Chapter 1: Chang'an, April 5, 200, Dawn

I look up.

Lavender-pink clouds contrasted the dark violet sky as they reflected the sun's not yet visible glow. Wind buffeted the crisp, spring air at the exposed areas of my face that my scarf failed to protect. Luckily, my armor kept me pretty warm, but it was still heavy to carry around. I looked away from the sky and turned towards the carts and camels. I watched the others in my caravan load the carts with food, blankets, water, silk, paper, and other goods. I gazed hungrily as the merchant loaded a pallet of oranges onto the cart. We wouldn't be allowed to eat anything we needed to trade, but if I was careful, I might be able to make some oranges…disappear unnoticed. The merchant saw me eying his cargo and glared daggers at me. I immediately looked away and felt shivers down my spine. I guess I don't need any oranges. I pulled out my map to see which cities we would be traveling to. Dunhuang. Taklimaka Desert. Marakanda. Antioch. All places I have only heard of from other, braver soldiers who had ventured out beyond the protected borders. What did they see out there? What would I see out there? I hoped there would be an absence of bandits, mosquitoes, spiders, snakes, and, well, anything scary. I have always jumped at the mention of anything threatening, but my father was a soldier, so my fate had been sealed long before I could decide what to fear.

It was my duty as his son to carry on my father's legacy. He was a brave warrior who fought many battles and witnessed many safe caravan travels. Even though most of his travels were safe and ordinary, he often told me the story of his one, most dangerous caravan journey. I remember burrowing under my covers as he told me how he was captured by the Bandits.

"The Bandits are a different kind of thieving tribe, my son." He pointed a serious gaze towards my cocooned self. I burrowed further under my sheets. This story would be intense. My father glanced at the candle in his hands and continued, "Not only do they kill, steal, and destroy, but they also enslave people and ship them off to distant lands. Once upon a time…"

I remember all the amazing stories he had told me about his encounter with the Bandits. When he told me the scary parts, I would pull my head under the covers and hide in the darkness beneath. Every time, he would pat a gentle hand to my dark hair, lift the covers, and smile at me with his dark black eyes. Mine were a soft brown. I took after my mother. He would tell me these things with a longing in his voice. I had never met my mother. She went on a caravan ride with him many years ago, and he would not talk about her often. She was one of the stories he didn't tell. But every time I asked him to tell me a bedtime story, he tell me about the Bandits. Each time he told the story it became more rich, exciting, and embellished. Thinking about it now, the story changed quite a bit every time he told it. Perhaps he exaggerated, but as a child, I never doubted a word. My father. Brave. Determined. Strong. Courageous. A leader. Could I follow his perfect example on this journey? In only a few months, we were expected to travel roughly 1000 miles while dragging along cargo and camels! I hate camels. They spit, have a bad attitude, and are nothing but trouble to work with. But the can travel long distances with a heavy load and little water. I took a worried glance at my water skin. Would we have enough water? Enough food? Enough-

"Hey!"

I flinched at the sudden sound and searched for the source of the voice. As I was turning my head, a slap on the shoulder startled me.

"You ready, Pi Lin?" he questioned. I gave him a weak grin. He slung his arm around my shoulder and smiled, "Aww, Come on. Don't look so down, this is going to be great! Traveling, sight-seeing, and food…eating! I can't wait to see all the pies. I am going to learn all these new recipes and be," he mimed a large arch with his hands, "China's Best Baker!"

I laughed at his antics. Wang Peng always seemed to know the perfect way to cheer me up. My worries from before were gone. "Yeah. You really do love your pies, but what about the people in Dunhuang and Marakanda? Do you think they will like them?" I teased.

"Absolutely!" he promised as he pointed a finger at me. "Everyone loves my pies. Always. Even you." He bragged. I laughed again and agreed with him. He really knew his stuff when it came to pies.

Wang Peng was the best baker in our hometown, and my best friend. His father, like mine, was often away with a caravan. His mother looked after the two of us and Wang Peng's sister, Mulan, and my sister Li You, who were both two years younger than us. We used to run around the streets and fight with branches we found lying on the edges of the road while our sisters stayed home making pies with their mother.

When we got older, our sparring became a frequent ordeal. After we finished our morning chores, we hurried out of our houses and ran down the street scouring the cobblestone for a sturdy branch. We would battle until it was too dark to see, and Wang Peng's mother got worried. Then, we would run all the way back home, and promise that we wouldn't be late again. As we carried on our beloved tradition, each parry grew in intensity. Each blow carried all of our strength. Our battles became furious. But it was fun. It was so much fun to feel the rush of the wind, and hear the air whipping around a nearly-avoided weapon. It was so much fun to push all of my strength into every blow. And it was the most fun to win-even if it wasn't a frequent occurrence.

Wang Peng was usually victorious. It was not because I lacked skill (we both had become talented after many years of sparring) but because Wang Peng was incredible. His strikes were perfectly timed, and extremely precise. Every swing met its desired destination. Occasionally, people would crowd around us and watch. Everyone in the town said he would make a great warrior.

This made losing worse. When we were little, we didn't think about wins and losses, we thought about fun and games. But over the years, our competition grew with us. We began to take note of our victories, and we began to crave them. When one of us won, we enjoyed our moment of glory with the ever-present gaze of the crowds. We would saunter to our home and brag. It was true glory. But if we lost, we despised our moment of humiliation with the ever-present gaze of the crowds. We would wander dejectedly to our home, and endure the bragging. I spent the majority of my afternoons wandering dejectedly to our home.

I'll never forget it, our last spar. Wang Peng will definitely never forget it. He believes it was his fault. Maybe it was, but I didn't see the merit in blaming him. He was already ashamed enough when he realized what happened.

I was a master swordsman-at least that's what I told myself. Although I was not as skilled as Wang Peng, I was a master swordsman until that day. We were enjoying our normal routine of: waking up, eating, working, annoying our sisters, collecting sticks, sparring. While all of our sparring was very serious, this bout was different. Each blow carried every ounce of our strength. Each parry was skillfully planned. Each step was deliberately taken. Wang Peng swung a blow to my left. I parried it with an upward strike to my opposite shoulder. He pulled his stick back and prepared for a stab to my now open side. I quickly pulled my branch down and went with the direction of his swing, bringing his stick to the ground. I shifted my wait, and reached out to step on the tip of his branch. Wang Peng jerked his hands further down and tilted his branch, changing the angle of the attack. He was fully committed to his strike.

He tripped.

That forceful, unfortunate strike went deep into the top of my foot. I immediately collapsed. My heart beat rapidly against my chest. The pounding in my ears was second only to the increasing dizziness. Black spots appeared at the corners of my vision. I blinked to clear them away, but they refused to leave. Instead, they were forgotten after everything went black.

My sister told me Wang Peng carried me home with tears streaming down his face. His mom had set me on my bed and cleaned up my foot. They had to force him out of the room because he spent the whole time apologizing and begging my unconscious self and my sister for forgiveness. When I woke up, I was greeted by Wang Peng's tearstained face. He told me what happened and I told him what he needed to hear.

"I forgive you."

Wang Peng continued blab on about pie and what not, while I took inventory of my supplies and nodded my head occasionally to show Wang Peng I was "listening." We talked for a while after that, but we had to leave soon. Our conversation was cut off when the caravan leader announced our departure. I turned to look at the city, my hometown, and turned back around. I would see it again in a year, that is, if I was lucky, and I was never lucky.