Chapter Thirty-Three: Workplace Injury

Yang Dingrui’s family was managing to get by.

On the way back, Liu Chengzong learned that the woman in the carriage was Yang Dingrui’s wife, and of the three children with her, only one was actually his. The boy had been found by a servant, who’d heard crying at the door early in the morning and brought him in; the girl had been picked up the next day in much the same way. On the third day, there were still cries outside the door, but the family dared not open it anymore. By noon, the crying had stopped.

As for the servants, there were two: an old maid and her niece. Yang Dingrui’s wife was not a bad woman; knowing her husband had come for her, she left all the remaining food for the two women, who stayed behind in Ansai City to look after the house.

The mental state of the women and children, however, was far from good. Ever since chaos had erupted outside the city, Yang Dingrui’s wife had not stepped outside, and the old servant had never told her exactly what was happening, only mentioning now and then that Gao Yingxiang had come and gone. She knew nothing of the horrors beyond the walls. Only when she saw the constables bearing their tokens did she dare to come out, and when she glimpsed the endless shanties of starving refugees between the sheep and horse walls, she could only repeat to Yang Dingrui over and over, “They’re going to eat me.”

Even the youngest child was terrified. Yang Dingrui’s own son, the only one old enough to remember anything, cried incessantly along the way, howling like a wolf, fraying everyone’s nerves. The further they left the city, the more desolate the road became. At mealtimes, it was entirely normal to travel ten miles without seeing a single cookfire. They dreaded the child’s wailing would attract bandits, but couldn’t get him to stop.

Whenever the boy began to cry, Liu Chengzong would ride ahead three to five miles, scouting the road. They didn’t meet any robbers, but on the way back, as they passed a mountain pass, they came across three wild wolves, gaunt with hunger, trailing after them. Neither Liu Chengzong nor Gao Xian noticed until the wolves were almost upon them.

One wolf lunged and bit Guo Zhasi on the calf, then bolted. Wolves rarely attack people head-on—standing humans are large, after all. They hunt to eat, and they eat to survive; it’s the same for man and beast. There’s no point in risking death for a meal. Typically, wolves bite the neck or leg of a straggler from behind, hoping for a fatal strike; otherwise, they bite and wait, trailing their victim until weakness or blood loss does the rest.

But the attacking wolf was unlucky—the escape route took it right past Liu Chengzong.

This time, he had no swift hunting dog at his side, and it was hard to strike from horseback, so he nocked an arrow. Yet before he could shoot, it was all over: his horse, Banner, freshly groomed and trimmed, lashed out with a rear hoof and struck the wolf’s skull at point-blank range, nearly unseating Liu Chengzong. The horseshoe did its work.

The other two wolves charged down from the hillside. Guo Zhasi, wounded, leaned against the carriage and drew his weapons—a hook in one hand, a short knife in the other—while his child was too frightened even to cry. Yang Dingrui’s wife screamed uncontrollably, though she reacted quickly, clutching her child. Yang Dingrui, slower, drew his sword and shouted to Guo Zhasi, asking after his injury and telling him to get in the carriage.

Fortunately, Liu Chengzong and Gao Xian, both border soldiers, were there. They weren’t afraid—in fact, their eyes sparkled as they glanced at each other, making it hard to tell just who was the predator and who the prey.

Early spring was still cold, and their patched-up doublet coats had been worn for two years, never truly warm. What ill thoughts could border troops have? Who wouldn’t want to line their coats with some fresh fur?

After all, fully armed humans are the world’s only true apex predators.

As the forged arrowheads flew from seventy-pound bows, even the thickest pelts offered no defense. In an instant, the wolves’ charge faltered; with yelps, they turned and fled for the hills.

Seeing one wolf wounded, Liu Chengzong spurred his horse after it, loosing a second arrow. Gao Xian, more decisive, missed with his first shot but pressed on, chasing the panicked wolf down the mountain path and firing again and again.

It wasn’t that Gao Xian’s aim was poor. Wolves aren’t like horses—they run fast, turn nimbly, and are hard to hit with arrows. Liu Chengzong’s luck was just that—luck. Missing was nothing to be ashamed of; the best way was to close in and strike with a mace.

But since they were mounted, all they had to do was give chase. Sooner or later, the wolves would tire, and once they slowed, the arrows would find their mark.

The two border soldiers, caught up in the thrill of the hunt, left Yang Dingrui behind, overwhelmed by the situation. He looked around, but saw no other beasts nearby. With great effort, he helped Guo Zhasi onto the carriage bench, checked his wound, and applied wound medicine he’d brought for emergencies, carefully cleaning and bandaging the injury.

As the bandaging continued, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the distant hills. Turning their heads, the people in the carriage saw Liu Chengzong, laughing aloud, holding a bundle of gray fur—limbs dangling—aloft with one hand as he rode his weary horse Banner down the slope, whistling and leading a billowing plume of dust behind him.

From another mountain pass, Gao Xian appeared, looking more fatigued. He was walking, leading his horse, with a wolf draped over the saddle, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, making it seem for a moment that he himself was wounded.

“All this time and no one’s bothered to pick up the wolf carcass on the ground. And this one, about forty pounds of it,” Liu Chengzong called out, not dismounting. He tossed his prize onto the carriage, then, with a deft move reminiscent of retrieving stray arrows on the battlefield during training at Yuhe Fort, he reached down and hefted the wolf Banner had kicked to death, throwing it heavily onto the carriage as well.

This was the “arrow retrieval from horseback” technique, the most difficult skill for cavalry archers replenishing their quivers in combat. There were two other methods: using the bow tip to pick up arrows from the ground, or using the bowstring to twist and retrieve those stuck in the earth. These were essential arts for any mounted warrior.

The ancient Easterners revered the warrior on horseback as the true all-rounder. At least, according to the Ming border troops’ manual, cavalrymen had to be ready for a charge with a fifteen-foot spear, to shoot with bow and arrow from a galloping horse, and finally, to draw a mace, saber, whip, flail, or axe from the horse’s rump and crack an enemy’s skull.

They were expected to master mounted archery, charging, dueling, and melee fighting—everything.

By the time Liu Chengzong returned, Yang Dingrui had already finished bandaging Guo Zhasi’s wolf-bitten leg. The scholar-official, who possessed some medical skill, let out a relieved smile: “We’re in luck—the thick clothing saved him; no bones or tendons were harmed, just a flesh wound. I’ve put on some medicine.”

“Rest a while and you’ll be fine. Your groom’s leg will be saved.”

Seeing Liu Chengzong approach, Guo Zhasi struggled to climb down from the carriage, but Liu Chengzong stopped him: “No need, just stay up there. Let your child ride my horse. The other two horses are starving and can’t carry so many people.”

He dismounted, removing his six-plated iron helmet, and looked at Guo Zhasi’s bandaged, blood-stained calf and at Gao Xian, who was leading his horse over. He scratched his head in frustration.

To have a newly hired helper suffer a work injury on his very first day—this was hardly an auspicious beginning.