Interlude: Waves in the Golden Sea
In the domain of the Jeonju Yi clan, waves crafted by autumn winds ripple across a sea of golden ears. Fields that would normally bustle with slaves bent double, hands busy with the harvest, stand empty. Beyond the farmland stretches a plain where the lowing of cattle has given way to the neighing of horses, and where huts and haystacks should be, yellow military banners and crimson tents form neat ranks. The sun hangs at midday.
Your daughter Yi Bang-eun strides between the tents in your stead, inspecting the troops. Gone is the usual rowdy clamor; a jittery tension grips everyone. The vast army spread across the field hums with unease. With battle looming, soldiers make final checks on their hefty axes and bows. Some pack their gear. Cooking smoke billows high from the camp.
Suddenly, the Jurchens' ears twitch upright, all heads snapping toward the same spot. Two riders emerge. You—the one they've all been awaiting—approach slowly from the distance. At your side rides your sworn ally, Lee Ji-an. She wears Goryeo armor, her ears perked atop her head, guiding her horse with fluid grace beside you. She was in the midst of her three-year mourning, but at your plea, she left her grief to join the battlefield. As you yourself have said, a true yangban would never drag someone in mourning into the fray. But you know full well you're no yangban—just a butcher draped in their finery.
Look at your friend. A barbarian Jurchen who surrendered to Goryeo and shed her wild nature entirely. To honor her mourning, she wears Jurchen armor over her white funeral garb. Yet you don Goryeo armor outside while hiding barbarian cloth beneath. You dwell forever on the edge. Once straddling Mongol and Goryeo, then Mongol and Jurchen, now poised between Jurchen and Goryeo. Life as a boundary-dweller brought gains, but having chosen to live as a Goryeo woman, your past now sows only suspicion among your own.
On any other day, fervent cheers would greet you. Today, silence reigns. Tension crushes the entire camp. You and Lee Ji-an enter the purple tent. Inside wait your children and the Jurchen generals. No sooner do you settle into the tiger-pelt chair than complaints spill from your lips. Nothing satisfies you. Not your own precarious lot, nor the children and troops before your eyes—none of it perfect.
"Anyone seeing this would think it's some ragged band of stragglers. These so-called soldiers, cowering like awkward boys afraid to leave their rooms over a mere thousand foes—it's enough to suffocate me."
Lee Ji-an counters smoothly, accustomed to your grumbling. "Sister sets the bar too high for an army scraped together from peasants. By the standard of your Gabyulcho, how many forces in the world could measure up?"
Your face twists in dissatisfaction. You've proven your own perfection—why can't the rest rise to it, seeking scraps from you? "The generals leave much to be desired too. Aside from Bang-eun and you, there's no real talent. And General Chae Yeong, who should be here, is off flattering the king in Gaegyeong. Tsk." You click your tongue, sweeping your gaze over the tent's commanders. Each wilts under your stare. The braziers inside gleam coldly. With a gesture, you dismiss all but your children.
"So, Ming backing Ho Bal-do, is it?"
"Yes, Mother. Their weapons leave no doubt. Some wear tall conical helmets; Jurchens wield ring-pommel swords. A survivor from Uiju this January spoke of troops with firearms even."
You tilt your head back against the tiger-pelt chair. The Ming emperor gnaws at your achievements bit by bit, tormenting you this way. Yet you're powerless to stop it—or to kill her. "When will that pox-ridden bitch finally die?"
"Rumors of Ming support behind Ho Bal-do have spread through the entire camp, sapping morale. Especially the soldiers from Jianzhou and coastal Jurchens—they're shrinking back. Some tried slipping away and got caught."
"Chop a few heads as examples, hang them up. And fetch the map."
Yi Bang-an retrieves a large map from the corner, unfurling it on the rack. Yi Bang-eun traces a finger along Ho Bal-do's path. "Like Naha-chu before, she seems to have come via Gaema Plateau through Hwangcho Pass. Her mastery of this terrain suggests she's the Jurchen chieftain who succeeded Naha-chu, raiding and abducting from Dongbuk-myeon."
Yi Bang-an is one of the few daughters who meets your exacting standards. You believe that if any could succeed you, better the second-born, with her Han-like sharp features, than the eldest. Is this a repeat of how you supplanted the sister who should have been clan head? You stare hard at the map.
"Gaegyeong's bureaucrats are pest enough on my lands. Where's Ho Bal-do now?"
"About forty ri north of our position. Will Mother arm herself and lead?"
"Yes. Bring my bow and sword."
You rise and head out. Yi Bang-an hands you the sword, bow, and quiver as you walk; you buckle them on one by one. You know what to do when morale crumbles before battle even joins. You mount the central platform.
"We've shared countless fields of battle, you and I. Would you flee from me over one Jurchen chieftain? Must I prove my archery anew for you to follow?"
From the quiver on your back, you draw a palm-length arrow tipped with heavy iron. The bowstring tautens to its limit. The shaft rends the air, striking true the tip of the distant banner pole at the camp's edge.
"Any who wish to desert, step forward."
No one moves. "No courage to step up, yet you claim the guts to betray me? I will ride out alone for single combat with Ho Bal-do. Join me now, and I overlook your desertion. Ignore this and flee—my arrows will find your backs, not hers."
The soldiers murmur. Lee Ji-an steps up first to bolster you. Hesitant Jurchen chieftains follow her lead. Your face impassive, you descend the platform. You believe fear the surest reins for command.
The midday sun has dipped west; a pale moon gleams faintly in the dusk. Shapes emerge beyond the northern horizon. Mostly mounted Jurchens. At the center, a woman wearing a necklace of strung fingers. The wind carries south the stench of blood from hundreds.
You load a paper-wrapped armor-piercing arrow. Ho Bal-do's army advances into your bow's range. Close enough to discern the Mongol vanguard's faces, you loose. The arrow defies the wind, punching the lead rider's left eye. She topples dead from her horse. One.
The next horse trips on the corpse. Chaos ripples back, steeds colliding. You loose again. An nameless Jurchen's right eyeball bursts. Again—the same woman's throat fills with bloody froth.
Jurchen archers hastily return fire. Their arrows fall short like rain failing to breach the eaves, harmless before your lines. One sharp-eyed Jurchen wrenches your arrow from a corpse. Before she deciphers the script, your shaft pierces from right ear to left. Dead.
As your arrow flies, you nock the next. With every two breaths, a Jurchen dies. Others thrust and draw their bows. Most shafts strike horses, not men. steeds rear and tangle. A Jurchen before Ho Bal-do takes an arrow through the ear. Ho Bal-do reads the tag. A terse line in Jurchen script. She thinks you mad.
Her troops part, clearing a path. Ho Bal-do appears, ring-pommel sword lowered. Red-brown hair, ears protruding from her cap. The armies face off afar. From your side, Lee Ji-an rides forth, long sword in hand. Silver hair sways gently. They close. Near enough for names, they circle warily, orbits tightening.
Ho Bal-do swings first. Long sword clashes midair with ring-pommel blade, again and again. Lee Ji-an bats away the thrusting sword from afar. Parallel gallops: thrust, parry, repeat. You ache to advise her—target the wrist.
Ho Bal-do chops downward. Lee Ji-an angles her blade, deflecting—the steel sparks. She slashes at the off-balance foe. A hank of red-brown hair shears free. Ho Bal-do slams her sword into the earth, rebounding upright. Your heart races with dread.
Lee Ji-an presses to finish. Her blade carves a diagonal arc. Ho Bal-do parries up. Metal shrieks. The lighter long sword flies. You yank your reins hard. The ring-pommel plunges toward Lee Ji-an's exposed chest. She tumbles left—no spray of blood, not fatal.
Ho Bal-do wheels for the kill. Her horse bears down. From your galloping mount, you draw and loose. The arrow knocks the blade aside. Ho Bal-do recoils. You sling your bow, draw your curved sword one-handed. Ring-pommel meets curve in trial of skill.
Strength fails you. Each time she presses with the blade's weight, you brace two-handed. Denying her distance, you dart inside the shaft, hammering the inner grip. Steel clashes, clashes again. Relentlessly, you target her wrist. She yields a gap—you carve deep into it. The ring-pommel drops.
Ho Bal-do turns, seizing reins with her good hand. You hurl your sword, nock and loose. The arrow skewers her ankle. Her watching army charges. You scoop the fallen Lee Ji-an and withdraw swiftly. Gabyulcho countercharges. The difference between leaderless rabble and commanded steel is stark. Ho Bal-do's host is slaughtered. She flees, wits scattered, barely escaping. Remnants scatter.
Orange sunset gilds the golden fields. Gabyulcho mount up to hunt the routed Jurchens. One flees blindly, hiding in a field ridge. Caught fugitives are trampled, flesh torn by hooves, pulped to meat. The survivor crawls inch by inch from the slaughterhouse battlefield.
Stars embroider the night sky; dawn dew beads the leaves. A full day passes; river sighted beyond the ford. The Jurchen dashes to the bank, scoops water. Behind her, a voice asks: "Any slaves for sale? Ideally, ones your clan took from our house."
The Jurchen turns, face twisted in terror. He grins wickedly.