He and his men jogged through the firelit camp. They were his handpicked elite, nine men who had each killed as many as he—men who would not balk or hesitate at his slightest command. Like him, they understood their duty—they were as defined by it as he was. They were Mongols.
Camp followers and other soldiers scurried past Munokhoi’s arban as they fought the scattered fires: tamping down blazes with thick blankets, pouring protective circles of water or sour milk (any liquid they could get their hands on) around burning tents, hauling cargo and livestock to safer locations. Ash hung in the heated air; what little wind there was this night spent itself in confusion, blown back and forth by the small fires.
The heat felt good on Munokhoi’s bare head. His sword glistened orange-red in the ruddy light as if it were already covered in blood. He held his buckler loosely in his left hand, almost unconscious of its presence. He did not expect to need it.
Whoever the attackers were, they may have been bold and clever, but he knew they were cowards. They had sown panic and fear with their aerial bombardment, and might even be using the confusion and darkness to cover their assault, but these tactics were the refuge of frightened men. They did not have the superiority of numbers or skill; otherwise, they would not have hidden behind such tactics. They knew they were attacking the Khagan’s Imperial Guard—warriors without peers across the steppes—and they had already shown their fear.
They knew they were going to die, and Munokhoi was only too happy to help them meet their end. There would be no glory for these craven ambushers. They would all die in the night; by morning, the only thing left would be leaking corpses. Carrion feed.
He couldn’t help but hope that he might run across Gansukh. He had seen the bastard whelp run off to chase after the scheming Chinese bitch. He knew those two were plotting something—he had had men watching them both but had not learned anything useful enough to warrant alerting the Khagan or Master Chucai. It would be better if some accident befell them. In the aftermath of this battle, no one would question two more dead bodies. Unfortunate victims of the nighttime raid.
His hand tightened on his sword, and a wicked smile crossed his face. He’d prefer to kill them himself, of course, and the fantasy of cutting either or both of their heads off only fueled his bloodlust.
They passed beyond the last row of tents, and as one, Munokhoi’s arban picked up speed. They were in open terrain now, and like wolves who had spotted their prey, they were eager to bring the battle to the enemy.
An enemy that was coming to meet them too.
The fires behind them scattered light across the armor of the approaching warriors. Chinese soldiers, Munokhoi noted, their armor ragged and mismatched. Only a few had plumes atop their pointed helmets. Far from home and so desperate in their attempt on the Khagan’s life, he thought as he pointed his sword. None of their families will ever know where they died. When he shouted the command to attack, his voice almost broke with laughter.
The Chinese were charging too, a lumbering line of spears and swords that seemed no more threatening than an annoyingly thorny hedge. Baring his teeth, Munokhoi ran ahead of his arban, exulting in the lust for battle. As he closed with the line of soldiers, he saw isolated faces more clearly: faces twisted with desperation, eyes wide with barely contained panic, mouths already flopping and panting, like tired hounds.
He swung his sword and felt it slide off a shoulder guard and bite deep into the flesh beneath. As the Chinese man stumbled, Munokhoi kicked him in the leg. He screamed with delight as the man fell to the dirt, and after he wrenched his sword free, he stomped on the flailing soldier until he felt bones break under his heel.
Another soldier came at him, and he raised his buckler to block the man’s wild swing. The impact jarred his arm, and he swept his buckler wide to brush his assailant’s sword away. But there was no need. His assailant was staring dumbly at the spurting stump of his own arm. One of Munokhoi’s men had severed the arm with a massive stroke, leaving the Chinese man shocked and defenseless. His last moment was spent vainly trying to find his missing arm before Munokhoi’s sword sliced through his throat and ended the search.
Munokhoi caught his man’s eye and nodded in recognition. The Mongol grinned back, pleased to have both served and been acknowledged by his master; in the next second, his expression changed as a great thunder shattered the night air.
The Mongol was wrenched off his feet, his upper body snapping backward as if he had been struck by the fist of a vengeful spirit. He sprawled on the ground, dead, his chest a shattered mess of leather, bone, and steaming fragments of some black material. The air was heavy with an acrid smoke, something fouler than the smoke stench from the burning tents. It was a stink Munokhoi knew, but it took him a few seconds to place it.
Chinese black powder.
They would fill clay pots with the powder, as well as rocks and shards of metal. Coupled with a fuse, these pots were smoking bombs that exploded, hurling their contents into a mass of attackers with devastating effects. Many a Chinese citadel required more effort—and more men—than expected due to these Chinese firebombs.
It hadn’t been a pot that had killed his man but something else. Something that threw metal and black powder, almost like a catapult but not unlike a crossbow.