Chapter 839: Getting Started

On the northern slopes of Mengkui Ridge, cooking smoke curled up from the crude military camp, punctuated now and then by the shrill screams of pigs, cattle, sheep, and other large livestock. But to the ears of the various chieftains and their guards, these sounds were nothing short of heavenly music.

They thought of the Zhou cooks' superb skill and the mellow Jiannan Shaochun wine, and every one of them began to salivate, their legs moving as if wound up by springs, carrying them along at a brisk pace.

Even those among them who were naturally more vigilant took one look at the Apang tribe's warriors surrounding the camp and immediately let go of their last shred of caution.

The chieftain of the Wumeng tribe arrived, loudly ordering people about with great enthusiasm, as if he were the host of this place.

The chieftain of the Luolan tribe came too. He was the fondest of drink, and even before the feast began, the craving in his mouth made his whole body itch as though ants were gnawing at him.

At this time, the Kingdom of Dali, beyond its core territories of Yangjumei City (Dali) and Shanshan Prefecture (Kunming), had three gateways.

Wumeng City (Zhaotong), where the Wumeng tribe was based; Taideng City (north of Xichang), where the Luolan tribe was based; and Yuji City (Deqin) on the banks of the Lancang River to the northwest.

These three places were either protected by the peril of mountains and rivers or by strong cities and fortresses. Though one could not say a single man could hold a pass against ten thousand, calling them easy to defend and hard to attack was no problem.

And if the protection of these three defensive lines were lost, then Dali and Kunming — the two relatively large basins on the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau — would have to face the enemy's threat directly on their own.

Yuji City was to be broken by the Eight Tribes of the Western Mountains. Wumeng City and Taideng City, naturally, were for Guo Rong to deal with.

Jiannan Shaochun was fine wine, and in an age when the Zhang-Zhou government strictly forbade private brewing to save grain, the few great distilleries controlled by the Emperor's Inner Treasury and the Ministry of Revenue — Jiannan Shaochun among them — became all the more precious.

Unlike the great literary masters of the High Tang, who could compose a hundred poems over a gallon of wine, in the present Zhang-Zhou even Zhang Zhao could not drink fine wine freely. It was not that he could not afford it, but that he had to set a good example.

So here beneath Mengkui Ridge, the fragrant wine made even the armored soldiers of the Right Leopard Guard lying in ambush in the distance unable to resist their cravings, and their hatred for these Dali barbarian chieftains deepened by another layer.

These past years, the benefits of Nanxi Prefecture and even half of Sichuan Province had all been given away — and these things should originally have been theirs.

Sweet, cold wine and roast lamb loaded with sauce and spices held an incomparable allure for these chieftains who dwelt among the high mountains and steep ridges.

One should not think that this chieftain or that chieftain sounded grand and impressive — if it came to a fight, a single roar could send several hundred men charging out of their stockade, and apart from poor equipment, their fighting strength was not low.

But they were poor — truly poor, so poor that they were completely different from the slave-owners one might imagine.

What was worse, the chieftains of Jianchang Prefecture and Wumeng City — that is, of Xichang and Zhaotong — did not count as core members of the Kingdom of Dali at all.

The core tribes of the Kingdom of Dali now, the true upper class of the kingdom, were the Bai people and the Han people.

In this Kingdom of Dali, the meat and the soup belonged to the Bai and the Han; these distant barbarian chieftains were only fit to gnaw on a few bones.

To make a rough comparison, these frontier barbarian chieftains held a status similar to the Xiongnu defectors on the Han dynasty's borders, or the the the Shatuo and Nine Zhaowu Clans vassals on the Tang dynasty's borders.

Even as chieftains, many of them had to work the fields themselves. On ordinary days they ate hard black millet with a few strips of pickled vegetables. If they could hunt down wild game, they got a meal of meat. The pigs and sheep they raised they could not bear to slaughter except for New Year, weddings, or funerals.

And so, before the feast had gone on long, the chieftains great and small were already six or seven parts drunk.

The guards they had brought were mostly sons and nephews from their own stockades. At first they managed to hold out and not drink, but after a while, someone went and carried over a jar of wine, and the situation immediately spiraled out of control.

And though these young men had better tolerance than their elders, they drank with even more competitiveness and no restraint whatsoever.

Therefore, even though they started drinking later, the chieftains who had begun first were still not completely drunk when the young guards had already collapsed all over the ground.

This scene made even Zhang Xiancun, who was accompanying Guo Rong on his first Hongmen Banquet, stare blankly for a moment. Guo Rong, however, was perfectly composed — this was a tactic he had used many times with his adoptive father Guo Wei against the Tuyuhun and Khitan people of Daibei.

Amid the raucous merrymaking, Guo Rong raised a huge wine jar.

A chieftain of the Lianglin tribe beside him thought Guo Rong was coming to offer him a toast, so he arrogantly set his wine bowl down lightly on the table, cast a sidelong glance at the rather handsome Guo Rong, and for some reason suddenly felt a pang of sourness. He blurted out:

"You Han lads, you're just better-looking than us, and you've got no shortage of fine things like salt, sugar, cloth, and silk — but you've got no guts.

A real man ought to treat death like sleep. Losing your head is just a bowl-sized scar. When you meet an enemy, you should go stab him clean through.

We all know you want to strike at the Bai Duan clan of Yangjumei City, to avenge the Zheng family of Dachanghe and the Yang family of Dayining. But looking at the way you lot are, who'd dare follow you into battle?

Follow you, and we'd all end up slaughtered together by the Duan family's men."

"Hahahaha!" The moment the Lianglin chieftain finished speaking, all the chieftains burst into laughter. The Wumeng chieftain, holding up a large leg of mutton, added mockingly:

"A few days ago a merchant said your Emperor can even defeat the Khitan kingdom, and that he's the Tibetans' Bodhisattva — sounds like he should be a figure like the Buddha himself. But how come he sent someone like you, Supervisor Guo, to this place?

We've eaten plenty of your wine and meat and taken plenty of your brocade and silk, so today I'll give you a piece of honest advice: hurry back to Chengdu, back to Chang'an, and have them send someone fiercer. Otherwise! You thinking of striking the Duan family — that's dreaming!"

"Right, right! Supervisor Guo, you're a good man, but you can't accomplish great things. Better ask the Han Emperor to send someone else. If the good cloth, good wine, good sugar, and coarse salt are supplied in full, it's not impossible that we'd help you strike the Duan family."

Guo Rong nodded with satisfaction. The timing was about right. He had been feeding these bastards for more than two years, and now at last he had fed them into a sense of attachment.

He had fed them to the point where, though they looked down on him, they had developed goodwill toward the generous Han court. Good. Now was the time to drive them to action.

"Since..." Guo Rong drawled, looking at the drunken Wumeng chieftain.

"Since the Han have treated you so well, why the hell, you turtle-spawned bastard, are you still secretly robbing Han merchants?"

With that, Guo Rong violently smashed the wine jar in his hand down onto the Wumeng chieftain's head.

Crash! The crisp sound carried far, and the glistening wine splashed everywhere.

The Wumeng chieftain, struck without warning and having drunk a good deal besides, was knocked unconscious on the spot.

The other chieftains were all horrified. Some, seeing this scene, had their brains simply shut down, but others with quicker wits immediately scrambled to their feet to flee.

But it was too late. Guo Rong's smashing of the jar was the signal. Clatter, clatter — the sound of footsteps rang out as hundreds of fully armed soldiers of the Right Leopard Guard kicked the gates open with a bang and swarmed in.

Drunk or sober, all were seized at once. They were so thoroughly drunk that not even a few managed to put up resistance.

The Lianglin chieftain had the best tolerance for drink. He quickly scanned the room — the only person before him who seemed easy to deal with was that weak, useless Supervisor Guo.

So this chieftain leaped up, drew the dagger at his waist, and tried to take Guo Rong hostage, and then—

And then there was no "then." Guo Rong let out a great shout, lunged forward a step, and then his fists came down like hammers, striking with the speed of wind.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Four heavy punches!

He beat the Lianglin chieftain until blood sprayed from his nose, teeth fell out, and his eye sockets turned black and blue, knocking him unconscious on the spot.

By now, the chaos in the hall had been completely brought under control. All the chieftains were hauled before Guo Rong. Guo Rong drew a long dagger, walked up to the chieftain of the Mangbu tribe, and roared:

"You ungrateful slave who can never be fed full! I've treated you to good sugar, good wine, and good meat every year.

Last year, when your stockade had a bad harvest and people were starving to death, it was I who contacted the Chengdu merchants and had a hundred shi of black millet advanced to you on credit.

And you, you damn ingrate, thought that if the man died the debt would die with him. You sent more than ten of those merchants to be pushed off a cliff to their deaths. Is this true or not?"

The Mangbu chieftain was dumbfounded. He had thought he had done it flawlessly — well, actually not flawlessly at all. This dog had been fooled by Guo Rong's apparent weakness into thinking that killing a dozen Han people would not matter.

Splurt! Before the Mangbu chieftain could think of how to talk his way out, Guo Rong's long dagger had already plunged into his belly. He cruelly twisted the hilt, churning the blade until the Mangbu chieftain's internal organs were cut to shreds.

In truth, Guo Rong was not entirely certain of the facts. After all, the mountain roads were treacherous, and falling to one's death or meeting a flash flood or landslide was not uncommon. So he would give the Mangbu chieftain no chance to defend himself, and executed him on the spot.

Before the smell of blood could even spread, Guo Rong was calmly and methodically wiping his long dagger, a chilling smile spreading across his face — a smile utterly unfamiliar and deeply terrifying to all the chieftains. He called out to the officer of the Right Leopard Guard in the distance:

"Zhang Jianghou, take men and wipe out the Mangbu tribe. Execute all the murderers, detain all the men and bring them to the army to atone through service, and distribute the women to those with merit!"

"Yes!" Zhang Jianghou, clad like a giant beast, clasped his hands and bellowed, then dragged out the still faintly twitching Mangbu chieftain and withdrew.

Blood streaked across the ground in a long trail; bits of heart and liver and clotted blood scattered everywhere.

Suddenly, a minor tribal chieftain leapt up, trying to bolt through the door Zhang Jianghou had opened. Zhang Jianghou was not about to indulge him — a backhand slap sent him sprawling to the ground.

Two armored soldiers dragged the minor chieftain over by his hair. Guo Rong slowly drew a mace from the waist of a nearby personal guard, then walked over unhurriedly in his white lanshan robe, now spattered with blood.

When the minor chieftain saw Guo Rong, he could not help letting out shriek after shriek, then began struggling violently.

Guo Rong raised the five- or six-jin mace high with one hand and brought it down in a single blow — first the legs, then the chest, and finally the head.

Guo Rong's mace fell faster and faster as he roared in venting fury: "Fuck your mother! You poisoned my messenger, you tipped off the Duan family, you waylaid and killed the traveling merchants I sent.

You even gave me a nickname calling me useless. Now I'll show you whether this mace is useful or useless!"

The screams first surged to their loudest, then quickly faded; the legs that had been thrashing began to twitch faintly. Guo Rong did not stop, blow after blow, as if venting all the frustration he had swallowed these past years.

Because the Goryeo campaign had achieved unexpectedly fine results, the court could finally spare manpower and resources to deal with the Duan clan's Tonghai Army, the Annan Jinghai Army, and the Han state of Lingnan.

Amid the spray of blood and flesh, the minor chieftain had already soiled himself; brains and blood splattered over the heads and faces of all the chieftains pinned to the ground.

After finishing with the minor chieftain, Guo Rong turned around abruptly and looked at the chieftains, asking: "These two dog-slaves, these base slaves, repaid kindness with treachery and murdered the innocent — should they be killed?"

"They should be killed! They should be killed!" All the chieftains, great and small, kowtowed like pounding garlic. Who would dare say no at a moment like this?

Some of the cleverer ones had already understood: this Supervisor Guo had been playing the fool all along, precisely so that one day, like today, he could seize every one of their chieftains at once.

How terrifying! That was the single thought rising in every chieftain's mind.

To lull them, this Supervisor Guo had played the fool for three full years — so thoroughly that even the Duan Great King in Yangjumei City believed he was a useless soft egg, not even worth sending a large army to keep a close watch on Nanxi Prefecture.

"Spare me, Supervisor!" Seeing Guo Rong stab and hammer two chieftains to death, the Wumeng chieftain — who had been knocked out by Guo Rong's wine jar — suddenly and miraculously came to, then knelt prostrate before Guo Rong and began kowtowing.

"The Wumeng tribe robbed merchant caravans and spoke resentfully of the court — twenty strokes of the rod!" Guo Rong kicked the fellow far away with one foot, then bellowed.

"The Shama tribe accepted the Sage's rewards, yet still went to Yangjumei City to pay homage to the Duan clan — thirty strokes of the rod."

Guo Rong sat himself down on the table with great swagger, picked up the mutton leg the Wumeng chieftain had just been gnawing, and began eating it slowly and deliberately, bite by bite, utterly unconcerned that it was already smeared with traces of blood.

With every bite of mutton, he precisely named another chieftain's crime, and immediately that chieftain was pinned to the ground and beaten with rods until he howled miserably.

Only when five or six chieftains remained unbeaten did Guo Rong stop eating. He tossed the mutton leg onto the table with a slap.

"Send word at once. Have the warriors of your tribes all assemble at Mengkui Ridge. Don't think you can play tricks with me — I know exactly how many men each of you can field.

I give you ten days. One day over, one man short, and I'll pound you into meat paste and burn your stockades to the ground.

If you obey and are willing to follow the court's orders, there will be sugar, salt, and fine white cloth — and the benefits of the Dali Kingdom are not beyond sharing a little with you. If you refuse, then wait for your entire clans to die out!"

The assembled chieftains kowtowed in terror like pounding garlic, not daring to utter half a word of refusal. Then the Brocade Guard came forward to collect the tokens from their persons and led away the chieftains' sons and nephews, who had drunk themselves senseless in the distance. Once they sobered up, they would be escorted separately to each tribe's stockade to muster troops.

Over the past two years and more, the Brocade Guard had lost more than twenty men in these mountains. They had long since disguised themselves as traveling merchants and thoroughly scouted every area, and had even turned a large batch of men in each tribe — the brave, the marginalized, and the ambitious.

Now, with the tokens and witnesses in hand, the strength of these tribes could be mobilized at once. Guo Rong intended to seize full control of Wumeng City and Jianchang Prefecture before the heavy snows fell.

This year they had shattered the Dali Kingdom's hard outer shell; next year they could begin preparations to besiege Shanshan Prefecture and Yangjumei City.

Of the last three missing pieces in the Great Zhou's golden vessel, the first to be recovered would begin with the defeat of the Dali Duan clan.

Ten thousand li away, though winter had already arrived, the Fushan naval base was filled everywhere with the sight of troops and horses assembling — because Murong Xinzhang had not expected that Qin Pingtong's return would stir up such a commotion.

There was no helping it: at this time, the warriors of Wa were already in a suppressed state, and the warriors of Kyushu and the Chugoku region were even more the very bottom of the ruling class.

At the slightest glimmer of hope for changing their fate, those warriors so poor they could not even afford wild-vegetable gruel stirred like cockroaches that had discovered food.

At the same time, Murong Xinzhang had not expected Wa's military preparedness to have declined to such a degree.

The Koremune clan of Buzen Province — oh, they now called themselves the Qin clan — had gathered a mere few hundred men, yet had routed the warriors sent by the Dazaifu to suppress them, leaving them cowering inside the Dazaifu, not daring to come out.

At the same time, Goryeo pirates who had drifted to Tsushima Island had seized the chance to come ashore in Izumo Province. If Murong Xinzhang did not act, Kyushu and the Chugoku region would be smashed to ruin.

Although these two places were already ruined beyond all ruining, and were still in Wa's hands, I, Great King Murong, already regarded these lands as my own.

Now every person the Goryeo pirates killed was damage to his property — utterly intolerable.

"The great army marches! First take Kyushu, then advance on Heian-kyo!"

On a business trip; just finished writing. Tomorrow's update will also be late.

(End of Chapter)

Related