Chapter Seven: The Sinister Killing Game

The leader of the guards faced the enemy without hesitation, making a ruthless gesture to loose arrows.

The seven archers split into two teams, shooting in turns; not a single arrow missed its mark. Each shaft pierced a man’s throat, and no two arrows struck the same target. In the span of three volleys, more than a dozen masked assailants lay dead.

Yu Lang stared in shock, having expected a fierce battle. Never would he have imagined that one side would be wiped out in an instant.

In his understanding, ancient bows had an initial velocity of only seventy or eighty meters per second at most. The masked men were about fifty meters from the archers; from the release of the arrow to its arrival, at least one second would pass—ample time for a reaction. The chance of being struck head-on should have been slim. No matter how skilled these eight guards were, it shouldn’t have been possible to dispatch the black-clad men with such efficiency.

He had seen clearly that, at the instant each volley was released, all the masked men shifted position in unison. This meant either the seven archers had predicted their movements with uncanny precision, or the arrows themselves were somehow guided to their targets—both possibilities too absurd to believe. There was, however, another explanation: the masked men had intentionally thrown themselves onto the arrows—was this a display of defiance?

To sacrifice more than a dozen capable fighters to make a statement spoke volumes of the determination and confidence of the one orchestrating this scene. Perhaps it even revealed a measure of respect. Yu Lang found himself overthinking, forgetting that he was in the midst of this deadly confrontation, not merely watching a play unfold.

Once more, the sound of water on the lake surface signaled the arrival of another group of masked men climbing onto the bridge.

After three more volleys of arrows, not a single masked man remained; each had a shaft through the throat.

Yu Lang put away his hand crossbow. He now understood—the masked men hadn’t come to assassinate, but to commit suicide.

The head of the guards had clearly noticed this as well, but he had no choice but to order volley after volley. He could not afford to take the risk—what if these masked men, once at close quarters, threatened the life of the esteemed passenger in the carriage? Such a failure would be unforgivable.

When the third wave of men leapt up onto the bridge, the elderly coachman, his tone tinged with anger, called out, “Enough. If you have something to say, speak plainly to me!”

Strangely, this group of men was not even masked. Their leader replied in a deep voice, “We are but fishermen. Chancellor Zhang condoned his guards in slaughtering innocent folk. This is a grievance we will bring to court.”

Yu Lang was stunned anew. What a spectacle this assassination attempt was! The real target of protection was the coachman at the front—so the carriage had been a ruse. Even more intriguing, the would-be assassins had never intended to succeed; their purpose was to accuse the elder of sanctioning the killing of innocents.

Chancellor Zhang—who else could that be? This must be the last virtuous Chancellor of the Kaiyuan era, Zhang Jiuling.

At this point, it was obvious—even without thinking much—who in the Tang court could orchestrate such an elaborate scheme against Zhang Jiuling. Surely, it must be his bitter rival at court, the Secretary of the Central Secretariat, Duke of Jin, and Left Prime Minister, Li Linfu. Yu Lang pondered. Zhang Jiuling’s other major adversary, An Lushan, then the military governor of Yingzhou, held more sway in the army but lacked the power to send his deathsworn men from the frontier all the way to Yangzhou.

Yu Lang, quick-witted as ever, immediately realized that as the only unrelated witness to the entire affair, he would be summoned for questioning. On one side stood a recently deposed Chancellor, on the other the Emperor’s favored Duke of Jin—either way, offending either would be fatal. He had no intention of getting caught up in such a losing game.

So, quietly, Yu Lang began to push his cart away, muttering under his breath, “You can’t see me, you can’t see me, you can’t see me.”

The head guard blocked his path with the flat of his blade.

“A Jiu, do not be rude,” Zhang Jiuling said with a gentle smile. “If the young man has business, let him go.”

Feign generosity to win my favor? I’m not falling for it, Yu Lang thought. He despised such hypocrisy more than anything. No matter what was said, the authorities would summon him. Zhang Jiuling’s gesture was nothing more than a ploy to win his allegiance as a witness. Such tactics might work wonders on impoverished scholars of the Tang, moved to tears by the Chancellor’s magnanimity, but Yu Lang was not so easily swayed.

He did not respond to Zhang Jiuling, but instead put on a look of terror, and continued pushing his cart forward.

Eight guards and thirteen “assassins” all fixed their gazes on the boy, but none spoke. The atmosphere was eerily silent.

Walking past more than twenty corpses strewn across the bridge, Yu Lang’s stomach seized; he retched violently. To see so many dead laid out in the open—such a scene would be a vision of hell in the modern world. Yet to these so-called great figures, those lying on the ground were not people, merely tokens in a game.

There were twenty-seven bodies in all. The black cloths once covering their faces had already been surreptitiously removed by their comrades. In other words, whether Zhang Jiuling could be convicted would likely hinge on Yu Lang’s testimony—were the men masked at the time? Masking one’s face might seem trivial, but it carried a powerful psychological implication. If an unmasked group appeared, the proper response for guards would be to demand their identities, not slay them out of hand. But if a sudden group of black-clad, masked men appeared, the guards’ nerves would be taut, assuming them to be assassins, and the decision to kill would be seen as an act of loyalty and caution.

Perhaps some passerby had quietly reported the incident, for soon a great company of officers arrived in force.

The county magistrate, leading the way, removed his official cap and wept before Zhang Jiuling. “Your student is useless, to have let my teacher endure such a fright. A thousand deaths would not atone for my failure!”

Shortly afterwards, the Chief Secretary of the Grand Commandery of Yangzhou, Li Shangyin, arrived. He merely bowed to Zhang Jiuling. “Chancellor Zhang, forgive the disturbance.”

Yangzhou was a first-rank prefecture, and the Chief Secretary of the Grand Commandery held the third rank, equivalent to the heads of the three central ministries customarily called chancellors. Moreover, Li Shangyin was still in office, his standing even higher than that of Zhang Jiuling.

Surrounded by this sea of officers, Yu Lang abandoned all thoughts of flight. Clearly, there would be no escaping this. He could only follow the constables to the yamen, and before the case was heard, he would be treated as a suspect, imprisoned in the jail. Such was the fate of a commoner without rank or title—should one become involved in a case, one would be arrested first, and only released when proven innocent.

Yu Lang breathed a sigh of relief as the officers searched his cart thoroughly and found nothing. Fortunately, during his earlier fit of vomiting, he had flung the bundle containing his hand crossbow into the river. Private possession of military-grade crossbows was illegal in the Tang, and if such a weapon were found in the midst of an assassination, he’d have no way to defend himself against the charge.

As Yu Lang rejoiced in his quick thinking, a voice as low and cold as a jackal whispered in his ear, “If you don’t want me to tell them what you tossed into the river, you’d best cooperate with us.”

Yu Lang felt as though he had fallen into an ice pit; his little trick had been seen through by the leader of the assassins after all.