Chapter Fifty-Three: The Starved Wraith

“With the way the Yan’an Garrison carries itself, who’s pacifying whom? I could slap that bunch of useless fools into a pulp!”

In front of the cave dwellings at the foot of Xingpingli Mountain, Cao Yao was boasting recklessly.

Leaning against a tree trunk, Liu Chengzu retorted irritably, “Eat your words. Gathering grain is for those 2,700 mu of land in Changpingli. If we fight the government troops, not only will we lose the land, Xingpingli will be lost too.”

This wasn’t a matter of whether they could defeat the government troops. With several hundred men, women, and children, even if they wanted to flee, there was nowhere to go. And even if there was, others might not be willing to follow.

They were bound by blood and kinship; to let pride tear the clan apart, abandon their homes, and lose their ancestors’ graves—who could bear such guilt?

“My father is giving us a thousand jin of millet—he’s emptied his reserves. He’ll try to borrow more from Xingpingli, but for the next few months, the Liu family’s fort on the hilltop will need grain too. The village doesn't have much surplus—maybe another one or two thousand jin?”

Cao Yao bit into his roasted barley, making a loud crunch, and mumbled, “I have ten dan of grain, that’s about fifteen hundred jin.”

“Borrowed grain must be repaid before the new year.”

Liu Chengzu, arms folded, calculated aloud. “By June, you’ll need another three thousand jin of grain to get by. Lion, is there any sesame or beans left in the old temple fields we can harvest?”

Liu Chengzong shook his head.

Cao Yao picked up the crumbs fallen on the cloth atop the stone and tossed them into his mouth, grumbling, “The fields have been ravaged by bandits—emptier than the dry ditches of Yuhe Fort.”

The three exchanged silent, troubled looks.

That silence was broken by the pounding of a drum.

In Xingpingli, there was a great drum atop the Liu family hill. It was only sounded for grave matters.

Cao Yao hadn’t yet grasped the cause, but the Liu brothers’ faces turned ashen; they rushed outside.

They ran into Guo Zhasi, limping toward them.

The butcher, with a sharp knife at his waist and a long iron prod in hand, handed over a leather strap bearing a saber and a quiver. “Master, people have come into the mountains!”

Chaos struck, but Liu Chengzu’s training paid off—there was order even in confusion.

Women, clutching their children, hurried home; able-bodied men hefted weapons and headed out. Master Liu and Yang Dingrui, surrounded by clansmen, moved toward the village entrance.

Liu Chengzong climbed the wall in quick steps and looked out over the valley, finally understanding what Guo Zhasi had meant by “people have come into the mountains.”

A seething mass of people seemed to have appeared from nowhere, swarming like locusts.

Stretching for over a mile from the mountain pass, hundreds—maybe thousands—poured into the fields, scattering across the valley.

The old, the weak, women, and children carried baskets and sickles, as if frantically harvesting. With each swing, they cut down bundles of fresh-green millet. Some, driven mad by hunger, stuffed raw green shoots straight into their mouths.

The men, however, did not harvest. Each armed with sticks or sharp tools, they banded together and pressed toward the village, driving back the dozen or so brave young men who had rushed out in alarm.

On a ridge a hundred paces from the village stood five or six men.

Some wore half-sleeved mail, others cotton coats and lacquered helmets marked with the character “Brave.” Among them were a constable in blue and a scholar in long robes.

They clustered around a man in a blue cloth surcoat and an officer’s helmet. He spoke to two nearly naked men.

Soon, those two were draped in tattered clothing scavenged from somewhere and sent toward the village.

Both looked scarcely human.

Weaponless, barefoot, gaunt to the bone, their bellies grotesquely distended, the rags could not conceal them.

From this distance, Liu Chengzong could not make out their features, only the bloated bellies—just like the starving ghosts from ancient paintings.

With such stomachs, they walked forward slowly.

By now, the militia of Xingpingli had barricaded the road into the village with wooden stockades. People armed themselves with bows, crossbows, and whatever could serve as a weapon, forming a determined defense.

The militia’s training was short; seeing the endless tide of bandits in the fields, fear gnawed at their hearts.

The bandits had not expected so many armed villagers to emerge, and they too faltered.

Facing each other, the two sides stood off with a gap of thirty or forty paces at the village entrance.

As the two starved men walked, one looked up at the sky, swayed, and collapsed backward, lifeless.

His swollen belly, lit by the sun, gleamed translucent, green intestines visible inside.

The other ignored this and kept his head down, trudging along, making the sunlit path seem a road to the underworld.

Meanwhile, Guo Zhasi had fetched armor from the inner room. Liu Chengzong donned it, mounted his horse, and rode forward.

By the time he eased into the crowd, the bloated man had only advanced to within ten steps of the stockade, moving at a snail’s pace. Summoning all his strength, he still called out weakly:

“My lord is a valiant commander under the second brother of King Baishui. Deliver grain and offer oxen, donkeys, and fine horses, and you will be spared. Otherwise, not even the chickens and dogs will survive!”

The ordinary folk of Xingpingli looked at one another, afraid to utter a word. Even the clan elders were at a loss, casting their eyes to Liu Xiangyu.

Master Liu was a man who could shoulder burdens. He stepped forward, raising his arm. “Go back and tell your bandit chief: I am the militia leader of Yan’an’s northern villages. I pity your hunger, but you have one quarter hour to leave the mountains. Otherwise, don’t blame our blades and arrows for not distinguishing friend from foe!”

Even a clay man has some temper; who would not burn with rage to see their fields destroyed?

Yet these half-man, half-ghost starving bandits inspired not only anger but also pity for their desperation.

Though Master Liu spoke harshly, his demeanor betrayed no desire for combat.

Liu Chengzong stepped up beside his father. “Father, these bandits won’t make it back to deliver the message. Let’s drive them off with the cavalry.”

Even Yang Dingrui, unable to watch any longer, advised, “These people are imperial subjects too. Drive them off; if the crops are ruined, we won’t survive the autumn.”

Hearing his son, Liu Xiangyu still hesitated, but when Yang Dingrui spoke of ruined crops, his eyes hardened and turned cold.

He could not let his own clan fall to such a fate.

Sweeping his gaze over the gathered kin, his eyes finally rested on Liu Chengzu. “Chengzu, there are over a thousand bandits—can you win?”

With that sentence, he had given his consent for battle.

Liu Chengzong, clutching his helmet, stepped forward. “Father, the bandit chief is there—I can kill him.”

Liu Chengzu nodded. “The front ranks and gunners will loose arrows and fire first. Lion, you and the border cavalry charge straight for the bandit chief. The mob will scatter.”

With that, he signaled behind him.

Tian Shoujing, the squad leader who usually helped drill the militia, led the villagers into formation at the entrance.

Liu Chengzong strung his bow, selected three arrows tipped with armor-piercing heads, and arranged them for easy reach.

Gao Xian, entrusted by Liu Chengzu to “watch over the Lion,” followed with four cavalrymen, checking weapons and armor, making their final preparations.

This time, Cao Yao had nothing to do, but he couldn’t keep still. Seeing fear spreading among the green militia, he slipped into their ranks, waving his triple-barrel musket to rouse their spirits.

“Don’t let soft hearts get you killed! These hairy wretches have nowhere left to go. If you don’t want to die, you have to kill them all. They don’t look, eat, or act like people—they’re not human! What are they?”

As the old bandit from Sarhu bellowed “hairy wretches,” the northern militia’s muskets thundered. The green recruits, shrouded in gunpowder smoke, loosed arrows at the starving bandits beyond the village.

Amid the shouts, Liu Chengzong pressed close to his horse’s neck, five cavalrymen following closely behind.

As the smoke began to clear, the three volleys had opened a path through the ranks at the entrance.

His mount stepped forth. Liu Chengzong took a deep breath, drew his goose-feathered saber, raised his arm, and crouched forward in the saddle.

Sensing its master’s intent, the red-flagged steed tossed its head and broke into a gallop, charging through the swirling smoke straight into the enemy ranks.