Chapter Thirty-Four: Severed Arm

Gao Xian was unscathed, leaving Liu Chengzong with one less excuse to mock him.

It turned out, after all, that their return on foot was because the horses had run out of strength. Earlier, outside Anse City, Gao Xian, worried that the constables might clash with Liu Chengzong, had stayed mounted, watching the situation from afar. On the way back, they’d ridden for another half hour. But when it came to chasing wolves, the warhorses were willing but simply too exhausted. In the end, one horse’s legs buckled, sending Gao Xian tumbling to the ground.

Liu Chengzong hadn’t worried at all when Gao Xian fought the wild wolves. Both men wore armor—though the materials used may not have met the highest standards, it was still border garrison equipment, offering a degree of protection. Against a wolf, as long as you didn’t stick out your ankles or face to be bitten, anywhere else the beast tried to bite would likely cost it a few teeth. Besides, Gao Xian was an old soldier, stationed on the frontier even before Zhang Wu fled from Yuhe Fort. He was no slouch in a fight; there was little to fear.

And so it was. Even thrown from his horse, Gao Xian fought the wolf to a draw. The wolf bit him twice, and he stabbed it twice. He came away with little more than a couple of deformed plates on the iron bracer of his left arm and an old cotton lining torn from his padded sleeve. The wolf paid with its life.

But the pace of the group did slow. Though they hadn’t lacked for rations lately thanks to the Red Banner, these incidents had drained the horses’ stamina. Liu Chengzong didn’t dare ride anymore, Gao Xian’s mount was down, and even the two horses pulling the cart were rolling their eyes in exhaustion. For the remainder of the journey, the two cavalrymen could only lead their horses on foot.

They dared not linger on the road. After bleeding the three wolves, they pressed on, not stopping to butcher the meat until dusk, when they pitched camp past Mudan River. On their way in, they’d seen a corpse by the riverbank, which was now gone—whether claimed by family or devoured by beasts, none could say. Life was uncertain, and for strangers like them, it was of little concern.

“Camp” was just two tents: one for Yang Dingrui’s family of five, the other for Guo Zhasi and his son, whose clothes were too thin for the cold. As for Liu Chengzong and Gao Xian, they had their own methods.

The broken door they’d used earlier had been split in half. At dusk, the two men dug a pit, though the early spring ground was hard and they had no pickaxes. It took them over half an hour to dig a shallow trench just big enough for two to lie down, a foot deep. They propped the door planks over the pit, laid firewood inside, and roasted chunks of wolf meat rubbed with coarse salt, the blood not fully drained. As night fell, they devoured their meal, but their work wasn’t done.

They gathered more wood and charcoal, building another fire nearby for warmth. Once the shallow pit’s fire was covered with sand from the riverside, the pit became a warm sleeping place for the night. The two men took turns tending the fire, and by dawn, they had slept as comfortably as one could hope.

If nothing else, in this season of northern Shaanxi, few people ate as well as they did.

There were hardly any villages left where one could get scallion pancakes. As for roasted wolf meat—best not to mention it. Wolf meat was gamey and pungent; to prepare it properly you’d need several heads of garlic. Ideally, you’d throw in handfuls of ornamental peppers from some magistrate’s garden to stew with the meat. But Liu Chengzong, lacking both spices and butchering skills—unlike Cao Yao, who was a professional cook—had only coarse salt, and had missed the best time to drain the blood for fear of attracting people with the smell. His culinary efforts barely surpassed those of a ravenous caveman with a bit more salt. The reason for eating this stuff was straightforward: survival.

Purely survival.

Perhaps that’s a little harsh, since Gao Xian smoked the remaining meat with salt through the second half of the night. One night wasn’t enough, and there wasn’t enough salt, so after some drying and smoking, they’d need to continue the process back at Black Dragon Mountain. Only when they tasted those strips of smoked, pungent meat would they truly feel they were still alive.

The three wolves were large, but—like the people these days—scrawny, with little flesh on their bones. Hard times had been all too common. When they gutted the wolves, their stomachs were full of dry grass and leaves. Besides the portion Gao Xian set aside to smoke, they ate two meals of wolf meat, and Liu Chengzong packed up about ten pounds of leftovers for preservation.

Not in his own stomach, of course—his would only hasten rot, not prevent it—but by stuffing the wolf meat into a wolf’s stomach to keep it fresh. He planned to trade it back in the village for a bit of other meat, maybe even a chicken, with neighbors who still had livestock.

At times like this, even running into wild game was a stroke of luck. Heading north, you might not see a single animal. The pelts, though not large, were thick. Once home, soaked for a month or so in the alum solution the village prepared every autumn, the skins could be turned into linings for two small jackets, and the leftovers might even make a fur lining for a helmet.

The art of tanning with alum was ancient. Xingpingli had its own tanners, who collected and processed alum every Mid-Autumn, enough to supply all their leather needs. Along the Mudan River, it wasn’t far to Panlong River. On the way, they saw no one, and the horses could barely keep up the pace.

The next day, Liu Chengzong’s group did not hurry. None of them had regular work anymore, and the worsening outside world weighed on their spirits. Walking slowly was as good as wandering for solace.

It wasn’t until they reached Panlong River.

The shallow Mudan River joined Panlong River at a sandy islet, and the water changed color. In the clear current, there was a broad streak of pink. Liu Chengzong signaled for Gao Xian to bring the cart over the bridge, while he himself rode through the water under the wooden span. When they met again on the eastern bank, his face was troubled.

“There was an arm under the bridge. Judging by the clothes, it was a woman’s.”

He turned his face north and nodded grimly. “It was washed down from upstream.”

From inside the cart, Yang Dingrui’s wife heard and, through the bamboo curtain, shrieked in fright, prompting Gao Xian to wink hard at Liu Chengzong. Such a fine lady, you’d think she’d never seen a thing in her life, jumping at shadows.

Yang Dingrui leaned out and asked, “Lion, do you mean there are bandits upstream?”

Liu Chengzong shook his head silently. How could he know what happened upstream? He didn’t have eyes that could see a thousand miles or ears that heard on the wind. Besides, Red Banner was still recovering—ironically, the warhorse had eaten better since leaving the army than ever before, which in itself was embarrassing. If Red Banner were in his prime, Liu really would have ridden north along the river to investigate. But with the horse in this state, how could they escape if they ran into bandits?

“We’ll go home first. Once you’re all safe, I’ll take two horses and go north to see what’s happened.”

The sight of that severed arm beneath the bridge gave Liu Chengzong a sense of foreboding. The brief comfort they’d enjoyed after leaving Yuhe Fort was likely coming to an end. Especially when he saw, on the distant ridge belonging to Xingpingli, rows of wooden palisades and the figures of men behind them holding long spears—this only confirmed his suspicion.