“Hold the line!” the mercenary leader roared, voice raw. “Do not retreat! Don’t you dare turn your backs on the enemy!”

  Among the ragged, ill-disciplined group, Zhang Ming was the only one holding a shield, which made him seem a little more dependable than the rest. The other mercenaries, like him, seekers of better fate in threadbare gear, clustered around him, inadvertently shoved Zhang Min to the front edge of battle. For the first time, he faced the enemy head-on in a true fight to the death, right at the spear’s tip. His heart hammered like a wild drum, his palms slick with sweat.

  Steel rang suddenly, like a storm unleashed. Men screamed and hurled themselves into battle, some from rage, others from pain, horses cried out. The field filled with a deafening clamor of clashing metal and death-wails. The air, thick with dust, reeked of blood.

  The crude, ugly reality stunned Zhang Ming, freezing his mind. When a dirty, stubbly face with mad eyes and bared yellow teeth loomed before him and swung an axe, all the techniques he had learned, all his will, evaporated. He could only react, raising his shield, struggling to deflect the attacker. Steel grated against wood, and with every blow he felt numbness creeping into his arm. Several times he barely escaped injury, sensing the deadly whisper of the blade against skin. The cold metal was inching closer, ready to drive into flesh.

  He wants to kill me! the thought shot through his mind, simple, blunt, lodging there like a demon. I’m scared. This is nothing like training!

  Blow after blow slammed into his shield, sending dull pain through his forearm. Then warm, sticky liquid splashed across his face, making him flinch and blinding him momentarily. A cold shiver cascaded down his spine. He thought it was his own blood, until a mercenary beside him collapsed, his head cleaved open. Bone flashed pale in the bloody mess. The sight of the fallen and the sticky tang of death rattled his mind, tearing away the haze. Something snapped inside. An ancient instinct awakened, that cruel urge animals carry to cling to life till their last breath.

  “Motherfucker!” Zhang Ming squeezed the sword hilt so hard his knuckles cracked. A lump caught in his throat. “I won’t die this easy!”

  Fragments of his training, techniques, everything he’d learned lately flooded back into his mind like a dam bursting, flooding the void. Shield before him, blade aimed at his foe, he lunged, sharp, tight, no wide arc. The tip sank under the bandit’s ribs with a juicy crunch. The man gasped, eyes wide in shock. Zhang Min jerked back, feeling steel scrape bone. The bandit, spitting a red stream, crumpled into the dust. But another rose to take his place, and the massacre continued. Blood poured like a river, dripping from sword and shield, mingling with dust into muddy gore. Red spatters coated Zhang Min’s face, rivulets running down his cheeks and neck as he gasped and fought on.

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  “Die! Die!” His own voice sounded alien, hoarse from screaming.

  The entire world blurred into a blood-colored haze. Nothing remained but endless hacking, ringing ears, the stench of blood and sweat, and faces warped by fury or pain. Thanks to his shield, Zhang Min held firm against more seasoned foes, yet his arms felt dead, nearly numb. It felt like an eternity, but the fight never relented.

  “The enemy’s retreating!” the mercenary leader’s voice boomed. “Archers, to your bows!”

  That cry forced Zhang Min to stop and scan the scene. Leaning on his shield, gasping for air, he watched the backs of fleeing bandits. Arrows hissed after them; not all made it to safety in the trees. The surprise attack collapsed as quickly as it had burst. The House Zhao guards proved too much for the mountain brigands. But victory came at a brutal cost: while most fighters were engaged, raiders looted several wagons. The last one, loaded with cloth, they dragged off into the forest along with the horses.

  “Do not pursue! Everyone back to the wagons!” came the order.

  The battle was done. Panting, legs shaking like wet cloth, Zhang Min staggered from the pile of corpses and collapsed. With hollow eyes he surveyed the field: bodies strewn, pack beasts terrified, grass dark with blood. He sat a while, trying to clear his senses, until he saw mercenaries looting the dead, taking what they could.

  “No time to sit,” he muttered. “Need to earn…”

  He forced himself up and limped to the dead bandit with the yellow teeth, fighting disgust, rummaging through his clothes. Fingers slid over canvas sticky with blood. Coins slipped into his pocket; a small trinket, silver or iron, he didn’t know, dropped into his sack; the axe hung from the bandit’s belt. Avoiding dead faces, he moved to the next corpse, then another.

  At least two I killed with my own hands… I deserve these. He tried convincing himself, though his bloodied, trembling fingers betrayed him.

  Meanwhile Zhang Ming helped haul wounded and dead into wagons. A few equally desperate mercenaries, silent and quick, stripped anything remotely valuable from the bodies, leaving only rags, then cast corpses into a ravine by the road. The rest sneered at the loot but said nothing, the mountain bandits’ stuff held no allure.

  Not risking a long stay at the battlefield, the merchants hurried onward. After the battle the mercenaries’ work wasn’t over, it intensified, since a third had died and half the journey remained. All able men were pressed to guard the overloaded wagons or push them over rough ground. The hard labor distracted Zhang Ming from grim thoughts. He had no time to wallow or mourn. Life continued.