Chapter 117: That Is My Pride

*Whoosh! * An arrow came flying at speed, its iron head sinking easily into flesh.

The one struck was an old Uyghur man in a four-flapped leather cap, though this arrow did not take his life.

Instead, under the searing pain, the old Uyghur suddenly burst forth with a ferocious will to live; his back covered in blood, he wailed and began running toward Zhang Zhao's side.

"Father! Father! Wuwuwu!" Behind the old man, a young Uyghur girl in patterned clothes, her face streaked with tears, shrieked as she chased after him, running forward together.

"You infidels, get running! Anyone who stays behind can wait to die!" roared a bearded man wrapped in a black headcloth, holding a longbow in the Arab style.

After he acted, a volley of arrows fell mercilessly upon this crowd of men and women being driven out of the city.

Seven or eight figures toppled to the ground. Not everyone had the old Uyghur's luck, able to take an arrow in the flesh and still hold on.

These people had all tried to leave the city in the final days of the battle. Itihad had branded them all traitors, and no one cared whether they lived or died.

Heaven-shaking wails rang out, and the armored soldiers of Hanshan Du raised their divine-arm crossbows and long-tipped bows.

Between them and the Karakhanid holy warriors lay a hastily dug trench; if these people were allowed to draw near, the trench would be rendered useless.

Everyone looked at Zhang Zhao, but Zhang Zhao looked across at the other side.

In that wailing, running crowd were white-haired, stooped old men; terrified youths of eleven or twelve; children of four or five dragged along by adults, stumbling and staggering; and mothers clutching infants.

Some looked Uyghur, some Scythian, some bore Han faces; their shared expressions were terror and weeping.

"Young lord!" Ma Yaozi called to Zhang Zhao, his eyes red. If they were to shoot, it had to be now; any later and these people would be upon them, and behind them were holy warriors carrying wooden planks, clearly meant to lay across the trench.

I am a man! I am not a beast!

Zhang Zhao muttered softly, then abruptly turned to look at the Hanshan Du armored soldiers behind him. For the first time, he felt an extreme loathing for those holy warriors!

"My lads! The beasts across from us think that once they fill the trench, they can defeat us! They are deluded. One of my Zhang Erlang's armored soldiers can fight a hundred of theirs! Because we are men! Upright, honorable men, not base beasts!"

Zhang Zhao drew the hard bow from his shoulder and aimed at the bearded holy warrior who had loosed the first arrow. A strange sensation guided him, letting him keenly pick out this beast amid the chaotic crowd.

"Watch me shoot this wretch dead!"

Zhang Zhao roared, and his right hand gently released.

*Twang! * The bowstring snapped back, hurling tremendous force into the arrow shaft. The shaft seemed to come alive in an instant, quivering violently through the air, carrying Zhang Zhao's boundless fury.

The bearded man, his face full of cruel laughter, was swinging the curved blade in his hand as he walked toward a boy on the ground, frozen with terror and unable to move.

In his eyes, this was not a person, not even a living thing—just an unsightly tree stump growing at his feet.

The curved blade had only just begun to rise when *squelch! * the speeding arrow drove hard into the bearded man's chest. Blood spurted out at once, the quivering shaft and fletching still vibrating rapidly.

Unable to withstand the force, the bearded man staggered back several steps, staring in disbelief at the half-length of arrow shaft protruding from his chest.

How could this be? He was wearing iron lamellar armor, taken from an infidel's home—the finest armor there was! How could it be pierced through by a single arrow from so far away!

His face full of unwillingness and disbelief, the bearded man slowly sank to his knees.

And the boy, frozen stiff with terror, jolted by the man's hot, rank blood, seemed suddenly to regain control of his body. He cast one satisfied glance at the bearded man, whose life was swiftly draining away, then scrambled up without a word and ran!

"The young lord's divine archery! The young lord's might!" Mountain-shaking, sea-surging cheers rang out. That was at least two hundred paces! Not only to hit, but to kill with one arrow—even Yang Youji could do no better!

"Those who enter the trench live!" Zhang Zhao raised his strong bow again and bellowed. Beside him, Qiongre Duojin immediately understood Zhang Zhao's choice and joined in the shouting.

For a moment, the cry of "those who enter the trench live" resounded across the entire battlefield!

Amid the cheers, Zhang Zhao looked back. Every Hanshan Du armored soldier wore a look of relief.

These past months, Zhang Zhao had spent all his free time with them, teaching them to read, helping them understand reason, telling them of Wei Qing, Huo Qubing, and the deeds of this dynasty's Li Weigong and Qin Huzhuanggong.

Something called pride had already taken root in the hearts of these Hanshan Du armored soldiers. That was why Zhang Zhao would rather be a little soft-hearted than let these soldiers stain themselves with the blood of innocent women and children!

In fact, it was not only the Hanshan Du armored soldiers; even the surrounding Khotan palace guards and the "burdens" behind them looked at Zhang Zhao with admiration—though there were, of course, some who thought him a bit too womanishly merciful.

"My lads! With this arrow, I shoot that beast carrying the door plank!" Zhang Zhao drew his bow again and roared!

*Squelch! * A Karakhanid holy warrior carrying a wooden plank collapsed to the ground. Even that thick plank could not save his life. Zhang Zhao had killed another!

"Wind!" Someone led the cry, and over a thousand voices roared together.

"I shoot next the one bearing the long spear!"

*Twang! * Another arrow, and a spear-carrying holy warrior, shivering all over from the cold, took an arrow to the neck.

The sharp arrow pierced through his throat. The man clutched his neck and dropped to his knees, convulsing violently.

"Wind!"

"Another arrow!" As if aided by the gods, Zhang Zhao trembled with excitement. He roared, that feeling of knowing he could hit every shot simply too exhilarating.

Sure enough, the holy warrior squad leader he aimed at took an arrow to the helmet, as if an arrow had suddenly sprouted from his head out of thin air.

The squad leader shrieked horribly and tried to run back, but after only a few steps his gait faltered, and then he pitched headfirst to the ground.

Four arrows, four kills, nearly all at distances of one hundred fifty to two hundred paces. Not only did his own side's morale surge, but the holy warriors' arrogance across the way seemed in an instant to be cast down into the eighteenth level of hell.

"Plant the banner! Tell these beasts where your fathers come from!"

Zhang Zhao roared. On the hillside, old Zhang Zhong howled as he planted a Three Stars banner at the highest point. When Zhang Yichao recovered Hexi, this was the very banner he had used!

"Wind! Wind! Great wind!"

Amid the roars of the Hanshan Du lads, many of the "burdens" gazed toward the banner on the hillside.

"It is the Great Tang! It is the Great Tang!" an old monk with a face full of wrinkles shouted.

"Draw bows!" Zhang Zhao bellowed, raising his hard bow once more. Beside him, Fan Quan and Qiongre Duojin also raised their longbows!

"Draw bows!" Countless voices roared in response, raising their long-tipped bows and divine-arm crossbows together!

The sound of bowstrings being drawn in unison rang out, as if the very air had been pulled taut!

The holy warriors carrying wooden planks kicked, beat, and hacked, driving wave after wave of civilians into the trench.

Using the civilians as cover, they swiftly laid plank after plank across the trench. The trench Zhang Zhao had ordered dug for a day and a night quickly lost its purpose.

But no one paid it any mind. A Hanshan Du armored soldier in two layers of armor cast a contemptuous glance at the furtive figures laying planks across the way.

"Beasts lower than pigs and dogs! Your father will soon step across that plank and send you to Avici Hell!"

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