Chapter 43 — Bandits

The sun hung high. Winter sunlight was not fierce; on the contrary, it lay warm and pleasant on the skin. Teng Rongjun's band of hunters laughed openly as they tramped along the road.

"Yongjiang, how much silver did the pelts fetch?"

"Old Wang has done plenty of business with us, and he gave us a fair price. All those pelts together brought a little over three hundred and fifty taels," said the tall, sturdily built middle-aged man with the honest face, grinning. "Still, that's nothing next to the snow marten Qingshan caught."

"I asked at the Wanxiang Pavilion today. For an unblemished snow marten pelt, they'd pay four thousand taels," Teng Xuanzheng said, clicking his tongue in admiration.

"A snow marten — that's a price without a market, and the clan chief isn't in any hurry to sell. But Qingshan did us a great service; the chief ought to reward him."

Teng Yuening glanced at his son with a smile; a strong son made a proud father. "Enough to get by is enough," he said cheerfully. "All this striving is for the clan. Still, snow marten pelts really are dear. Shi Jiji and I have worn ourselves out forging all these Bihan Blades, and everything we earn won't match a single snow marten."

The clansmen around them burst out laughing.

"By the way, Yongjiang, where are the steamed buns and flatbreads we brought this morning? Bring them out and let's have a bite. We've still got nearly two hours of walking before we're home," Teng Yuening reminded him.

"Come on, two buns and two flatbreads apiece."

He untied a cloth sack; inside, the buns and flatbreads lay wrapped and ready, and he began handing them out. Teng Xuanji took his share as well.

He tore off great mouthfuls and chewed hard, then took out a bamboo tube of water and drank.

"These buns are really something," Teng Xuanji thought. Eating buns and flatbread, drinking cold water, joking with a pack of rough fellows — and yet a strange warmth rose in him. "I like this kind of life," he said silently, gazing at that blazing sun.

These were honest, simple-hearted men.

"Do any of you know why Fourth Master Hong of the White Horse Gang is called Hong Four?" Teng Yuening asked, happy from the food.

"It's his name, surely. What else could it be?" None of the clansmen knew.

Teng Yuening laughed heartily and fell to telling them the tale of how that master fighter Yang Fan had hunted down the four Hong brothers.

While Teng Xuanji and the others were still on the road, some five or six li away—

there stood an earthen mound beside the road, overgrown with withered weeds, and behind it a band of ruthless brigands lay in hiding.

"Ergouzi, what's the rush, dragging me and my men out here to lie in wait? That Lang of yours — he wouldn't be feeding me a false report, making a fool of me on purpose?" The speaker was a swarthy brute with eyes like ox-bells and a tiger's build, wrapped in a thick black padded robe, gripping a heavy-backed cleaver, his chest bared and matted with black hair. This was the bandit chief.

The triangular-eyed man lowered his voice at once. "Rest easy, boss, there's no mistake. My brother works under a big salt merchant — why would he lie to me? Would I have ridden all this way to fetch you out if I weren't dead certain?"

"I'd not put it past you." The bandit chief sneered. "Get up front and keep watch. The moment they come, give the word."

"Right away." Wiry and nimble, the triangular-eyed man ran some thirty yards ahead and fixed his eyes on the road.

"Brother, will our men be enough?" Beside the chief stood a handsome young man.

"Rest easy, Third. According to Ergouzi, there are thirty-one of them, and one's nothing but a youngster — so really only thirty. I've got a hundred and three brothers here. Hell, we loose a few volleys first and most of them will drop; the dozen or so left, we rush them and cut them down easy. Hmph — if this fat sheep weren't carrying ten thousand taels in silver notes, I wouldn't have bothered dragging so many men out." The chief rammed his cleaver into the dirt and laughed with contempt.

"Brother, best be careful all the same. They're hunters, after all," the handsome youth warned.

"Afraid of what? Your brother here, one man, one blade, can have them bawling for their mothers!" The chief spat hard, cursing under his breath.

A long while passed.

"Boss!" The triangular-eyed man came bounding over, bent low, his face alight with glee. "The fat sheep are coming, about three hundred yards off. They're wearing pelts — I spotted them from a way back."

The chief's eyes lit up; the bandits around him were eager, yet not one of them made a sound. These were seasoned robbers and knew full well that now of all times they must not betray their presence.

"Brothers." The chief lowered his voice, his face savage. "When those hunters get close, wait for my word, then we all give it to them good and hard. Best if most of them drop in the first volley. Once the silver's ours, we'll go make merry at the Chunxiang Court!"

The bandits all laughed, but a murderous light came into their eyes, like beasts poised to spring.

Teng Xuanji and his companions had no notion of the ambush ahead; the robbers had already begun drawing their arrows, ready to loose.

The bandits moved very quietly; by rights, ordinary folk would never have heard them.

"Hm?" Teng Xuanji's ear twitched, and he shot a glance at the distant mound.

As a master of the inner school, trained since childhood, Teng Xuanji's six senses were exceedingly sharp; he could sense a man long before he drew near. Back in Yicheng, the triangular-eyed man had studied them from afar more than once, but the city had been too crowded and Teng Xuanji had never noticed.

But this was open country.

All around was stillness, and yet behind that distant mound a hundred-odd men were making ready to attack; however well they hid, Teng Xuanji sensed something.

"Father," Teng Xuanji said suddenly.

"What is it?" Teng Yuening asked, puzzled.

"Everyone halt." Teng Xuanji's brows knit; the clansmen all turned to him at once. He lowered his voice. "Do you see that mound ahead? I have a feeling there are men hidden behind it. And not a few of them."

The clansmen's faces changed.

Teng Xuanji glanced at the mound, his mind racing.

In his past life, the most professional of agents could never have come near Teng Xuanji without his knowing; these bandits, hardened robbers though they were, had none of the training of the agents and assassins of his former life, and their concealment was far inferior. And with a hundred men gathered together, it was well-nigh impossible that they make no sound at all.

"Brother Fan, what do we do?" Many of the clansmen turned to Teng Yuening.

Teng Yuening fixed his eyes on the mound and said quietly, "There's no other way — we have to get home. So here's what we do: we go around, cut through the fields alongside the road, swing wide of that mound. If we're their quarry, they won't be able to hold themselves back and will come charging out. Keeping our distance will also guard against a surprise attack."

"Good, that's settled."

The clansmen had no better plan; it would have to do.

They left the road and entered the fields, keeping a good hundred yards from the mound — at that range, even an arrow that reached them would carry little force.

"Damn it!" The bandit chief saw it, and his face changed. "Those hunters have spotted us."

"Boss, what do we do?" the triangular-eyed man said anxiously.

"What else can we do?" The chief's face twisted; a flash of madness crossed his eyes. "I've got over a hundred men — you think I'm afraid of the likes of them? Listen here, brothers! When I give the word, we all charge together. Archers, get close and give them hell — kill every last one."

The bandits were all steeped in killing; which of them did not have a few lives on his hands?

Teng Xuanji deliberately walked on the far left, because the mound lay to the left.