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each fire, huge slabs of meat were roasting. As the enemy clearly intended,
the morning breeze was carrying the smell directly to Hsuang and the others.
Hsuang tore his eyes away from the tormenting sight. To the right and left
of the bell tower, the city walls were manned by soldiers of the Twenty-Five
Armies. Like Tzu Cheng and the other commanders, the soldiers appeared
gaunt and haggard. To a man, their glassy eyes were fixed on the smoky fires
outside the city. Although the men's appearance and obvious hunger
concerned Hsuang, he was far from shocked or surprised. In the three weeks
since the battle at Shihfang, nobody had eaten more than a few handfuls of
grain.
After the battle, the Twenty-Five Armies had retreated under cover of
darkness. The Tuigan had followed close behind, preparing to attack.
Fortunately, the peasants had obeyed Hsuang's messengers and burned their
lands that very night. As the noble armies retreated down the road, their
flanks had been protected by blazing fields. Only a small rearguard had been
required to keep the Tuigan from overtaking them. Most of survivors had
reached the safety of Shou Kuan's walls shortly before dawn.
Up to that point, everything had gone according to Batu's plan, and Hsuang
had remained confident that his son-in-law would overcome the barbarians.
However, the noble's confidence had deteriorated when his subordinates re-
ported the city's condition. Upon hearing of the noble armies' defeat, the
efficient citizens of Shou Kuan had obeyed the directive Hsuang had sent
before the battle. They had burned their food stores and fled, leaving the city
deserted and barren.
Hsuang had begun each of the twenty-one days since by cursing himself
for not sending a special messenger to the city prefect. Of course, his self-
derision had done nothing to alleviate his mistake, and now he was in danger
of failing Batu. The troops of the Twenty-Five Annies were starving. It would
not be long before they lacked the strength to keep the barbarians from the
city. Already, men were dying of hunger, and illness was on the rise.
Hsuang wondered where his son-in-law was. Two days ago, the tzu had
promised his subordinates that help would arrive soon, but he knew they
placed no faith in that vague reassurance. Unfortunately, without the Mirror of
Shao, he could not contact Batu to ask when the provincial armies would
arrive. Nebulous promises were all he had available to keep up his men's
morale.
Hsuang was the not only one concerned with the army's morale. Pointing at
the dusty knoll outside the gates, Cheng Han said, "Those cooking fires are
within archery range. Let the men occupy themselves by making the enemy
pay for his fun."
Hsuang considered the request, but finally decided against it. "No. We'll
need the arrows when help arrives."
"Of course," Cheng said, bowing modestly. "What could I have been
thinking?" There was a barely concealed look of mockery in his eyes, but he
made no further protest.
Hsuang did not blame the man for his doubt. The gray-haired noble still had
not told his subcommanders that Batu intended to surprise the Tuigan at Shou
Kuan. If the enemy stormed the city and happened to capture one of the
nobles, Hsuang did not want his son-in-law's plan revealed.
The old lord was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this decision. Shou
nobles did not fear death nearly as much as they feared dying like cowards.
Yesterday, one young lord had actually suggested mounting a suicidal charge
before the pengs grew too weak to fight. To Hsuang's alarm, several wiser
nobles had voiced support for the young man's idea. The commander
wondered how long it would be before the rest of the lords urged him to
choose battle over starvation.
Considering their restlessness, Hsuang decided it would be wise to allow
his men some fun at the barbarians' expense providing it didn't cost too
many arrows. Turning to his subordinates, he said, "On further thought, I think
Tzu Cheng is right: we should make the Tuigan pay for our misery. Each of
you may select ten archers. Give each archer four arrows. We will see which
of our armies kills the most barbarians."
The nobles all smiled and voiced their approval. Within seconds, each lord
was laying wagers that his archers would kill more barbarians than those of
any other army.
Cheng approached Hsuang. "A wise decision," said the scar-eyed lord. "By
tomorrow, our men may be too weak to pull their bows."
"Let us hope they remain strong a few days longer than that," Hsuang
countered, catching the tzu's eyes with a meaningful gaze. "I am confident
that help will arrive soon."
Before Cheng could respond, a sentry knocked on the stairway door. "My
lords, it is most urgent!" he called.
Hsuang cast an eye out the tower window to see if the enemy had moved.
The fires on the knoll were smoking more than previously, but the Tuigan
appeared no closer to attack than they had been at dawn.
"A messenger from Tai Tung has passed through the enemy lines!" the
sentry added.
An incredulous murmur rustled through the room. Hsuang called, "Bring
him in."
The door opened and the guard escorted an exhausted man wearing a
purple, dust-covered waitao into the room. Though he had more flesh on his
bones than the soldiers of the noble armies, the man looked every bit as
drained. His face was pale and weary. Blood seeped down his brow from
beneath a fresh bandage on his head.
Hsuang stepped forward to greet the messenger, but Tzu Cheng held out a
restraining arm. "For all we know, this man is a barbarian assassin."
The old noble gently pushed Cheng's arm aside. "This is no barbarian," he
said. "This is my steward."
The sentry's eyes widened in shock. Glancing at the wound over Xeng's
brow, the soldier bowed. "Forgive me, Tzu Hsuang. Your steward knocked at
my gate, but when we opened it, there was nothing there. We saw a blur
entering the city, and thought he was an enemy spy!"
"It is only a cut, and there is nothing to apologize for," Xeng said to the
soldier. He turned to his father. "It was my fault, Tzu Hsuang. I should have
identified myself."
Though he did not feel as magnanimous as his steward, Hsuang dismissed
the guard without punishment. He turned to Xeng, forgetting himself and
holding out his arms to embrace his son. Fortunately, the younger man
suffered no such lapse of decorum and simply bowed to the lord.
Flushing at his slip, Hsuang returned the gesture of courtesy. "I am both
happy and sad that you have come, Xeng," the old noble said. "Seeing you
again gives me joy, but I regret that you now share our danger"
"There is nothing to regret, Tzu Hsuang," responded Xeng, using his dusty
sleeve to wipe a trickle of blood from his brow. "When I left the summer
palace, I knew your circumstances. It was my choice to join you."
As the steward spoke, his knees began to wobble and he looked as if he
might collapse.
"Perhaps you should sit," Hsuang said, directing his son to one of the
benches along the room's stark walls. After Xeng was seated, Hsuang asked,
"What are you doing here? Why aren't you watching over your mother and
Wu?"
Xeng looked away. "I failed," he said. "They're dead."
Hsuang studied his son for a long moment, unable to comprehend what he
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