Before Shang Ruyi could react, she heard a shrill, anguished scream. The warhorse, both frightened and in pain, suddenly reared up, forelegs flailing, letting out one tortured neigh after another.
But in the next instant, that long, shrill neigh was drowned out by an even harsher sound!
The sound of arrows whistling through the air!
The archers behind them had already been taut with nerves; one by one they had drawn their powerful bows to the limit long ago, just waiting for the final order to loose.
And that command was precisely that sharp cry just now!
In the army of the Western Turks, aside from the orders spoken from the Khan's own mouth and the drums that signaled an attack, there was one other command that, for these archers, was the most direct—branded straight into their minds, their hearts, even the memory of their limbs—and that was the sound of the whistling arrow!
So long as they heard that sound, every archer would loose the arrow in his hand.
