They would have some amusement first.
The messenger, still oblivious of the danger he was in, began to address them in a high, ceremonial voice. He seemed to be reciting an official Chinese message with all the dignity he could muster. Gulnar could not understand the exact words, but the meaning was clear enough. The messenger was demanding his surrender. He grinned at his sons, who began to circle the messenger as he spoke, riding so close that their horses brushed against his. It had no effect on the pompous young man and he continued with his long speech. He appeared to be laying down the terms of their surrender in great detail. As he spoke, he did not look at them directly, but instead gazed into the distance behind them. It was all rather comical. Gulnar allowed him to continue. Impatient, his riders began urging him to dispense with the messenger so they could set about the business of slaughter.
He was about to allow his sons to have their fun with the messenger when the messenger seemed to sense his time was up. He raised his hand, as if to say he was not finished yet. Gulnar found this highly amusing. It bought the messenger a few more seconds of life. But Kul had tired of the man’s arrogance and began to spit angry words in his face. Still the messenger continued, until Kul drew his short, razor-sharp sword and made several cuts in the air. Still, the messenger’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
Furious, Kul raised his sword high and struck at the messenger with such force that he overbalanced in his saddle. Gulnar watched in surprise as Kul slumped forward—his son had not been unseated from a pony since he was a small boy. Then the awful truth dawned on him as Kul’s body hit the ground and his head fell away at a grotesque angle. Gulnar had not seen the messenger move, but somehow a sword had appeared in his hand and bright blood dripped from its blade.
An eerie quiet fell over the plain. Even the incessant wind seemed to stop for a moment, until a roar from Gulnar and Bayanchur broke the silence. They spurred their horses forward and drew their weapons in fury. Fu Sheng slipped from his saddle and stood behind his horse. They circled to reach him, but he slipped beneath the horse and reappeared on the other side. Gulnar smashed at the horse with his war-club to get it out of the way while Bayanchur rode around the screaming animal to reach his brother’s killer. The horse reared up, kicking furiously. Gulnar saw the messenger pass unscathed beneath its thrashing hooves and emerge at Bayanchur’s flank. A deep gash appeared across Bayanchur’s thigh, while his horse, pierced in the belly, bucked wildly. Bayanchur had to dismount before it fell. He roared in agony as his wounded leg buckled beneath him.
Gulnar dismounted to help his son. As he did, the messenger appeared from nowhere and cut his bicep to the bone. Gulnar’s war-club slid from his useless fingers and he waited for the next cut—the killing blow.
It did not come.
Instead, the messenger surveyed the scene around him. Gulnar heard the cries of his men and saw arrows falling on them from the rear. He realized they were facing cavalry on two sides. His front ranks were already swarming forward to assist him, while those at the rear did their best to wheel around and face the enemy behind them.
Amidst this chaos, the main Chinese force began its charge. Satisfied that everything was going as planned, Fu Sheng turned his attention to Gulnar and his son once more. They were side by side now, observing the destruction of their warriors helplessly. Gulnar picked up his war-club in his left hand and Bayanchur drew his axe grimly. They were both afraid of the messenger now; he was a demon and not of this world, but they had no choice but to attack. Gulnar began to swing his lethal war-club. The deadly spikes whirred brutally through the air. In two turns, Fu Sheng had picked up his rhythm and anticipated the crude path of the approaching club. He slipped through its arc effortlessly, cutting as he passed, opening a deep wound across Gulnar’s abdomen. Bayanchur swung his axe with savage force. Fu Sheng evaded it with a graceful twist of the shoulders and circled, keeping father and son in a line to prevent them from attacking on both sides.
Bayanchur was nearer, but he hesitated, fearing the messenger would kill him. Fu Sheng sneered at him, mocking his fear. The insult was too much for the son of a Uighur chief and he lunged forward, his axe whirring in the air. Fu Sheng read the crude cadences of his attack easily and severed his arm. Gulnar attacked through a fountain of blood, but he was weak. Fu Sheng slashed his left arm so deeply that it hung limply from his side.
The front ranks of the Uighur horsemen were almost upon him, but he could not resist one more lingering look at the broken figures before him. Their eyes spoke of the horror of Kul’s severed head, the agony of their wounds, the dread of their own deaths, a heartbeat away. It was a sight Fu Sheng would treasure as one of his most exquisite memories.
He took two heads with two swift cuts and strode to Kul’s horse, which was standing riderless nearby. The Uighurs shot their arrows as he urged the horse into a gallop. He hung from its side to shield himself. The horse was hit, it stumbled and fell, but it did not matter. The oncoming Chinese cavalry reached him and parted in perfect formation to go around him. They had seen what he had done to the Uighur leaders and seen the red banners appearing at the enemy’s rear. Their captain had returned to them, miraculously unscathed. A roar of battle joy went up among them as they charged into the barbarians. There would be no stopping them.
They tore into the Uighurs with unbridled savagery. Leaderless and surrounded, the tribesmen quickly fell into confusion and panic. The slaughter was swift and cruel. Some of the Uighurs died fighting. Others threw down their weapons and tried to surrender, but no prisoners were taken that day. When the killing finally ended, a hellish silence hung over the plain, punctuated only by the screams of dying horses and the groans of the few Chinese casualties.
The doctor and his orderlies tended to the wounded quickly, as they had trained to do, while the soldiers pitched their camp for the night. Only when the perimeter was secure and all the wounded had been treated did Fu Sheng give permission to collect the spoils of war. The bodies of the dead were stripped of armor and weapons and searched for gold, silver, gems, and any other items of value. The Uighurs’ supplies and mule carts were added to their own and their horses rounded up and led into a makeshift corral.
The battle had been easier than expected, but there was little celebration among the soldiers. The bloodlust had left them now and they were weary to the bone. Some spoke in hushed voices of the captain’s exploits and shivered in the icy wind of the plains. What they had witnessed filled them with a gnawing unease. No ordinary man could have done what he had, and some whispered that a spirit from the underworld walked among them.
Fu Sheng sat apart, cleaning and resharpening his sword. Even his officers left him alone as he tended to his blade with infinite care. Only Lieutenant Pai approached to inform him that his tent was set up and his meal was ready to be served.
“You took your time today, Lieutenant,” Fu Sheng said without looking up.
“We came as quickly as we could Captain, I assure you.”
“You didn’t stop in a tavern on the way?”
Lieutenant Pai waited in silent dread until he saw the smirk playing on the captain’s lips.
“We searched, because we were parched, but there’s nothing in this godforsaken place,” he said dryly.
“You did well today Lieutenant,” Fu Sheng grinned. “It will be mentioned in my dispatch to General Lo.”
“I was only doing my duty, Captain.”
“Nevertheless, it will be noted.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Fu Sheng wondered about inviting Pai into his tent to dine with him. They could discuss the battle and savor their victory together. But Pai was uncomfortable in his presence, that was clear. No, he would dine alone and compose his report to General Lo instead. It was better that way. Better to be feared than to be loved.
A Second Vision
The Venerable Ananda’s assistant brought juice for him, as he did every day at that hour of the evening. He found the old master sitting in his favored spot by the window and set the juice down beside him. Normally The Venerable Ananda never failed to thank him and often exchanged a few pleasantries too,