Chapter Three

                                                                                                      The Renowned General Alakhan

Born of the wind of the steppe,
or perhaps forged in the rhythm of Heaven,
his banner once rippled in the wind,
his name would remain eternal in history.

As the morning sun poured gently upon the surface of the sea like a veil of flowing water, from the edge of the horizon hundreds of sail-driven ships emerged, their thousands upon thousands of banners and standards streaming in the wind, a sight magnificent as though upon the board of destiny itself the pieces of a great empire were breathing and moving between heaven and earth; and upon the prows of each vessel cutting through the open sea under the command of the great lord Khubilai Khan were carved the images of dragons, tigers, eagles, and white falcons, as though they sailed under the very blessing of Heaven itself.

Moved by the rhythm of the sea wind filling their sails, the countless ships advanced in unison, and the vast ocean trembled like the beating of a single great heart, while at times white foam burst upon the water’s surface and mingled with the distant cries of birds in the sky.

Upon the high deck of his great flagship stood General Alakhan, gazing into the distance together with Zevnei the Hero—who had claimed first place in the hand-to-hand contest and been granted the title of “Hero”—and Bulnai, who had received the title “Wind-Rider Warrior.”

“We cross the raging sea beneath the banner of the sons of Heaven,” Alakhan said quietly. “The sea, though silent as a bottomless void, tests the courage of men, drinks the heart, and devours the soul with a dark and fateful power.”

For seven years earlier, when he had served as a commander of a thousand, Alakhan had taken part in the naval campaign of Khubilai Khan, reaching the port of Hakata in the Land of the Sun, and had been among the few who returned alive without being consumed by the great storm, and thus he had come to know well the harsh and unpredictable nature of the shoreless sea; yet from that time onward, a certain doubt had taken root within him.

“In ancient times,” he continued, “there was a legendary general of the western lands named Sulkharna, who climbed the Pamir Mountains and, gazing eastward, beheld the peaks of the Altai and said: ‘In that direction I must never march—for if I go there, I will be defeated.’ And now, in the same way, there turns within my mind the thought: ‘I must never reach the shores of the Land of the Sun—for if I do, I will be defeated.’ Whether this is a sign of good fortune or ill, I do not know.”

Hearing this, Zevnei the Hero, as though to strengthen his commander’s spirit, spoke with firm conviction:

“My general, do not trouble your mind. You are surrounded by chosen warriors alone. We shall show those ‘demons beyond the sea’ who we truly are. Our courage and our blades are sharp; our spirits and our steeds surge with pride; our bodies and our ships are strong. The swords of the samurai will be subdued by our ‘Moon Blades.’”

These words truly strengthened Alakhan’s resolve.

“You are not only brave and strong, but a warrior of wisdom as well. You have steadied my heart. The decree of the sovereign Khan is the law of this world. Even Heaven itself must resound beneath his might. Yet the raging sea listens not to the sword, but to the wind. If Heaven is testing us, then we must answer not with blood, but with courage. Otherwise, why should we be driven like a dream upon the aimless winds of this vast and boundless sea?”

The sunlight reflected upon the sea seemed to bind the ships to the clouds of the upper heavens, making them appear like islands drifting within the cosmos itself. The breath of the sea, the scent of the wooden ships, the fragrance of the wind like incense, and the breathing of thousands upon thousands of men—all blended into a single vast harmony.

Why had General Alakhan invited Zevnei the Hero and Bulnai onto the deck of his flagship? He had placed great trust in these two, seeing in them something beyond even the Nankhiad commanders, who might harbor hidden intentions. This judgment had been shaped by what he had witnessed seven years earlier at the battle of Hakata, where the Nankhiad soldiers and commanders, despite the laws of war and the authority of the sovereign Khan—

It was born of a single incident of betrayal that had shattered trust, and of this he spoke further:

“Seven years ago, under the naval command of the sovereign Khan, more than four thousand Mongol soldiers were led by our commander Shinduu, and at that time I myself served as a commander of a thousand, while more than fifteen thousand Nankhiad troops were under the command of their general Liu Fuxiang. Our Mongol forces advanced first, taking the islands of Tsushima and Iki in succession, and after two days we landed upon the island of Izamu and seized it, after which we joined with the forces of the Guulin state and launched an assault upon Hakata harbor—the principal stronghold of the Land of the Sun.

At such a critical and perilous moment, the great strength of the Nankhiad army was of utmost importance to us, yet misfortune struck: their general Liu Fuxiang was wounded on the battlefield, and so he gathered his ships and withdrew toward the sea, and what followed—under his command, all fifteen thousand Nankhiad soldiers fled the battlefield and retreated with him back to the sea.

Thus our Mongol commanders and warriors, faced with the fierce assault of the samurai of the Land of the Sun and those so-called ‘demons beyond the sea,’ found their strength failing against necessity, and we were left with no choice but to withdraw to the sea just as the Nankhiad had done…”

Having spoken thus, Alakhan turned his gaze toward the waves of the sea, which shimmered like gold and silver pearls beneath the light.

Behind the advancing ships that cut through the deep blue ocean, white foam trailed and scattered away in the wind, vanishing as though it had never been, and the young warrior Zevnei the Hero, eager to hear the account of Alakhan—who had endured countless battles—could not restrain himself and asked:

“And what happened after that?”

“When we returned to our ships,” Alakhan continued, “the wind was calm, the sea steady and peaceful. But as evening fell, clouds gathered along the horizon, and the light around us slowly dimmed, and then a sudden storm of rain struck. Before long thunder roared and lightning split the heavens, and as the sky flashed, the waves of the sea rose like mountains. Then, from the heart of the night, a powerful black storm descended.

Men cried out, and thousands upon thousands of voices were swallowed at once by the sea, and the black storm of the ocean seized our nine hundred ships one after another and cast them aside. Of those, scarcely a hundred ships remained. More than half of the sovereign Khan’s great army was swallowed by the waters of the boundless sea and vanished without trace.

Of the Nankhiad soldiers and commanders, scarcely any survived. They received the judgment of Khubilai Khan not upon dry land, but in the terrible depths of the sea itself. Though we suffered immense losses in soldiers, weapons, and ships, still the sovereign Khan turned all his thought toward launching another campaign against the Land of the Sun, and after seven years, we now stand once more at this very moment.

Truly, the sovereign Khan is unyielding—and this fate is harsh, unbearably harsh…”

Having said this, General Alakhan lifted his gaze toward the heavens and offered a silent prayer.

“If those fifteen thousand Nankhiad soldiers had not faltered in fear and retreated to the sea, would we have been able to fully seize Hakata harbor?” Zevnei the Hero and Bulnai asked, almost at the same moment.

“To say nothing of Hakata harbor—even beyond it, we had the golden opportunity to advance and capture the capital city of Kamakura itself, and to bring the ruler of the Land of the Sun under the supreme authority of the Yuan Empire. Was it not for this very purpose that the sovereign Khubilai Khan sent us to that small island? Had such an opportunity truly been ours, we would not have been overtaken by the black storm of the sea. For the Nankhiad soldiers and commanders, instead of being swept away by that dark storm, it would have been a far nobler fate to die in battle. And now—what is it that we must do?” asked General Alakhan in a grave and searching tone.

Then, turning to the two warriors, he said:

“Brave warriors, to you both I entrust the fleet of the Nankhiad ships.”

Hearing this, Zevnei the Hero raised his sword high and declared:

“Though our blood bears three names—Mongol, Nankhiad, and Guulin—from this moment we stand beneath a single banner. To live under the standard of our sovereign Khan, and to die in the name of Eternal Heaven—we are ever ready!”

At these words, Bulnai, the Wind-Rider, answered and lifted his gaze toward the heavens:

“Grant us that hidden force—neither god nor man—that it may bend to our will!”

To the south stretched a chain of coral islands, their slopes thick with evergreen forests, their dark and ancient woods filled with venomous serpents, and alive with the cries of countless birds; in the valleys at the foot of the mountains, bees hummed as they flew in swarms, insects darted and leapt, and in the clear waters of streams and ponds countless varieties of fish, frogs, and turtles thrived in restless motion. Along the shoreline, several watch posts had been established, facing toward the sea.

On that clear and fateful morning destined to be recorded in history, as the sun rose into the eastern sky, fragments of light shimmered upon the boundless blue sea like scattered crystals, and the world itself seemed to transform in color and form, as though revealing the hidden path of its own vast existence. Beyond the mist that lay upon the blue waters, the horizon brightened and cleared, and upon the surface of the sea thousands upon thousands of sail-driven ships appeared, gleaming in the light—this was the fleet of Khubilai Khan making landfall upon Tsushima Island.

The decision they had once made seven years earlier—to strike through Hakata harbor—had now changed entirely. For the rulers of the Land of the Sun, those far-seeing shoguns, had long anticipated that the forces of Khubilai Khan would return, and in preparation they had constructed along the shores of Hakata a defensive wall stretching twenty thousand paces, more than two fathoms in height, built so solidly that no sinful hand could break it, so thick that even stone-hurling engines could not breach it, and so high that no warhorse could leap across.

There they had also gathered the so-called “demons beyond the sea,” warriors highly skilled in the arts of war.

Yet the scouts of Khubilai Khan had learned of this well in advance, and thus they chose the peaceful and quiet island of Tsushima, establishing it as their strategic foothold from which to launch their assault toward the capital city of Kamakura.

And so, from this place, they prepared to descend upon the so-called—

—those so-called “demons beyond the sea”—to draw them away to another place, and in that moment to seize the ruler of the Land of the Sun and bring him under the supreme authority of the Yuan Empire—such was the golden opportunity they had resolved to take.

The island of Tsushima lay in serene beauty: small fishing boats drifted upon the gentle wind, and the fishermen, their catches abundant, lived in quiet contentment. When they saw upon the deck of a great ship a sharp-eyed Arab man of middle years, with a thin black beard, they assumed that merchants from the western lands had arrived.

On the deck of the ship stood warhorses and guards, and the Arab man climbed to the upper deck, where he appeared to be reporting something to a formidable Mongol warrior. Though the fishermen rowed swiftly, they lagged behind the merchant vessels, unwilling to lose sight of goods that might slip beyond their reach, and thus they made their way to the island.

There they found traders displaying various rare wares. Among them approached a man of lean frame, quick and agile in movement, dressed in simple white garments of a fisherman; he greeted the merchants and revealed himself to be the chief of Tsushima Island. Soon, the traders were invited into the chief’s modest yet dignified dwelling, where they were treated with food and drink, and in turn presented gifts to the people there.

The chief’s son, a tall young man of about twenty years, was unloading fish from his boat, and in that moment exchanged glances of affection with a beautiful young woman dear to him. Though the merchants conversed casually with the island chief, beneath their words there lingered a quiet unease.

Sensing this, the island chief, as night fell, found an opportunity to secretly entrust a message to his son, sending him eastward toward the greater island in a small arrow-shaped boat manned by two oarsmen. As the small vessel drifted away under the pale light of the moon, the chief called out after them:

“Go carefully, and carry the message well!”

Yet as he returned, he muttered to himself:

“These men are no ordinary traders. They must be invaders from Nankhiad—there can be no doubt.”

As the small boat carrying the message passed beside a rocky islet, another swift vessel, lying in wait, suddenly emerged and blocked their path. A desperate struggle followed between them, a fight for life itself, but the ambushers were astonishingly swift and strong, and they captured the island chief’s son together with the two oarsmen, imprisoning them in a pit that had been prepared in advance.

Early the next morning, the island chief rose and looked out toward the western sea—and when he saw the vast warships spread across the horizon, his heart trembled. At that same moment, the Arab man, no longer merely a merchant in appearance, revealed himself in a different, more terrible form, a faint smile curling upon his lips.

The vanguard of the invading fleet passed beyond Tsushima Island and set their course toward Iki Island, and before departing, the Arab man—having fulfilled his duty—presented the island chief with a richly bound gift of great value, offering it with exaggerated courtesy and signaling him to open it.

The silk-wrapped bundle—

When the bundle was opened, inside lay a finely crafted rectangular box, and upon lifting its lid, there appeared a smiling mask.
“Put it on,” came the command.

And when the mask was removed—beneath it emerged the severed head of his beloved son.

The island chief, striving with all his will not to let his face betray what he felt, placed the mask upon himself and fulfilled the ritual of parting, for there remained no other path but to bow and accept. Yet as he stood gazing at the endless ranks of warships stretching beyond the horizon, beneath the chin of that smiling mask a thin stream of blood began to seep—he had bitten through his own lip in the terror and grief he dared not reveal.

His jaw trembled, his face strained against the mask—and a young woman, seeing this, cried out in anguish. She was the beloved of his son.

From the upper deck, staring toward the island with unyielding intensity, stood General Alakhan—tall of stature, broad of chest, wide of jaw, his brow squared like a carved stone, his gaze fierce, his teeth large like those of a warhorse, a hollow set beneath his chin that spoke of iron will, a man who would never turn back from what lay before him.

His fleet had now reached the shores of Iki Island.

The island itself was small, oval in shape, its surface dark with barren stone, its vegetation sparse, its hills low and subdued. Along the coast, the fortifications raised by the shoguns were not overly high, yet they were thick, solid, and extended far along the curve of the shore.

As Alakhan’s fleet approached, a commander of the Guulin state—Hong Tagu, leader of the northern forces—who had arrived at Iki Island more than a month earlier and had been strengthening his position while awaiting the main army, came swiftly by a small boat to greet him. Climbing aboard with agility by rope ladder, he spoke:

“You have traveled well, I trust?”

“We came without hindrance, carried by the blue winds of the sea,” Alakhan replied. “And you—how stands your position? How well have you measured the enemy? From what I see of their fortifications, they are not to be taken lightly.”

“Our secrecy has already been lost,” Hong Tagu answered. “The scouts of the Land of the Sun have learned of our coming. Yet the so-called ‘demons beyond the sea’ are not here—they guard Hakata harbor. Here, it is the samurai who gather in force. Forty thousand stand for the defense of the coast. The fortifications stretch twenty thousand paces, and for every pace—two samurai. They are armed with bows and long spears.”

Alakhan listened, yet showed no sign of concern.

“Now that secrecy is lost, what of it?” he said calmly. “It is not as though we are untrained in battle. Such defenses—we could cut through them as easily as casting aside scraps while drinking tea. If we seize them, will they not come to greet us with the banners of victory?”

“By the command of the Great Khan, we have awaited the southern forces,” Hong Tagu replied. “These samurai are fierce and proud. You would do well not to overlook them. Such is the nature of this people…”

General Hong Tagu of Guulin pointed toward the shore. There, riding a handsome white horse and clad in full battle gear, a samurai could be seen advancing toward Alakhan’s ship. From the manner of his coming, it was plain that he had arrived to challenge a Mongol champion to single combat, and that he was one of those men in whom courage seemed ready to leap out through the mouth itself, a self-offering warrior who counted death as no more than dust.

General Alakhan paid him no heed at all, but laughed in mockery.

“Bare-legged, yet with battle in his mind. Even so, he must not be underestimated. In the heart of a samurai there dwells, holier than the sword itself, a vow to honor and to death. Therefore let him be thoroughly chastened. Prepare three mounted squads from the three central ships to enter the fight. After the great guns have been fired three times, let a screen of smoke be laid, and then send thirty of the ‘Invisible Warriors.’ Let not a single living soul remain within three hundred fathoms.”

So saying, he gave a broad and peculiar signal with his hand. Seeing it, the drummer struck the battle signal—“All ships to war!”—and the hatches of the vessels were opened, revealing mounted and foot soldiers standing ready to surge forth.

At the same moment, the samurai commander Hojo Takakasu could be heard shouting orders to the defenders of the coast:

“They mean to attack—prepare your bows!”

Among the Mongol ranks, a young warrior, hearing the roll of the drum, began to move in agitation, but an older soldier beside him instructed him sharply:

“When a fox runs, the mountain does not crack. Do not be hasty, younger brother. Our squad has not yet been called into battle. Learn to distinguish between the drum’s voice and the voice of command.”

Yet no movement followed from Alakhan’s ship except that Zevnei the Hero came riding forth upon his black stallion. The samurai who had issued the challenge went forward to meet him and introduced himself as Takezaki Suenaga of the Hojo clan, and Zevnei the Hero in turn offered his own greeting.

The two great armies stood arrayed against one another in ranks, while their finest two champions came forth first to test their strength in single combat. This spectacle had long been an established custom of war, descending from the ancient realms of Han and the Hun, and thus none had the right to intrude across the line between the two combatants. That the strongest and most excellent warrior of one army should step before all, cut down the opposing champion with a sharp sword or pierce him through with a spear, was at once a proud display of the power and spirit of his own host and a means of striking dread into the hearts of the enemy. The commanders of the Land of the Sun had evidently long since mastered this art of warlike arrogance.

As the two warriors charged straight at one another, the samurai thrust fiercely with his long spear, but Zevnei the Hero, without drawing spear or sword, slipped aside with astonishing agility and struck the back of the man’s head with his bamboo staff, so that the samurai nearly toppled over together with his horse. At this, laughter rang out loudly from the Mongol ships.

The samurai wheeled his horse about and recovered his balance, and as he prepared to attack again, Zevnei the Hero dismounted, stroked the neck of his black stallion, and with a gesture seemed to tell it, “Wait here,” then stood facing the enemy with no weapon at all in his hands. Furious to the point of madness, the samurai spurred forward, swinging his long straight sword with practiced force, but Zevnei, shielding himself several times with the joints of both arms, leapt upward with wrestler’s cunning, seized hold above the horse’s mane, ran alongside it, and then, in a single swift motion, overturned the rider.

The samurai, barely escaping being crushed beneath his horse, sprang up with speed and strength plain to see. Yet as he came rushing in with his long sword gripped in both hands, Zevnei the Hero met him head-on, and before the descending blade could fall, drove a tremendous punch into his chest. The samurai was hurled backward, blood bursting from his mouth, and fell as though dead.

This astonishing skill of Zevnei the Hero had been forged upon the wide Mongolian steppe, where from blackest childhood he had wrestled with colts and foals and learned to seize a wild stallion by the chest and throw it flat. Samurai who had never before faced any weapon but the sword stared in dumb amazement at such mastery. In this way he raised high the pride, strength, and glory of the Mongol warrior.

Nor did he stop there. Whistling sharply, he summoned his black stallion, vaulted onto its back with effortless swiftness, and then, displaying astonishing strength and agility in the saddle, performed movements such as leaning as though to fall from the side of the horse and springing upright again upon the saddle, so that before the stunned samurai could regain their wits, he had already sped back toward the opening of the ship.

The samurai who had been struck so powerfully and flung backward sat for a while upon one knee, his head bowed in pain—

The samurai tried to rise to his feet, but could not. He sought to call for his battle-horse, yet no voice came from him. Instead, the noble warhorse itself came near of its own accord and bent its two forelegs before him. The gravely wounded samurai strained with all the strength left in him to haul himself up by the saddle, yet he could not mount.

For a samurai warrior, this was humiliation beyond endurance, and the bitterness in him boiled to its highest pitch. Drawing a sharp dagger from the slim pouch at his waist, he wasted no time: he plunged it into his own belly and gave up his breath. From atop the fortifications, the shogun’s warriors could do nothing but watch in grief and lamentation. Yet though this samurai had been defeated, he had at least preserved his honor by daring to commit harakiri. To overcome unbearable pain, to reveal courage at the very edge of death, and before the gods and all others to proclaim the purity of one’s thought and intention—this, it seemed, had been his truest duty. But it was equally plain that Zevnei the Hero’s powerful victory had sent fear and dread coursing through the enemy ranks.

Before the battle began, the Mongol soldiers raised their long song in resonant melody. After that, by the signal of drum and banner, they moved in ordered ranks and shouted in fierce unison:

“Let the savage battle begin! Uukhai! Uukhai!”

Before the sun should set, General Alakhan gave the order:

“Show them what tomorrow will be!”

As he raised three fingers, at the roll of the drum three squads from the three central ships burst forth like floodwater, the warriors mounted on black, white, and dappled horses riding in circles as they advanced, loosing down a hail of arrows upon the enemy, each shaft landing with astonishing precision.

Then the thousands of ships drawn up along the shore each fired their great guns three times toward the enemy, and the thunderous roar and devastation that followed left the coastal defenders shocked and bewildered, scarcely able to answer with more than a stray arrow or two.

Thus the samurai, unaccustomed alike to the powerful weapons and the art of war of the Mongol army, fell dead and wounded in such numbers that all order began to dissolve. Thirty warriors rode in tight circles at close range, loosing volleys of arrows ten by ten with incredible speed, then wheeling back into the ship-gates again, while from many dozens of vessels a black smoke was launched forth, and in that choking bitter cloud the samurai, unable to breathe, collapsed as though dying where they stood.

The masked Invisible Warriors, their mouths covered, darted lightly into the coastal defenses and cut down the samurai—whose eyes streamed with tears and who fell reeling blind—as though mowing grass with a scythe.

When the Mongol soldiers drew their bows and loosed their arrows, it seemed as though even the blue sky itself held its breath. The name of that missile was the Moon Blade. Though dim in hue beneath the sunlight, it carried a pale gleam as though it had gathered into itself the radiance of the moon. And once it was cast with deadly accuracy toward the enemy, the samurai came to understand all too well how it deprived a man alike of faith and of hope.

Yet not every Mongol warrior could hurl it with equal skill. From childhood onward, only a small number of chosen and extraordinary fighters, trained from youth to cast the Moon Blade and to make of it the very spirit and dread standard of their art of war, had been selected, raised, and disciplined by General Alakhan himself.

From within the smoke, a Mongol warrior suddenly emerged and, in swift succession, hurled several Moon Blades, striking down four or five samurai at once. Seeing him through the haze, the other samurai cried out in terror:

“A demon! A demon—look there!”

The arrows of the Mongol archers flew like birds, whistling through the air as though slicing its very fabric, and even the sound of the sea wind seemed to fall silent, leaving only the shrill singing of the arrows to rule the world around them.

Yet some fierce samurai still pressed forward, their blades flashing like steel that could pierce the very light of the sun, their steps measured, their movements precise, the path of their swords straight and unwavering, flowing with the rhythm of the wind itself—and in so doing they cut down many dozens of soldiers of both Mongol and Nankhiad alike.

Even so, in the eyes of the Mongol warriors who had crossed the vast blue sea without faltering, the samurai sword was no more than a reflection of sunlight. For while the samurai blade spoke only of the skill of a single man, the Moon Blade seemed to carry within it the blessing of the heavens and the breath of the steppe wind; its true force lay in striking the very heart of the enemy, silencing him as though heaven and earth themselves had met and stilled him.

The bows and Moon Blades of the Mongols possessed a range twice that of the weapons of the Land of the Sun, and with that reach came twice the certainty of death. The samurai, masters of close combat, did not yet understand this, and so many advanced into what they thought was striking distance, only to be cut down before they could even draw breath.

Like the silent sky and the swift wind, the Mongol archers slew the samurai as though they were but falling leaves. Within a short span, across three hundred fathoms of ground, not a single defender remained alive.

Beneath the heavens, death spread even as the song of victory rose. Slain and shattered samurai lay in ruin, the thick scent of blood rising into the hot wind, while the cries of the seabirds wheeling above mingled with the final breaths of the dying.

And yet, from the depths of the island, more samurai came forth day by day, their sharp swords at their sides, increasing like the swelling tide.

Upon the mist-covered slopes of the mountains, at the crest of Sokhara Hill, the imposing figure of the samurai commander Kikuchi Takefusa emerged through the silken breath of a strange wind.

His crimson silk kimono, a mark of noble lineage and refined authority, glimmered faintly at its edges with the reflection of his steel blade. Upon his head shone the bronze helmet known as the kabuto, forged with divine craftsmanship, and within the edge of his sword—sharpened a thousand times over—he had entrusted both his life and his spirit.

He was no longer merely a man, but a living embodiment of honor, discipline, and the warrior’s code—a fragment of history made flesh.

Standing before his soldiers, he drew a line in the dust with his foot and declared:

“This is our land. It must be defended with our lives. The Mongols must not be allowed beyond this line.

They are strong upon the open steppe—but in forests, in mountains, in ravines, their horses will falter. We shall call upon the spirit of this land itself.

The Mongols who have come here are swift as the wind. That swiftness—we shall defeat with endurance. If they are strong, we are wise. If they strike like fire, then remember—fire is subdued by water.

Let our movements be like flowing water—yielding, yet relentless—and like burning earth—fierce and unyielding. Let your hearts be calm as still water.

And pour all your spirit into your swords!”

With these words, he drew his blade and raised its edge toward the heavens.