Chapter 257: Slave Brat

By May, the war in Kham belonging to Baily King Donyo Dorje had already ended.

Yet the Nangqian region still lay shrouded in the shadow of bloody slaughter — the uncles and brothers of fallen soldiers from both sides were now waging revenge killings across the land, what the common folk called "striking at foes."

Along both banks of the Tongtian River, several hundred horse and foot had split into small squads, all bands that had come from the Baily territory to strike at foes.

Basang hung his head low as he gathered firewood, set a clay stove outside the tent, wiped his hands clean on his sheepskin robe — its color long unrecognizable — and used his small knife to slice the hunted venison, laying it beside the stove to roast.

When no one was watching, he secretly licked the raw meat scraps off the blade.

Truly delicious — it was sweet.

Basang had been born on a great estate; his name meant "born on the fifth day."

Both his parents were nangzan, so he too was nangzan — in the Han lands' way of speaking, a house-born slave brat.

From the sheepskin tent behind Basang came strange sounds; he knew that the young master Dorje was sleeping with Meiduo.

Meiduo was also nangzan, but far better off than Basang — she had served the noble ladies since childhood, ate clean things, wore clean clothes, and so she was clean and beautiful.

One normally did not bring women along when out striking at foes, but recently young master Dorje had been sleeping with Meiduo more and more often — perhaps because the master had said he intended to match Meiduo with him.

That day, Basang had been curled up asleep beneath the stairs as usual when the wooden steps creaked under someone's tread. Basang could tell it was the master's footfall — always heavy and forceful — and hurriedly crawled out to kneel to the side.

He heard the master say to the mistress, "Then match Meiduo with Basang. He may be a mute, but he's sturdily built — in the future he can sire a few strong little nangzan to work."

For a long time after that, Basang threw himself into every task.

Who could say for certain about such things? Matching nangzan was like pairing a lamb for breeding — the master might remember, might forget; it mattered little.

But Basang truly longed to be paired with Meiduo. Perhaps then he too could move out of the estate, rent a patch of land to farm, and rise from a house-born brat to an outside tralpa.

The sound of clothes being put on came from the tent — young master Dorje would be out soon.

Basang used his knife to flip the venison, then withdrew to sit to one side.

The cold wind howled; he fished a frozen-hard tsampa cake from his shoulder-baring sheepskin robe and cupped it in his hands to warm it.

Young master Dorje emerged, looked at him from a distance and smiled, poured himself a cup of milk tea from the clay stove, and breathed in the scent of roasting venison with a satisfied expression.

In the distance, several leaders of the foe-striking bands were leading their horses this way. Basang kept his head low, eyes glancing upward, secretly observing those noble young masters.

The expressions on their faces were deeply troubled.

Basang heard them say to the young master, "Dorje, have you heard? That Gama monk from Nangqian has brought in many Mongols from the north."

"Those Qinghai beggars?"

Young master Dorje's words drew loud laughter from the nobles. Someone said, "Seems these Mongols were summoned by some Han general — those men are no beggars."

"Typical Han trick."

Dorje said disdainfully, "They can't hold their ground in Amdo themselves, so they drag in others to stir up trouble — just like the Emperor using the Mu Heavenly King down south."

The "Mu Heavenly King" Dorje spoke of was Mu Yi, the tusi of Lijiang in Yunnan.

The Lijiang tusi's fief lay between Yunnan-Guizhou and Qinghai-Tibet; Zhu Yuanzhang had enfeoffed them in the hope that they would guard the court's gateway by force of arms for generations.

Thus throughout the Ming dynasty, with the court's tacit approval, the Mu tusi of Lijiang in Yunnan had been expanding ferociously, and had now seized the whole of southern Kham, pushing their northern border as far as Litang, Batok, and Markham.

They had become the Baily King's neighbor to the south.

For Baily King Donyo Dorje at present, however, the Mu Heavenly King to the south was his most capable ally; together with the Tsangpa Khan, they had formed the Anti-Yellow Hat Alliance.

Not long after, the foe-striking band set out once more.

The young master led Basang and a group of armed slaves northwest along the Tongtian River, crossed a tributary, climbed over two ridges, and at last spotted an estate.

"Estate" was a pleasant way of putting it — in truth it was just a village, with a landlord's compound at its center; of the hundred or so households, over eighty were slaves of that compound. That was what they called an estate.

The foe-striking band scattered, killing and setting fires across the estate. For them, this operation was striking at foes in name only — in reality it was mere sport for the noble young masters.

No one here was their foe. If one had to say, perhaps a few of the armed slaves in the band had brothers who had died in the spring fighting — but that had nothing whatever to do with the nobles.

"Basang, shoot her dead!"

The estate owner's wife was tied to a tree. Young master Dorje brandished a strange whip and shouted, "Shoot her dead!"

The whip's handle was very thick and blackened.

Basang recognized that whip — it was his mother's arm.

The year Basang's mother died, the sorcerer needed to perform a ritual and had taken her head and arm, along with another house slave's entrails.

Young master Dorje had been a kind-hearted soul since childhood; he felt Basang needed something to remember her by, and had risked stealing back the forearm with the left hand attached during the ritual.

Unfortunately, the master discovered this, and later that arm was dried, bound together with leather whip strands, and made into a riding crop.

Young master Dorje always said: Basang, when I become the master, I shall bestow this whip upon you.

The noble young masters egged them on from the side; the slave brats fell upon the estate's butter tea, snatching and gulping it down with relish. Only that lady kept wailing.

She did not know why her husband, who had already surrendered to the Baily King, had been killed, still less why she herself was about to be killed.

Basang did not know either.

But the young master had given the order, and so he would do it.

The young master said shoot her dead, so shoot her dead she must — not a single breath could be left in her.

He was not, in fact, a mute.

Long ago, Basang had known a very clever slave brat who always thought things through from the master's standpoint. When the master gave him an order of one, he would reckon the master wanted an outcome of two, and so he would do three.

The nangzan on the estate all thought that with such cleverness, he would be sent to the monastery or made the new steward.

But later, that very clever slave brat became many things.

He was not only a very clever fine hide, but also a very clever skull bowl, and a great many clever finger-bone prayer beads — and most importantly, he also became a very clever thighbone trumpet.

Whenever the estate went to war, that clever brat's leg bone would be blown.

Clever bones possessed greater dharma power.

From then on, Basang never spoke before his masters. Whatever the master ordered, that was how he did things — he never asked why, and never asked what was happening.

Basang, head still lowered, drew his bow to the full.

From childhood they had not been permitted to raise their heads. Apart from those nangzan who served the master and mistress or had to attend to guests, all the other slaves were just like Basang.

In the dark of night, when no one was around, Basang once tried to lift his head. But lifting his head was exhausting — his neck could no longer raise itself.

Fortunately, a neck like that didn't affect archery.

The archery the steward had beaten into him with a whip was excellent. The wooden shortbow gave a light shudder; the bone arrowhead flew ten paces and pierced clean through the noblewoman's throat, cutting off her curses mid-sound.

The young noble masters cheered loudly. Young Master Doje also raised his highland barley wine bowl proudly and waved at him, then pointed toward a nearby hut and said, "There's a woman in there. If she's not dead yet, you ought to make yourself happy, mute."

Seeing no reaction from him, Young Master Doje frowned and urged, "Hurry up. We'll wait for you outside."

Even as Basang turned away, he could still hear the young master muttering under his breath, "What rotten luck. All the horses around here have been requisitioned by the Great King's army."

Unfortunately, when Basang entered the hut, the whole place reeked of a foul stench mixed with blood. The girl the young master had mentioned had been dead for a long time.

Basang had just managed to roll up the woolen blanket in the hut when he heard panicked shouts outside. Someone was yelling, "Dazi, the Dazi are coming!"

He rushed out of the hut. Outside, everything had descended into chaos.

Some people were leading horses away, some were running for their lives, and those slaves who had been lucky enough not to be killed were still tethered together by ropes, being driven up the mountain in a chain.

Further out beyond the village, Mongols wearing red-tasseled hats rode in every direction, galloping back and forth with bows raised, loosing an arrow now and then, penning them inside the village with no way to escape.

"Basang, come quick!"

Young Master Doje, with a few house-slave brats and several friends, had gathered a squad and was shooting volleys of arrows at the distant Mongols.

Looking back, the village was full of fires they themselves had set. They could not stay any longer.

And outside the village, there had only been a few dozen Mongols at first, but as black smoke rose from the village, squad after squad of Mongols in the distance were swarming toward them.

Young Master Doje shouted, "Move, they're increasing!"

With those words, the village fell into utter chaos.

The feud-raiding party didn't have enough horses. They had planned to plunder a few Nangchen noble estates along the way and seize two or three hundred horses, but who could have known that all the warhorses here had been requisitioned by King Beri's troops? There were simply no horses to be had.

The young noble masters, along with their house-slave brats, were everywhere scrambling to snatch horses from one another. No one could spare a thought for anyone else now.

A house-slave brat chasing a horse ran past Basang and was sent crashing heavily to the ground by the rolled-up woolen blanket. Basang mounted the horse and rode straight toward his young master.

Young Master Doje had also seized two horses. He threw Meiduo onto one, then called for his house-slave brats to follow the main force and break out eastward.

The force of several hundred split into several small squads. Some fled toward the snow mountains, some toward the iron-chain bridge over the Tongtian River, and still others followed them, breaking out toward the east side of the village.

The Mongol cavalry's assault was ferocious, arrows raining down relentlessly from behind. Several house-slave brats fleeing on foot were either shot down or overtaken by herder-soldiers and bludgeoned to death with stone maces.

Basang felt as if he had been hit too. Riding on horseback, all he could do was focus on fleeing. He reached back to feel behind him but found no arrow shaft.

He thought to himself, maybe it was just a rock that hit me.

The Mongol soldier behind him watched his arrow strike that mounted barbarian ahead, only to fail to pierce the dusty old sheepskin coat and bounce off onto the ground.

Fuming, he pulled another arrow from his quiver, saw it was yet another stone arrowhead, and howled in fury. He simply drew his stone mace and spurred his horse to chase him down.

But before he could catch up, a barbarian fighting on foot struck him square in the face with a wolf-hunting sling. Dizzy, blinded, and bleeding profusely, unable to see a thing, he wheeled his horse and fled back.

Seeing the Mongol herder-soldiers behind them retreat, Basang let out a long breath of relief. But before he could even finish exhaling, an arrow lodged in the rump of his young master's horse. The mount reared up sharply, throwing the young master off.

Fortunately, Young Master Doje was merely thrown into a daze. As he struggled to his feet, Basang had already dismounted, handed over the reins, and turned to shoot at the pursuing Mongols.

But Young Master Doje did not mount his horse. He ran aside, yanked Meiduo off the horse's back, and raised his riding whip, pointing at Basang. "You come with me!"

Basang had never spoken to the young master before.

Only this time. Meiduo was thrown to the ground, frozen, too terrified to run or move.

Basang opened his mouth. He asked, "What about Meiduo?"

In that instant, the expression on Young Master Doje's face was extraordinarily vivid.

Basang was a familiar person, but from that familiar mouth came an unfamiliar voice, startling him greatly. He had always thought Basang was a mute.

"Two horses. You live, or she lives?"

Basang said, "She lives."

Young Master Doje's face went pale with rage. He raised Basang's mother's hand and lashed Basang fiercely with the whip. "You're not Mute Basang — you're goddamn Fool Basang! Get on the horse!"

"The Master was going to betroth Meiduo to me." Basang was stubborn. He loosed an arrow into the distance, hitting nothing. He said, "The young master and Meiduo live."

Young Master Doje struck Basang with the whip again from horseback. "When we return, the Master will betroth someone else to you. Get on the horse!"

The Mongol cavalry drew closer and closer. Several arrows landed far ahead of them. Basang, driven to desperation by the whip, turned and threw his bow to the ground, then struck the young master's horse twice hard on the rump with his hands.

As the horse bolted away on all four hooves, Young Master Doje's furious curses faded into the distance.

Basang threw Meiduo onto the horse and, leading it by the reins, ran swiftly after the direction the young master had fled.

Fighting still raged all around. The Mongol cavalry had gradually encircled the village. Their aim was not to kill, but to loot this village whose plundering had been interrupted.

Only a handful of riders were pursuing and attacking in the surrounding area.

Basang ran with incredible speed. He had a pair of legs that moved over the mountains as if on level ground. For some reason, in the midst of this desperate, mad dash, a thought kept flashing through his mind — if his own legs were made into a pair of tibia horns, they would surely sound louder than that clever tibia horn.

For a moment, he thought he had already escaped the Mongol soldiers' encirclement.

But he had not. Seven Mongols on horseback were circling him. None of them shot arrows; they just watched from a distance.

Watched him run. Watched the saliva drip from the corner of his mouth, watched him run until tears streamed down his face, until his chest felt ready to explode.

The Mongol leader tilted his head, raised his whip, pointed at him, and laughed loudly. "This barbarian is a slave brat who quarreled with his master over a woman."

At last, Basang could run no more. Like Meiduo, a lasso pole tightened around his neck. However far he had run, he was dragged back just as far.

Until the hands Basang had shielded his neck with were torn and bleeding profusely from the lasso.

A Mongol noble wearing a red hat and leather armor pressed a sheepskin boot down on his head, looked down at him, bared a mouthful of yellow teeth, and took something unknown from a small wooden bowl, dropping it into his mouth.

Sweet and sour, refreshingly crisp.

Xie Erhu of the Yongxiebu tribe ground his foot down on this slave brat's head and raised his eyes toward the blazing village. He pinched a strip of Xining pickled turnip from the wooden bowl, put it in his mouth, and chewed with a loud crunch.

Xie Erhu said to those around him, "The Grand Marshal needs these slave brats. Send them over in exchange for reward tickets."