Chapter Eighty-Four: Tainted Blood

On the battlefield, individual prowess and will to fight could not alter the fate of armies. In the grip of panic, even water no deeper than a foot could claim lives. When a rout began, not even the best-equipped, most spirited handful could stem the tide. All that remained was to flee with the routed troops and the pursuing enemy across the western slopes of Phoenix Mountain, enacting a desperate escape.

The twang of bowstrings rang out; feathered arrows whistled through the air, felling the pursuing bannermen greedily seizing supplies. Amid the thunder of hooves, Liu Chengzong scooped a child from the ground and swung him across his saddle, urging the woman beside him, “Forget the grain, just run!”

She scrambled up, teeth clenched, stumbling forward, her steps growing heavier—she could scarcely muster the strength to reply. Glancing back at the pursuers, Liu Chengzong loosed another arrow. His forearm trembled as he drew the bow; he knew his aim would fail him now. He called urgently to the woman, “Just a little farther! There’s a way into the mountain up ahead—hide there and don’t come out!”

With that, Liu Chengzong could spare no more for her, racing about like a fire warden, rousing the starving refugees and exhausted soldiers behind him, persuading them to abandon some of their grain to slow the enemy’s advance. He even came across a man who could ride and gave up his own horse. His example inspired others—many mounted soldiers turned back, offering their mules and horses to the weary women and children. All the while, they fended off the enemy with bows and crossbows, all but fleeing for their lives.

Yet despite their efforts, many stragglers were caught by the government troops. Liu Chengzong ran for his life, while Liu Chengzu sprinted furiously along another path.

“Hurry, hurry, stay together! Don’t fall behind!”

Along the official road at the foot of the mountain—wide enough for only three to walk abreast—frontier soldiers, Black Dragon Mountain militiamen, and Tiger’s Waist bandits marched in two columns, weapons shouldered, moving swiftly. Some who couldn’t keep up veered into the barren fields across the ditch, leaning on their weapons as they pressed on. Their line stretched in a long, winding tail, four or five miles down the road.

Every so often, a mounted frontier soldier gathered up the stragglers, allowing them to rest before urging them onward. Liu Chengzu led the way at the head of the column, leading his horse in mounting anxiety.

Plans never kept pace with change. The Yan’an garrison’s response had been too swift, and Liu Chengzong had not followed the original escape route. By the time Liu Chengzu received word, it was already too late; he had to choose a new path, and all his carefully prepared ambushes were for naught. His anxiety was beyond words.

He ran on until reaching the northern slopes of Phoenix Mountain, where he saw dust billowing between the western hills. Only then did Liu Chengzu finally breathe a sigh of relief.

The routed troops were not in as dire a state as he had feared. Ahead, there were even two large groups, led by chiefs at the front and rear, who, though too exhausted to speak, were otherwise holding together.

Behind them, things were not as orderly, but every group had a leader guiding them. Still, worry creased Liu Chengzu’s brow—while the soldiers were accounted for, where were the officers?

He had seen none of the major leaders—Liu Chengzong, Cao Yao, Li Wanqing, or even Chengyun. A thousand dreadful possibilities flashed through his mind, stoking his anger.

Then he saw his father.

The old master Liu rode a little black donkey, surrounded and protected by Cai Zhongpan and several escapees in plain prison garb. The donkey’s hooves pattered merrily along, jostling its rider mercilessly, but the old man rode on, cheerful as could be.

“Father, where’s my brother?”

The old master had already vomited once on the donkey’s back, losing his morning porridge, and now, seeing Liu Chengzu, was so overcome with emotion he could not speak, only gesturing behind him.

Crowds surged past, and Liu Chengzu peered back—he could see only a sea of heads.

No orders were needed; with a gesture from Liu Chengzu, the frontier soldiers at his side understood. The people cleared the road, the cavalry formed up on the wasteland beside it, and swordsmen and spearmen assembled under command, ready to counterattack. A few Black Dragon Mountain farm boys, shouldering hoes and shovels, dug a mound to support their little cannon. Others ran to gather the famished refugees.

At last, Master Liu caught his breath enough to speak. “Chengzu, the pursuers number four or five hundred—they’re straggling too. Zhang Xiong is among them.” A hard look crossed Liu Xiangyu’s face. “Kill him for your father!”

The words stunned Liu Chengzu for a moment. What had Chengzong done in town today to make his father change so? Then he heard Liu Xiangyu nod with grim resolve, “There’s no turning back now.”

It was not a matter of personal disgrace—after two generations and twenty years of study and toil, the family’s hopes had been dashed by these troublemaking officers. How could Liu Xiangyu not hate them?

Liu Chengzong, meanwhile, spotted his brother at last—at the very rear of the column, the most perilous position. He and the other leaders, Cao Yao, Li Wanqing, Gao Xian, and Feng Rang, were holding the weakest refugees together, fighting off the most ferocious government pursuers, and then retreating. Yet every time they fell back, more of the refugees were caught and killed. There were few women, children, or elders left now. Even the government troops’ pursuit had stretched perilously thin.

Seeing this, Liu Chengzu immediately ordered the cavalry to mount and advance in force. The little cannon was no longer the key—the fresh cavalry was!

In the pounding of hooves, Liu Chengzong saw his brother leading a dozen riders charging in from the fields and riverbank. The sight nearly made him collapse in relief, but anger kept him upright.

He was a sorry sight—his headscarf lost, hair disheveled, the top of his head bloodied by a stone during the river crossing, his body a mess of blood, sweat, and mud. His belt was gone, bow case and scabbard lost, only a notched goose-winged saber remained in his hand.

The cavalry loosed arrows from the flank, felling several pursuers at once. Then someone dashed onto the road with a matchlock, pinning a government soldier against the earth bank, leapt down to finish him with a blade. The horse had barely gone two steps when Liu Chengzong seized the reins, hauled himself into the saddle, steadied himself, and rode to join his brother by the riverbank.

Liu Chengzong raised his saber. “Brother, that bastard Zhang Xiong is right behind us—he’s been chasing me like a rabbit for ten miles!”

Liu Chengzu gripped his bow, eyeing his brother’s battered state. “Can you still fight?”

“I can! If I’m tired, so is he.” Liu Chengzong shifted in his saddle, looked back at the cavalry, and shouted, “Come with me—let’s take his life!”

The riders of Fish River Fort answered in unison, spurring their horses across the riverbank, sweeping past the distracted bannermen, and charging back along the road.

Zhang Xiong was still goading his men to pursue, but the farther they went, the more dread gnawed at him. The Lius were far more dangerous than he’d imagined. If he’d known they were in league with bandits and dared to raid the city, he’d have extorted the local gentry elsewhere rather than provoke Black Dragon Mountain.

All the more reason, then, that he could not let Liu Chengzong escape. With such a man loose in the hills, he’d never know peace.

But his troops, lured by the prospect of food and spent to exhaustion, had neither the strength nor the will to go on.

Suddenly, thunderous hooves sounded ahead. In an instant, the hair at the nape of Zhang Xiong’s neck stood on end, and instinct drove him to turn and flee.

A feathered arrow whistled through the air, piercing his back as he turned, the bodkin point punching through his armor, sending a jolt of agony through him. But there was no time to dwell on the pain—he leapt over bags of grain, desperate to escape.

Behind him, a vengeful roar echoed like a specter from hell. “Zhang—Xiong—!”

He scarcely had time to turn his head before a sudden lightness seized him, his vision spinning skyward, flipping over before falling back down. He glimpsed only the bloodstained back of a rider in armor, a young man with wild hair, eyes blazing with hatred and fury, flinging the blood from his goose-winged blade.