003. Slaying the Enemy

One hundred and eighty miles northwest of Youzhou, in the vast desert, two cavalry units of vastly unequal numbers were locked in fierce pursuit and combat. The pursuers, superior in both numbers and morale, were clad in leather robes and armor, their heads protected by fur-lined caps with earflaps. Each man wielded a curved saber and bore a simple yet effective cavalry short bow.

The pursued were less than a third the size of their foes, arrayed in Tang army-issue mirror-bright cavalry armor. Their spirits were flagging, their sole concern now to flee; their situation was desperate and chaotic.

From dawn until nearly noon, the two forces had clashed relentlessly. Of the one hundred Tang cavalrymen, only a dozen survived; yet the pursuing Shatuo riders, who had started with two hundred, were now reduced to fewer than sixty.

Ahead lay a mountain gorge known locally as Gourd Valley—a place with a narrow entrance and a wide interior, a dead-end into which one might enter but never escape.

Pressed hard by the relentless Shatuo, some of the Tang soldiers, panicked and heedless, charged straight into the Gourd Valley.

At the mouth of the valley, the Shatuo pursuers slowed their mounts, then over forty riders surged ahead, thundering into the gorge, while the remaining twelve reined in at the entrance.

Once inside, the Shatuo kept up their speed, sweeping after the surviving Tang cavalry like a storm scouring the desert, driving them down to the very floor of the Gourd Valley. With their way now blocked, the Tang soldiers wheeled their horses, forming up for a final stand. Their arrows spent, they gripped their sabers tightly, ready to sell their lives dearly against the Shatuo.

"Yo-he, yo-he!" came the guttural cries.

The Shatuo cavalry paused only a moment to form an assault line, then launched their final charge on the beleaguered enemy. Though they styled themselves warriors, on the battlefield the Shatuo fought with the pragmatism of desert jackals—eschewing vain displays for ruthless efficiency.

A volley of arrows whistled out, dropping seven or eight Tang riders from their saddles. The survivors spurred their horses forward, taking the offensive, charging the Shatuo with desperate courage.

Another flight of Shatuo arrows cut down two or three more. Now the distance was too close for bows—sabers flashed as the Shatuo slung their bows and closed in, encircling the remaining Tang in a crescent formation.

This was their time-honored formation for hunting or raiding, perfected by long practice. Seeing their prey so hopelessly trapped, the Shatuo riders' faces twisted into savage grins.

Flush with confidence, the Shatuo were like mantises stalking cicadas, their eyes fixed on their quarry, oblivious to the oriole lurking behind.

A sudden sharp hiss split the air—a feather-fletched arrow tore through the silence.

Among the twelve Shatuo at the gorge entrance, one man abruptly toppled from his saddle, a carved-feather arrow embedded in his throat. On the steppe, only a master archer had the right to use such arrows; to strike so suddenly, hidden and treacherous, was the signature of either Shatuo or Tang.

Caught off guard, the Shatuo instantly realized they had fallen into a Tang ambush. Yet they did not panic; turning their mounts, they formed a circle shield formation and began a rapid retreat.

"Hiss! Hiss! Hiss!" Three more feathered arrows flew, felling three more riders.

"Whoosh! Whoosh!" The Shatuo's own master archers shot back, their arrows no less deadly—there seemed to be a muffled grunt as one of the ambushers fell.

Suddenly, a small Tang cavalry unit of six appeared to the Shatuo’s left. Though few, they were formidable—one among them never missed, clearly a true master. The Shatuo were undaunted: after all, they had many marksmen, while the enemy boasted only one.

At a hundred paces, the two sides exchanged a deadly volley.

The Shatuo felled the five Tang who were not master archers, but lost four of their own in return. Most troubling, the Tang’s lone master seemed protected by some spirit—riding boldly, untouched by arrow or blade. Forced to adapt, the Shatuo focused their fire, finally shooting down his horse. Undeterred, the Tang archer stood his ground, loosing arrows at his foes from the earth.

It was uncanny—he stood exposed, yet Shatuo arrows always whistled past him, while his own found their mark each time. At last, the remaining Shatuo became convinced he was divinely protected, and chose not to engage him further. Instead, they formed a defensive triangle around one comrade and hurried away.

Only then did Liu Motong, who had been watching from the hillside, allow a faint smile to touch his lips.

Unhurried, he drew his carved greatbow and calmly nocked a golden-fletched arrow.

The golden arc split the sky, swift as death’s messenger.

The Shatuo warrior they shielded suddenly crumpled from his horse.

Time itself seemed to freeze. With their leader fallen, the three Shatuo guardians sat stunned. Then, as if compelled, they returned to where their chief had fallen, forming a triangle around him. Silently, they discarded their bows and knelt.

They removed their belts, slung-off satchels, gold chains, rings, and jade pendants, stripped off their protective beads, bared their chests, and gripped their curved sabers. With eyes closed, they plunged their blades into their chests, drawing the edge down to open their bellies. In their last moments, each reached into the wound, drawing out their own entrails and laying them before their khan. Blood poured forth, and the three Shatuo warriors died where they knelt.

Thus ended the life of the Shatuo khan Rambu Chixin, who for three years had terrorized the northwest and sent a hundred thousand souls to their graves—his blood staining the yellow sands.

Three years before, the man known as the Wolf Lord of the Mountains, Rambu Chixin, had been driven by the Khitans to lead ten thousand followers into Hexi. He seized Youzhou, slew the governor and all officials and soldiers, taking over a thousand lives, and carried off 14,800 townsfolk—shaking the northwest to its core.

The acting Minister of Works and Duke of Qi—Liu Zhen, the Military Commissioner of Jiannan, who was then convalescing in Chang’an—took command and set forth. He joined forces with the armies of Xia, Sui, Shuofang, and Bin-Ning, mustering 130,000 men against Rambu Chixin.

Liu Zhen was a veteran of many campaigns, cunning and calculating. He laid an ironclad trap across the vast lands of Hexi, implementing scorched earth tactics that left Rambu Chixin’s forces starving and their mounts spent. Seizing the opportunity, Liu struck decisively. After several bloody battles, Rambu Chixin’s men were routed, their strongholds and walled camps lost, their fortresses seized, their tents fired by Tang soldiers; slaves, families, and years of plundered wealth vanished in moments.

The Shatuo soon realized that, though the Tang dynasty had declined, they themselves were still no match for its might. Direct confrontation was futile—they needed another way.

Under Rambu Chixin’s guidance, the Shatuo split into small bands, playing a game of cat and mouse across the vast northwest steppe and desert. This shift changed everything—now they led the Tang armies on a wild chase, regaining Youzhou and, in turn, capturing Xiazhou and Yinzhou.

The Tang suffered heavy losses and were forced to contract their lines. The Shuofang army withdrew to Yanzhou and stood idle, the Xia-Sui troops dug in at Suizhou, not daring to advance.

Across the northwest, only Liu Zhen endured. Defeat after defeat drove the mercurial emperor in Chang’an to fits of rage; in his fury, he executed two Tang generals. The shock sent Liu Zhen’s chronic illness into relapse, leaving him in constant dread, fearing each day might be his last.