Chapter 172: In the Jungle (Part One)

Shrill wailing rose from a rubble-strewn hillside, and with it appeared a squad of Holy Warriors in short Persian-style tunics, black head-cloths wrapped around their heads, crude swords at their waists, and three-chi Persian-style curved bows in their hands.

There were twenty or thirty of them, escorting a transport column of sixty or seventy laborers and a dozen-odd mules and horses as it crept slowly forward.

The wailing came from the rear of the column, where four or five women in coarse cloth clothes trudged along, each carrying huge sacks of grain.

It was plain to see that every one of them was straining to quicken her pace to keep up with the column, because the moment any of them slowed, a thumb-thick stick would strike or jab into her body.

The truth was, people in this age were truly poor at carrying out orders. Zhang Zhao had repeatedly instructed Master Titisigu to enforce a strict scorched-earth policy across the area from Ashbulai City to Balasagun.

But in practice, they had moved only about sixty percent of the population, and many tribes had still been rooted out by the Persians and turned into transport slaves like these.

Thud! A gaunt woman fell to the ground. She struggled twice but simply could not get up; the huge grain sack on her back looked even bigger than she was.

A Holy Warrior walked over with a lecherous grin. He deliberately raised his stick and lashed it hard across the fallen woman's buttocks.

"You filthy infidel! If you're not up by my third stroke, I'll hack off your feet and leave you on this desolate mountain to feed the wolves!"

The fallen woman wailed loudly. She tried again and again, but she simply could not rise.

The women around her watched with tears streaming down their faces. The moment they moved to help, fierce blows from the sticks suddenly rained down on them.

"Keep moving! Anyone who dares stop dies with her!"

The leader, wearing a Persian-style long saber, waved at the rearmost of his men, signaling him to deal with the woman on the ground at once.

A woman who could no longer carry a sack of grain was of no further use to them.

The stick was swapped for a short knife. The woman on the ground happened to roll over just then; she stopped wailing, and her face turned to terror as her whole body began to tremble faintly.

Twang! Whiz! Two sounds she had never heard before rang out, and an arrow suddenly sprouted from the head of the Holy Warrior who was walking toward her with the short knife.

Blood gushed from the wound, and the Holy Warrior's entire face turned crimson in an instant, as if someone had thrown a bucket of paint in his face.

The Holy Warrior leader instinctively raised the small round shield on his arm.

Thunk!

Sure enough, the next arrow was meant for him.

His reaction was fast, but the gap in equipment was simply too great. The short, fine-iron crossbow bolt loosed from a Divine Arm Bow with a draw weight of two shi and three dou was not something an ordinary shield could stop.

The arrow pierced effortlessly through the small round shield, which did not even have an iron facing, and the keen point drove straight into the leader's left eye socket as terror filled his gaze.

The terrifying penetrating force drove the entire arrow in. The leader's head snapped violently backward with a crack, and his cervical vertebrae shifted with a massive jolt.

Immediately after, the sound of denser arrow fire rang out. The shrubs on the hillside suddenly stirred, and the transport laborers, as if they had received a signal, began leaping off the road one after another.

Seven arrows took down six Holy Warriors directly — truly, not a single arrow missed.

Ma Yaozi drew a deep breath and slid down the slope. He wore leather armor painted green-blue, with a leafy shrub tied to his back and his face smeared all over with green-yellow mud.

So even though the ambush was laid at point-blank range, the Holy Warriors above and below had not spotted them.

With a startled howl, Ma Yaozi smashed his mace full into the face of the nearest Holy Warrior, while a Hanshan Du armored soldier beside him cut down a panic-stricken fellow at the same moment.

At once, the remaining Holy Warriors lost all will to resist. Howling and cursing their parents for not giving them two extra legs, they fled at top speed.

Eight of the twenty-odd men had been killed with ease within three minutes; who among the rest would dare resist?

"Burn the grain, burn the carts too, and throw the weapons into the river!"

Ma Yaozi bellowed his orders. Their objective was the grain, not killing. As he shouted, he untied the harness of the donkey in front of him and, for good measure, lashed it hard across the rump.

The foolish donkey had been tilting its head to look at Ma Yaozi. It had caught a familiar scent and was curling its lips ingratiatingly, wanting to nibble the beans in the pouch at Ma Yaozi's waist.

That lash struck it like a thunderbolt. The donkey gave Ma Yaozi a look of deepest grievance, then brayed oh-ah, oh-ah as it ran off into the distance.

Ma Yaozi grinned with mischievous amusement. He suddenly noticed the woman on the ground staring at him in terror. After a moment's hesitation, he took a handful of the fried soybeans from the pouch at his waist and placed it in her hand.

These soybeans, which the young lord had specially ordered fried with mutton fat and salt, were a little sticky because they were coated in a thick layer of oil — but precisely for that reason, they were the best food for carrying easily and restoring strength.

The woman shuddered, then immediately cupped the soybeans in her hands and began chewing them in huge mouthfuls.

Ma Yaozi sighed. The men and women captured by the Holy Warriors had all fled; there was no telling whether they would come back. This woman was left alone in the desolate wilderness, and a handful of soybeans most likely would not save her life.

Though his own soybeans were running low, and this was very likely a futile gesture, Ma Yaozi simply felt that after doing this, his heart would be a little more at ease.

But while Ma Yaozi was playing the great benefactor, over in the region near Ashbulai City, Zhang Zhao had run into trouble.

I, the Grand Commandery Duke Zhang, spread out the map in my hands. He was quite certain that there was a supply point right here.

But Wang Tongxin and the other man, who had gone to the supply point to fetch supplies, had not returned at the agreed time.

Either Wang Tongxin and the other armored soldier had lost their way, or they had run into trouble. Zhang Zhao believed the latter was far more likely.

Because before setting out into the mountains to wage guerrilla warfare, Zhang Zhao had made every man memorize the operational map by heart.

On the map, the location of the supply point, the route there and the route back — every detail had been discussed thoroughly by everyone, so getting lost was essentially impossible.

Fan Shun came over. His father had originally been a Youyi Commissioner of the Guiyi Army's yabing guards in the time of Zhang Chengfeng, specifically in charge of the Youyi Army.

The Youyi Army served as the main army's scouts, responsible for gathering intelligence and screening the main force, so Fan Shun could be said to have inherited the family trade.

"Young lord, I just found this outside." Fan Shun held out a branch for Zhang Zhao to examine. Judging from the wedge-shaped break, it had been cut by a blade.

"This wasn't cut by us, because that would give away our position too easily. It seems Wang Tongxin really did run into the enemy."

Zhang Zhao nodded calmly. They had strict rules: unless absolutely necessary, they were absolutely forbidden to use iron tools to damage anything.

"Groups of three, advance in a zigzag pattern, covering each other. Find men of similar build and put all the leather armor on one man in each group.

Song Yizhong, you take your fire-team as the vanguard. Fan Shun, pick three marksmen to provide cover."

Zhang Zhao thought for a moment. Wang Tongxin had to be rescued, but they also had to guard against the possibility that the enemy had laid a trap.

Strictly speaking, Song Yizhong was also Zhang Zhao's cousin, though the relation was somewhat distant.

He was short in stature, which was an advantage in jungle warfare. Men like Man Xiong and Dunzhu were fine for ambushes, but crossing dense forest gave them little advantage.

Song Yizhong nodded, and Zhang Zhao took off the mail armor he was wearing and put it on him.

Among Chinese armor, the type most favored by the army was actually mail armor.

Because compared to lamellar armor and leather armor, mail armor made few demands on body shape; tall or short, fat or thin, as long as the measurements were not too far off, men could wear each other's.

Lamellar armor could be adjusted too, but only within a limited range. As for leather armor, unless two men were nearly identical in height and weight, wearing someone else's was no different from wearing custom-made armor.

So Zhang Zhao had not brought the lamellar armor used for set-piece battles, but instead had each man wear leather armor, with each squad carrying one set of mail armor, precisely to deal with situations like this.

Wang Tongxin lay prone behind a large boulder. Not far in front of him, an armored soldier of the Hanshan Capital lay fallen.

An arrow was lodged in the armored soldier's back, its fletching still trembling faintly in the breeze. He was not yet dead, still groaning low and unceasingly, and fresh red blood seemed to be seeping out from beneath his body.

Yet even at this close distance, Wang Tongxin dared not go forward, because in the woods opposite, at least three sharpshooters had him in their sights.

Wang Tongxin did not know their exact positions, so he dared not advance. The arrow stuck in the ground near the boulder was clear proof of that.

And at the same time, the men opposite did not dare come over rashly either. Beside the armored soldier of the Hanshan Capital lay a big-bearded man in Persian-style mail, also fallen to the ground. He had been shot down by Wang Tongxin, though it was a bit of a pity—he had been killed outright.

The jungle, nearing summer, was growing hot and humid. Mosquitoes and gnats sensed the heat around them and began buzzing as they sought out targets.

Wang Tongxin was frantic with anxiety, but he dared not rise. The enemy was using the armored soldier's life to lure him out.

Abu Salih ibn Nasr narrowed his eyes as he rested. Hearing the name, one knew this fellow was no ordinary man.

The two words "ibn" and "Nasr" held special significance in the Persian Samanid Kingdom. Ordinary people were not permitted to place these two words in their names.

For the founder of the Samanid Kingdom was called Ibn Nasr Ahmad. Although there was no written law, apart from members of the royal clan, outsiders simply did not dare use these two words.

As for why a member of the royal clan would come all the way here, it was because the Samanid Kingdom had flourished down to the present day, its national fortune prosperous, and so the royal clan naturally had no shortage of members.

Though still noble, it was not easy to rise above others. Moreover, the governor of the Tashkent province, Ali Dulaft, was his maternal uncle, so Abu Nasr had simply come to serve in the army.

As a standard nobleman, Abu Nasr's martial skills were quite excellent. He had begun training with his elders at the age of five, and at eight he had become the disciple of a famous Bukharan master of arms to study combat.

Though only nineteen this year, few in Bukhara's aristocratic circles were his match, and his archery was also quite outstanding. This was the greatest reason Ali Dulaft felt assured in letting this nephew join the army.

Taking a deep breath, Abu Nasr gestured to a guard beside him, signaling that if there was still no movement from the other side after a while longer, they would have to risk charging over.

These fellows were truly detestable! The scouts ahead of the main army had failed to find them, and they did not appear when the main army passed through, yet when the time came to transport grain and supplies, there they were.

Either they ambushed the transport convoys, or they raided the transfer points. If their numbers were greater, they attacked head-on; if fewer, they harassed.

Under their relentless strikes, the amount reaching Balasagun recently had fallen by about thirty percent, and the figure was still rising. If they were not completely wiped out, the army at the front would soon go hungry.

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