Chapter Fifty-Four: Reinforcements Arrive

Beyond the range of three arrows from the city of Shizhou, Pang Qidi, a burly figure, lounged comfortably with his head resting on the lap of a terrified woman. He lazily waved his hairy arm forward—no rousing speech, no empty promises of rank or reward—and his rebel forces, as savage as wolves, surged toward the city like a rising tide.

These rebels were a motley and chaotic horde: fierce Qiang warriors, bandits who ruled the mountains, notorious sand-raiders from the northwest, and opportunistic Tibetans drawn by the scent of plunder. Over the past month, dozens of rebel factions had rallied under Pang Qidi’s banner, swelling his numbers to more than fifty thousand men.

Though their arms were crude—some lacked even iron weapons, let alone armor—relentless raiding and the lure of loot, women, and violence had driven them to a feverish frenzy. Wave after wave, three or four thousand rebels at a time hurled themselves at the city walls, their minds fixed on the same desires: gold, grain, and women.

Shizhou, known today as Jiange County in Guangyuan City, stands at the northern rim of the Sichuan Basin, guarding the perilous Jianmen Pass, the key artery linking Sichuan with Shaanxi and Gansu. Its strategic importance was unassailable; it was the northern gateway into Sichuan. Should Pang Qidi breach it, the unguarded heart of Bashu would swiftly fall into chaos, and the devastation would be incalculable.

At the dawn of the Tang dynasty, the empire had replaced commanderies with prefectures to tighten local control, and Shizhou fell under the jurisdiction of the Grand Governor’s Office of Lizhou. Now, General Pang Yu, the mighty commander-in-chief of Lizhou’s forces, held the city in person, directing the desperate defense.

“Loose your arrows!” Pang Yu’s hoarse cry rang out. “Why aren’t you firing?”

“We… we’re out of arrows!”

“Didn’t we have twenty thousand left yesterday?”

“Since dawn, they’ve attacked thirteen times. We’ve not a single arrow left!”

Shizhou’s walls were as formidable as any in the land, but the sight below filled Pang Yu with despair—tens of thousands of rebels, packed so densely that killing one meant three or four more took his place. And now, at the worst possible moment, their arrows were spent.

“No arrows? Then use stones and logs! Crush them!”

“Yes, General!”

A thunderous crash resounded as logs and boulders tumbled from the parapets. Once, these had bristled with iron blades, but now the edges were shattered; only massive, blunt stones remained, rolling down in fury to meet the attackers.

Rebels who scaled the walls screamed as they tumbled down, bodies falling like dumplings into the churning sea below. But those who landed found themselves neither dead nor even injured—for beneath the walls was a grotesque cushion, a mountain of mangled corpses piled three stories high, so close that the drop was but six feet. The dead and dying formed a grisly ramp, blunting the fall and emboldening those who survived. Eyes bloodshot, they surged forward, undeterred.

Pang Qidi was no master tactician, nor did he possess siege engines or clever stratagems. But he had men, and every day whole tribes of Tibetans came from the plateau to join him. Though he’d lost more than twenty thousand men at Shizhou, his numbers had only grown by another ten thousand.

Caring nothing for casualties, Pang Qidi had built, by sheer slaughter, a sloping ramp of corpses against the city wall.

Pang Yu looked upon this hellish embankment with a heavy heart. He had fewer than fifty soldiers left at his side. Only the utter savagery of Pang Qidi’s passing—leaving nothing but ruin in his wake—had compelled the people of Shizhou to send husbands and sons to fight, for fear that surrender would mean a massacre. Without their support, the city would have fallen long ago.

“What should we do now?” Pang Yu’s heart was heavy with dread for his own fate and that of the city’s people.

But surrender to Pang Qidi, the Qiang barbarian, had never crossed his mind. Pang Yu had once served as a senior officer in the Sui dynasty’s palace guard, one of the sixteen elite corps charged with the imperial gates. After the fall of Luoyang, he’d surrendered to the Tang with his men, and Emperor Gaozu himself had recognized his worth, appointing him Grand General of the Imperial Guard and Governor of Lizhou.

From a fourth-rank official in the old regime, Pang Yu had risen to a third-rank general in the new order—a rare honor, unmatched by any other. He repaid Gaozu’s trust with unwavering loyalty, but the price was steep: both his sons had already fallen beneath the city walls.

Now, as a man past forty, Pang Yu knew the agony of a father burying his children. Loyalty always exacts its cost—and Pang Yu, by his actions, had shown the world the true measure of his devotion.

A sharp crack rang out—the iron chains holding the last stone log snapped under the strain and split apart. With the loss of these final defenses, Shizhou stood exposed, as helpless as a maiden stripped of her last garment before a ravaging mob.

Pang Yu watched the rebel tide flood the ramparts and clenched his saber tightly.

“I have eaten the Emperor’s bread; I owe him my loyalty. When the city falls, my blood alone will repay his trust!”

With his last fifty soldiers, Pang Yu hurled himself into the fray like a moth to the flame.

Sensing imminent victory, the rebels’ spirits soared. Though Pang Yu and his remaining men fought with desperate valor, they were steadily pressed back by the mad onslaught.

A metallic clang rang out—Pang Yu’s saber was smashed in two by a spiked mace. Clutching the broken hilt, Pang Yu sighed in utter exhaustion. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the jagged blade toward his own throat, ready to end his life—

“General, look! We’re saved—imperial reinforcements are here!”

Pang Yu stared northward. Out of the mountain valley, a column of imperial troops charged fiercely into Pang Qidi’s rear.

His voice rang out in joy: “We’re saved! Reinforcements have arrived!”