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army. At the least, he estimated their number to be twenty-five thousand.
    “Why send so many?” Batu wondered aloud, unable to tear his gaze away from the host. “We could not have hoped to stop a third the number.”
    Pe was too awe-stricken to respond, but Batu understood the answer to his own question as soon as he had asked it.
    The enemy commander knew he was sending his riders into an ambush. He had sent in extra troops to protect himself.
    “They know it’s a trap,” Batu said, turning to his adjutant. “They want to lure our other armies into the open.”
    Still mesmerized by the charge, Pe did not respond. The barbarians were two hundred yards away from the exposed flank, which was curling back to meet the charge.
    The general grabbed his adjutant roughly, shaking the boy out of his trance. “Send runners to Kwan, Shengti, and Ching Tung. The message is: ‘The barbarians know our plans. Withdrawal without contact may be wisest course.’ “
    “We’ll be left to face them alone!” Pe stammered.
    “We’re alone now,” Batu growled, noting that the Tuigan swarm would be on them long before reinforcements could arrive. “Send the message!”
    As his adjutant obeyed, Batu watched the charge. The cavalry closed to a hundred yards. Determined not to reveal their commander’s strategy until the last minute, the officers on the exposed flank did not order the retreat. For the first time in his life, Batu wished his subordinates were not so brave. If they did not withdraw soon, it would be too late. The riders would overrun them and cut them down from behind.
    Pe returned to Batu’s side. “The message is sent,” the adjutant reported. He pointed at the hilltop. “But we’re too late.”
    The general looked up and saw the advance formations of the Shengti and Ching Tung armies cresting the summit. They had brought their bulky artillery with them, and thirty catapults of moderate size lined the hilltop. Behind each catapult were several wagons filled with steaming pitch. The artillerymen carried torches.
    “Fools,” Batu said, pointing at the sea of Tuigan. “Do they think a brush fire will stop that?”
    “Perhaps they intend to burn the artillery and push it down the hill to obstruct the charge,” Pe suggested mockingly.
    “They’d kill more barbarians,” Batu replied, eyeing the catapults angrily.
    An urgent din of voices rose from the western end of the field. At last, with the enemy horses less than fifty yards away, the flank began its retreat. As the line folded, companies along its entire length began to withdraw. Batu cursed. He had intended the line to turn back on itself neatly, not in a mass, but he had not had the opportunity to explain his plan in person. Now, the officers in the middle of the line were giving their orders prematurely, and the general had no doubt the result would be grave.
    Within seconds, the Shou lines had become a jumble as retiring units ran headlong into each other. In indignant confusion, the officers began cursing at their men, then at each other. The disarray of the commanders quickly took its toll on the morale of the infantrymen. They began to flee away from the horsewarriors in any available direction. As Batu had ordered, the officers tried to guide their panicked charges toward the marsh, but hundreds of men were instinctively fleeing uphill, toward the reinforcements.
    Batu could not save those men. When the armies of Shengti and Ching Tung charged down the hill, the cowards who had disobeyed their officers would be trampled—a fate Batu felt they deserved.
    On the other hand, those who had kept their heads would need him when they reached the marsh. Batu sprinted for the reeds, calling for Pe and the runners to follow. As they descended the hill, the ground quaked more violently. Screams of horror and anguish came from the far end of the field. Without looking, the general knew the enemy’s first line had caught his men.
    As he approached the bottom