November, Gansu.
The Yellow River came from the southwest and bent at Lanzhou, its waters dividing Great Zhou and the Tangut on opposite banks.
Between Wuwei, Pingchuan, and Jingyuan, the wasteland stretched like a sea, and the snow line lay across Wushaoling Ridge as though carved by the blade of heaven's craftsman.
The watchtowers stood half-ruined, the beacons mute; the warning smoke of old rose no more.
The meadows were withered yellow. A lone goose occasionally swept past, a stray stroke of ink left unfinished.
Wang Changling's "Marching to War" said: "Long clouds over Qinghai darken the snowy mountains; a lone fortress gazes afar toward Jade Gate Pass."
The lone fortress in the poem still had its garrison; Jade Gate still offered a road home.
At today's watchtowers, even the traces of garrison soldiers were hard to find.
The wind still blew, the sand still drifted...
November twentieth, Lanzhou.
On the ancient ground of Jincheng, the river's roar rolled vast and mighty.
Above the gate tower, banners snapped in the wind.
Lanzhou's defending general stood at the city gate, watching the company about to leave. He cupped his hands, his voice low and measured. "Envoy Wei, ahead lies Tangut territory."
"This humble general can escort you no farther."
"Envoy Wei, take care!"
Wei Shouzheng sat upright on his horse, clad in a scarlet robe, the Imperial Envoy's Staff at his waist. Yellow silk wound around its shaft, and its three tiers of yak-tail tassels swayed gently in the north wind.
At those words, he dismounted, straightened his robes, and returned the general's salute. "General, come no farther."
"I take my leave."
With that, Wei Shouzheng swung back into the saddle. He looked once at Jincheng's gate tower, once at the soil of Great Zhou beneath him, then urged his