Chapter 18: The Vine Bridge (Part Two)

The Tibetan soldiers stationed at the bridgehead were thrown into chaos by the stampede of panicked horses, instantly creating a gap. Yang Yu was the first to charge through it. He wore no armor, moving with much greater agility. As soon as he set foot on the bridge, he sprang from his horse, released the reins, swiftly unfastened the quiver from his mount’s back, and, with a slap of his blade’s flat, sent both his own horse and the spare galloping across the bridge.

With the enemy in pursuit, escape was impossible without horses.

Without missing a beat, Yang Yu turned, gripped his saber between his teeth, and, moving quickly, drew his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at the oncoming foe. His eyes narrowed to slits, his arms applying steady force, he drew the bowstring back until it arched in a perfect crescent.

Yang the Wild Goose—so called not only for his fleet-footedness, but also for his deadly accuracy with a swift arrow.

Two soft “swish” sounds cut the air, the wind brushing past his ears. Liu Ji, shield in his left hand and spear in his right, swept and thrust, forcing several enemy foot soldiers back. Cries rang out; two archers, dozens of paces away, clutched their chests and toppled over.

“Dismount!” came the shout.

He needed no prompting. Seizing the opening, Liu Ji bent low and slid from the saddle. Each gust of wind brought death, his companion’s arrows providing cover as he landed on the ground. Though he was reluctant to part with his mount, Liu Ji jabbed its flank, sending the horse bolting into the encircling Tibetan foot soldiers and stirring chaos in their ranks.

This window would not last long. With perfect understanding, both men turned and ran onto the bridge. Encased in heavy armor, Liu Ji’s first step onto the planks felt as if he’d stepped from solid earth into cotton; the bridge swayed beneath him.

But there was no time to hesitate. Liu Ji strode forward with all his might, the planks creaking loudly beneath his weight.

A hundred paces—the length of this rattan bridge. On the training ground, he could cover that distance, even fully armored, in less than twenty seconds—about the span of twenty breaths.

Never had he imagined twenty seconds could feel so interminable.

At last, the far end of the bridge was in sight when Yang Yu abruptly halted. Unable to stop in time, Liu Ji nearly collided with him. In that instant, a long, mournful cry rose ahead; of the two horses galloping in front, the leading one suddenly collapsed, shaking the bridge violently.

A glance upward revealed the cause. The opposite side of the bridge was swarming with a dark mass of enemies—no fewer than a hundred men blocking their path.

No wonder the bridgehead had been so easily breached; the enemy’s plan was to trap and annihilate them on the bridge!

The clamor behind grew louder—the same predicament yet again. But this time, there were no forests to maneuver in, and cornered as they were, boldness surged forth. Liu Ji took a deep breath and strode forward, his heavy steps making the bridge groan beneath him.

“I’ll go,” he declared, unhesitatingly pushing ahead to shield Yang Yu and the remaining horse behind him.

As arrows whistled past, Liu Ji charged forward, leaping into the midst of the enemy. Several arrows now jutted from his shield, and his spear spun in a deadly arc, plunging into the body of a Tibetan archer.

Riding the momentum, the spearhead pierced straight through the hapless archer, and Liu Ji shoved onward toward the next. The lightly armored archers in the enemy’s front rank, deprived of their distance advantage, were scattered before him.

When his spear could no longer be swung, he released it at once, ducked beneath several thrusting weapons, and drew his sword in a flash.

In such a brutal melee with cold steel, there was little room for finesse. Something wild awakened within him—a rebellious soul, adrenaline surging, blood boiling. He bellowed and roared, his blade whistling and flashing in wide, savage arcs, cutting down foes all around with fearless ferocity. Never before had Liu Ji killed so freely; his sword swept all before him.

To Yang Yu’s eyes, the movements were wild and unmethodical, relying solely on armor and brute strength—hardly sustainable, yet effective enough. The throng had already begun to part.

The moment was fleeting. Behind them, the guards had subdued the panic-stricken horses and were swarming onto the bridge. Yang Yu’s gaze fell on the horse before him, noticing several pouches tied to its back—some held food, others water, and one contained their travel funds.

A thought struck him. He untied that pouch and, without a glance, flung it behind him.

The bag landed with a thud on the bridge, spilling coins that glittered painfully in the sunlight. The leading Tibetan soldiers halted, their eyes soon alight with greed upon realizing the prize was not a hidden weapon but wealth.

Seizing this rare chance, Yang Yu slung his bow, vaulted onto his horse, and, with the rattan bridge trembling beneath him, urged the beast steadily forward.

“Fifth Brother, grab my hand!” he shouted, reaching out as he pressed himself low over the horse’s neck.

Flushed with battle-lust, Liu Ji discarded his shield, seized his companion’s hand, pushed off forcefully with his legs, and vaulted onto the horse’s back. His sword traced a half-moon of light, holding the encroaching Tibetans at bay.

“Hyah!” Yang Yu cried, and the warhorse, bearing both men’s weight, lunged forward, weaving through the gap they’d carved in the ranks.

On the bridge, the pursuing Tibetan guards could only arrive in time to loose a few scattered arrows after them.

About an hour later, when Xidongzan arrived at the riverbank with over a thousand light cavalry, not even a trace of the two fugitives remained. The scattered corpses—more than a dozen—caught his attention. He crouched, examining each one closely, not sparing even the three dead horses.

Several centurions followed anxiously, awaiting his wrath. The bridgehead, guarded by hundreds, had been breached by two Tang men—if things went ill, they might end up like the fallen.

Yet when Xidongzan rose, a smile played across his face, so unexpected that none dared even breathe.

“In your patrols across the river these past days, have you seen any sign of Tang men?”

The question took them all aback; none had anticipated it.

The leading officer was pushed forward. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, “Honored Xidongzan, apart from spotting Tang scouts the other day, there have been no sightings for several months.”

“Was it two men and a horse? Are you certain? How long ago?”

“Respected Lord, we wouldn’t dare deceive you. They had four horses originally—we killed three. The two men mounted the same horse and left less than five ke.”

Five ke—a Tang hour. Xidongzan now had an idea of their lead and had no interest in reprimanding the others. Whether those two escaped or not, the result would be the same to him.

“To horse. Cross the bridge,” he commanded.

Mounting his reserve, Xidongzan led his thousand cavalry across the trembling bridge in single file, leaving their exhausted mounts behind, and headed toward the Tang-controlled lands across the river—the small kingdom of Bolü, seized five years prior.

From a four-hour gap, now only one; Xidongzan was certain his quarry could not ride without rest, nor drive their horse to death.

He still had a chance.