Chapter Five: Even the Steed Stumbles

While the young man stood dazed, a troop of towering warhorses approached from within the city. Their riders were all clad in armor and armed with swords. The armor was a finely linked scale mail, known as the Fine Scale Armor. Their weapons were the newly designed Tang Sabers, bestowed and named personally by Emperor Li Yuan of New Tang. Even the horses beneath them wore fine scale armor, protecting their heads and flanks.

This was a squadron of light cavalry—indeed, one of the most renowned in New Tang: the Fine Scale Cavalry.

New Tang's military might far surpassed that of Later Chen and Southern Han. Its fame was built upon the Tang Saber and the Thirteen Armors of New Tang. The Thirteen Armors referred to thirteen types of armor: Bright Radiance, Gleaming Key, Fine Scale, Mountain Pattern, Raven Hammer, White Cloth, Black Silk, Cloth Backed, and so on. Upon this foundation, New Tang established its Thirteen Cavalries, whose name alone struck awe across the Nine Provinces.

It was rumored that the crafting methods for the Thirteen Armors originated three years ago from the celestial stronghold of White Jade Capital, which descended from the heavens. Their power far outstripped that of ordinary armor. Outfitted in these treasures, the Thirteen Cavalries swept the battlefields. Only two years prior, when New Tang attacked Yu Wenfu, the greatest warlord of the central plains, they dispatched just five squadrons—Bright Radiance, Gleaming Key, Fine Scale, Mountain Pattern, and Raven Hammer—ten thousand riders in all, and routed Yu Wenfu’s army of seventy thousand, thus securing a decisive victory and ensuring New Tang’s triumph.

The Fine Scale Cavalry, being the premier light cavalry among the Thirteen, were famed but few in number. To see them appear in this remote border town was enough to draw Zhong Ming’s attention.

The leading officer barked, “Clear the way!” as the force thundered past the youth, a single rider surging ahead with overwhelming presence. Lost in his admiration of the cavalry, the young man reacted a moment too late; the horsemen nearly collided with him. The vanguard commander reined in his steed just in time, averting disaster.

The stallion wheeled, snorting, to face the plain-clad youth, and the officer’s gaze bore into him. This man wore a helmet crowned with phoenix wings; his eyes were fierce and piercing. As Zhong Ming met his stare, a chill ran down his spine, as if a wild beast had fixed upon him. In that instant, strange visions flashed through the boy’s mind: a butcher astride his mount, awash in a sea of blood, beneath him a beast ravening for flesh, its cry more terrifying than a tiger’s roar.

He thought the officer meant him harm and, coming to his senses, was seized by terror, frantically seeking a solution. But the officer merely scolded, “Boy, why don’t you watch where you’re walking? What if you’d been hurt?”

Faced with the sharp rebuke, Zhong Ming was tongue-tied, unable to reply.

At that moment, another officer spoke from behind the lead rider. His fine scale armor was distinct, its shoulders adorned with snarling lion heads, his helmet marked with the same emblem—a distinction reserved for commanders of second rank and above in New Tang, never for common soldiers.

The first man was merely the squadron leader; this was the true commander. He said, “Huzi, don’t frighten the lad. Times have changed; this isn’t the battlefield. All upon this land are subjects of New Tang. We do not oppress our own.”

The fierce officer’s demeanor immediately softened. He protested in a low voice, “General, I meant no harm, only to chide him for his carelessness…”

But the armored commander’s face darkened with anger. “Nonsense! How many times have I told you? I am no longer a general, but a Captain. Why do you persist in this error? Have you lost your wits in battle?”

Chastened, the vanguard leader’s expression turned grave. “Yes, Captain. I accept my fault and await punishment.”

The captain’s anger was not without cause. The laws of New Tang were strict, and a slip in address could lead to serious trouble if overheard by the wrong ears. Yet, from his words, it was clear the captain was not harsh by nature—his reprimand was more reminder than rebuke. He snorted lightly, “You’ll be punished later. I have duties to attend to. Forward!”

Finishing with his subordinate, the captain addressed the youth, “Boy, mind your steps. Don’t cause trouble for others.”

—

That remark was directed at Zhong Ming. Though the captain did not look back, and Zhong Ming could not see his expression, the tone betrayed a hint of annoyance. Doubtless, the captain’s ire at his subordinate had bled over to the youth.

Not daring to show disrespect, Zhong Ming cupped his hands and replied, “Thank you, Captain, for your guidance. Your humble subject is grateful.”

The captain noted with the corner of his eye that the boy did not, as most would, drop to his knees in terror but instead returned a scholar’s salute. He thought to himself that this youth was a bold scholar indeed, and muttered, “An interesting young man,” before spurring his horse onward.

At the command of “Fine Scale Dragonhead Cavalry, advance!” the troop thundered away, hooves like rolling thunder, and in moments vanished from sight, leaving only a cloud of dust.

Even after they had gone, the youth felt a lingering dread. His back was damp with sweat. Had those cavalrymen truly wished him harm, he would have had no escape.

He pondered the encounter, odd thoughts flickering through his mind: the vanguard’s aura was just as the strange martial heroes described in Master Guo’s books. Though he had lived two lives, Zhong Ming had never experienced such terror—his legs gone weak, strange visions arising in his mind, all from the mere presence of another.

He had once dismissed Master Guo’s tales as wild exaggerations, yet today he had met such a figure in the flesh. With this, his awe for this new era deepened.

Wherever one may be, absolute power is always terrifying.

He wondered if that cavalry commander might be the newly arrived Zhi Guo Captain spoken of in town. There had been no cavalry here before; the only possibility was that this troop belonged to the official who had just arrived yesterday. Moreover, the vanguard addressed the commander as Captain—surely, he held that office.

Zhong Ming nodded, convinced his deduction was correct. Yet he did not indulge in self-satisfaction, mocking himself for wasting time on idle speculation. Even if that man were the new Captain, what did it matter to him? Such an official was high above—a rank of seventh class—while he himself was still a struggling refugee.

Better to spend his thoughts on how to win more farmland for Muddy Village.

With a sigh, Zhong Ming straightened his somewhat worn, but spotlessly clean hemp robe and strode into the city.

Had he known that the Fine Scale Dragonhead Cavalry were even now heading for Muddy Village, he might have thought differently. Judging by the hour, they should be at the village gates by now.

—

As he walked along the main street of the border town, Zhong Ming looked about with curious eyes. He seldom came to the city, and it still held much novelty for him. He had little money for pleasure, but even window-shopping was a delight.

The border town itself had no name. Those outside the walls simply called it “the city”—a place of unattainable wealth. The townsfolk, in turn, called it “the center,” to distinguish themselves from the refugees outside the walls. As citizens of New Tang, they would not lower themselves to use the same name as the vagrants, lest it tarnish their status.

Those beyond the border called it a frontier town; in the imperial courts, it was doubtless “some border town” at best. It was too ordinary to merit a name. Its only strategic value lay in its two-zhang high walls, now mostly ruined. With the walls half-collapsed, its status would surely decline.

—

To outsiders, this was all the town amounted to: a border outpost with crumbling walls.

Within, three main streets divided the city: the East-West Road, running between the two main gates; the North-South Road, linking the other gates; and the Ring Road, which circled the city proper. Together, they split the town into eight sections.

There was nothing grand about this border town; it was but a small place, not a tenth the size of New Tang’s capital, Luoyang. By its scale, it scarcely merited city walls at all. Only because, before the founding of Later Chen, it had been a strategic border post for a local lord, were walls built.

Small as it was, the town had all the essentials: grand mansions for the rich and powerful, humble dwellings for the common folk, brothels, and teahouses as well.

What Zhong Ming most longed for, however, was to visit the pleasure quarters and sample the legal delights therein. He had heard that the girls of Hongfang Pavilion were each as lovely as a flower, their charms praised to the skies by Master Guo.

Were he not still growing, he would surely have brought a gold ingot, and perhaps taken Liang Heizi along to sample the pleasures of spending a fortune in a night of debauchery.

He sniffed and cursed himself for daydreaming. His excuse of “still growing” was but a comfort; truthfully, he had no money. Those ten gold ingots had been pilfered from the military stores—he would never dare spend them openly.

Official silver all bore the mint-mark underneath; if a commoner were caught with such silver, he would be dragged to the East Gate for public execution.

He considered melting the gold ingots down at the first opportunity. Though they would then lack the authority of official coin, at least they could be spent. If Muddy Village was allotted more land, he might even find a way to launder the rest of his silver.

Lost in these thoughts, a whiff of fragrance drifted to his nose. He looked up.

Fragrant Abode—a pastry shop. Their crisp cakes were quite good.

The first time Zhong Ming tasted them, he had complained they were sickly sweet. But after returning to Muddy Village, subsisting on bland rice gruel and salty wild greens, he no longer found fault with sweet pastries. If anything, the sweetness was proof of the generous use of sugar—far better than tasteless porridge.

Recalling how little he had bought last time—how the children back home, Xiaocao, Erniu, Goudzi, ten of them, had shared just two cakes among themselves, each getting scarcely a crumb, licking their fingers wistfully—he resolved to buy more this time, enough for each child at least a piece.

Decision made, he entered the shop. The proprietor addressed him respectfully as “Master Zhong,” recalling perhaps how he had come to Muddy Village for charms during the New Year.

Soon, Zhong Ming emerged with a lotus-leaf package containing more than twenty crisp cakes, his handful of silver now exchanged for a string of copper coins.

These cakes were expensive; the bundle he carried would last an ordinary household a month. The price had been discounted in deference to “Master Zhong.”

But remembering the bright faces of the children and Sun Luolian, Zhong Ming gritted his teeth and made the purchase, expense be damned.

In the shop, he sampled a cake under the pretext of tasting. The lingering sweetness in his mouth improved his mood, and he walked on, humming a tune.

He had not gone two steps from the shop when someone came running up behind, shouting in alarm, “Brother Ming! Brother Ming! Something’s wrong!”