Arrow with Carved Feathers

But starting from last summer, the Tang army, having suffered losses, abruptly shifted their tactics. They began to break their forces into smaller units, operating by brigade. The clumsy Tigers of Guanzhong transformed into countless nimble Northwestern lynxes. These lynxes proved formidable indeed—relying on their overwhelming numbers, superior equipment, and ample supplies, they forced the Shatuo to become prairie mice, scurrying in the shadows.

Whenever the Shatuo were being run in circles, the Tang forces would suddenly reassemble—tens of thousands of lynxes merging overnight into tigers once again. They seized Yinzhou, then Youzhou, massed troops around Xiazhou, and pressured Dyecloth Redheart to abandon home and kin, fleeing desperately into the desert.

This was an asymmetrical game. The Tang army was powerful and well-fed, guarding great fortified cities, escorting supply convoys with strong forces, their endurance seemingly limitless. The Shatuo, meanwhile, fought on empty stomachs, their numbers dwindling and morale eroding with every skirmish.

Dyecloth Redheart sensed that if this dragged on, his little mice would eventually be devoured by those fat cats. Should he gather all his desperate little mice and turn them into northwestern wolves to challenge the Tigers of Guanzhong in a final showdown? He no longer had the courage for that.

His most trusted advisor, a Han strategist, offered a plan—a single word: “Delay.”

The sage explained that tigers have voracious appetites, and the northwest is barren and poor. Before long, the tigers would be forced to retreat from hunger and want. Dyecloth Redheart questioned, “Doesn’t Guanzhong keep sending endless supplies westward? Their convoys are heavily guarded. I’ve tried raiding them several times and failed.”

The strategist replied, “The political situation in Chang’an is unpredictable. Great changes are certain within the year. If you can persist for another half year, the land west of the river will be yours.”

Dyecloth Redheart took these words to heart. Resolving to become a mole rather than a field mouse, he vanished from sight.

This drove the Tang commander Liu Zhen nearly mad with anxiety. The northwest campaign had drained the empire’s coffers; the Khitans in the north were restless, the Xi had already invaded Hedong, and even the usually gentle Uighurs were drilling troops on the border.

Thinking of the capricious emperor in Daming Palace, Liu Zhen’s scalp tingled. All these pressures forced him to end the northwest war quickly. As the saying goes, “So long as Qingfu lives, turmoil persists.” To pacify the northwest, he had to capture or kill Dyecloth Redheart—the mastermind behind all the chaos.

But this cunning Shatuo mole seemed to have vanished from the earth. Had he left the northwest, gone into hiding, or met an untimely end?

Liu Zhen was desperate for an answer. He sent scouts in all directions, combing the northwest like lice through hair in search of the enemy chieftain. He issued bounties—ten thousand taels of gold for Dyecloth Redheart’s capture or death, a marquisate for his slayer. He also sought help from the Uighur and Arab merchants, whose commercial interests and informants blanketed the Hexi region.

Liu Zhen granted them a five-year monopoly on the lucrative salt and iron trade to encourage betrayal.

At last, perseverance paid off. Dyecloth Redheart’s whereabouts were exposed. The mole poked his head out, and hundreds of lynxes pounced. But too many cats can spoil the hunt—in their scramble for glory, the mole escaped and continued his flight across the steppe.

Until a clever little lynx caught his scent.

The leader of this “lynx” was Liu Motong, Liu Zhen’s nephew, a brigade commander in the central army, famed for his archery and his striking looks—thus earning the nickname “Jade Harbinger of Death.”

Upon tracing Dyecloth Redheart’s trail, Liu Motong did not recklessly charge as others had. Instead, he shadowed the mole, studying his movements, discovering all his hiding places and routines. Only then did he set his trap, inviting the prey into the jar.

With careful disguises, Dyecloth Redheart finally blundered into the snare. Seeing his foes seemingly weak, he struck back with all his might, but a rat is still a rat: a big rat may bully kittens and pretend to be a tiger for a moment, but once the real cats arrive, it is swiftly exposed.

It was Liu Motong who felled Dyecloth Redheart with a golden-plumed arrow. The shaft entered through the left temple, pierced the skull, and exited the right, and Dyecloth Redheart fell from his horse without a sound—his soul departing for the Western Paradise.

The shot itself was not difficult for Liu Motong, even with Dyecloth Redheart galloping at full speed and more than two hundred paces away.

The real challenge had been identifying Dyecloth Redheart among the twelve mounted riders. The cunning Shatuo khan wore identical armor to his guards, carried the same weapons, and never rode at the head of his entourage.

The Shatuo were superb horsemen and exceedingly cautious. To lure their leader into the open, Liu Motong had to sacrifice an entire brigade as bait, just to separate Dyecloth Redheart from his main force. They stood at the mouth of the valley; at the slightest alarm, they could vanish into the desert, and with their horsemanship, escape would not be difficult.

There would only be one chance—to pick him out from the crowd and loose a single fatal arrow.

His sworn brother Shi Xiong risked his life, engaging the Shatuo master archers in deadly exchanges until finally, Dyecloth Redheart was forced into the open. The Tang army had a saying: “Within a hundred paces, trading arrows with a Shatuo sharpshooter is suicide—only madmen would attempt it.” Yet Shi Xiong did so, and, by the grace of heaven, survived.

Liu Motong wondered if fate had intervened. Had the Shatuo sharpshooter killed Shi Xiong, their prey would not have fled in such disarray. He would have lost his chance to strike, and the Shatuo menace might have persisted. Perhaps Heaven itself had grown weary of the Shatuo’s crimes, for Shi Xiong, as if protected by the gods, managed to shoot down four Shatuo archers in succession without suffering a scratch, and Liu Motong himself at last ended the scourge of the northwest with his fatal shot.

After Dyecloth Redheart fell, the Shatuo cavalry, having been routed in the valley, went berserk in their leader’s defense. But Heaven favored them no more. The ever-smiling “Big Blade” Li Laosan seemed possessed by a war god, wielding his great saber in a frenzy, cutting down more than ten foes, so many that his own hands trembled, and afterward he could barely hold his weapon.

The Shatuo were utterly defeated. Had it not been for Yang Zan’s horse stumbling and failing to block the valley mouth in time, the “Lord of Wolf Mountain” and his host would have been annihilated. As it was, Liu Motong shot down several more fugitives at the Hulukou pass; fewer than ten escaped the valley. Li Laosan, saber in hand, spurred his horse to pursue.

Liu Motong called him back, “Old Third, let them run. Let them carry word of our might.”

Li Laosan tossed his blade aside, rolled off his horse onto the sand, and burst into laughter.

He had started as a retainer in Liu Zhen’s household. On this western campaign he had won distinction after distinction, and Liu Zhen had promised to free him from servitude and recommend him for a militia command upon their return to the capital.

Six days earlier, Li Laosan had been ordered to deliver supplies to Liu Motong’s unit. A sandstorm forced him to stay, and that very night Shi Xiong discovered Dyecloth Redheart’s trail. Eager for merit, Li Laosan volunteered as an assistant, accepting a lower rank for the chance.

Six days and nights of pursuit, and finally, Heaven rewarded their perseverance. He could scarcely believe he had achieved such a great feat. Now, his command was assured—perhaps even promotion to a defense commissioner, if the emperor showed favor. That would be a windfall indeed.

Shi Xiong stepped forward and turned over Dyecloth Redheart’s corpse, removing from his finger the triple-skull ring that marked him as “Lord of Wolf Mountain.” Shi Xiong breathed on the ring, polished it on his sleeve, and grinned, “It’s real.”

Liu Motong snatched it away, laughing, “Don’t you trust Old Liu to do things right?”

Despite his words, he bent down and tore open the dead man’s armor, revealing a breastplate of pure steel with diamond inlays. On the muscular, hairy chest was tattooed a black bear.

Dyecloth Redheart’s nickname, “He Who Topples Mountains,” came from this very tattoo. (Among the Shatuo, ‘He Who Topples Mountains’ referred to the black bear.)