The wind on the grasslands was fierce. The howling autumn gale swept in, carrying the camp's reek of blood ten li away. Mongol wolves crouched on distant hills, coldly watching this slaughter more savage than their own. They were slightly smaller than North American gray wolves, but they ran very fast, fast enough to hunt herdsmen's cattle. And lone, wounded herdsmen, carrying the unmistakable smell of blood, were naturally among their targets too.
In the cold, brutal North, a single tribesman who left his tribe and lost his herds was actually very unlikely to survive. Even if he encountered other tribes, he would often only become a captured herding slave. Only elite Ulus warriors, or even Eagle Archers with astonishing archery, had the value to be absorbed by other tribes as fighters. Therefore, the Forest Tribe's fleeing tribal mounted archers did not take the initiative to scatter. They were too few in number; if they split up, even if they escaped, they would find it hard to meet a better end.
"Thud-da-da! Thud-da-da! ..."
"Whoosh! Whoosh, whoosh! ..."
Goshawks circled in the sky, looking down at the chase several li away. Eight or nine tribal mounted archers who had escaped from the Forest Tribe kept turning back to shoot, yet they could never hit the pursuers behind them. Bule, leading several times their number, had better horseflesh and better patience. The way these Mongol mounted archers gave chase was absolutely not to foolishly follow straight behind, accepting plunging shots from an opponent holding the windward advantage. They only left two or three horsemen trailing far behind, while the rest moved on the two wings, spreading out, circling around, looping from the outside—just like a true hunting Wolf Pack on the grasslands.
Only after half a day had hurried by, when