The Silk Road Saga: Part I - Silkworm

25 - Battle

Erhi ducked beneath the thrusting lance. Using her diminutive size to her advantage, she leaned inside her enemy's guard and slashed upwards with her scimitar. The Khwarezmid blocked her with his shield and forced her backwards into her saddle. He was strong, much stronger than her, and tall. She had to use both hands to keep her scimitar from being knocked aside. She felt her forearms burning with effort and the look of pure hatred in her enemy's eyes quelled her courage. His horse reared up, beating Sabar with its hooves, but her trusty mare held its ground and didn't flinch away. Erhi feigned weakness, drawing the Khwarezmid towards her, making him lean out of his saddle, then she rolled away from his shield and sent him toppling forward. Use their greatest strength against them. That was the mantra that her mother had taught her.

While the Khwarezmid focused on righting himself, Erhi struck. Gripping her scimitar with both hands, she hacked at his exposed neck. Her blade bit deep into his jugular, sending out a spray of blood. The Khwarezmid jerked backed violently in his saddle, wrenching Erhi's scimitar out of her hands, and his horse bolted away in confusion. Suddenly disarmed, Erhi panicked. All around her was the melee of battle. At any moment she could be attacked and she wouldn't be able to defend herself. Somebody grasped her shoulder and she whirred around, hands cast protectively in front of her face.

"Looks like you lost something" said the old warrior, handing her his spare sword

Rearmed, Erhi steadied herself and looked around for another enemy. Their red plumes made them easy to spot. Erhi saw one with his back turned and she charged forwards, aiming to take him by surprise. She raised the sword above her head, determined not to lose her grip this time. The distance between them narrowed, she was almost there. The adrenalin pumping through her body made her hyper focused. His back was still turned. Soon she would be his. But instead of slaying her foe, she found herself being lifted out of her saddle and toppling to the ground. The force of the fall knocked the air from her lungs. She lay on her back, winded. Her side hurt. A warm sensation spread out from beneath her ribs. She touched her side and her hand came away, sticky and red. She was wounded.

The idea seemed removed from reality. How could she be wounded? She was Erhi, she was going to be a famous warrior, even the Great Khan would learn her name. Being wounded was something that happened to other people, not to her. She tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot up the side of her body and she had to lie down again. At this level the battlefield was a kaleidoscope of hooves and boots and fallen bodies. Dead Mongols and Khwarezmids stared at her with vacant eyes, their souls long since departed for the afterlife. On the edge of her field of vision she saw the old warrior engaged in one to one combat with a Khwarezmid. They were on foot and the Khwarezmid's height gave him an advantage. Denuded of his horse, the old warrior seemed less fearsome. The Khwarezmid towered over him and beat him back. Erhi wanted to help, but she couldn't move. Each time she tried to right herself it felt as if a hand was squeezing her lungs. She gasped with the pain and lay panting on her back, watching helplessly as the old warrior was wounded on the shoulder.

He was losing, badly. If this carried on for another minute then he would die. Erhi had never felt so useless in all her life. The old warrior was nicked on the hand and he dropped his sword. Even defenceless he carried on fighting, dodging left and right as the Khwarezmid stabbed at him. Perhaps Yue had been wrong and they were going to lose the battle. Maybe this was how the myth of the unbeatable Mongols came to end, in the bloody snow of Ferghana Valley. The old warrior was forced to his knees. His opponent stood over him, ready for the kill. This was the end. Erhi forced herself to watch as the Khwarezmid prepared to take the Mongol's life. Perhaps they would meet in the afterlife.

As the Khwarezmid raised his sword, a masked figure materialised amidst the melee. With one swipe he detached the Khwarezmid's head from his body. Erhi felt a burst of elation, the general was here, all was not lost. Jebe held out his hand to the old warrior and hauled him to his feet. She tried to cry out to attract his attention, but the sound caught in her throat and came out as a gargle. The general and the old warrior exchanged a few words, hugged one another then strode back in the fray, fighting side by side. It was a bittersweet relief. The old warrior was alive and the battle was not lost, but she had played no part in it. That should have been her fighting alongside the general, basking in his attention, sharing a few precious words with him during the heat of battle. Instead she was lying on her back, wounded. The pain returned, harsher and all consuming. She was losing blood, fast. Her sight swam with black spots and the sounds of the battlefield faded away and became distant. The last thing she heard before blacking out was the caw of crows circling overhead. The battle was over. The carrion had arrived to feast on the dead.