Chapter 78: War of Blood and Fire

The sky gradually darkened, a brilliant ribbon of color stretching across the hazy, distant heavens.

“The sun is about to set,” Li Yi murmured.

Li Zicheng turned to look at the sinking sun in the distance, his expression grim. “Brother Yi, the Tartars will certainly launch their fiercest assault before nightfall.”

“Are you afraid?” Li Yi glanced at Li Zicheng.

Li Zicheng laughed heartily, raising his bow and arrow. “When jackals come, of course we greet them with arrows. Whether we can hold Golden Shard Town depends on this next hour.”

“Then let us fight once more.”

As soon as Li Yi spoke, the dull thunder of hooves echoed from afar. A dense mass of Tartar cavalry raced forward, shouting curses, drawing their bows and unleashing a rain of arrows that swept over the fortifications.

Li Zicheng’s eyes shone as he rallied the archers, loosing arrows from behind wooden shields.

No one noticed as a dozen Tartars sprinted toward the works, hurling their oil flasks onto the barricades. The viscous oil splattered across the timber, glistening in the fading light.

Buyan nodded to a centurion. Sparks flashed. Slender trails of fire arced through the air, weaving into a burning net that landed atop the defenses.

The flames caught the oil and, in an instant, the wood erupted into a roaring blaze. In patches, the fire spread rapidly under the wind’s urging, soon devouring much of the fort’s timber.

Li Yi’s face changed. He shouted to his men, “Fall back! Retreat behind the second line!”

There was no need for further instruction. In moments, the fire was scorching their hair, and panic seized their faces. Everyone scrambled down from the barricade, and when they turned back, their faces blackened with ash, the works were entirely engulfed, a towering wall of fire that made the air stiflingly hot.

Gao Jie rushed over, panic-stricken. “Inspector, what do we do now?”

Li Yi’s eyes flickered with firelight. He sneered, “Fall back to the second line of defense. Find Shi Kefa—whatever I asked for, he must send it quickly.”

Gao Jie hurried away.

Buyan stared coldly at the wall of flames. With a wave of his hand, dozens of Tartars galloped near, throwing grappling hooks and heaving.

The warhorses neighed as the already weakened barricade, burning fiercely, collapsed at the tugs of the hooks. The three-meter-high wall of fire crumbled at once.

The Tartars, protected by sheepskins, rushed forward, flinging earth onto the flames. Hundreds worked without pause, soon forming a five-meter-wide path through the fire.

At that moment, all the Tartars gazed at Buyan with awe. In half an hour, without losing a single man, he had broken the Ming defenses. If only such a general had led them sooner, hundreds would not have died at the Ming soldiers’ hands.

Batu, his expression conflicted, raised his saber. “Charge in!”

The Tartars quickly formed ranks for the assault, but Buyan spoke in a low voice, “Honored Taiji, now is the time to send the vanguard to probe the enemy.”

The Tartars in formation hesitated.

Batu glared at Buyan. “These Ming troops are but a disorderly mob. In their haste, what resistance can they muster? Before night falls, kill them all and avenge our dead!”

Fury burned in the Tartars’ hearts. They roared in unison.

“Vengeance! Vengeance!”

“Kill them all!”

The entire camp erupted in thunderous cries. Their morale soared, and the Ming soldiers in the distance turned pale.

With morale restored, Batu looked much improved. He sneered at Buyan, then ordered, “Incorporate the Uriankhai into the assault. Any who resist—hang them all.”

Buyan’s face changed, and he protested angrily, “Batu Taiji, you promised to look after my people!”

Batu retorted mockingly, “This is war. My people fight and bleed, so shall yours. This is my impartial mercy.”

Buyan clenched his fists, humiliation and resentment in his gaze.

Batu ignored him, raising his saber and shouting, “Charge!”

Two centurions hurriedly herded their men forward, leading the assault behind the ruined works.

Hundreds of Tartar cavalry howled, weapons raised, surging down the newly cleared path. Through the flames, they glimpsed the panic-stricken Ming defenders. With their barricades gone, the Ming shrank behind chevaux-de-frise, trembling as they awaited the slaughter.

“Great Mongol warriors, charge and slay the feeble Ming dogs!” the centurions bellowed, urging their men on. It was clear the defenders numbered less than four hundred, most mere conscripts shaking in fear.

Break the Ming lines, and victory—plunder—would follow.

Clad in sheepskins, the savage Tartars stormed the crude chevaux-de-frise, seeing terror on their foes’ faces, rusted weapons, and the promise of spoils beckoning.

Suddenly, the leading Tartars felt their mounts lurch beneath them. Horses screamed, legs snapping beneath their weight, the sound muffled by the chaos. Riders were hurled down like sacks of grain.

One after another, more cavalrymen toppled, horses piling up in a tangle, crushing the slight Tartars beneath them, their shrieks piercing the din.

The next wave of Tartars pulled up in panic, staring in disbelief at the chaos ahead. Their once-high spirits plummeted.

The conscripted Ming soldiers, moments before weak-kneed with terror, gaped at the carnage, then erupted in triumphant cheers. Gao Jie and Li Zicheng looked at Li Yi, faces alight with joy.

“Brother Yi, the Tartars have fallen into the horse traps!”

Li Yi’s expression was steely. He gripped his Tiger Fang spear, pointed forward, and roared, “Charge!”

Emboldened, the men surged forth at his command. Any Tartar still capable of resistance was cut down with saber or spear.

Soon, the nervous Tartars at the rear saw a bloodthirsty tide of Ming soldiers charging at them. Lacking speed or formation, the Tartars fell by the dozens at first contact.

They spun their horses in panic, but crowded together, they could neither retreat nor charge.

The two centurions, eyes bloodshot, shouted, “Dismount! Fight on foot, all of you!”

But crowded together, the cavalry could not reorganize. Confusion reigned; those in the rear knew nothing of the front, while those at the front were slaughtered with no escape.

On a patch of trampled earth, horses shrieked, men screamed, curses mingled with the noise.

The two centurions led their armored guards to the front, and with this reinforcement, order slowly began to return.

Li Yi led the charge, but seeing the Tartars beginning to regroup at the rear, he spurred his horse forward.

A centurion led several armored guards to block him. Li Yi swept out with his Tiger Fang spear, slashing for the centurion’s neck.

The centurion cried out, fearless, meeting the attack with his blade.

A harsh clang rang out. The saber snapped under the force.

Li Yi tugged the reins, grasped the spear with his left hand, and flicked upward—the cold blade slicing through the centurion’s shoulder. Blood spurted. The centurion, unwilling to yield, tried to strike back, but his shoulder was severed; courage alone could not sustain him. He glared at Li Yi as he toppled from his horse.

“Any who block me will die!”

With a fierce shout, Li Yi charged into the armored guards.

Horses neighed, warriors fought for their lives. Li Yi thrust his spear through a guard’s chest, ducked a lance, and struck another with a crushing blow to the chest, killing him outright.

Gao Laoshi saw Li Yi break through and shouted, “Attack formation! Stay close to your squad leader!”

The militia, hardened by fire and blood, had become true soldiers. They closed ranks, spears and wolf-forks thrust forward, shields and long boards protecting the flanks, slicing through the Tartars like a sword.

Li Yi glanced back, satisfied with Gao Laoshi’s support.

The Tartars who’d entered numbered over four hundred. Though the Ming had seized the initiative, a prolonged defense would only bring heavy losses. They needed to press the attack, compressing the Tartars’ space and sapping their will to fight.

Fortunately, Li Yi had a strong horse. He drove it hard, smashing through blockades, striking wherever the fight was fiercest.

“It’s the God of Slaughter! The God of Slaughter is here!” More and more Tartars saw Li Yi towering above them, terror twisting their faces as they fled in the opposite direction.

With panic spreading, the Tartar cavalry quickly lost all sense of order. Surrounded by shouts and chaos, with no orders or direction, fear and disorder took hold.

Buyan, hearing the distant clamor of battle, glanced at Batu Taiji, a trace of contempt in his eyes. He was Uriankhai; aside from his fifty-odd clansmen, the rest were Tumet. He cared little for their fate.

Batu Taiji’s face was grave. He sensed the attack was faltering, but as the descendant of Altan Khan, he refused to admit failure.

“They’re just broken remnants. The mighty Mongol cavalry will kill these Ming dogs,” he told himself.

But the battle did not turn in Batu’s favor. With Li Yi’s repeated charges, the Tartars descended into utter chaos.

Gao Laoshi seized the chance to divide and surround the enemy.

All the Tartars saw were Ming soldiers everywhere, the God of Slaughter cutting down their comrades. Morale crumbled, then collapsed completely.

The surviving centurion, seeing defeat was certain, avoided Li Yi and loudly ordered his men to retreat through the passage.

At that moment, Liu Zongmin noticed their intention. He led the officers to the passage, sabers raised in the biting wind, and struck down a Tartar.

Blood sprayed across his face. Liu Zongmin wiped it away, looking like a demon risen from a sea of gore, and charged into the twenty-odd Tartars guarding the passage.

“They’re mad, all mad!”

“These peasants are all insane!”

The officers cursed Liu Zongmin and Li Yi, but under the militia’s pressure, they had no choice but to fight. Thankfully, clad in fine armor, they could withstand the Tartars’ arrows.

The Tartars holding the passage retreated step by step, unable to withstand the officers’ assault.

Seeing their escape cut off, the desperate centurion charged at Gao Laoshi. Gao Laoshi met his gaze coldly, gestured, and two squads stepped forward, their shields pinning the centurion in place.

Cold spears thrust mercilessly into his chest. The centurion’s eyes widened, blood pouring as he collapsed.

Gao Laoshi strode up, hacked off the centurion’s head, and roared, “A Tartar head! A Tartar head!”

Liu Zongmin and the officers held off the Tartars’ breakout. Hearing Gao Laoshi’s cry, Liu Zongmin’s eyes flashed and he shouted, “Surrender and you will not be killed! Surrender and you will not be killed!”

The north wind howled. The Tartars calmed, staring at the severed head on a spear, then at Li Yi, the grim God of Slaughter astride his horse. All resistance drained away. They threw down their weapons and knelt in surrender.

Over seventy Tartars yielded. The battle was done.

The fortifications still burned, the flames fierce and the heat oppressive even at a dozen paces. Thankfully, there was no wind, and the smoke drifted upward as Li Yi ordered the horse traps cleared of dead horses and Tartars.

The fight had just claimed another fifty conscripts, a dozen regulars, and one from the Ganquan militia.

Li Yi went to see the fallen militiaman—a youth not yet twenty, who had joined because he had no land and would not sell himself into servitude. During the fight, a Tartar spear had pierced his throat, killing him swiftly.

This is the battlefield—no one knows whether death or victory comes first. Sometimes a stray arrow or moment’s carelessness ends a life.

Li Yi covered the body with a mat, squatted, his eyes reddening. The regulars fought by order of Hong Chengchou, the conscripts to defend their homes, but the Ganquan militia fought for him alone. They were not soldiers; their villages had not been raided. They stood and fought out of gratitude and trust in him.

He knew that war brought death, but Li Yi’s heart ached with guilt and grief.

He turned to Li Guo, steadied himself, and said quietly, “Find a coffin and lay him to rest. When this is over, return him to Ganquan.”

Li Guo, eyes red, nodded. They had trained together; his own sorrow was deep.

Li Yi returned heavily to the field and asked Li Zicheng, “Have you learned anything?”

Li Zicheng nodded. “Among the prisoners, some speak Chinese. They say there are seventy armored soldiers in the camp, two hundred in half-armor, and only three hundred ordinary herders.”

“So the Tartars have only six hundred left.”

Li Zicheng added, “But the rest are all elite. Before, the Tartar nobles wouldn’t send them in. If these armored troops come, we won’t stand a chance.”

“What’s to fear? We’ve already killed so many Tartars—these six hundred are nothing,” Gao Jie laughed.

Li Yi shot him a look. “Do you know how hard armored soldiers are to kill?”

Gao Jie shrank, silenced. He wore leather and cloth armor, was strong and skilled, so he feared little. But the conscripts had no armor, and the militia only crude vests—against elite Tartars, they stood no chance.

“Where is Shi Kefa?” Li Yi asked. Shi Kefa had gone to Mizhi County for supplies, but was still absent, making Li Yi uneasy.

Li Zicheng shook his head.

Li Guo came over. “That seventh-rank official sent up a cannon, then nothing. His men looked odd.”

Li Yi had never trusted the authorities. After four hours of fighting, reinforcements should have arrived. Yet there was no sign of them, nor of supplies. Were it not for stockpiles in Golden Shard Town, they’d have starved by now.

“Second brother, ride to Mizhi and find out. Only Shi Kefa will tell us the truth.”

Li Zicheng understood the urgency, nodded, and left.

In the Tartar camp, a bloodied corpse lay on the ground. Batu threw down his whip in fury, bellowing at his returning men, “Hang them! Hang them all!”

The wounded stared at their leader in disbelief—defeat was always the fault of commanders, yet now the survivors were to be hanged?

No one dared plead with Batu Taiji. A few armored soldiers dragged the desperate men away and hanged them from the flagpole.

Batu paced, his face twisted with rage and hatred. He hated failure, and the Ming who had brought it upon him.