Chương 69: Battle of Ningjiang

Amokjin (阿木真) was a gentle young man. He had not yet fully known the harshness of the world. He farmed well, managed servants competently, and was a decent hunter. When the raiders of the Xi tribe came, he sent his family up into the mountains first. They had begun taking people now. While he was tidying the house, his eyes met one of them over the brushwood fence. Amokjin smiled. He expected the man to smile back. Instead, the man frowned. A frown in the face of a smile. Amokjin found it strange.

Had they lived in the same village, he would not have spared him a glance. The man shouted.

"Attack!" In an instant, cavalry surrounded the house. Spears struck the fence, and the thatched roof was set aflame.

"Take what you want."

"Do you take us for beggars?"

"Did you not come because you lack for winter? You must prepare in summer—""Shut up!" Their voices crossed over the fence. The man's anger carried through.

"I only meant—" They broke down the fence and stormed in. Everything in sight was smashed. It was less plunder than fury.

"Where are the others?" Amokjin answered.

"I sent them away."

"Where?" You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"I cannot tell you."

"Tell me!" The spear came thrusting. Amokjin twisted his body and avoided it. He seized the shaft and wrenched it aside. The rider who lost his spear erupted in rage.

"He resists!" Resists. The word sounded unfamiliar. The others rushed him. Amokjin tore the spear free and swung it. He struck a horse. The animal reared, the rider screamed. Another rider was shoved aside. The enemy leader drew his blade. There was no avoiding it. No stopping it. Amokjin closed his eyes. So this is how it ends. It was all right. His family had lived. A sharp sound split the air. A scream followed. Then the cry of a horse. The thud of a body hitting the ground. Amokjin opened his eyes.

Arrows were lodged in the raiders. One who had been swinging his blade collapsed with an arrow through his neck. Blood surged. Amokjin turned. Heavy cavalry in silver armor surged forward, their formation intact like a rising tide. Behind them, a banner flew— the banner of the Khan.

"Ah—" He staggered up, waving his hand. A visor lifted.

"Are you unharmed?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Who are you?"

"Your own people."

"…Thank you." A young commander called out.

"Up. We ride to fight." Amokjin's eyes widened. We ride to fight. Not to flee. Not to endure.

"To fight."

"I will come as well."

"Of course." Amokjin gathered what he could and fell in behind them. About twenty-five hundred cavalry. The man who had saved him asked,"How many are they?"

"Just under five thousand."

"How do you know?" Amokjin pointed across the plain.

"From that ridge to the other—ten thousand mounts. Half of that."

"Good." The drums began to sound. Dum—dum.

Ningjiang lay upon the plains by the Songhua River. A place of river and field— easy to govern. An administrative stronghold. A place raiders used as a base. A gateway— from Khitan lands into Jurchen territory. The terrain favored cavalry. Traffic converged here. Aguda chose this place for a reason. They would gather here, eventually. Strike here— and those scattered across the land would collapse. Even if Liao questioned it, it could be said they had struck at raiders.

Two thousand five hundred riders surged forward. They changed horses as they rode. The charge mounts remained untouched. Wugaimai asked,"What is the plan?"

"They are raiders. No plan is needed. We strike." Wugaimai laughed.

"Raiders. We strike." The words spread.

"We strike."

"We strike." As the words passed, shoulders straightened. At Ningjiang, there were few enemies. They had scattered— raiding elsewhere. Ningjiang (寧江州): Present-day Songyuan, Jilin Province, along the Songhua River The river lay frozen. The water had retreated beneath the ice. Wind swept across its surface. Snow did not settle. It scattered. Reeds stood dry, their tips trembling. The ground was hard. Frozen above, damp below. Footsteps cracked faint ice. Paths were pressed into the snow. Those traces became roads.

The sky was overcast. Light spread thinly. The wind was relentless. Nothing stood to block it. Breath turned white in the air. Sound carried far. There was nowhere to hide. Winter revealed everything. The walls were not high. Earth and timber outweighed stone. Snow softened their outline. The gate stood open before a wide clearing. Foot traffic had darkened the snow. Guards stood upon the gate tower. The cold moved through their clothing. Inside, the roads ran straight. Ice slicked the ground.

Government buildings clustered at the center. Icicles hung from their eaves. Officials stood at the doors, records in hand, their fingers trembling. Granaries were low and wide. Grain, hay, and supplies were stacked in order. In the stables, horses breathed steam. Metal fittings clinked. The market was small, yet people gathered. Salt, hides, dried meat— necessities only. Smoke rose constantly. Gray strands spread beneath the low sky. This place was not grand. But it did not stop.

People and goods moved through it without cease, keeping the small city alive.