Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Poet Who Did Not Like to Write Poetry, Part Two

"Stop! To assault an official of the Tang in broad daylight is to invite war upon your heads!"

The attack had come so suddenly that Zhang Qian did not have so much as a staff in hand. He had no choice but to grit his teeth and rush forward, spreading his arms to block the path of the Tibetan mounts.

Though he was only a minor official, he was still an official of the Tang. The Tibetan warrior across from him hesitated, then spat out a curse, sheathed his blade again, and seized the whip hanging at his wrist.

They would never dare butcher a Tang official in the streets near the capital. To do so would mean another round of war between the two realms; even if they were not cut down as sacrificial prey by the enraged Tang army, they would surely be ordered home and torn apart by the regent dowager of Tibet.

Yet it was just as impossible for them to simply give up.

For many years, Tibet had gone to war against the Tang and, though it had suffered defeat after defeat, it had always been the side to strike first. Even after losing, it could still return to the plateau with plundered wealth and women.

Thus, although the Tibetan upper ranks had now resolved to endure hardship and bide their time, seeking Tang crafts, farm tools, seed, and books through marriage into the imperial house, the common warriors of Tibet still looked down on the Tang and refused to suffer even the slightest loss in their daily dealings with them.

"You, there—go left!" One of the men who seemed to be the leader pointed with his whip. Then he swung it sharply toward Zhang Qian’s right. "You three—go that way. Smash the mouths of those two scholars with your whips. Leave the one in green alone; spare the Tang emperor a little face!"

"Understood!" The Tibetan ruffians split into two groups and surged forward once more. Their leather whips rose high, crackling through the air.

Zhang Qian was only one man; how could he possibly stop so many? Sweat beaded wildly on his brow. Just as he was frantic with helpless urgency, he heard the miserable screams of horses from his left.

He turned his head and looked closely. One of the two Tibetan ruffians circling in from the left had been struck in the forehead by a clod of earth and toppled to the ground. The other had lost control of his mount after the horse’s nose was smashed by a flying chunk of dirt, and now he was shrieking in panic from the saddle.

Then he saw Wang Zhihuan: the man had hidden himself within the protective reach of Wang Han’s sword and was flinging his arms again and again. Each time he either threw a fist-sized clod of earth or hurled a stone, and every throw struck true.

The distance between the two sides was too close for the Tibetan mounts to gather speed. They could only rely on their height advantage to attack Wang Han with their whips. Yet Wang Han, though tall, was astonishingly agile. On foot, he circled about, using his sword to thrust and slash, blocking the Tibetan ruffians’ path and keeping their horses from ever crossing over him to reach Wang Zhihuan.

In the blink of an eye, no more than the time it takes to snap seven or eight fingers, four Tibetan ruffians had already been knocked from their saddles by the combined efforts of Wang Han and Wang Zhihuan. As for the leader, he had circled twice in vain, his horse again and again driven aside by Wang Han’s sword, until his eyes blazed with fury. At last he steeled himself, bent down, and once more drew the steel saber from beside his saddle.

"Han dog, die!"

He had not the courage to cut down Zhang Qian, who was a minor official. But to strike Wang Han, this pale scholar, he only needed to mind his measure and avoid killing him on the spot. In his rage and humiliation, his ferocity exploded at once.

He had thought one slash would at least take off half the scholar’s arm. But when the blade flashed by, the scholar was gone. Then a chill shot through the top of his thigh, followed instantly by searing pain between his legs.

"Get down!"

Wang Han truly was the sort who killed ruthlessly and spoke little. One sword thrust pierced the Tibetan leader’s thigh clean through, and then, with a pull of the blade and a leap, he sprang into the air. He settled firmly onto the other man’s horse and drove forward with his left hand.

"Aaahhh—"

The Tibetan leader convulsed with pain; where would he find the strength to resist? Wang Han shoved him straight off the horse, and he rolled back and forth in the barren field, clutching his thigh.

Having seized the mount, Wang Han did not even spare him another glance. He nudged the horse’s belly with both legs and charged toward the nearest Tibetan ruffian, piercing the man’s arm just as he was drawing his saber.

"Aaahhh—"

That Tibetan ruffian also let out a scream, clutched his bleeding arm, and fled in panic.

Seeing the tide turn against him, the last ruffian abandoned his attack on Wang Zhihuan and wheeled his horse to run. But there was no time left. Wang Zhihuan cried out, sprinting up from behind. First he smashed the man from the saddle with a stone, then sprang up with exquisite grace and landed squarely on the horse’s back.

"Brother Zhang, get on your horse! The Tibetan slaves up ahead are turning back!" Holding a Tibetan steel saber in one hand, Wang Zhihuan was radiant with heroic spirit. "Today, let the three of us brothers teach them how to behave like men!"

"Brother Zhang, hurry and mount up! Mind the Tibetan slaves—they’ve gone mad!" Wang Han, too, had led over a Qinghai horse with an empty saddle and now approached quickly, shouting a warning to Zhang Qian. "Once those fellows fly into a rage, they do not care whom they trample!"

"On, I’m getting on, right now!" Zhang Qian had also seen it: the group of Tibetans who had earlier blinded the packhorse’s eyes was now roaring as they came circling back. Stammering his answer, he hardened himself and took the reins from Wang Han, trying to lift his left foot onto the stirrup.

In the twenty-first century, a fine racehorse could cost more than a BMW. Even a plain riding horse in a tourist area would cost at least thirty yuan per ride. As a bona fide poor student, how could he possibly know how to ride? After three desperate attempts, he finally managed to swing himself onto the saddle. Yet his legs could not grip the horse at all; only his excellent sense of balance kept him on, teeth clenched in bitter effort.

Wang Han and Wang Zhihuan both came from comfortable families and had studied the classical arts of a gentleman from childhood. One glance at Zhang Qian’s first attempt at mounting told them he was probably not even steady enough to sit in the saddle, let alone fight beside them. So, with a sharp shake of the reins, they charged out to meet the returning Tibetan warriors. As they accelerated, they drew together, like two door leaves, blocking Zhang Qian tightly behind them.

"Hyah! Hyah! Hyah..." Watching his friends go off to fight the Tibetans to the death while he himself became a burden, Zhang Qian was so ashamed he could have found no place to hide. He clutched the reins in his left hand and shook them furiously, while his right hand flew high to slap at the horse’s neck.

The horse beneath him neighed in pain and began to step forward, but the reins had been pulled too tight, hurting the corners of its mouth and making it impossible to break into a full charge. It could only whirl in circles on the spot.

Zhang Qian spun so badly he grew dizzy and increasingly at a loss. Just then, amid his frantic confusion, a sharp rebuke rang out beside his ear.

"Stop, you glutton—stop at once! If any of the three of them is harmed, I will hold you solely to account!"

"You?"

Zhang Qian instinctively turned his head and saw a female face that was at once familiar and strange.

An embroidered cap. Light fur. Long hair streaming in the wind.