjutant took the letters down to a runner, the general studied the scene in front of him. From the hillside, he could oversee the entire battle. The field was larger than Batu had guessed from the scrying basin. It was in a valley located between two small hills. Batu stood on one of them, and the other was six hundred yards to the north. At that moment, the general would have given the lives of a hundred pengs to know what was hiding behind the northern hill.
On the east, the field was entirely bordered by the river. One thousand yards from the water, the western edge faded into weeds and wild grasses. Judging by the sorghum field's size, it belonged to some wealthy landlord who employed an entire village to cultivate it.
Pe returned. Glancing down at Batu's army, he asked, "Do you wish to make any adjustments?"
Batu smiled and studied his adjutant's concerned face. "Pe, if you don't speak openly today, you never will."
The adjutant returned Batu's smile with a tense grin. "Please forgive me, my general," he said. "I was wondering how you intend to cover the flank."
Pe pointed at the western edge of the field. Then, as if Batu could have possibly missed the source of his concern, he said, "It remains unguarded."
Batu grinned. Even when ordered to speak frankly, the boy could not help but couch his criticism in the most inoffensive language possible.
"General?" Pe asked anxiously. "Any adjustments?"
Raising a hand to quiet his adjutant, Batu surveyed his army's deployment. He had pulled the surviving archers off the front line and stationed them nearby, where they could tend to their wounds until the battle grew desperate. Below the archers, five hundred cavalrymen stood with their horses, nervously rubbing their mounts' necks or feeding them young blades of trampled sorghum. Batu had often wished for more cavalry, and could certainly have used them today, but Shou Lung's ancient grain fields produced barely enough food to feed the country's human population. A large cavalry was a luxury the army had not enjoyed for nearly a century.
Thirty yards in front of the cavalry was the feng-li lang, the ritual supervisor assigned to Batu from the Rites Section of the Ministry of War. The feng-li lang was supposedly a shaman who could communicate with the spirit world, but Batu had yet to see the man procure the aid of any spirits.
The feng-li lang and his assistant were digging a six-foot-deep hole in the field's sandy, yellow soil. Though Batu did not understand the purpose of the hole, he knew that the pair was preparing a ceremony to ask for the favor of the spirits dwelling in the battlefield. Batu had his doubts about the value of nature magic, but the pengs clearly did not share his skepticism. In order to lift the morale of his troops, the general participated in the feng-li lang's pre-battle rites whenever possible.
In the center of the sorghum field were thirty-five hundred infantrymen. They were standing in a double rank along the same line the archers had occupied during the initial skirmish. The common soldiers carried standard imperial-issue crossbows. Straight, double-bladed swords, called chiens, hung at their belts. For armor, the pengs relied on lun'kia corselets and plain leather chous. The officers were all attired comparably to Pe, with brightly decorated suits of plated k'ai and plumed helmets.
As Pe had observed, the left end of the infantry flank was open to attack. Normally, Batu would take advantage of some terrain feature to protect this vulnerable area, or at least he would cover it with a contingent of archers or cavalry. But Kwan's orders were clear, and the general was too good an officer to disobey. Even a bad plan was better than a broken plan, which was what they would have if Batu did not do as instructed.
Batu ran his eyes down the length of the line, studying the route he expected the enemy cavalry to follow. As the enemy charged, the pengs on the left flank would fall, leaving other men exposed. Batu would supply some covering fire with his archers, and his cavalry would mount a counterattack that might slow the charge for a few moments. Still, the Tuigan horsewarriors would smash the line, killing all thirty-five hundred infantrymen.
Batu considered the possibility of issuing an order he had never before given: retreat. If his troops fell back before the charging Tuigan, his army stood a better chance of remaining intact. The reprieve would be a short one, the general knew. As the line curled back on itself, his entire force would be trapped in the reeds along the riverbank.
"And then the slaughter would begin," Batu whispered to himself, picturing the rushing floodwaters red and choked with the bodies of his soldiers.
"Forgive me, General. I didn't hear your order," Pe said.
"It wasn't an order," Batu responded, still eyeing the rushes and the river. "I said, 'And then the slaughter would begin. ...'" The general stopped, still picturing his army floating down the river—but this time, they were alive. "Unless we can walk on water."
Pe frowned. "Walk on water?"
Batu did not have an opportunity to explain. The feng-li lang's assistant arrived, his crimson robe soiled from digging. Bowing to Batu, the boy said, "General, my master requests your presence at the offering."
"Tell the feng-li lang that I don't have time " Batu replied tersely, still studying the marsh along the riverbank.
The assistant's jaw dropped. "General, if the earth spirits are not appeased, they will resent having blood spilled on their home."
Pointing at the flooded river, Batu said, "I don't care about earth spirits. Those are the spirits we must appease."
The boy frowned in puzzlement. "But—"
"Don't question me," Batu said. "Just tell your master to make his offering to the river dragon."
When the assistant did not obey immediately, Batu roared, "You have your orders, boy!"
As the youth scrambled down the hill, Batu turned to his adjutant and pointed to the marsh. "Send the cavalry and the archers into those rushes. Until the battle begins, they are to busy themselves cutting man-sized bundles of reeds. Tell them to make certain the bundles are tied together securely."
Pe furrowed his brow, but, after the treatment the feng-li lang's assistant had just received, he did not risk questioning Batu. "Yes, General."
"Next, get out of your k'ai. Leave it on the ground. We don't have time to send it to the baggage train."
"This armor has been in my family for three hundred years!" Pe cried.
"I don't care if it's been in your family for three thousand years," Batu snapped. "Do as I order."
"I can't," Pe said, looking away. "It would disgrace my ancestors."
"And execution would not?" Batu retorted, touching the hilt of his sword.
Pe glanced at Batu's hand, then met his commander's gaze squarely. "My honor is more important than my life, General."
"Then do not stain it by disobeying me," Batu replied, moving his hand away from his hilt. As if Pe had never refused the command, he continued. "Send orders to the line officers to remove their k'ai as well. They are not to resist a flank attack. When it comes, they are to retreat to the marsh. We will move our command post down there, which is where they will receive their new directives."
Pe looked at the reed bed and frowned. "We'll be trapped against the river!"
Batu smiled. "That is why you and the other officers must remove your k'ai."
Pe lifted his brow in sudden comprehension, then grimaced in concern. "General, the river is flooding. You'd be mad to ford it under pursuit!"
"Let us hope the barbarians believe the same thing," Batu replied. "Give the orders to the runners, then wait for me at the marsh."
Pe started to bow, but Batu caught him by the shoulder. "One more thing. In case their k'ai has also been in their families for three hundred years, remind the officers that my orders must be followed. Anyone who disobeys will be remembered as a traitor, not as a hero."
"Yes, General," Pe replied, finishing his bow and turning to the messengers. His attitude no longer seemed defiant, but Batu knew his adjutant was far from happy about the commands he had been given.
As six runners relayed the orders to the field officers, Pe headed for the reed bed. The general stayed on the hill a while longer to observe the adjustments. When the archers and cavalry left their positions, hundreds of baffled faces glanced up toward him. Batu thought the cavalry and archers probably realized that they had been assigned to prepare a retreat. What they could not understand, he imagined, was why. In the eight years Batu had commanded the Army of Chukei, it had never retreated. But it had never faced a capable enemy, or been used to bait an ill-prepared trap before either.
The general knew that Kwan might be correct and the Tuigan force might amount to no more than fifteen or twenty thousand untrained men. Still, everything he knew about the enemy, as little as it was, suggested otherwise. Only a leader of considerable intelligence and cunning could have breached the Dragonwall. After that, it would have required a large force to annihilate the Army of Mai Yuan, to say nothing of exploiting the victory by ravaging the countryside for hundreds of miles around. The most convincing evidence of the enemy's competence was the fact that there would be a battle today. Only a well-organized war machine could have been ready to attack less than two weeks after smashing the Dragonwall and the Army of Mai Yuan.
It was the kind of fight Batu had been hoping for all his life, and the prospect of its impending commencement made his stomach flutter with delight. The general from Chukei had always dreamed of winning what he thought of as "the illustrious battle," a desperate engagement against a cunning and powerful enemy. Of course, Batu had not expected his own commander to be the reason his situation was desperate, and he did not think that retreating could be considered illustrious. But if his plan worked, Batu hoped to preserve enough of his army to fulfill his dream another day.
After the archers and cavalry left for the reed bed, the infantry officers began removing their k'ai and stacking the various pieces in neat piles. They stared at Batu with expressions he could not see from such a distance, but which he imagined ranged from simple anger to outright hatred. Without exception, he was sure each officer would rather have died than dishonor his family. The general was also sure the officers would do as ordered, for disobeying a direct order would be treason, a stigma far worse than dishonor.
Nevertheless, the general could understand their anger. Like them, he valued his honor more than his life, but he could not allow them the luxury of keeping their heirlooms. Without its officers, an army was no more than a jumble of armed men, and any officer wearing k'ai was sure to perish in the retreat Batu was planning.
A dark band appeared atop the opposite hill. From this distance, it was impossible to see individual figures. What Batu could see, however, was that the line consisted of two or three thousand horses. The alarm went up from his lookouts. His troops prepared for combat, making last-minute prayers to Chueh and Hsu, the gods of the constellations governing crossbows and swords.
For his part, Batu merely prayed that Kwan and the others were watching the scrying bowl.
The distant rumble of drums rolled across the field and the line advanced slowly. The drums, Batu realized, were used to coordinate the enemy's maneuvers. He stayed on the hill while the horsemen advanced another hundred yards. The drums boomed again, and the enemy broke into a trot. A ridge of tiny spikes protruded from their line like the spines on a swordfish's dorsal fin. This charge, Batu realized, would be a real one. The spikes could only be lances, and lances meant the Tuigan intended to fight at close range.
What Batu did not understand was why the barbarians were approaching frontally. No tactician could miss the exposed flank. It was possible, the general realized, that the enemy had guessed that this was a trap. If that were the case, he did not understand why they were attacking at all. Yet, the only other explanation was that the enemy was as foolish as Kwan suggested. That was a possibility Batu preferred to ignore, for it would mean he had sacrificed his career for nothing. More important, it was dangerous to belittle one's adversaries. As the ancient general Sin Kow had written, "The man who does not respect his foe soon feels the heel of the enemy's boot." Batu's own experiences bore out Sin Kow's words.
The drums sounded again and the Tuigan horses broke into a canter. Batu decided to send a message to his officers warning that the frontal attack might be a diversion. Since Pe was already down at the marsh, Batu went to the runners' station. There he sent six runners to issue the warning, cautioning his officers to stay in position until attacked on the exposed flank. After the runners had left, he sent the remainder of the messengers to Pe. He lingered on the hill several moments longer, then followed.
By the time he reached the tall stalks at the edge of the rushes, the barbarians had closed to three hundred yards. The drums broke into a constant roll, and the enemy burst into a gallop. The general remembered that he had not helped to appease the river dragon. He hoped the river spirit, if it really existed, would be satisfied with the feng-li lang's ceremony alone.
Pe stepped out of the reeds, a half-dozen messengers at his back. "Every archer and horseman has made three bundles," the adjutant reported. "Their officers wish to know if they should take up their weapons now."
"No," the general replied, his eyes locked on the barbarian charge. "Have them continue making bundles until I give the order to stop."
Pe arched his eyebrows, but immediately turned and relayed the message.
As the enemy charge advanced, Batu watched the wall of flashing silver and dark flesh with a mixture of awe and horror. The Tuigan rode like spirits, remaining balanced despite bone-jarring jostles and jolts as their mounts leaped across the field. In their left hands, the warriors held iron-tipped lances, and in their right they held curved sabers. The reins hung loose over the necks of their horses. The riders used their knees to direct their beasts and screamed blood-chilling war cries that drowned out even the constant tumult of the drums.
In groups of twenty or forty, Batu's men began firing volleys of crossbow quarrels into the charging enemy. Dozens of the deadly bolts found their marks. Barbarians dropped out of their saddles, and wounded horses stumbled and fell behind their thundering fellows.
After they fired, the crossbowmen did not reload, for the enemy was coming too fast. Instead, they pulled their shields off their backs and drew their chiens, then waited in tense silence. Within a few seconds, every Shou had fired. Each man, shield and sword in hand, now awaited the enemy charge.
Batu's crossbowmen had inflicted heavy casualties. Seven hundred barbarians lay in the field, wounded or dying, but the charge continued. The horsewarriors barely seemed to notice their losses.
Batu now regretted placing his archers in the marsh. Had he expected a frontal assault, he would have spread them along the hill. Two hundred and fifty men could hardly have halted the charge, but their rapid fire would have given the horsemen something to think about besides the wretched pengs crouching behind their shields.
The cavalry hit the wall of infantry. A sharp, deafening crack echoed off the hills flanking the field. Screams of anger and pain rang out along the line. Agonized whinnies seemed to tremble through the ground. The odor of blood and manure and opened entrails filled the air. Bodies fell.
Through it all, the enemy drums pounded in a crashing, peculiar cadence that filled Batu's head and made it difficult to think. Like the other Tuigan, the thirty drummers were mounted, but they had stopped twenty-five yards from the battle line. Each man had two drums tied together and slung across his horse in front of the saddle. The drummers beat the skins of their instruments with heavy batons in a crazed, irregular rhythm. Unlike the other horsewarriors, the drummers wore heavy armor similar to the suit Pe had abandoned.
Batu grabbed his adjutant's shoulder, then, yelling into Pe's ear, said, "Order our archers to shoot the drummers!"
Pe nodded, then repeated the order to make sure he had understood correctly.
As his adjutant relayed the command, the general glanced at the hilltop behind him. There was no sign of reinforcements. The enemy had not attacked as Kwan had expected, and Batu did not doubt the entire Army of Chukei would perish before the minister admitted his plan needed adjustment.
Still standing at the edge of the marsh, the general returned his gaze to the battle. He was surprised at the number of Shou soldiers who still stood and now fought with their long chiens. Holding their shields overhead, they used the ferocious cutting power of their swords to chop barbarians or, when pressed, to lop off horses' legs.
For their part, the Tuigan had discarded their lances. Their horses danced in circles as they slashed at infantrymen with curved blades, meeting with too much success for Batu's liking. From their mounted positions, the barbarians had little trouble beating down, or splintering entirely, the wooden shields of the Shou infantry.
Batu's archers appeared at the edge of the reed bed, twenty yards to the general's right. Two hundred arrows sailed through the air. The closest drummers slid from their saddles, sprouting three or four shafts each. Farther away, beyond the range at which the arrows could penetrate armor, the drummers found themselves struggling with wounded horses. In two cases, they were beating punctured drumheads. What happened next amazed Batu. As the nearby drums fell silent, many Tuigan disengaged and turned back the way they had come. Farther away, where the untouched drums were still audible, the Tuigan were confused. Some disengaged and rode away. Others seemed bewildered and met quick deaths as they were overwhelmed by suddenly superior Shou numbers.
Realizing that a pause in the drum clamor was the barbarian signal to break off, Batu made a quick decision. He waved his archers forward, pointing at the far drummers. "After them!" he cried, far from sure that his words could be heard, but confident his gesture's meaning was clear.
The archery officer immediately led his men forward at a sprint. By sending archers into the melee, Batu was placing them in severe danger. Bows could not parry swords, and the archers were not trained in hand-to-hand combat. That was a sacrifice he would have to make. He could not stand by and watch the enemy destroy his entire command, even if that was what Kwan wanted.
As Batu had expected, the archers did not reach the surviving drummers all at once. The nearest drummers fell first, leaving the barbarians even more confused. As some of the horsewarriors retreated, Batu's infantrymen overwhelmed the others. The archers continued forward, pausing to fire at drummers whenever they had a shot. The enemy riders went to extra lengths to attack the Shou bowmen, even at the peril of their own lives. A dozen archers fell for every ten yards the group advanced. Nevertheless, Batu's plan worked. Within minutes, the barbarian cavalry had withdrawn or lay hacked and mutilated along the battle line.
A calm fell over the battlefield. With the air filled by the rank smell of death and the cries of wounded men and horses, the lull was more sickening than peaceful. The Shou infantry stayed on the line, breaking formation only to help the wounded and gather barbarian survivors into groups of prisoners.
Batu looked again toward the hilltop. There was still no sign of reinforcements. The general knew that the Army of Chukei's role as bait was not yet finished.
He turned to his adjutant and pointed at the body-littered field. "Send a runner down the line. Officers must reform their units, detailing only one man in ten to aid the wounded. Take no prisoners. If a barbarian can lift a sword, slay him."
Pe frowned at the harshness of the command, but simply said, "It will be done." He turned to obey.
Batu caught his adjutant's shoulder. "One more thing: recall what is left of the archers. Remind me to write the emperor commending their courage."
The young man's eyes lit. "Then we are going to survive the battle, my general?"
Batu looked at his army's butchered line. "The rest of this war will be too marvelous to miss, Pe."
As his adjutant passed the orders on, the general contemplated the carnage before him. Considering the small size of the barbarian charge, it had been a bloody battle so far. Judging from what he could see, Batu estimated his casualties at between thirty and fifty percent.
The fight was far from over, the general knew. By disrupting the drummers, the archers had fouled a carefully organized withdrawal. The enemy would not have planned such an operation unless it was timed to coincide with another maneuver, such as an attack on an exposed flank. As much as the general hated to admit it, Kwan had been right not to spring his trap when the barbarians charged. If the minister had sent in the reinforcements, the other Shou armies—not the barbarians—would have been hit in the flank.
While he waited for his adjutant to return, Batu inspected the marsh. Except for a thin screen that remained at the battlefield's edge, the cavalrymen had cut down all the reeds. Bundles lay stacked in great heaps, easily accessible and ready for use.
When Pe returned, the general gave another order. "The cavalry can stop cutting rushes. They are to remove the tack from their horses and fasten it to a reed bundle. Then they must release their mounts."
The general was not issuing the order out of sympathy for the beasts. If events proceeded as he expected, five hundred horses would be an unwelcome hindrance in the reed bed.
Pe balked. "How will we counterattack?"
"If the minister's plan works, there will be no need to counterattack," Batu replied, glancing at the hilltop behind him. "If it doesn't, there will be no opportunity."
Pe nodded and sent a runner with the order.
After the messenger left, Batu said, "Come, Pe. We'll need a better vantage point to see what happens next." He started toward the hill.
The ground began to tremble.
Pe stared at his feet in wide-eyed fear. "What is it?"
Batu frowned, looking first at his own feet, then at the battlefield. The surviving archers, fewer than a hundred men, were hurrying toward the marsh. They stopped and looked at the ground, then turned around. A murmur ran down the battle line. The infantrymen looked west, toward the exposed flank. Those who still had crossbows began reloading them. The others drew their swords.
"War magic?" Pe asked, barely able to keep the terror from his voice.
Batu shook his head. "More cavalry—much more." The general started up the hill at a sprint, Pe and a handful of messengers close behind.
They stopped one hundred feet up the slope. The ground was shaking as if it were in the grip of an earth tremor, and the sound of pounding hooves rolled across the field like thunder. Beyond the exposed flank, a horde of horsemen was charging at full gallop. Their dark figures covered the entire plain. From Batu's perspective, they looked more like a swarm of locust than an invading army. At the least, he estimated their number to be twenty-five thousand.
"Why send so many?" Batu wondered aloud, unable to tear his gaze away from the host. "We could not have hoped to stop a third the number."
Pe was too awe-stricken to respond, but Batu understood the answer to his own question as soon as he had asked it.
The enemy commander knew he was sending his riders into an ambush. He had sent in extra troops to protect himself.
"They know it's a trap," Batu said, turning to his adjutant. "They want to lure our other armies into the open."
Still mesmerized by the charge, Pe did not respond. The barbarians were two hundred yards away from the exposed flank, which was curling back to meet the charge.
The general grabbed his adjutant roughly, shaking the boy out of his trance. "Send runners to Kwan, Shengti, and Ching Tung. The message is: 'The barbarians know our plans. Withdrawal without contact may be wisest course.' "
"We'll be left to face them alone!" Pe stammered.
"We're alone now," Batu growled, noting that the Tuigan swarm would be on them long before reinforcements could arrive. "Send the message!"
As his adjutant obeyed, Batu watched the charge. The cavalry closed to a hundred yards. Determined not to reveal their commander's strategy until the last minute, the officers on the exposed flank did not order the retreat. For the first time in his life, Batu wished his subordinates were not so brave. If they did not withdraw soon, it would be too late. The riders would overrun them and cut them down from behind.
Pe returned to Batu's side. "The message is sent," the adjutant reported. He pointed at the hilltop. "But we're too late."
The general looked up and saw the advance formations of the Shengti and Ching Tung armies cresting the summit. They had brought their bulky artillery with them, and thirty catapults of moderate size lined the hilltop. Behind each catapult were several wagons filled with steaming pitch. The artillerymen carried torches.
"Fools," Batu said, pointing at the sea of Tuigan. "Do they think a brush fire will stop that?"
"Perhaps they intend to burn the artillery and push it down the hill to obstruct the charge," Pe suggested mockingly.
"They'd kill more barbarians," Batu replied, eyeing the catapults angrily.
An urgent din of voices rose from the western end of the field. At last, with the enemy horses less than fifty yards away, the flank began its retreat. As the line folded, companies along its entire length began to withdraw. Batu cursed. He had intended the line to turn back on itself neatly, not in a mass, but he had not had the opportunity to explain his plan in person. Now, the officers in the middle of the line were giving their orders prematurely, and the general had no doubt the result would be grave.
Within seconds, the Shou lines had become a jumble as retiring units ran headlong into each other. In indignant confusion, the officers began cursing at their men, then at each other. The disarray of the commanders quickly took its toll on the morale of the infantrymen. They began to flee away from the horsewarriors in any available direction. As Batu had ordered, the officers tried to guide their panicked charges toward the marsh, but hundreds of men were instinctively fleeing uphill, toward the reinforcements.
Batu could not save those men. When the armies of Shengti and Ching Tung charged down the hill, the cowards who had disobeyed their officers would be trampled—a fate Batu felt they deserved.
On the other hand, those who had kept their heads would need him when they reached the marsh. Batu sprinted for the reeds, calling for Pe and the runners to follow. As they descended the hill, the ground quaked more violently. Screams of horror and anguish came from the far end of the field. Without looking, the general knew the enemy's first line had caught his men.
As he approached the bottom of the hill, Batu saw a mass of Shou infantrymen gathered in the marsh. The general stopped thirty feet up the hill, directly above the reed bed, and pointed at the bundles of bound rushes.
Addressing the runners himself, he said, "Tell those men to take reed bundles and jump into the river."
The runners glanced at each other, but quickly bowed and rushed to transmit Batu's command to the throng.
Looking at the turbulent waters of the river, Pe asked, "Do you really think the men will follow your order?"
Batu looked west. The horsewarriors were charging down his line almost unimpeded, trampling and slaying every living thing in their path. "Do you think they won't?" he countered.
A series of booms sounded from the hilltop. Batu looked up and saw several catapult-spoons crash against their cross bars. Dozens of flaming pitchballs streaked overhead, landing on the far side of the battlefield and setting fire to the sorghum grass.
A less experienced officer might have thought the catapults had overshot their targets, but the general knew that it would have been impossible to miss the Tuigan horde. The artillerymen had been instructed to aim past the barbarians, trapping the enemy between a wall of fire and the armies of Shengti and Ching Tung.
Though the tactic blatantly sacrificed Batu's army, the plan was a good one—or it would have been, had Kwan taken the time to scout his enemies. As it was, however, the minister had trapped a tiger in a paper cage.
While the artillerymen cranked the catapult spoons down for reloading, four thousand archers rushed over the hilltop. They took a position overlooking the sorghum field and began to fire volleys at the Tuigan riders. The routed soldiers that had been fleeing uphill stopped in their tracks and crouched in grass, fearful of putting themselves between the bowmen and their targets.
The barbarians ignored these developments and continued to charge. Batu's soldiers were dying by the dozens.
"My general!" Pe gasped, staring in open-mouthed horror at the destruction of the Army of Chukei.
Batu laid a hand on his adjutant's shoulder. "Don't despair, Nii Pe. Isn't this what armies are for?"
In the minutes that followed, perhaps two thousand pengs reached the marsh and dove into the swollen river, clinging to bundles of reeds. Aside from a steady stream of wounded stragglers, the other three-fifths of the Army of Chukei lay in the sorghum field. Blood had turned the yellow soil to the color of rust. With his army scattered, Batu had nothing to do except watch the battle. He and Pe remained near the bottom of the hill, thirty feet above the marsh.
The fight began to turn in favor of the Shou. The barbarian charge foundered as horses began to stumble in the mass of dead bodies. The Shou archers fired volley after volley into the churning horde. Small groups of Tuigan tried to mount assaults up the hill. Each time, they met a hail of shafts. The riders in the rear were unhorsed as their dead fellows came tumbling down the slope. The barbarians could not escape the fatal rain across the sorghum field, either, for the valley was engulfed in fire. Nor could they return the way they had come, for their fellows continued to press forward, unaware of the gully of death ahead.
Batu was as amazed at the effectiveness of the minister's plan as he was bitter about the sacrifice of his army. He had never expected the old man's trap to function so efficiently. Though Kwan had sacrificed one small army, it appeared that he would destroy the largest part of the barbarian force without exposing the Armies of Shengti and Ching Tung to a single assault. The battle was an incredible feat of tactics, and the general had to admire his superior's planning.
Batu's thoughts were interrupted by a deafening roar from the hilltop. Again, the ground began to quiver. Fifteen thousand Shou infantrymen rushed over the crest, screaming at the tops of their lungs. As they passed the catapults, they swept the astonished artillerymen along with them and started down the slope. Hundreds of men fell and were trampled by their fellows, but the mass did not slow. When the mob reached the archers, it smashed into the bowmen's line as if crashing a hedge. Batu had never seen such a mad charge.
A moment later, he saw the reason for the crazed rush. All at once, twenty thousand horsewarriors crested the hill. They raced past the catapults and started down the slope, firing as they rode. The horizon turned black with their arrows. Hundreds of Shou fell every moment, and the survivors rushed forward like a herd of panicked horses.
Instantly, Batu realized what had happened. The Tuigan had been playing games with them since the initial skirmishes. The early assaults had been little more than tests of strength and organization. The tentative attacks had been a diversion designed to keep the attention of the Shou commanders focused on the sorghum field.
While Batu and the others concentrated on the skirmishes in the sorghum field, the barbarians had been circling around the Shou armies, probably at a distance of many miles to keep from being observed. When the attack on the Army of Chukei had finally come, it had only been a diversion designed to lull the Shou into thinking their scheme was working. In the meantime, the Tuigan armies had been sneaking forward. After Kwan had finally committed the Armies of Ching Tung and Shengti, the horsewarriors had charged. By the time the minister had realized what was happening, it was too late. The horsewarriors were already in full gallop.
This whole incredible chain of events became clear to Batu as he watched the barbarian riders drive the panicked Shou down the hill. "Magnificent planning," he whispered to himself. "Magnificent execution."
"What did you say, General?" Pe inquired absently, not looking at Batu as he spoke. He was nervously watching the Shou refugees rush down the hill. The fastest runners were less than fifty yards up the slope from their position. Fifty yards beyond that, the first rank of horsewarriors was cutting down stragglers. The riders in the rear ranks were advancing more slowly, pouring a rain of arrows into the fleeing armies.
Batu took a step down the hill. "It's time for us—"
A Tuigan arrow hissed past the general's head, lodging itself in Pe's left shoulder. The adjutant screamed and grasped at the shaft, then his knees buckled. Batu threw out his arms and caught the boy before he hit the ground.
"No, General," Pe gasped, looking up the hill. "There isn't time."
"Be quiet!" Batu ordered. He broke off the shaft, then roughly heaved the youth over his shoulder. "You don't have permission to die. I still have need of an adjutant!"
The steady patter of Tuigan arrows now sounding all around him, Batu rushed down the last ten yards of hill and entered the marsh. He dropped Pe onto a reed bundle at the edge of the river, then hazarded a glance over his shoulder.
The first of the panicked soldiers from Ching Tung and Shengti were almost at the bottom of the hill, less than fifteen yards away. The horsewarriors were only another dozen yards behind them, steadily hacking and slashing their way closer to the front of the fleeing mass.
If he wanted to meet the Tuigan another day, Batu realized, there was no time to fasten Pe to the makeshift raft. He grasped Pe's wrists and guided the boy's hands to the rope securing the reeds together. "Hold on," he ordered.
The general pushed Pe and the bundle into the river, then waded out behind the awkward raft. When his feet began to lose contact with the bottom, he locked his wrists into the rope and kicked with all his might. The swift current grabbed the raft and quickly pulled it farther away from shore.
Behind Batu, a chorus of guttural yells sounded. The general stopped kicking long enough to glance over his shoulder. The barbarians had caught the Shou refugees in the marsh that he and Pe had just escaped. Batu glimpsed one thousand flashing blades and heard one thousand agonized cries. A moment later, the current spun the raft around so that Batu could not see the burning sorghum field, and the river dragon carried him toward safety.

3
Supreme Harmony
"State your business in the Hall of Supreme Harmony," the chamberlain commanded.
The bureaucrat stood before a set of gilded doors that opened into the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The majestic hall stood in the emperor's summer palace, which was located in the city of Tai Tung, over thirteen hundred miles southeast of the Dragonwall. The palace had been converted into a temporary command center for the war against the barbarians.
Batu Min Ho bowed, scrutinizing the chamberlain with a single glance. The man had thin lips, narrow eyes, and a disdainful expression. He wore an orange maitung—a floor-length tunic with a high, buttoned collar. On his chest, blue and white embroidered sparrows soared across the silk sky, slowly descending around his body in a lazy spiral.
In contrast, Batu wore the same chia he had worn during the battle. It was now cracked and shriveled, with dozens of stitches popped at the seams. The general himself looked as worn and as haggard as his armor.
It was no wonder. The two weeks since the battle in the sorghum field had been the most trying of his life. After escaping the Tuigan massacre on their reed rafts, Batu, Pe, and less than two thousand Shou soldiers had regrouped fifty miles downstream. Batu had sent Pe and the rest of the wounded south with a small escort. The other survivors he had organized into the semblance of an army.
The general's next move had been to start an orderly retreat. As he moved south, Batu had fanned out his forces, conscripting all able-bodied males from every hamlet his men encountered. The other villagers he had forced to flee, and the makeshift army had burned everything it passed—villages, food stores, grain fields, and even wild grasslands. By seven days after the battle, the wall of smoke had stretched over a front of two hundred miles. Nothing but scorched earth had remained behind.
Batu's strategy had been simple. He had intended to slow the barbarian advance not through combat, but through hunger. Without an ample supply of food, such a large cavalry force would be forced to spend much of its energy foraging. As long as the Tuigan were scavenging, they would not be fighting.
The plan had worked well, and Batu had sent several messengers to Tai Tung reporting his successes. He had been able to slow the enemy's advance to a crawl. At the same time, he had avoided fighting the Tuigan, save for a few minor skirmishes with advance scouts.
So, when he had received an order recalling him to Tai Tung, the general had been surprised. He had also been disappointed. Contrary to what Batu had hoped, Kwan Chan Sen had escaped the slaughter at the sorghum field, probably with his wu jen's help. The recall to Tai Tung had come from the minister. It was in response to that summons that Batu now stood in front of the Hall of Supreme Harmony.
The chamberlain allowed Batu to remain in his bow for a condescending length of time before returning the gesture with a perfunctory head tilt.
Too weary to take offense at the slight, Batu looked up and said, "I am Batu Min Ho, commander of the loyal and worthy Army of Chukei. I have been summoned by Minister Kwan Chan Sen."
The chamberlain studied Batu's ragged chia and sneered.
Finally irritated by the man's arrogance, Batu added, "The summons seemed most important."
The bureaucrat nodded. "Yes, it is a matter of great urgency," he said. "The general is to be complimented upon his appreciation of that fact."
The chamberlain turned and whispered to one of the six sentries standing to either side of the entrance. They held themselves at strict attention, their expressionless eyes focused straight ahead. The guards wore the emperor's yellow dragon-scale armor and held broad-bladed polearms called chiang-chuns.
After receiving the chamberlain's instructions, a guard bowed and entered the hall, then the bureaucrat turned back to Batu and held out his hands. When the general did not place anything in them, the thin-lipped man said, "May I hold your tao and pi shou?"
Batu frowned. He felt naked without his weapons and was reluctant to release them. "I am a soldier," he said. "My sword and dagger are the arms with which I serve the emperor."
The chamberlain did not withdraw his hands. "It is a matter of tradition," he explained. "No man may bear weapons in the presence of the Son of Heaven."
Batu swallowed hard. He was relieved that the emperor considered the barbarian threat serious enough to come to Tai Tung personally. At the same time, the general was embarrassed that he had not exchanged his shabby battle clothes for something more splendid. He had never before been in the emperor's presence, and had no wish to insult the Divine One with substandard dress.
The general hurriedly removed his scabbards and gave them to the chamberlain, who passed them to a sentry. Another guard opened the doors, and the chamberlain led the way into a square foyer. As Batu entered the small room, the doors on the opposite side also opened. Minister Kwan, wearing a vermilion maitung, came into the room and faced the general.
Batu's stomach felt as though it were filling with hot lead, and he stared at the minister's gnarled face in open spite. Kwan ran his milky eyes over his subordinate's tattered chia and barely managed to conceal a grimace. Finally, the old man met the general's glare with a steady gaze, waiting for the ceremonial bow of respect.
Batu tilted his body forward just enough to avoid an open insult. Although he would observe the formalities of station, the general had no intention of treating Kwan with the deference one normally accorded a mandarin.
To Batu's surprise, Kwan smiled warmly and returned the gesture with a deep, courteous bow. "General, how pleasing to see you again."
"Perhaps you mean surprising," Batu said. "I doubt you are pleased." The general's boldness surprised even himself, but he could think of nothing except the old man's folly at the sorghum field.
Though the minister raised an eyebrow, his diplomatic smile did not fade. "To the contrary, General. We military men must stand together. Especially now."
Batu still did not return the smile. "I have not forgotten the battle," he said. "Not any part of it."
The minister's expression grew impatient. "Come now, General. My plan was a sound one—"
"But stood no chance of success," Batu retorted, pointing an accusing finger at the minister's chest, "which you would have realized had you scouted the enemy as I suggested."
The chamberlain gasped, astounded that Batu would dare speak to a mandarin in such a tone. Kwan simply waved the comment aside with a flick of his liver-spotted hand. "There are those who consider your unorthodox retreat less than honorable."
"Saving what remained of my army was not dishonorable," Batu replied evenly.
"We both know what happened at the battle," Kwan said, spreading his palms. "That is no longer of consequence. What is important now is how the emperor perceives the loss. The other mandarins would like nothing better than to use our misfortune to weaken the military. If I am to save your career, we must stand united against their assaults."
Batu could hardly believe Kwan's first concern was political infighting. "Perhaps the minister has not received my reports," the general said. "At this moment, my career—or yours—is of little consequence. There are at least a hundred thousand Tuigan, perhaps twice that number, rampaging through the province of Mai Yuan. Shou Lung itself is in danger of falling."
"Then you must save the empire," Kwan replied. "Stand with me and I will supply the power you need to smash the barbarians."
The general from Chukei sneered. "I doubt you have that power to give."
Batu now realized that though his orders had come from his aged commander, it was not the minister who had called him. The last person Kwan would want near the emperor was the general who had urged him to be more cautious. Batu suspected he had been called by the emperor, probably as part of an inquiry into the disastrous battle.
For several moments, Kwan studied Batu. At last, his true feelings still hidden behind an insincere smile, the minister said, "Your meaning eludes me, General Batu. I am a third-degree general, the Minister of War, a mandarin of the Shou empire, and the Second Left Grand Councilor to the emperor. The limits to my authority are as boundless as the sky."
"Be that as it may," Batu replied coldly, "my duty to the emperor is greater than any loyalty you can buy with empty promises."
The minister's face froze into a mask of anger. "What are you saying, General?" he demanded.
His wide-set eyes fixed evenly on the old man's face, Batu replied, "I must speak the truth before the emperor, if that is why he had me called."
Kwan's thousand wrinkles drooped into a threatening frown. "You are in this with me, you know," he said. "If I fall, so do you."
The minister spoke the truth about that much, at least. If the emperor decided to reorganize the military, Batu did not doubt the changes would be widespread. As the only surviving field general involved in the defeat at the sorghum field, he could very well be relieved of command.
Nevertheless, he said, "My duty is clear, and I will execute it faithfully."
The minister contorted his lips into a knotted snarl. "You will regret your decision, I promise you." That said, the old man turned and left the same way he had entered.
A few moments later, the chamberlain followed Kwan through the doors, motioning for Batu to come behind him. When the general obeyed, he felt as though he had stepped into a deep, cool well. At ground level, shafts of yellow light spilled into the circular room from nine small windows. The walls, richly painted in vermilion and inlaid with golden dragons, rose seventy feet overhead and disappeared into darkness. Several balconies ringed the chamber, hanging one below another every fifteen feet. Batu could see a pair of imperial guards on the lowest one, though he assumed soldiers patrolled all the walkways.
On the opposite side of the room, forty feet away, a throne of sculpted jade sat upon the marble floor. The chair's crafters had carved it in the semblance of a great dragon, with the beast's head serving as a canopy and its massive legs as armrests. The man sitting in the throne wore a plain yellow hai-waitao. Resembling a long robe with billowing sleeves, the garment consisted of a single silk layer.
The man occupying the jade throne could only be Emperor Kai Tsao Shou Chin, Son of Heaven, and Divine Gate to the Celestial Sphere. Like Batu, the emperor had a powerful build, though the Divine One looked much taller. The Son of Heaven's clean-shaven face had strong bones, with the long nose and drooping jaw of the mountain people of Tabot.
Two dozen advisers, all mandarins, sat around the emperor in a large semicircle of heavy wooden chairs. Each mandarin wore a vermilion hai-waitao embroidered with gold or silver thread. The sole woman in the court, a lithe beauty with dark eyes and silky hair, wore a cheosong. The tight, floor-length dress was embroidered with a golden dragon, which entwined her body from chest to ankle. Long slits ran from hem to hip, allowing freedom of movemerit and providing an ample view of her slender legs.
Like most educated men of Shou Lung, Batu was familiar with the names, if not the faces, of the emperor's advisers. Since just one female sat on the Mandarinate, the willowy beauty could only be Ting Mei Wan, Minister of State Security. The general recognized only one other person in the room, Kwan Chan Sen, who, as the Second Left Grand Councilor, sat in the second chair to the emperor's left.
The chamberlain signaled Batu to stay where he was, then advanced to the center of the room. After bowing to the emperor, he said, "Divine Son of Heaven and Oracle of the Heavens, General Batu Min Ho seeks an audience in answer to your summons."
The emperor nodded, then the chamberlain motioned for Batu to approach. When he reached the center of the room, the general kneeled and performed the ceremonial kowtow by touching his forehead to the marble floor three times. After he finished, Batu remained motionless, waiting for permission to stand.
The Son of Heaven did not speak for several seconds, and the general noticed that a pool of cold sweat had formed on the floor beneath his brow. His heart was pounding within his rib cage as if he were in a battle, and a queasy feeling tickled his stomach. After what he had faced during the last week, Batu found it amusing that meeting the emperor should make him so nervous.
Finally, in a resonant voice, the emperor spoke. "General Batu, we are pleased you have come to our summer palace. Please rise."
As Batu returned to his feet, the chamberlain bowed and left the room. The general remained in the center of the room, focusing his attention on the Son of Heaven. "Your venerable welcome honors me, Divine One." He waved a hand at his shabby chia. "Please excuse the drabness of my appearance. I come directly from the field—"
"That is no excuse for your insult to the emperor," Kwan interrupted, leaning forward in his massive chair and spitting out the words.
A wave of anger rolled over Batu, but he forced himself to relax and keep a calm appearance. Kwan was trying to destroy his credibility. Showing anger would only play into the minister's plan. Instead, the general bowed to his superior and said, "My apologies, Minister. As you must remember, I lost everything but the clothes on my back during our last battle."
Kwan scowled. "My memory serves me well enough to recall your cowardice—"
"General Batu's dress does not offend me," the emperor said, silencing Kwan with a wave of his hand. "I do not expect Shou Lung's soldiers to wear silk armor into combat. However, I do expect to hear their reports without interruption."
Though the emperor's words carried reproach, Kwan's face showed no hint of chagrin. He nodded apologetically and inclined his head, but his confident smile suggested that he had made his point. By publicly chastising Batu and calling him a coward, the minister had cast doubt on any criticisms that the general might in turn level at him.
Batu realized he would have to choose his words carefully, even though he intended to speak only the truth.
After silencing Kwan, the emperor calmly placed his hands on the arms of his throne and turned back to Batu. "Hsuang Yu Po claims you know more about the bloodthirsty barbarians than any living Shou."
Batu frowned in puzzlement. Hsuang Yu Po was his wife's father. As far as the general knew, the lord was in the Hsuang family citadel in southern Chukei, along with Batu's wife and children.
Observing Batu's confusion, the emperor said, "Your battlefield dispatches have not gone unheeded, General. I have asked all nobles to gather here with their private armies. Your father-in-law has been kind enough to respond. He suggested you would have some special insight into the nature of the barbarian menace." As he spoke, the emperor remained upright and motionless, neither gesturing nor shifting in his seat.
Determined to seize every opportunity to discredit Batu, Kwan again risked the emperor's wrath and spoke without permission. "Hsuang is correct. The general is half-barbarian himself."
The Divine One raised an eyebrow. "Is this true, General?"
"Partially," Batu responded, inclining his head apologetically, though he was not quite sure why. "Before he came to Shou Lung, my great-grandfather was apa qaghan—brother to the chief—of the Igidujin tribe. When I was a young boy, he often entertained me with stories of his childhood. I was a good listener, Divine One, but that hardly makes me a Tuigan."
The emperor slid forward to the edge of his throne. "Less than a year ago, my advisers assured me that the Horse Plains contained nothing but small tribes of savage nomads," the Divine One said. "These nomads, my advisers said, would never be more than an irritation on our northern frontier. But in two weeks, this 'irritation' has breached the Dragonwall, captured the garrison city of Lo Tu, utterly destroyed the armies of the Northern Marches, and are driving like an arrow toward the heart of my empire."
Glancing with obvious irritation at Kwan Chan Sen and another mandarin, the emperor continued. "When I ask my advisers how this can be, the answer is always the same. 'The enemy is a nothing more than a disorganized band of barbarians,' they say, or, 'Our mighty armies will crush them in the next battle.' But the only armies that have been crushed are ours. Clearly, my venerable advisers are mistaken."
The Divine One pushed himself back in his throne and locked his gaze on Batu. "Who are they," he demanded. "Who are these savages who have smashed the mightiest armies under the heavens?"
Batu had to fight to keep a grin from creasing his lips. He suspected that the emperor had not summoned him to find a scapegoat, but simply to learn more about the Tuigan. Kwan's fears had been unfounded, and the minister had needlessly lowered himself to asking aid from a subordinate. However, the general realized, the emperor probably had no immediate plan for removing Kwan from his post as Minister of War. This meant that Batu now had an enemy in a very powerful position.
Shoving thoughts of his political troubles aside, Batu closed his eyes and tried to remember all that his greatgrandfather had told him about the horsewarriors. He recalled tales of endless lands, countless tribes, dangerous horseback contests, merciless punishments, and battles fought without fear. He also remembered his impression of the Tuigan as they swarmed down on his army in the sorghum field.
Finally, he looked up and said, "Perhaps the barbarians are like locust, Emperor."
The Divine One frowned. "Locust?"
"Yes. Their numbers are countless and their appetite for blood endless. They move like the wind and appear where least expected, but always with terrible results. They kill everything in their path and leave nothing but devastation in their wake."
"I see," said the emperor, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
"Is that why you are burning our fields and chasing our peasants from their homes?" Kwan asked, pointing a gnarled finger at Batu.
Before the general could respond, the emperor turned to Kwan and said, "The only way to stop a locust swarm is to starve it. Let us waste no more time questioning General Batu's competence. So far, his strategies are the only ones that have had any effect on our enemies."
As Kwan heard the words, his wrinkled brow rose in shock.
The emperor continued. "What we must concern ourselves with, Minister Kwan, is what has brought these locust upon us."
The mandarin seated directly to the emperor's left stood and bowed. This man appeared to be in his late fifties, twenty years older than Batu. His eyes were steady and dark, giving him the appearance of a thoughtful and dangerous enemy.
When the Divine One nodded to him, the mandarin said, "The locust have come for the reason they always come: they are hungry. Majestic Shou Lung is a wealthy land, and the uncivilized horse-people are bloodthirsty thieves who envy the harvest of our honest labor."
The emperor shook his head. "No, Ju-Hai."
Batu recognized the mandarin's name. Ju-Hai Chou was the Minister of State and the First Left Grand Councilor. Aside from the emperor himself, he was the most powerful man in the Mandarinate.
"In the two thousand years recorded in the Histories, there is only one account of a massed invasion by the horse barbarians," the emperor continued, looking from Ju-Hai to the other mandarins. "It was provoked by a warmonger's attempt to annex part of their lands. Only a fool would believe they have suddenly massed to attack without reason."
"As always, your wisdom outshines the sun, Divine One," Ju-Hai said, folding his hands in front of his body. "But merchants are now afraid to travel the Spice Road, and tax revenue has fallen by twenty percent. In addition, the cost of replacing the northern armies will deplete the treasury. Shou Lung's marvelous economy is facing collapse. Can the reason for the attack matter any longer?"
The emperor nodded. "Oh yes, Ju-Hai. It is written in the Book of Heaven that a man cannot harvest rice until he understands the sowing of the seed. Is this not also the way with war? We cannot hope to win until we know what the barbarians seek."
The female mandarin, Ting Mei Wan, stood and spoke. "Perhaps our eyes are turned in the wrong direction. Could the cause of the war lie here, within the Hall of Supreme Harmony?"
"What are you saying?" Ju-Hai snapped angrily.
With the unexpected outburst, a tense silence fell over the room. Ju-Hai glared at Ting with dark, menacing eyes. She returned the stare with a steady gaze and a faint smile. Batu felt sure some unspoken threat was passing between them. Not being privy to the inner workings of the Mandarinate, he could not guess its nature.
The emperor turned to Ju-Hai, his face an inscrutable mask of politeness. "Is something wrong?" he asked, his diplomatic tone disguising any curiosity he felt about the outburst.
The Minister of State flushed. From his embarrassed expression, Batu guessed the mandarin rarely suffered such lapses of control.
"I am unsure of Minister Ting's meaning," Ju-Hai replied, deftly avoiding an explanation for his irrational behavior. "Certainly, no blame can be placed upon the venerable members of this Mandarinate." His face remained tense, and he continued to glare at Ting Mei Wan.
The Son of Heaven turned to the beautiful mandarin and raised an eyebrow to prompt her response. Ting smiled at the Minister of State, then bowed to the emperor and said, "The Book of Heaven teaches us that the Divine One rules with the mandate of the heavens. It is written that while the emperor governs with a pure heart and observes the proper ceremonies, Shou Lung will prosper. It is also written that the land will suffer plagues and pestilences when the Nine Immortals revoke their mandate."
Ju-Hai relaxed and took his eyes off the woman. Whatever he had been afraid Ting would say clearly had nothing to do with the Book of Heaven. In contrast to Ju-Hai's reaction, the other mandarins muttered in astonishment and stared at Ting in open shock. The emperor's face remained impassive, and Batu could not tell what effect Ting's words were having on him.
The beautiful mandarin continued. "I trust the emperor understands that discussing this matter only demonstrates my absolute loyalty," she said, casting her gaze submissively at his feet. "As we are all confident of the purity of the Divine One's heart, I merely suggest some minor rite may have been overlooked—"
A middle-aged mandarin wearing a purple hai-waitao covered with mystic symbols leaped to his feet. "I can assure the Minister of State Security that all ceremonies are being performed properly!" he hissed. From the symbols on his robe, Batu guessed that the man was the High Lord of Imperial Sacrifices.
The Minister of State Security was a dangerous woman, the general decided. After threatening Ju-Hai Chou, she had managed to turn the emperor's scrutiny inward. At the same time, she had portrayed herself as the Divine One's most loyal subject. Then, to protect herself further, she had shifted the focus of blame to the High Lord of Imperial Sacrifices, giving the Son of Heaven an easy target upon which to vent any anger he felt.
The most amazing thing of all, Batu thought, was that the Minister of State Security had managed to keep the motives for her actions completely disguised. The general was more curious than ever about the secret Ju-Hai Chou had been so afraid Ting would reveal.
After a moment of reflection, the Son of Heaven adjusted himself so that he was sitting erect and proud in his throne. "Minister Ting, we thank you for your suggestion," he said, his voice betraying a hint of sarcasm. "We will investigate our rites to be sure they are performed in accordance with the Book of Heaven. Until we discover an inconsistency, let us assume the cause of our trouble lies elsewhere. Now—"
A loud scream from the foyer interrupted the emperor's words. Immediately, several guards leaned over the balconies above, training their weapons on the door. Heavy footsteps echoed through the room as other sentries rushed for the stairways. Like the guards, Batu's first thought was of assassins, and he whirled to face the doors.
A moment later, the chamberlain entered the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Behind him, four guards carried the body of a small man dressed in a beggar's robes.
The chamberlain bowed, saying, "A thousand apologies, Son of Heaven. The guards captured this vagabond trying to escape the grounds of the palace. Unfortunately, he threw himself on a sentry's blade as we were bringing him to you." The bureaucrat produced a leaf of folded paper. "He was carrying this."
"Bring it here," the emperor commanded, holding out his hand.
As the chamberlain's footsteps echoed across the marble floor, Batu studied the vagabond's face. It was similar to his own, with broad cheekbones, a flat nose, and wide-set eyes. His head was nicked and cut where it had recently been shaved.
"This man is a spy," Batu declared. "A Tuigan spy."
Resembling a Tuigan as much as he did himself, Batu would have been the last to suggest, based on appearance alone, that the beggar was a barbarian. However, the freshly shaved head was incongruous with the rest of the vagabond's filthy appearance, and it suggested to Batu that the man's hair had been cut as part of a disguise.
"So it seems," the Divine One confirmed, examining the paper that the chamberlain had given to him. "And he is not working alone." The emperor studied Batu thoughtfully, then held the paper out to him. "You may examine this map, General."
Ignoring the scowl on Kwan's face, Batu approached the throne. After a deep bow to acknowledge the great honor that the emperor had bestowed upon him, the general took the paper directly from the Divine One's hand.
A heavy, corrugated line had been drawn across the northwestern corner, where the Dragonwall was located. A lighter line wandered across the middle of the map, showing the location and approximate course of the Shengti River. There was an "X" on the north side of the river, where the city of Yenching was located. Near the bottom and center of the map was another "X," showing the location of the walled city of Shou Kuan. A third mark had been placed in the lower right-hand corner, where Tai Tung and the summer palace were located. Several soldiers had been drawn next to Tai Tung, and the number "13,000" written next to the city. Five infantrymen had been drawn marching toward Tai Tung. Next to each infantryman was a number ranging from "8,000" to "15,000"—the approximate size of one of Shou Lung's provincial armies.
"This is a map of troop movements," Batu remarked, looking up.
The emperor met the general's gaze with an expression that could not be read. "Yes," he said evenly. "The only detail it lacks is the identity of the man I have chosen to lead the war against the barbarians."
The Divine One looked from the general to the dead spy, then to the faces of Ting Mei Wan, Kwan Chan Sen, Ju-Hai Chou, and the other members of the Mandarinate. Finally, he looked back to Batu and said, "Allow me to dismiss my other advisers, General. You and I have much to discuss."

4
Ju-Hai's Garden
Ju-Hai felt his manservant drape a woolen coat over his shoulders. The meditation, he realized, had come to an end. Without his awareness or control, his mind had retreated from that calm, tenebrous zone within its own depths.
Melancholy, as always, at the necessity of leaving the intangible world, the minister opened his eyes. The sun was about to drop behind the western walls of the summer palace, and he was bathed in the rosy light of late afternoon.
"Has it been that long, Shei Ni?" Ju-Hai asked.
"Yes, Minister," the servant responded.
Ju-Hai was shocked, but not alarmed. He sat in his garden belvedere looking out over his goldfish pond, his legs folded into the blossoming lotus position. Each day, the minister customarily came here to clear his head and order his thoughts. Considering what had happened in the Mandarinate, it did not surprise him that today's session had lasted much longer than usual.
Before him, his jar of trigram sticks rested upon a white lacquered table, next to a hand-lettered copy of the Book of Change. When the sticks were spilled on the table, the future could be foretold by comparing the resulting patterns to the diagrams in the book. Though the minister did not advertise the fact to his colleagues, he was a great believer in the trigrams. The rosewood sticks and carved jade jar were two of his most cherished possessions.
After a respectful pause, Shei Ni said, "Minister Ting has been waiting since midday to see you. I would have announced her earlier, but she did not wish to interrupt your meditation."
Ju-Hai's stomach twisted into a knot. He was still angered by Ting's suggestion that the cause of the Tuigan invasion lay within the Mandarinate. It was true that, after his humiliating outburst, she had deftly altered the emphasis of her suggestion. However, he wished the subject had not been brought up at all. Ju-Hai wondered whether the episode had simply been an unpleasant coincidence, or if Ting had known it would upset him. At the moment, the answer was not important. The minister was still angry with her.
"What is the nature of her business?" he asked. Shei Ni was so practiced in receiving Ting Mei Wan that he could judge the reason for a visit by her manner and dress.
"I believe it is personal," Shei Ni said.
"Then send her away."
"As you wish." Shei Ni bowed, then went into the house.
Ju-Hai rose and began walking along the marble path that circled the goldfish pond. He was disappointed to find himself still angry at Ting, and hoped a tour of his garden might quell his emotions. The tiny park was his taste of paradise, and he went there to escape the strict regimens and orderly thoughts that ruled his public life.
Ju-Hai had taken great care to evoke the spirit of nature in this modest parcel of land. The ground had been modeled into tiny hills and valleys, and anything approximating a straight line had been diligently avoided. The minister had used the influence of his office to fill the garden with exotic specimens from the widest reaches of the empire: camellias, crimson-berried nandins, even a golden larch.
He would have liked to enlarge the garden, but that was impossible. The summer palace was really a miniature city, complete with hundreds of walled houses occupied by status-hungry bureaucrats. To secure even the half-acre plot he now enjoyed, the mandarin had been forced to call upon the emperor for help.
As Ju-Hai studied one of his newest prizes, a peony bush that would blossom in green, his servant returned. "Excuse me, Master. Lady Ting asks you to reconsider your decision. She points out that she has been waiting many hours to apologize for what happened in the Mandarinate today."
"To apologize?" Ju-Hai repeated, wondering what she really intended. If she had been waiting since the emperor dismissed the Mandarinate, it had to be something important to her. Deciding he could control his anger in order to satisfy his curiosity, the minister said, "Very well, she may join me here."
Shei Ni bowed and went into the house.
In the last six months, Ting had developed an irritating appetite for power. More than once, her hunger had resulted in an embarrassment similar to the one of that day. Ju-Hai had spoken to her about his concerns, but always without apparent effect. He was beginning to fear that it would be necessary to arrange her removal from the Mandarinate.
The prospect did not please the minister, for he was genuinely fond of the female mandarin. Ting had first come to Ju-Hai's attention over fifteen years ago, when she had achieved a perfect score on the civil service examination used to select imperial bureaucrats. Convinced she had cheated, he had summoned her to the Forbidden City and quizzed her personally. By halfway through the session, the girl had convinced the minister that she had earned her perfect score.
During the interview, Ju-Hai had seen the making of a mandarin in the young woman. She had a sharp mind and a dynamic personality, and seemed ruthlessly driven. Afterward, he had investigated her background. Although she had suffered the misfortune of being born into the family of a dishonest rice merchant, the inquiry had uncovered nothing to suggest that she could not be a valuable public servant. From that point onward, Ju-Hai had taken a personal interest in her career. As the minister had expected, she had proven herself more than capable of executing any task assigned to her.
Two years ago, the opportunity to place an ally in the post of Minister of State Security had arisen. Naturally, Ju-Hai's first choice had been the beautiful young woman he had been developing for thirteen years. Although the minister had expected her to do well, even he had been surprised by the efficiency with which she performed her necessarily merciless duties. In the upper ranks of the bureaucracy, it was well known that revealing even a small weakness to the "Tigress" could prove fatal.
The thought of keeping weaknesses secret reminded Ju-Hai of the trigram sticks he had left on the table. He returned to the pavilion and was just picking up the jar when Ting came out of the house.
"Minister," she said, stopping inside the fan-shaped arbor that served as an entrance to the garden.
The gorgeous mandarin wore an unadorned scarlet cheosong that covered her from neck to ankle. The dress was made of gossamer silk that highlighted her voluptuous charms rather than concealed them. In her hands, she held a small potted flower of a type which Ju-Hai had never before seen. Save for its black blossom, the plant resembled a tiny lotus that grew in dirt instead of water. Holding the plant out for Ju-Hai, Ting averted her eyes and bowed as low as her tight clothing would allow.
Ju-Hai put his trigram jar down, then walked over to Ting and accepted the gift. "It's as ravishing as you, my dear," he said, his anger fading as he studied the plant. A few moments later, he asked, "What is it?"
"Cliff blossom. It came from the mountain kingdom of RaKhati," she replied, standing upright. "It's a special gift I've been saving. I thought it might express my sorrow for offending you."
Shei Ni appeared at the head of a small procession of servants. Carrying a teapot, cups, and two chairs, they stopped at the arbor and waited behind Ting.
Ju-Hai bowed to show his appreciation. "As always, you must be complimented upon your knowledge of your quarry." The realization that Ting understood him so well made Ju-Hai uneasy. An exotic plant was the only gift that would disarm him so easily. "You are forgiven, my dear. Come over to the belvedere, and we will talk."
"Thank you, Minister." Ting smiled and followed Ju-Hai to the small, open building at the edge of the goldfish pond.
While the servants placed the chairs and poured the tea, Ting picked up the jar Ju-Hai had left on the white table. "Trigrams?" she asked curiously.
"A bauble I sometimes toy with," the minister replied, looking away from the jar with practiced nonchalance.
Smiling playfully, Ting turned the jar over and spilled the sticks. "Tell me what they say."
Ju-Hai gave Ting's gift to Shei Ni for safekeeping. When he looked at the circle of sticks, he half-smiled in amusement. The minister did not need stick magic to tell him what the trigrams had revealed. "The pattern of the sea," he said. "You are always shifting and impossible to predict. This makes you a powerful enemy and a dangerous friend."
Shei Ni and the servants finished their work, bowed, and left the garden quietly.
Ting peered at the sticks, then looked at Ju-Hai flirtatiously. "Is there nothing of love in those patterns?"
The minister chuckled. "Not for me to read."
Ting stepped closer. "Perhaps you should look again."
Ju-Hai backed away and took his seat at the east end of the table. After a long sip of tea, he said, "Surely you did not wait all afternoon simply to dangle your lascivious web before an aging man?"
The beautiful mandarin sighed in exaggerated disappointment. The game between them was an old one. For fifteen years, Ting had been making herself available to Ju-Hai, and for fifteen years the Minister of State had deftly avoided an entanglement with her.
"I have been waiting much longer than one afternoon," Ting replied, taking her seat at the other end of the table. "But you're correct. I have little hope that you'll come to your senses today. I've come to apologize for this morning's mistake."
Ju-Hai nodded, but remained silent. Now that they were discussing political affairs, his mind had shifted into an orderly, critical thought process. He hoped his silence would force Ting to disclose the true reason for her visit.
Ting lifted her teacup to her lips. After a small swallow, she continued speaking. "Of course, I don't really know what my mistake was."
Ju-Hai smiled, relieved that the Tigress did not know his greatest vulnerability. After a short pause, he answered Ting's half-spoken question. "That should be obvious."
Ting frowned at her mentor. "It isn't."
"It is a foolish wolf that growls at its master," he said. "By suggesting that someone within the Mandarinate brought the barbarians down upon us, you have made many powerful enemies."
Ting's eyes narrowed. "True, but to anger you, my blunder must have threatened you personally."
Ju-Hai smiled at his disciple with as much warmth as he could gather. "I'm disappointed, my dear. Don't you realize how fond of you I am?"
Ting smirked, then her eyes grew soft and she ran a painted nail around the rim of her tea cup. "Why do you never show it?"
"I do," the minister responded. "I have watched over your career very closely."
The seductive mandarin sat up straight. "To what purpose?" she asked. "What have you gotten out of helping me?"
Her soft expression had become as hard as stone, and Ju-Hai knew that this question came from her heart. "What I have gotten," he answered, "is a capable administrator who serves the empire well. That is the only payment I expect or have ever asked."
Ting rolled her eyes in disbelief. Like so many other servants of the state, a lifetime in the imperial bureaucracy had exposed her to such corruption and self-serving incompetence that she automatically discounted such statements. Ju-Hai's answer, however, had been sincere, though he would never convince Ting of that.
"Perhaps you speak the truth," the Tigress said, looking away to show Ju-Hai that she didn't believe he did. "Even so, you would never embarrass yourself before the emperor—not on my behalf, or anyone else's. And considering that someone must have been feeding information to the spy the guards captured, it almost appears that you're a traitor."
The only reason Ju-Hai did not lose his temper was that he had already considered that same point. His outburst had come at the wrong time. Taken by itself, it appeared that the minister was trying to hide something. When he considered the spy and the map, even Ju-Hai could not deny that his behavior cast a pall of suspicion over him.
For several moments, Ting studied her mentor with hard demanding eyes. Finally, her mouth dropped open and she pointed an accusing finger at the minister. "That's it! You are a spy."
"Don't be ridiculous," Ju-Hai said evenly. If he thought she were serious, he would not be able to keep from shouting. However, Ju-Hai felt convinced that Ting was merely putting on an act. The accusation had been so dramatic and sudden that it seemed rehearsed.
Besides, if Ting believed him to be a spy, she would not make the mistake of accusing him while alone and inside the walls of his home.
As Ju-Hai expected, the Tigress followed her accusation with a demand. "If you're not the spy, why the outburst? What are you hiding?"
"I am hiding nothing," Ju-Hai lied.
"How can I believe that?" Ting responded angrily. "The evidence is—" She stopped in midsentence and looked around the garden. A moment later, she rose quickly and bowed, saying, "Please forgive me, Minister. I forget myself. Perhaps I should go."
Her voice trembled with a fear Ju-Hai knew she did not feel. If Ting were truly afraid, she would appear angry and dangerous, not timid and apologetic.
"Yes, perhaps you should go," the Minister of State replied. He poured himself some more tea and did not bother to rise.
"If you have that evidence you speak of, take it directly to the emperor."
Ting hesitated, furrowing her smooth brow in confusion. Finally, she said, "But I couldn't. I owe you—"
"If you believe me a traitor," Ju-Hai interrupted, "you owe me nothing. Your duty is to present your evidence to the emperor."
Ting exhaled wearily, then returned to her seat. "I don't believe you're a traitor, Minister, and I never did. But I am the Minister of State Security."
Ju-Hai smiled with heartfelt warmth. "Understood, my dear. I expected nothing less."
Ting sighed heavily and turned in her seat to look out over the goldfish pond. "The emperor and the other mandarins are already commenting on your suspicious behavior. What am I to say? That we had tea and that I have your assurance you remain faithful to Shou Lung?"
Ju-Hai shook his head. "No," he admitted. "That won't do."
She looked at him with pleading eyes. "I can't help you unless I know what you are hiding."
"I am hiding nothing," the elder minister responded. It was not difficult for him to lie, even to friends. He did it every day as a normal part of his duties. "You have my word."
"Splendid," she answered, rolling her eyes away from Ju-Hai's. "I'll sleep like the dragons tonight."
For nearly a minute, Ting stared at the pond, watching the fat goldfish swim lazy circles. Finally, she looked back to her mentor. "If you're not the spy, who is?"
"I don't know," Ju-Hai answered, shaking his head sadly. "But if my honor is to be saved, that is the question you must answer."
Ting shifted forward in her chair. "I need some help."
"Perhaps you could compare calligraphy?" Ju-Hai suggested. He lifted his teacup and looked at the table while he drank, as if the matter were of little consequence to him.
Ting shook her head. "I thought of that, but there are only pictures and numbers on the map. Anyone could have drawn it."
Shei Ni entered the garden and approached the belvedere at a brisk pace. He seemed quite flustered, so Ju-Hai did not wait for the customary bow. "What is it, Shei Ni?"
"Minister Kwan," he replied. "He insists upon seeing you right now. I told him you were unavailable, but—"
Ting quickly stood. "If I am to be your defender in the Mandarinate, it might be better if we were not observed having a tryst in your garden."
Ju-Hai nodded, glad that Ting had made the suggestion. He was not anxious for her to hear anything that passed between him and the Minister of War. "Shei Ni will show you out—"
The servant shook his head. "Minister Kwan is already halfway through the house. The guards are stalling him, but they're afraid to manhandle a mandarin."
Eyeing Ting's tight cheosong, Ju-Hai said, "I suppose climbing the garden wall is out of the question ..."
She nodded vigorously.
"Very well," Ju-Hai said, pointing at a hedge on the opposite end of the goldfish pond. It was close enough to the belvedere for Ting to overhear what was said, but Ju-Hai hoped to steer the conversation away from what he did not wish her to know. "Hide behind the shrubbery. I'll deal with this quickly."
No sooner had Shei Ni helped Ting behind the hedge than two of Ju-Hai's household guards appeared at the arbor. They each held gleaming chiang-chuns, but were nevertheless backing away from a screaming Kwan Chan Sen. As they moved, they held their polearms in front of the old man and politely tried to explain that he had not yet been announced.
"Minister Kwan!" Ju-Hai called, quickly refilling the teacup that had been Ting's until just a moment ago. "Won't you please join me?"
The guards relaxed, then stepped aside. The ancient mandarin bustled over to the pavilion at such a frantic pace that Ju-Hai feared he would trip and injure himself.
"This is your fault!" the old man stammered, dropping heavily into his seat.
"What?" Ju-Hai asked, topping off his own teacup.
"Batu Min Ho," Kwan replied. "My informants tell me the emperor intends to promote him to General of the Northern Marches!"
"How unfortunate," Ju-Hai replied, feigning sympathy.
"The emperor hasn't consulted me. He hasn't consulted anyone!" the old man hissed.
Though Kwan Chan did not know it, what he said was not true. After hearing about the ingenious manner in which the young general had saved two thousand pengs, Ju-Hai had investigated Batu's record.
What he had learned impressed him. Since Batu had been placed in command of the Army of Chukei, the small force had destroyed or chased away more than one thousand barbarian raiding parties, suffering only light casualties itself. Batu had even reclaimed some prime farmland from a tribe of vicious half-humans on the northern frontier. When the general's father-in-law had arrived and described Batu's barbarian heritage, Ju-Hai had suggested the young general as a good choice to lead the war against the Tuigan.
Of course, Ju-Hai had no intention of telling this to Kwan, for he always tried to avoid making enemies needlessly.
After allowing the milky-eyed old man to fume for a few moments, Ju-Hai said, "It's the emperor's will. We can do nothing except live with his decision."
Kwan turned an angry frown on Ju-Hai. "We must make the Divine One change his mind, or that upstart from Chukei will have my seat in the Hall of Supreme Harmony." Kwan paused and shook his wrinkled head sadly. "Imagine, a barbarian in the Mandarinate!"
"Come now, Minister," Ju-Hai objected, frowning at the ancient mandarin. "Batu is hardly a barbarian—"
"How would you know?" Kwan asked, his voice even and reasonable despite his obvious anger. "I've seen our enemy close up. He looks like the barbarians, he smells like them, and he thinks like them!"
"Perhaps that is why the emperor chose him to lead the war," Ju-Hai hazarded. "After all, to hunt a leopard, one must think like—"
"We are not talking about leopard hunts," Kwan snapped. "We are talking about the Mandarinate—my seat in the Mandarinate."
Kwan paused, then turned his milky eyes on Ju-Hai. "You are the First Left Grand Councilor," the old man observed. "Use your influence with the emperor to get rid of this Batu Min Ho."
Through Kwan's mask of wrinkles, Ju-Hai could not tell whether the ancient mandarin was threatening him or pleading with him. "I'll do what I can," Ju-Hai lied.
Kwan studied his host for a long moment. Finally, the old man said, "No, you'll do it. You said we had to crush the enemy quickly, before the emperor started to worry about the barbarians. So I tried, damn you. I'm an old man, too old to be roaming around the empire making war, but I tried."
Kwan paused and pointed a yellow-nailed finger at Ju-Hai's face. "It's your turn. By tomorrow night, Batu Min Ho will be gone. He'll be gone, or I'll tell the emperor why the barbarians attacked Shou Lung."
Ju-Hai ground his teeth, angered by the threat. He was also angry at himself for underestimating the old man's acumen. With Kwan, lies would not work. The Minister of State knew he would have to resort to threats, even if it did mean Ting would overhear the whole sordid business of how this war started. There was nothing to be done about it.
"I'm not going to have Batu Min Ho removed," Ju-Hai began.
Kwan's baggy eyes opened wide in anger. He slammed his ancient fist down on the table so hard the teacups spilled. "Then you're finished!" he spat.
"No," Ju-Hai responded, righting his teacup and speaking in a calm voice. "No, I'm not. What are you going to tell the emperor? That I started this war myself? Don't you think he'll want to know where the assassin came from?"
"It was done at your request!" Kwan pointed out.
"Do you think he'll care?" Ju-Hai demanded, taking pains to keep his voice even and polite. "We started this war together. It's unfortunate that we can't finish it. But if we can't do it, we must find someone who can."
Ju-Hai poured more tea for himself, but the pot ran out as he tried to refill Kwan's cup. "We're going to stand aside and let this Batu Min Ho kill barbarians," the Minister of State said. "After he wins the war, if he wins the war, we're going to welcome him into the Mandarinate. Undoubtedly, he will have earned the post."
Ju-Hai sipped his tea, evaluating Kwan over the top of his cup. "Until then, instead of two more incompetent, corrupt bureaucrats executed for crimes against their offices, you and I will still be mandarins of the Shou Empire. What could be more fair than that?"
Kwan's face turned from angry red to deep purple. He began to breathe in short puffs. For a moment, Ju-Hai hoped the old man was doing him the consideration of dying out of rage. At length, however, the old mandarin's color returned to normal and he managed to stand.
"This is not over, Ju-Hai," Kwan sputtered. "I do not take kindly to betrayal."
"As long as you take kindly to survival," the Minister of State responded. "My guards will show you out."
After the old man left, Ting returned to the table and sat down. For several minutes, she simply watched Ju-Hai with a patient expression and did not say anything.
Finally, Ju-Hai looked at her. "I may as well tell you," he sighed. "You'll just dig it up on your own, and I'll have an even bigger mess when the emperor wants to know what you're looking for."
"I must know what's happening," she agreed, regarding her mentor with a steady, unreadable eyes.
Ju-Hai rubbed his palms over his brow, then folded his hands on the table. "It's not so complicated," he began. "Over the last two years, a barbarian named Yamun Khahan has united the horse tribes. Recently, he has been wiping out our trade caravans, and tax revenues have been dropping steadily. Several times, we have sent gifts to him, hoping to buy his favor. When that did not work, Minister Kwan and I urged the emperor to send an army west to subdue the horse tribes. But the Divine One refused, not wishing to be the aggressor in a war.
"Minister Kwan and I finally developed a plan to deal with the problem quickly and efficiently. We contacted this khahan's stepmother, a treacherous woman named Bayalun. In return for her promise to leave our caravans alone, we agreed to help her usurp his throne."
"Surely you didn't believe she would keep her word?" Ting asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Ju-Hai responded, "but we believed that without Yamun Khahan's leadership, the horse tribes would once again dissolve into the warring clans they have always been. In any case, we sent an assassin to aid Bayalun. Unfortunately, Yamun discovered our plot. In retaliation, he has turned his horde in our direction. I fear we have sadly underestimated both his ingenuity and his strength."
Ting lifted her empty teacup and held it thoughtfully against her lips, considering her mentor's explanation. Several moments later, she asked, "Do you really think this Batu Min Ho can stop the barbarians?"
The minister nodded and met her gaze. "I am convinced that if the Tuigan can be stopped, Batu is the only man who can do it. He knows more about the horse tribes than any of our surviving generals. From what I have seen of our other high officers, he alone possesses the cunning and courage to match Yamun Khahan."
Ting placed her empty cup back on table. "An unfortunate turn of events," she said. "Clearly, you only had Shou Lung's best interests at heart."
Ju-Hai breathed a sigh of relief. "Then you will keep my secret?"
Before answering, Ting studied her lacquered fingernails. "Considering the presence of a spy in our midst," she said, "would it not be wise to place a cadre of guards at the disposal of the Ministry of State Security?"
Ju-Hai closed his tired eyes. It would have been too much to hope that the Tigress would aid him without demanding payment. "What do you intend to do with them?" he asked.
"Use them to keep Tuigan spies out of Tai Tung and the summer palace," she said quickly.
Ju-Hai opened his eyes. Although he did not doubt that she would assign the guards to the duties she mentioned, he also suspected that the force would satisfy her own sense of personal aggrandizement. "How many?" he asked wearily.
"A thousand—no, two thousand," Ting answered. "That is not too much to ask."
The minister shook his head, then prepared an angry stare and met Ting's gaze. "A thousand, and no more. Under no circumstances will I permit anyone to control a force equal to the emperor's personal guard."
Ting smiled to indicate her acceptance of the offer. "Let us wish heaven's favor on General Batu."