Chapter 173: In the Jungle (Part Two)

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" The crisp birdcall rang out, and Wang Tongxin's spirits lifted.

The young lord had said that no such bird — the one he called a cuckoo — could possibly live in this river country, so hearing that call meant their own people had come.

Abu Nasr, who had been about to draw his bow and finish off the armored soldier on the ground, stopped. The birdcalls puzzled him, for he had never heard such a sound before.

But unfortunately, he was an aristocrat raised in the great city of Bukhara, and he had no idea that no cuckoo lived in this jungle, so he did not immediately judge whether this was a real birdcall or a fake one.

"Gui gui yang! Gui gui yang! Gui gui yang!" Three calls of the cuckoo-shrike rang out — this meant there were three sharpshooters. Had the call been the chirping of a thrush, it would have meant fierce armored soldiers.

No — someone was coming. These were not birdcalls. Abu Nasr suddenly realized: the two birdcalls were clearly a conversation.

He drew a deep breath, slipped the jade thumb ring back onto his hand, and swiftly took aim at the armored soldier on the ground.

"Dog-slave! Your Grandpa Song is here!" Song Yizhong roared, then burst out of the underbrush, his target the Hanshan-du armored soldier lying on the ground.

The reason Song Yizhong was sent out directly was that he wore a leather armor underneath, a coat of mail over that, and another leather armor outside — three layers in all, so ordinary arrows could no longer hurt him.

As he burst out, Song Yizhong also carried a round Turkic-style shield, his whole body round and rolling like a ball.

The mail was originally meant to be worn outermost, but because the outer leather armor was a bit too large, it could not be put on any other way.

Almost at the same moment, the armored soldier on the ground, who had looked nearly done for, suddenly rolled twice and closed in toward Song Yizhong.

Twang! The bowstring sounded, but a step too late — the armored soldier on the ground had already rolled to Song Yizhong's side. Song Yizhong ignored his own safety and at once shielded the soldier on the ground with his round shield.

"Maoshi direction, behind the tree, one sharpshooter!" The tremendous impact numbed Song Yizhong's arm at once. He shouted, the arrowhead nearly piercing through his round shield, but the enemy archer had also exposed his position.

The maoshi direction was the four o'clock direction. Zhang Zhao had applied the clock-direction system commonly used in later-era games here, only replacing the numbers one through twelve with the twelve Earthly Branches.

Fan Shun, his concentration at its absolute peak, pulled the trigger of his divine-arm crossbow straight at the maoshi direction. At that moment Abu Nasr, having just loosed his arrow, happened to duck behind the tree.

That move saved his life. Fan Shun's arrow grazed the trunk and punched through, thock — the arrow sheared off a spray of splinters from the trunk, and crack, they spattered all over Abu Nasr's face.

And after loosing that arrow, Fan Shun did not hesitate at all — he ducked his head and darted forward. Sure enough, an arrow came from another direction, aimed straight at him.

He too dodged the lethal shot, but the Persian sharpshooter who had shot at him was not so lucky. Almost in an instant, three divine-arm crossbows fired toward the direction the shot had come from.

The underbrush opposite swayed twice, and a figure tumbled out. The Persian sharpshooter, two arrows stuck in his body, pitched forward onto the ground.

"Wang Tongxin, go! Hack the bastards!" Zhang Zhao howled, charging out at this rare opportunity, and Wang Tongxin leaped up from behind the rock almost at the same instant.

Twang! Twang! Denser bowstring sounds rang out, but no one shot at Zhang Zhao and Wang Tongxin, because there was simply no time — the sharpshooters on both sides could only focus on shooting at each other first.

"Song Yizhong, cover me!" Fan Shun bellowed. The armored soldier on the ground quickly rolled once more, tumbling behind the rock to hide himself.

And Song Yizhong hurried over with his round shield to where Fan Shun was. Fan Shun simply stepped out of the underbrush where he had been hiding, and the divine-arm crossbow in his hands was swapped for a long-eared bow, because it shot faster.

With the keen sense of a top-tier sharpshooter, Wang Tongxin located the positions of the two remaining Persian sharpshooters.

He nocked three arrows in his hand, and within a few breaths the three arrows flew out one after another in a spread formation.

Behind the bush, a big-bearded sharpshooter loosed his final arrow, but the shaft was blocked by Song Yizhong, who stood shielding Fan Shun's chest.

Song Yizhong roared. Even though the bow was an eight-dou hard bow, he wore three layers of armor, and apart from feeling as if he had been punched square in the chest, he took no injury at all.

But the big-bearded Persian was in a bad way. He had just darted out of the underbrush when the first arrow arrived, flying past and grazing his ear.

Before he could even feel relief, the second arrow struck him precisely in the temple. As his vision went black and he fell, the third arrow tore through his neck.

In the blink of an eye, the Persians had lost two sharpshooters, and the disparity between the two sides was laid bare at once. Anyone could see that Zhang Zhao's side was far stronger.

Abu Nasr still tried to draw his bow and shoot, but the moment he moved, an arrow came flying — an enemy sharpshooter had him targeted, and he was pinned behind the tree.

"Dihqan, go, now!" A loyal guard, holding up his round shield, charged over without regard for his own life.

At the same time, three warriors wielding long-handled axes leaped out of the bushes and rushed at Zhang Zhao and Wang Tongxin.

Zhang Zhao hurled with all his might, and the bronze hammer with its sharp protrusions flew over. One Persian warrior took it in the face, screamed, and dropped into a crouch.

At that moment two throwing axes came flying from the other side as well, but both were thrown at Wang Tongxin — who could blame them, since he was bigger than Zhang Zhao and looked more ferocious.

The unlucky Wang Tongxin had just taken out his meteor hammer and had not yet thrown it when the two axes arrived.

One grazed past his waist, but the other struck him square in the chest, the pain making him howl, and his steps slowed.

Zhang Zhao, charging head-on, chose not to strike first with his weapon, because that would have required slowing down. Instead he simply crashed straight into the man — and as it happened, the other man had the same idea.

The jungle was unsuited to carrying long spears and long blades, so both sides had only short weapons.

Thud! There was a crisp impact. Zhang Zhao staggered two steps, while his opponent was sent flying backward outright.

Before the man could climb back up, Zhang Zhao quickly ducked his head, because another Persian's iron hammer was swinging at him.

Barely avoiding the blow, Zhang Zhao swung the mace in his right hand, and crack — it smashed into the man's waist.

The Persian warrior grunted, his face suddenly turning deathly pale. It looked as though the blow had hurt badly.

The two sides exchanged one clash and their bodies slid past each other. Zhang Zhao pounced toward the warrior he had just knocked over, while the pale-faced Persian warrior, enduring the searing pain, lunged at Wang Tongxin, who had just scrambled back to his feet.

Thud, thud, thud! Zhang Zhao landed a three-hammer combo, while the warrior on the ground, with no time to get up, rolled desperately again and again. Two strikes hit empty air; the last finally smashed into the leg of the warrior in front of him.

The warrior screamed, then pulled from his waist something like an iron awl and hurled it at Zhang Zhao.

It had penetrated about two or three millimeters into his armor. Zhang Zhao pulled it out and saw that it was actually something much like a Han-dynasty Chinese hand-ji.

Had his leather armor not been thickened to five layers of hide with iron plates lined inside, it might well have stabbed right through.

Screw your mother — you really do play dirty!

Enraged, Zhang Zhao threw aside the mace in his hand and pounced, first pinning the Persian warrior's right hand to stop him from pulling out some other trick, while his left hand drew the zhangdao at his waist.

At the brink of death, the Persian warrior howled. He strained with all his might to pull one hand free and grab Zhang Zhao's left hand, while both legs kicked and thrashed ceaselessly.

At this moment, Zhang Zhao was pinning the Persian warrior's right hand, and the Persian warrior's left hand was gripping Zhang Zhao's left hand. Zhang Zhao's whole body sat astride the man's waist and abdomen, while the Persian warrior's waist bucked and heaved in his violent struggling.

Damn — no matter how you look at it, this position is a little indecent, isn't it?

The two were locked in a stalemate. Zhang Zhao's eyes darted, and he suddenly realized — why did he need to pin the Persian warrior's right hand at all?

The man's right hand held no weapon, but his own left hand had the zhangdao.

His plan set, Zhang Zhao suddenly released his right hand, then with lightning speed switched from a one-handed grip on the blade to a two-handed grip.

The moment his right hand was freed, the Persian warrior's first thought was to reach quickly for the short knife at his waist.

But then he suddenly saw the blade on the other side already thrusting toward his throat. In desperation he snatched his hand back to grab Zhang Zhao's right hand — and in that back-and-forth, he lost the initiative.

The situation became Zhang Zhao gripping the sword with both hands and stabbing downward from above, while the Persian warrior began straining with all his strength to grip Zhang Zhao's hands and push upward — but Zhang Zhao could use the weight of his body to press down, and the other man could not.

Gradually, the barrier blade in Zhang Zhao's hands kept sinking lower. The terrified Persian warrior kicked his legs wildly, and like a wild boar, his body began spinning in circles on the ground, while Zhang Zhao continuously adjusted his own posture to follow.

Both sides could smell the breath coming from the other's mouth. The Persian warrior beneath him in particular was emitting a nauseating stench from that foul mouth of his, and the rank odor of a man who ate mutton year-round kept wafting off his body.

In the struggle, Zhang Zhao let out a thunderous shout and pressed down with all his might. At last, the barrier blade stabbed into the Persian warrior's left collarbone.

The keen blade cut through the Persian warrior's leather armor and kept sinking deeper. With every inch it entered, the man let out a howl of agony.

Bloody froth began spilling from the Persian warrior's mouth, and his resistance grew weaker and weaker. The blade must have pierced his lung.

Strike while he's down! In the other man's despairing eyes, Zhang Zhao savagely gripped the hilt and began wrenching it back and forth, left and right.

After two back-and-forth twists, Zhang Zhao felt the pressure ease. The Persian warrior's hands still gripped his own, but the strength had gone out of them.

The bloody froth in his mouth grew thicker and thicker, and his eyes began to glaze over. Only the violent rasping of his breath still sounded.

Even the flaring of his nostrils could no longer be seen. His lungs had probably been completely shredded, and he could no longer draw air.

"Young Lord! Young Lord, save me!" A frantic shout rang out — it was Fan Shun's voice.

Where had that boy run off to? It seemed to come from up ahead.

Zhang Zhao raised his head and looked. About fifty or sixty meters directly ahead of him, branches were shaking violently. Without time to think further, Zhang Zhao snatched up the bone mace from the ground and charged over.

The leather armor on Fan Shun's chest had been slashed into deep groove after deep groove. One cut had even split open his belly, and blood was streaming out through the gash.

In truth, although his archery was outstanding, his close-combat ability was somewhat weaker — he was not as well-rounded as his elder brother Fan Quan.

At first he had seen that this fleeing fellow wore a fine suit of mail and looked rather young, like a greenhorn who had come to the battlefield for a bit of gilding. So after Fan Shun's two shots had both been blocked by branches, he simply charged in with his blade.

Only when he got close did he realize he had overestimated himself. A single move from a true expert tells you all you need to know — this fellow who looked like a greenhorn was actually a master.

Though he was somewhat lacking in experience, because he slashed more than he thrust, his blade-work and power were more than ample.

Fan Shun exchanged five blows with him, took three hits to the chest for his trouble, and could only start running while calling for help.

But Fan Shun had confirmed one thing: this really was a greenhorn. He had already slashed Fan Shun into fleeing for his life, yet the fellow was still howling as he chased him, with no idea that he ought to be running away himself.

Zhang Zhao, racing over at full speed, was nearly laughed into anger. There was actually a fool like this?

With a roar, he charged straight at the Persian in the gleaming mail.

Only now did Abu Nasr realize that he should have fled after driving off that sharpshooter. A surge of intense regret instantly engulfed him.

Zhang Zhao rushed straight at the man, because he saw that Nasr opposite him was swinging his blade one-handed at Zhang Zhao's chest.

This was a matter of real combat experience. Fighting in armor is not the same as a martial contest — only in a martial contest do you swing and slash like that.

Because it looks good, can force a man back, and sets up the follow-up combinations, one blade-stroke after another in an endless flow.

But you cannot fight like that in armor, because a slash from a long blade cannot kill a man on the spot. If you cannot put your enemy down for good, then the enemy may well seize the chance to finish you off.

Therefore, in armored combat, either you do not strike, or when you do strike, it must be something the opponent cannot withstand.

Zhang Zhao left himself wide open. He paid no attention at all to the other man's slash, because it certainly could not break through his armor in a single blow.

Sure enough, the resistance transmitted through the leather armor on his chest showed that the other man had failed to break through in one strike, and he felt no sharp pain.

Thud! The bone mace smashed onto Abu Nasr's head. Blood gushed out at once, and the searing pain blacked out his vision. The world around him began to sway.

Once, then again, then again. Zhang Zhao showed no mercy, raining down five blows in a furious storm.

Abu Nasr never even got the chance to beg for mercy before he was beaten into a bloody gourd.

In truth, he had very much wanted to say that he was of the Samanid royal clan, and that capturing him would have brought a huge ransom.

But alas, none of it ever got the chance to leave his mouth. Before losing consciousness, Abu Nasr's final thought was: in future life-and-death combat, he must thrust, not slash.

"There is no way these men walked far in heavy armor. There must be a rally point nearby. Put on their clothes — let's go wipe out their nest!"

The battle was basically over. Zhang Zhao, looking at Abu Nasr's mail, shouted loudly.

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