Daughter of Xanadu (25 page)

When the enemy was close enough to hear, our war drums broke the silence. That was the signal. All of us Mongol soldiers, as if with one voice, let out war cries meant to terrify the enemy. Shouting amidst such a host made me feel invincible.

Our front line surged forward, then the next rows, and finally mine, advancing with order and discipline. Baatar seemed eager to join the battle. So much dust was kicked up around me, I could no longer see the far end of the plain, but I could feel in my bones the roar of hooves advancing toward us.

Those first moments shimmered with pure exhilaration. We advanced across the plain in a long row of horses, just far enough behind the row in front to allow visibility. Wind whipped my cheeks, and the slanting rays of the rising sun put the horses and men around me in relief. I could smell horses and wet earth and fear and bloodlust. I grinned at Suren, galloping next to me. He waved at me with a huge smile.
Now, Suren
, I thought,
do you wish we had fled the battlefield like cowards?

Finally, I could see the elephants advancing straight at us. Decked in red, they bellowed like trumpets. It seemed as if a mountain had detached from the earth and was rolling in our direction, an avalanche of red boulders.

Suddenly, something went wrong. When our forces were near to the enemy and nothing remained but to begin the fight, the horses in front of us skidded to a halt. We had only seconds to slow our horses before we smashed into the row in front. Those behind plowed into us.

We riders floated astride a teaming mass of horseflesh. The horses screamed in dismay, trying to turn to the side to
escape. They did not fall, as there was no room. Baatar’s great head was wrenched to the side. I saw terror in his wide brown eye and could feel the lurch of pain in his body as a horse lunged into his backside. I looked desperately for a way to steer him free, but horses and riders engulfed us.

The horses in the Mongol front line had taken such fright at the sight of the elephants that they had swerved and turned back.

All was disarray. No amount of experience in warfare could prevent our horses from retreating. Our horses were caught, unable to go either forward or back. The elephants were lumbering straight at us, with only a short distance to cover before they would trample our fine Mongol steeds. Red-uniformed archers rode in the fortresses on the elephants’ backs, and when they came into range, they began to shoot.

I took up my bow and shot at one of the elephant-back towers. But the archers were half hidden behind wooden walls, while we were exposed, below them. Baatar was surging beneath me, trying to get out from the mass of horses, in any direction. The elephant towers were advancing, bobbing atop the huge creatures.

It was nothing like mounted archery, in which I galloped at a steady pace past a stationary target. All my well-honed skills seemed for naught.

Arrows whizzed past my ears and over my head. One shaft came so close to my left side that I automatically swerved to the right. I heard a horrific crack and turned to see a white-feathered arrow deep in the throat of the soldier next to me. It was my commander, Todogen of the big ears. Blood spurted from the wound and he fell sideways.
But the horses were too close together for him to hit the ground.

Suren, on my right side, saw it, too, and there was terror in his eyes. My chest was so tight, and the dust so thick, I could scarcely breathe. Todogen’s sudden death, a few feet from me, sent a shock through my system. One arrow could do it. My armor covered only my chest and abdomen.

I pulled another shaft from my quiver and shot straight at the archers in an elephant-back fortress. Now I must kill five more enemy soldiers.

Suddenly, twenty Mongol horsemen rushed around the teeming mass of horses to the front line, riding bravely toward the elephants. I could see only one close-up, and he held what looked like a thick lance with a flame at the tip. He ran directly at one of the elephants and tossed the burning lance in front of its feet. Then he swerved to the side and kept going. My breath caught in my throat when I saw him hit by an arrow.

A thunderous explosion in front of the elephant rocked me. The elephant stopped so suddenly that several archers were thrown off its back. Its eye widened in fright. The creature hesitated, then turned and ran toward the woods.

Beyond it, I heard another huge explosion, then another. The horsemen had hurled burning bamboo stalks in front of elephants. I remembered the fire rats we had seen in the village. The same explosions were happening across the front lines. The blasts scared men, horses, and elephants, Mongol and Burmese alike.

But most of all, the noise terrified the elephants, who a moment earlier had seemed invincible. Their trumpeting noises switched to high-pitched shrieks, horrible, ear-piercing
sounds. Panicking, they turned and ran in many directions. Most ran off the battlefield and into the protection of the forest. No driver could control them.

Baatar surged against his reins and struggled to get away from the terrible noise. Our Mongol troops scattered, and I headed for the woods. There, several Mongol soldiers had jumped off their mounts and were tying their horses to the trees.

“Tie up your horses!” Suren shouted. “Aim at the elephants’ flanks!”

The order made no sense. Leave my horse and go on foot in the midst of battle, when the enemy troops were advancing on elephants? We would surely be trampled. But I obeyed. All Mongol soldiers seemed to have the same orders, since they were streaming to the side, toward the woods. Our horses were too panicked to be of use.

Shooting from the edge of the woods, we sent scores of arrows high up into the flanks of the elephants rushing past us. It was easier to aim on foot than on a frightened, bucking horse. My confidence returned with each shaft I shot. Several hit the mark.

We plied our bows stoutly, shooting so many shafts at the panicking elephants that the closer ones had arrows sticking out their sides like needles on a pine branch. Burmese soldiers were falling off the elephants like red autumn leaves.

“Aim at their vulnerable parts,” Suren shouted.

My next arrow hit true, on a bull elephant’s hanging parts. The creature fell to one knee and the tower on his back tipped, throwing off several archers. With its tower tilting crazily, the beast regained its footing with a loud bellow.

Then the creature turned and headed for the woods,
stomping on soldiers in its path. It headed straight toward me. Out of arrows, I had just enough time to slip behind a tree, but it trampled over several of my comrades as it plunged madly into the forest. I feared for Baatar, tied up a few trees behind me, unable to run.

Other elephants followed, clomping with a tremendous uproar. I grabbed the trunk of the tree and held on tightly. The ground beneath me was shaking, and the noise so deafening that I could not let go.

The elephants rushed blindly wherever they could, dashing their wooden fortresses against the trees, bursting their harnesses, and smashing everything that was on them. The Burmese soldiers inside fell screaming to the ground. I pulled out my sword and slashed one that fell near me. The blood spurted up and covered my leg and I could see the look of horror in his face. I felt a rush of disgust I had not felt when killing with arrows.

These soldiers were small brown-skinned men, shorter and slighter than Mongols. Some looked like Little Li, who, fortunately, was far from this mayhem, back in his village. On the ground, one on one, the Burmese were not frightening. In fact, they looked like our friends in the village of dragon hunters.

W
hen the explosions stopped, the battlefield was in confusion, with elephants retreating or rushing into the woods. Many Mongol soldiers were still on horseback, clearly no longer certain what to do.

“To horse!” someone shouted in Mongolian. Suren repeated it from somewhere behind me. I found Baatar alive but panicked. Relieved, I put my hand on his flank to calm him, then mounted. Those of us who had not lost our steeds emerged from the woods on horseback.

I could see, across the field, that the Burmese cavalry was regrouping to my right. The remaining Mongol horsemen were regrouping to my left. The elephants were no longer a fighting force. It was time for the more traditional battle to begin.

We regained our formation and charged the enemy. Those with arrows left took the front line. They mowed down the first rows of Burmese horsemen with far-reaching Mongolian
arrows. I was several rows back, feeling vulnerable with an empty quiver.

As we drew closer, Burmese shafts whizzed past my ears. One hit me full in the breast, but I pulled it out, thanking the weaver who had made the special silk. Had the arrow landed a few inches higher, at my neck, I would have died. Tossing that arrow aside gave me a feeling of invincibility, and watching the Mongol soldiers around me aroused what bravery I had left. Retreat was not possible, anyway.

Our front line of horses hit their front line. For a short time, I managed to stay on horseback, although many men were knocked off and fell to fighting on foot. In the confusion, I didn’t even know which way to look for the enemy.

I felt a hard thud on my right arm and realized that a mounted Burmese soldier had hit me broadside with his sword. With my left hand, I reached for my mace and swung with all my strength. The spiked ball whacked the enemy on the face and knocked him off his horse. My right arm stung, bruised, but I could still use it.

Suren maneuvered his horse close to mine and wildly swung his mace at the enemy. One Burmese soldier charged at Suren, holding his sword straight ahead. I raised my sword and struck his down so that it only grazed Suren’s horse. Suren shot me a grateful, frightened glance and tried to move his horse to shield me.

In that moment of distraction, another enemy came at me with his sword and knocked me clean off my horse. Baatar bolted toward the woods, and I was left to fight on my feet, sword in right hand, mace in left, a small dagger still at my waist. Many soldiers lay wounded on the ground, and the horses trampled them.

Even as I continued to fight, I saw arms and hands and legs and heads that had been hewn off or blown off by explosions. One enemy came straight at me with his sword. I used mine to hack off his right arm. It took great strength. Bright red blood gushed from the wound like a waterfall.

I had no time to wipe my sword before turning to another enemy, clearly enraged by what I had done to his comrade. I hit him on the neck and he fell. The din from the swords and horses and shouts was so loud that, as Marco would have put it, God might have thundered and no man would have heard it.

Suddenly, I noticed that I was surrounded, not by enemy troops, but by Suren and three men from our squad of ten. How they had found me I knew not. They all had their backs toward me and were fighting furiously with sword and mace. For a moment, I stood still, too far from any enemies to reach them. Suren, whose soft side I knew so well, was wielding his sword with skill and fury.

I saw it coming before Suren did. An enemy soldier, still mounted, charged him from the left, aiming straight at his neck.

“Suren! Look out!” I cried.

Suren quickly turned his head, just in time to see the sword coming, but he could not raise his sword quickly enough to parry. The tip of the heavy broad sword penetrated his throat.

I screamed.

I charged at that Burmese soldier with full force and fury, landing a blow from my mace on his leg so that he flew off his horse. The horse kept going, and Suren’s attacker lay
floundering on the ground. I raised my sword and hit him hard on the side of his head, stunning him. Then I pointed my sword straight down at him and thrust it into that same vulnerable spot in his throat. A gush of blood spurted up. I took my mace and smashed him in the face for good measure. The hatred pounded in my ears and killing him felt good. It was battlefield justice.
One less foreigner to fight!
I thought.

I turned to Suren. It was too late. He was lying on his back, eyes open to the sky, blood gushing from his neck. My treasured cousin, who had taken so seriously his task of keeping me alive and safe, was dead.

Blood rage overtook me. Fueled with fury, I became a mindless killer. I swung my mace and sword at all men in red, knocking them off their horses, slicing off arms, hacking at necks, smashing faces, slaying mercilessly. I hated them all. They had invaded our country, attacked our great army, and killed my cousin.

I felt satisfaction, elation each time I killed. The red of their blood was brighter than the red of their uniforms. I wanted the whole plain to be covered in their blood. The coppery smell of it lifted me, and my arms amazed me with strength I didn’t know I possessed. I swung and slashed, mowing down all who moved. I felt stronger, taller, better than I had ever felt in my life.

I had no sense of time and lost track of how many enemy soldiers I killed. They say we continued fighting until midday. Finally, the Burmese king’s troops turned and fled. We gave chase. I ran after them, still swinging my mace, hitting them from behind.