and salt, as well as the luxuries they had grown accustomed to: spices, elixirs, teas, and silks. What they could no longer acquire through trade, they had begun to take by force.
General Lo in Changan had been alerted about the raids. The general had learned the lessons of the steppes the hard way and did not even consider sending infantry to deal with the tribesmen. The speed and mobility of the Uighur riders made them invulnerable to foot soldiers. Instead, he sent the newly-formed cavalry unit that had been commissioned to deal with just such incidents.
The captain in charge of this unit was Fu Sheng, a young man who was fast becoming a legend on the frontier. Little was known of his origins, though it was said he was from humble beginnings, the son of a petty official from Shandong Province in the east. Fu Sheng had first come to the attention of his superiors for his skill with the sword. He had been unmatched in swordplay throughout his military training and wielded a blade as naturally as others moved a hand or limb.
When the formation of an elite cavalry was announced, Fu Sheng had volunteered, eager to see action on the frontier. Though he had never sat on a horse before, he took to the saddle as naturally as he wielded a sword. Soon he found himself in charge of a small platoon that patrolled the northern border around Lanchou on the Yellow River.
In between skirmishes with the fierce tribesmen, he spent his time studying their methods of war. He read histories and military records, pored over maps of old battlegrounds, and spoke to the officers and men who had faced the horsemen on the plains and survived. He filled journals with notes and sketches of the maneuvers, feints, and ambushes they had used to defeat the Chinese infantry; and he found himself filled with a grudging admiration for these savage men who practiced the art of war with such perfection.
He taught himself some of their harsh Turkic language, and during periods of truce, spent time in their settlements on the pretext of trading horses and supplies. While there, he observed their daily lives and rituals, their customs and manners, and how they trained for battle. He saw young Uighur men, little more than boys, shooting hares at full gallop and snatching up their carcasses from the ground without slowing a pace.
No amount of training could make his Chinese riders equal to the tribesmen in the saddle, that level of horsemanship took a lifetime to learn—time he did not have—but he did have one advantage. The tribesmen fought when the mood took them, forming loose alliances, looking for quick victories and easy spoils. Their leadership was often shared by the heads of several tribes. There was rarely a strong, central command, and once their bloodlust had been satisfied they were keen to return to their flocks and their women. In short, they lacked the iron discipline of the imperial Chinese army.
It was this discipline that allowed Fu Sheng to drill his cavalry for weeks without respite, until every formation was perfect, every maneuver precise, every command and signal known, understood, and instantly obeyed. He spent countless days on the plains, re-enacting the tactics that the tribesmen had used against the Chinese in the past: charging, flanking, retreating, even scattering in mock panic before regrouping for a deadly new charge. He drilled his troops relentlessly, until formations of man and horse moved as one, and he wielded his cavalry as effortlessly as his sword.
When new unrest erupted to the west, Fu Sheng had been sent out with a troop of cavalry to investigate, and he led them to a stunning victory against a far larger warband. It was the first of many victories, and he had been promoted quickly. By the time he had reached the rank of captain, he had taken personal control of the training of an entire company. It was the finest cavalry unit in the empire.
His men revered him for the skill and power he had bred in them and the victories he had brought them. With him at their front, they were invincible. But they had also witnessed his savagery on the battlefield. They had seen his youthful face lose its mask of serenity, replaced by a demon that dealt out death on all sides with a bloodlust that made even the most hardened veteran turn away.
Now Fu Sheng was tracking a huge warband, over a thousand riders led by the powerful warlord Gulnar. After ten days on their trail, his scouts had caught sight of the Uighurs on a dark plain of rock and shale, where the only feature to punctuate the flat landscape was a row of black hills in the west. His troops had been in good spirits despite the hardships of the terrain, but the Uighur force was larger than expected—considerably larger than their own—and seeing the enemy in such numbers was making the men nervous. The savagery of the Uighurs was well known and every Chinese soldier knew he would rather die than be captured alive.
Now that the enemy had been sighted, the riders milled around uncertainly, wondering why the order to form-up was not given.
Fu Sheng ignored their concerns. “Go now, Lieutenant,” he ordered Lieutenant Pai, and Pai wheeled around and galloped away alone in the direction they had come, disappearing quickly into the dust.
The men were eager to charge, but Fu Sheng made them wait. He was asking a lot of them, he knew. The line between bravery and panic was much thinner than most people realized. If they did not engage the enemy soon, there was a danger they might turn and flee instead. But he had trained his men personally and knew them well. They would wait, at least a while longer. He rode among them, smiling, talking earnestly with his men, discussing the fine details of the weather conditions, the ground and the direction of the prevailing wind, bristling with confidence. He was a man who knew that victory was assured, and his mood was infectious. The troops steadied their mounts and waited for the order to charge.
Two li to the north, the Uighurs organized themselves in a loose formation. Three figures in black armor and furs rode to the front. Their helmets were decorated with gnarled antlers, and they carried high the banner of their tribal crest—a fierce black bird, with a hooked beak and sharp talons, that fluttered in the desert wind. The largest of the three was Gulnar; the others were his sons, Bayanchur and Kul.
Gulnar called his sons to him and they conferred. With a terse nod he broke away and rode along the battle line of horsemen, the bloodlust visible in his eyes. His riders cheered as he passed, raising their weapons in the air—crossbows, axes, swords, and war-clubs. Gulnar shouted to them promises of blood, victory, and spoils, and they rose to his cries. He turned and began the advance toward the Chinese position. A roar went up along the ragged line as they set off after him.
The Chinese heard the distant roar and saw the barbarians approaching. Still they waited for the order to form-up and advance, but it did not come. Instead, Captain Fu Sheng gave the order to fall back in a loose formation. There was a moment’s delay as they waited, wondering if they had misheard, but he repeated his order loudly and they turned as instructed and rode away.
Gulnar looked across to his elder son, Bayanchur. “A trap, you think?”
“I have never seen any Chinese retreat before,” Bayanchur shouted to his father.
Gulnar had seen Chinese generals put infantry in front of a river to block their retreat and force them to fight. He had seen them order a paltry force of Chinese cavalry to charge directly into a superior force. But he had never known them to retreat. He himself had no such objection to it and often used a retreat to lure the enemy into a fatal ambush. Perhaps the Chinese leader was doing the same? He scanned the terrain ahead, but there was no obvious advantage for the Chinese in fighting farther down on the plain. He noticed their retreat had grown disorganized. Some of the troops had already lost formation. He encouraged his horse into a canter, hoping to scatter the Chinese into a panic that would make them easy prey for his riders. Then he noticed a lone horseman approaching with a white banner. It seemed the Chinese wished to talk. Perhaps they wanted to surrender?
Gulnar held up his hand to halt the advance. He smirked at his sons. They would amuse themselves with this messenger first, before sending him back to the Chinese with no eyes, ears, or tongue. That would be their answer. The approaching messenger wore the uniform of a captain, but he looked too young for such a rank. He was almost certainly a decoy, Gulnar decided. Chinese leaders never went near the front lines, preferring to guide the battle from a safe vantage point at the rear.
The messenger halted before them. He appeared perfectly calm and Gulnar wondered if he was too inexperienced even to be afraid. Gulnar’s younger son, Kul, whipped out an arrow