Chapter Ninety: Pursuit of the Fleeing Foe

Several days earlier, when the news first reached him, Hsi Tung-tsan had not thought it serious at all. In his mind, with Shang Chieh-tsan in command and a sizable local garrison besides, nothing could possibly go wrong unless a large Tang army came against them. And if the Tang had indeed appeared in force at He-pu-lao City, why would they still be locked in a deadly struggle with him at Po-i Brook?

As far as he understood Shang Chieh-tsan, the man was cautious; the reason he had sent word was most likely only to let others know what had happened. By the time the messenger arrived, the city had only just caught fire, so whether to withdraw or when to withdraw was never strictly specified. In fact, events had borne out his judgment, for after that there had been no further message at all.

Thus Hsi Tung-tsan naturally assumed the matter was minor, that Shang Chieh-tsan had already brought it under control.

But when the whole army entered the valley of the Silver Rope River and came into that small plain, they were all stunned by the sight before them.

It was called a plain, but the ground still sloped somewhat. The houses, large and small, had originally stood along the river, forming a well-ordered cluster of buildings. At the center of it all had been the former royal palace of Bolu, his new official residence.

Now, however, that round-domed, spire-topped building had vanished. Thick smoke rose in plumes from countless darkened ruins. The clear river in the distance no longer showed its original color at all; the clouds above seemed like masses of black charcoal, and in the air floated a fine, willow-fluff-like ash. Even as they breathed, they could smell the acrid stench of burning.

What manner of fire could reduce a city to ruins? And who could possibly survive such a conflagration? Could it be that no message had been sent because everyone had perished in the blaze? Hsi Tung-tsan felt a wave of dizziness in his head and had to strain to steady himself, lest he pitch from the saddle.

"Ah!"

With that shrill cry, wails rose all around. The local infantrymen who had fled back from Po-i Brook like men possessed now stared at the disappearance of their homes, at the likelihood that their kin had been consumed by the flames, and could hold themselves in no longer. Their sobbing spread at once, and soon it had passed through the whole army.

At that moment, even Hsi Tung-tsan, who had always looked down on these Bolu people, felt a pang of pity. After all, by rights, they were subjects under his administration.

What was to be done? A cruel choice stood before him. To learn the truth, especially to find Shang Chieh-tsan's whereabouts, would take time, yet the Tang were pressing hard behind them. Had he known the outcome would be like this, he would never have lingered so long at Po-i Brook.

As a Tubo warrior, the sentiment least to be tolerated was regret. Hsi Tung-tsan suppressed the small stirrings in his heart and turned without hesitation to issue his orders.

"Send men to tell them that it was the Tang who set the fire. The Tang not only burned their relatives to death, but also mean to slaughter them all, seize their land, and steal their property. If they want revenge, let them stay and fight the Tang to the death. Even if they die, the gods will protect them. Go."

The Tubo man's exhortation was highly effective. No one could remain unmoved without having seen it with their own eyes. These infantrymen, who had fled day and night in desperation, immediately gathered together with bloodshot eyes. Even those who had lost their weapons along the way snatched up stones and assumed a posture of bitter resolve.

Meanwhile, Hsi Tung-tsan said nothing and quietly led his own men onward. He-pu-lao City was already destroyed, and there was no reason for him to remain. As for whether these Bolu people could block the Tang's advance, that was of no concern. The more locals died, the deeper the hatred between them and the Tang would grow. For a moment, he even felt some gratitude toward the arsonist, for accomplishing what he himself had wanted to do but dared not.

At about a quarter day's march away, Yang Yü's contingent grew even more cautious, because he knew that He-pu-lao City was near. This stretch differed from the river valleys they had passed through before, offering ample room to maneuver. So he slowly changed the formation from a long single file into a loose horizontal line, extending their coverage as broadly as possible.

"Enemy ahead. Change horses."

Soon the fleeing enemy infantry appeared in view. Yang Yü gave the signal to remount without the slightest hesitation, at the same time reining in his mount and jumping down from the sweat-darkened horse beneath him.

With quick hands he untied the rope linking the two horses, then swung himself up by stepping on the stirrup. In this age, iron triangular stirrups had not yet spread, but such soft stirrups were already enough for light cavalry.

Beneath him was a three-year-old stallion, newly full-grown, not yet gelded, and somewhat fierce in temper. Seeming displeased at being mounted, it gave a low snort, its nostrils flaring heavily. Its four hooves kicked restlessly a few times; it was just about to bolt when the rein tightened at its neck, making it rear its head and let out a long, piercing whinny, freezing it in place at once.

Yang Yü took down the stiff bow from his back, let go the reins, and with one hand reaching behind him, accurately caught two feathered arrows. At the same time he夹ed his legs against the horse's belly. The now-quieted animal instantly burst into motion, its hooves flying as it kicked up countless flecks of mud.

In an instant, his squad had completed the remounting and battle preparations. Most of them, like him, intended to use mounted bows to strike the enemy first. In this age, Han men renowned for valor were often praised as being skilled in horsemanship and archery, and in another hundred or two hundred years, the meaning of that phrase would split apart, becoming horsemanship and archery as separate things.

At least in the eleventh year of T'ien-pao, drawing a bow from horseback was by no means the exclusive province of steppe men, nor even their strongest point.

Less than two hundred paces were nothing to a swift horse—only the work of three to five breaths. After two breaths, Yang Yü had already taken aim at his first quarry. He adjusted his breathing atop the jouncing saddle, waiting only for the next rise and dip.

Whoosh!

At a distance of roughly eighty paces, he loosed his first arrow. The feathered shaft struck squarely into the back of an infantryman, driving the body face-first to the ground.

When he hit his second target, his horse had just crossed over the fallen corpse. This time the distance was only thirty paces, almost as if the point of the arrow were pressed against the man's back.

Only in such a pursuit could they manage to loose two arrows. After firing, Yang Yü immediately slung the stiff bow back onto his body, and with a lift of his foot hooked a heavy spear from an iron hook into his hand.

By then, his horse had become the most conspicuous in the entire formation. Right behind him rode his standard-bearer. Fifty men under his command spread outward like a pair of wings to either side, and the whole formation resembled a raptor swooping upon its prey, driving the scattered fugitives across the hills and racing toward He-pu-lao City.

Slaughter was not the goal. The true key to sustaining the chase was to sow terror and keep them in flight.