The Jungle - Cussler Clive - Страница 1

Clive Cussler with Jack Du Brul

The Jungle

PROLOGUE

EASTERN CHINA

1281 A.D.

ATHICK FOG FILLED THE VALLEY AND SPILLED OUT OVER the surrounding mountains. Borne on a slight breeze, the mist made it look as though the peaks were breathing. From the ground, the dense forests were just shapes and silhouettes rather than individual trees. No animals scurried on the carpet of leaves and pine needles, and no birds were heard crying out. All was eerie silence. Even the army’s horses were subdued by the impenetrable gloom. An occasional muted hoof stomp was all that betrayed their presence.

Slowly the sun began to burn away the haze, and like something rising from the depths, the topmost section of the castle’s roof emerged out of the fog as though suspended above the ground. The fired-clay-tile roof glistened with moisture. Next to be revealed were the towering walls that surrounded the town. The rampart’s crenellations were as even as dragon’s teeth. From a distance it was easy to see guards patrolling along the tops of the walls, long spears laid casually over their shoulders. They knew the Great Khan’s army was nearby, but they appeared confident that the town’s fortifications were more than adequate.

It was said that in China a village without a wall was like a house without a roof, thus every hamlet, no matter how small, had protective bulwarks of stone or at least stockades of wood. Siege and countersiege became the preferred method of warfare, and its tactics had been honed over a thousand years of conflict.

Before their conquest of China, the Mongols had fought as light cavalry, sweeping off the Steppes and decimating their enemies in lightning raids. But they adapted to the Chinese method of battle, albeit reluctantly. The weeks and months, and sometimes years, it took to breach the walls of a fortified city, using captured slaves to fill moats and man battering rams under withering barrages of arrows from the parapets, went against their ingrained desire for a quick victory.

If things went as planned, and the sun burning through the fog indicated it would, a new strategy would be employed this day that would make every walled citadel a trap from which there was no escape. The few warlords in the region who had not yet proclaimed their fidelity to the Khan soon would, or face swift annihilation.

For a week the army of five hundred mounted warriors and another thousand foot soldiers waited in the forests just beyond the city’s fields. The harvest was in, leaving the fields cut low and yellowed. It would give the archers within the citadel an excellent opportunity to slaughter anyone foolish enough to launch a direct attack. Just as critical for the defenders, it meant that they had enough food to wait out a long siege. If winter came before the walls fell, it was likely the Mongols would return north to their capital and not come back until spring.

General Khenbish had orders from the Khan to take this town before the first snows dusted the roof of his palace. Though the general had never been graced by the Khan’s presence, he would no more disappoint his king than if the man were his best friend. He only wished the Great Leader had not sent an emissary to witness the battle. And such an ugly man at that, with his sallow skin and great hooked nose—plus he had the devil’s eyes. Khenbish did give him credit for his beard. While he himself could only grow a drooping mustache and a wispy few strands from his chin, the lower half of the observer’s face was hidden behind thick dark curls.

General Khenbish, unlike in any other siege, had not constructed dozens of scaling ladders and towers or built trebuchets and catapults. He’d brought only enough slaves to tend to his soldiers’ needs and build but two wood-framed towers placed in the field just beyond the reach of the town’s archers. Atop the towers were large copper cones opened to the sky. The inside of each was layered with a fine coat of silver that was polished until it shone as dazzlingly as the sun itself. Under each, a barrel like that of a small cannon protruded from the wooden box supporting the eight-foot cone. The whole upper assembly, held fifteen feet off the ground by a timberwork truss, could be pivoted and elevated on a sturdy gimbal. Four of Khenbish’s best men stood on top of each structure.

Had the Khan’s ambassador any questions about the strange towers, he held them to himself.

For a week the red ger had stood outside the town’s tall and tightly sealed gates. As was Mongol tradition, a white tent was erected first and the town’s leaders given the opportunity to discuss their surrender without fear of death. When the red woolen tent, the ger, replaced the white tent, that indicated an attack was imminent. When the red tent was dismantled and a black tent took its place, that indicated all within the walls would die.

In the days since the red ger began swaying and billowing as it abutted the road leading to the gate, rains had fallen or the sky had been heavy with clouds. Today promised the first clear weather, and as soon as Khenbish was certain the sun would burn through the last of the haze, he ordered slaves out across the fallow fields to tear down the red tent and set up its more ominous counterpart.

Archers fired at the slaves as soon as they were within range. Flights of arrows so thick they seemed to swarm peppered the ground around the men. And met flesh as well. Four slaves dropped where they were hit; two more struggled on with thin wooden shafts protruding from their bodies. The others ran unimpeded, protected by the bulk of the bundled black tent.

Replacements were sent out immediately. They zigged and zagged, trying to throw off the archers’ aim. Most were successful but a few went down, driving arrows deeper into their bodies as they plowed into the earth. In all, it took twenty men to erect the tent, and of those only five made it back to the Mongol lines.

“Seems a bit wasteful,” the observer remarked in his thick accent.

“It is how it is done,” Khenbish replied without turning his horse. “White tent, red tent, black tent, death.”

“The Khan never mentioned why this town is being attacked. Do you know?”

Khenbish wanted to answer, curtly, that the Khan’s reasons were his own, but he knew he had to treat the man with the respect due his status. He said, “The local warlord didn’t pay the Khan all of his taxes last year. The amount was trivial and might have been overlooked by the Khan’s generosity. However, he was overheard by a royal post messenger bragging of his thievery.”

The Empire was famous for its postal service, with strings of rest houses along all major routes so riders could either switch horses and keep going or pass along messages to rested carriers who were already waiting. In this way news from all reaches of the Khan’s vast holdings could reach him in weeks, sometimes mere days.

“Such a transgression,” Khenbish continued, “cannot go unpunished.”

“‘Render unto Caesar,’” the emissary said.

The general ignored the unknown reference and glanced skyward. The last of the mist was almost gone, leaving a blue dome over the battlefield. He reined his horse around to check on the men waiting behind him. They all wore full bamboo armor and were mounted on sturdy ponies, descendants of the animals that had allowed the Mongol hordes to attack and then hold the breadth of a continent. Each rider had a special oilskin bag hanging off the side of his saddle. The cloth was completely waterproof, and the contents had been carefully mixed and measured by Khenbish’s best alchemist. Behind the cavalry were ranks of foot soldiers armed with pikes nearly twice as tall as the men. The keen blades were honed to a razor’s edge.