Chapter Thirteen: The Bountiful Harvest
The meal was eaten quickly, yet everyone was cheerful.
Those tribal people had once served in the Tibetan army and had never tasted dried yak meat before. Even the bamboo tube rice was beyond their wildest dreams.
On the Han side, men like Xianyu Yue, Ren Tong, and Song Yuan were elite troops from the Chengdu cavalry, accustomed to far better provisions. Even Zhao Liu, who played military music under the Lizhou camp, regularly had his share of meat.
Yet, they all ate happily because Zhao Huai’an promised to grant them a taste of wealth and honor.
A piece of meat, a tube of rice—soon devoured.
After everyone finished eating, Zhao Huai’an turned to Aqi Mo and said, “Old Mo, whatever I say next, you translate exactly.”
Aqi Mo was picking at the dried meat stuck between his teeth. Upon hearing this, he nodded hastily.
Zhao Huai’an clapped his hands and addressed the gathered tribesmen:
“Brothers! In the past, we suffered under Tibetan oppression, unbearable hardship, but we escaped. A true man born into this world cannot allow such great hatred to go unavenged. Now, the opportunity for revenge has come! I have scouted the path ahead. There are few Tibetans beyond the pass, but abundant riches. Those willing to charge through with me will receive an immediate reward of five silver taels, and after breaking through the checkpoint, a generous bonus of ten more! If anyone is unwilling, raise your hand now. I will not force you and will let you leave.”
With that, Zhao Huai’an produced a large silver ingot from his bundle—the very forty-tael piece he had scraped together at the Battle of the Dadu River.
Zhao Liu sneered upon seeing the hidden silver ingot, muttering, “Greedy as ever.”
The six tribesmen exchanged glances, then furtively lowered their heads, surrounded by the others.
Zhao Huai’an then used his knife to split the silver ingot into six parts and distributed them on the spot.
Afterward, he laid out the military plan to the fourteen present.
...
A short while later, Zhao Huai’an, clad in simple leather armor, appeared at the Tongshan Pass gathering with Aqi Mo and the six tribesmen.
Like Zhao Huai’an, all were dressed in tatters. Of course, Zhao needed to disguise himself; the others were simply being themselves.
The tribesmen began shouting and taunting at the gathering, one even brazenly exposing himself before the camp.
Perhaps from long-term Tibetan oppression, once their fear was broken, their audacity and arrogance became even more blatant and unrestrained—a genuine expression, no act needed.
Zhao Huai’an had worried about their lingering fear of the Tibetans, but it seemed he had overthought it.
Soon, Tibetan soldiers surged out of the camp. With a whistle, Zhao Huai’an led the tribesmen in a retreat.
The Tibetans pursued them to the market's edge but stopped, ready to return, only to see the tribesmen provoking them again like wild beasts.
Unable to tolerate it, the Tibetans cursed and charged after Zhao Huai’an and his group into the mountains.
...
These tribesmen were truly fast runners.
Watching them dart past like monkeys, Zhao Huai’an’s only thought was amazement.
Seeing Aqi Mo panting nearby, Zhao Huai’an hoisted him onto his shoulder, shouting as he ran:
“Tell them to keep teasing the Tibetans behind us a bit longer.”
Aqi Mo bounced on Zhao’s shoulder, eyes moist, but mustered the courage to relay the message to the tribesmen.
The tribesmen howled with delight, their spirits soaring.
That thrill of dancing on death’s edge made them feel alive for the first time.
...
Thus, Zhao Huai’an led the group with shouts while the Tibetans cursed behind them, fleeing deeper into the mountains.
...
Rounding another hill, Zhao suddenly heard screams behind him. Turning, he saw Xianyu Yue and others, armored and charging.
He set Aqi Mo down, instructing him and the tribesmen to stay put, then drew his broad sword and charged back.
Seeing Zhao Huai’an, clad only in leather armor, charging alone into the fray, Aqi Mo shouted to the tribesmen and led them in pursuit.
Zhao Huai’an paid no mind to what lay behind; he noticed that the Tibetans were formidable.
About twenty Tibetans had emerged from the camp: six armored warriors, the rest in cowhide armor.
Xianyu Yue and others had only two horn bows. At the ambush’s onset, they targeted the armored Tibetans.
Xianyu Yue’s aim was precise; in one breath, he shot two arrows, killing two. Song Yuan, less skilled, wounded one armored soldier.
As they prepared for a second volley, the Tibetans reacted.
Without long shields, the remaining armored soldiers dragged their wounded comrade into the crowd, shouting for the cowhide-armored men to charge the hillside.
Zhao Huai’an, turning back to fight, saw Xianyu Yue and the others holding a height advantage, resisting the climbing Tibetans.
Six Tibetan warriors stood on the meadow, four armored, commanding the assault.
Gazing at his own leather armor and the fierce battle ahead, Zhao gritted his teeth and charged forward.
...
The Tibetan commander on the meadow saw only one enemy charging and dismissed it, ordering three bodyguards to kill him.
He then ignored that side, dodging arrows while cursing the climbing warriors.
The enemy’s ambush on the hillside was steep and tough. Some held branches, stabbing downward.
Though the branches weren’t lethal, their clusters made it hard for the Tibetans to climb, pushing them back multiple times.
The Tibetan commander inwardly cursed, wishing he had brought shields and crossbows.
As he continued commanding, a scream sounded nearby. Instinctively, he turned.
One of his bodyguards clutched his throat, staggering back in terror until he collided with the commander and collapsed.
The commander gasped; earlier, he had six men left, three armored—one shot through the eye, already dead.
He had sent three bodyguards out—one elite armored, two cowhide armored—all now lying nearby.
The last armored bodyguard lay at his feet, coughing blood.
The culprit was the lone leather-armored warrior who had charged earlier, now bloodied and gasping, staring at him.
The commander shivered, his mind flooding with panic. The next moment, blood rushed to his feet, and he fled without hesitation, abandoning his men.
But at once, a sharp pain stabbed his thigh. Looking down, a spear pierced deep, pinning him to the ground.
The Tibetan commander wailed in agony and saw behind the leather-armored warrior a group charging—ragged, ugly, the lowliest scum he despised most.
These lowborn, unworthy of even crafting bone tools, now dared to slaughter his men led by that warrior.
How dare they? How dare they?
The lowest-level military officer in the Tibetan army closed his eyes in pain, unable to accept what was happening.
...
But soon, the wailing ceased.
...
Leaning against the hillside, Zhao Huai’an shouted to Zhao Liu on the battlefield:
“Old Liu, no hoarding! If I catch you, I’ll beat you to death.”
Zhao Liu was sneaking a silver token into his pocket. Hearing Zhao’s shout, he curled his lips, about to curse him a coward.
But recalling Zhao’s recent performance, he reluctantly put the token back in the cloth bag, filled with spoils from the battlefield.
Zhao Huai’an’s body ached all over, especially a thigh wound burning painfully in the sweat.
The ambush had been a success. Except for the commander pinned down, all Tibetans were killed on the hillside and meadow.
Though exhausted, Zhao felt triumphant.
Among the twenty Tibetan soldiers’ equipment and loot, the lion’s share belonged to him—he alone killed six and severely wounded the commander.
His three disciples also did well, killing four total—Sun Tai stood out with two kills, Yang Mao and Zhao Hu each had one.
As their master, their spoils counted toward him.
The tribesmen, hired with silver ingots, had fewer kills—seven combined for two kills—but every bit counted.
Aqi Mo was reliable when needed.
As for Zhao Liu, the slacker, no kills but no injuries either.
Counting it all, Zhao Huai’an claimed the spoils from three armored Tibetan warriors and nine cowhide-armored soldiers.
Yet, Xianyu Yue and his comrades, elite Tang cavalry, killed eight of the twelve total Tibetan casualties, including three armored warriors.
Looks like he’d have to maintain good relations with these cavalrymen when visiting Chengdu.
Watching his disciples and tribesmen pile up the Tibetan armor and weapons, Zhao Huai’an couldn’t suppress a smile.
Finally, Old Zhao’s fortunes were turning.
...
While Zhao basked in the joy of victory, Xianyu Yue and the others rested together, but unlike Zhao’s gaze fixed on the spoils, the three were secretly watching him.
Ren Tong broke the silence, exclaiming in awe:
“Our benefactor truly is formidable. Wearing only leather armor, he fought and killed two Tibetan armored warriors. His footwork and swordsmanship are exceptional.”
Song Yuan’s almond-shaped eyes shone with respect as he said to Xianyu Yue:
“Master, on the battlefield just now, I saw the benefactor’s swordplay—vastly different from ours. I heard it originated from a mountain elder; this may be true. Such a man is no humble, unknown figure. Master, you must forge a sincere friendship with him and not…”
Song Yuan left the sentence hanging, but Xianyu Yue understood.
Looking at Zhao Huai’an bathed in sunset light, Xianyu Yue nodded and then rose to approach him.