Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [78]
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