Chapter 490: The Hollow Formation Meets the Sharp Formation (Part Two)

Ma Fuming's face was iron-blue; it was hard to tell whether from fright or from the exhaustion of fleeing.

He wanted to bellow a command, but startled himself — his voice rasped and rustled in his throat, refusing to come out. Had he gone mute? In his panic, Ma Fuming summoned every ounce of strength, and at last a piercing, grating sound, like a cracked gong, burst from his mouth: "Flee! Quickly!"

But just then, dust and smoke rolled ahead — countless Ming cavalry were charging straight toward them. It turned out the direction he was fleeing in was straight toward Li Guangheng's left wing.

His retainers shouted, "General, a Ming cavalry formation is coming! Should we veer to the sides and evade?"

Ma Fuming glanced behind him — the Plain White Banner's bayara pursuers were closing in. He looked to both flanks — not far off, there seemed to be Tartar soldiers there too. He snarled in fury, "There are Tartar troops on both sides and behind us! If we veer to the sides, aren't we just seeking death? Right — raise my banner! We'll charge straight through!"

Ma Fuming's Assistant Regional Commander banner had never been lost, but to avoid drawing Qing attention, they had kept it furled and silent. Now he decided to raise it, to declare his identity and make the Ming troops ahead think twice.

A personal guard beside him said fearfully, "General, charging a military formation head-on is a capital offense — they can strike you down on the spot."

Ma Fuming roared, "I am a Ming Assistant Regional Commander, an official of the second rank! My clan brother is the Regional Commander of Shanhai Pass — would they dare do anything to me? Quickly, raise my banner! We're going straight through!"

Ma Fuming's fifteen-foot camp-general banner rose high, and then he led his remaining two hundred-odd men in a chaotic, disorderly rush toward the Jingbian Army cavalry formation.

At that moment, the hoofbeats ahead grew nearer — the Jingbian Army cavalry formation, arrayed in strict order, surged forward like rolling torrents of iron, sweeping toward them!

Closer still, they could see the fiery red, billowing Sun-and-Moon banners, the fiery red armor, the blood-red horse manes. They could see the riders' uniform iron helmets, the arquebuses in their hands, and the cold, merciless expressions on their faces.

Ma Fuming suddenly felt that heading toward the Jingbian Army cavalry formation might have been a mistake.

But now he was riding a tiger and could not dismount. Watching the Jingbian cavalry formation hold its array unchanged, its charging momentum unchanged, rolling straight toward his own side, Ma Fuming's heart seized with terror. He shrieked, "Brothers ahead, stop! I am Ma Fuming, Assistant Regional Commander of Ji Garrison! My clan brother is Ma Ke, Regional Commander of Shanhai Pass! Please, stop quickly... pull your horses aside at once..."

The personal guards and retainers around him also shouted along with Ma Fuming, but what they saw was the Jingbian cavalrymen ahead raising their arquebuses at them.

"Ah!"

Both Ma Fuming and his subordinates screamed at the top of their lungs.

The crack of arquebuses erupted like popping beans, plumes of white smoke rising. Amid the screams, one retainer and personal guard after another was struck and fell from their horses. The standard-bearer beside Ma Fuming took a jet of blood from his chest and sprawled backward off his horse; that fifteen-foot camp-general banner was flung who-knew-where.

The sturdy horse beneath Ma Fuming let out a pitiful scream, stumbled, and toppled, throwing Ma Fuming, man and horse, to the ground.

Ma Fuming howled in agony — his calf was pinned under the horse's body, probably broken.

"Get me out of here!"

Ma Fuming bellowed, struggling desperately to pull his leg free from under the horse. He was already covered in blood and filth, and as the horse's blood kept flowing, mixing with the mud and dust on the ground, his whole body became an indescribable color.

At last, Ma Fuming wrenched his leg free — waves of piercing, bone-deep pain told him his leg was truly broken.

"Even a dead horse dares fight me!"

Ma Fuming gnashed his teeth and cursed. Covered in blood and mud, he was just about to scramble up when he heard hoofbeats thundering in his ears. Before he could react, a hoof came crashing down on his head.

That hoof was shod with a thick iron shoe, gleaming with a metallic sheen, the underside already considerably worn. The heavy hoof slammed squarely onto Ma Fuming's lumbar spine — crack! A crisp snap rang out. Ma Fuming collapsed flat again, spraying bloody froth from his mouth, his eyes bulging to their widest...

Ma Fuming wished he could just pass out. That heart-rending, bone-gnawing sensation truly made one unable to live and unable to die.

But fainting was a luxury — the searing pain kept him all the more lucid. He wanted to groan, but found he could make no sound at all.

In his nostrils, he caught a strange odor — was it the smell of blood, or blood and earth, or had he lost control of his bowels?

Before Ma Fuming could figure it out, another hoof came crashing down heavily, landing directly on his head and smashing it like a rotten watermelon dropped from a tall building. Blood and brain matter burst and sprayed in all directions.

Until the moment he died, Ma Fuming never figured out what that strange odor he had smelled was.

By now, under the merciless arquebus fire of the Jingbian cavalrymen, Ma Fuming's retainers were all scared out of their wits. They fell into utter chaos — some wailed and fled to the rear or to the sides, while others stood rooted to the spot, dumbstruck.

Some hurriedly dismounted, prostrated themselves on the ground, and kowtowed like pounding pestles: "Spare us, sirs! Spare us, sirs!"

They were in such a panicked mess that no one even noticed Ma Fuming's condition.

Wave after wave of Jingbian cavalry swept past these routed soldiers of the Ji Garrison vanguard.

Those unlucky enough to be in the way were mercilessly knocked aside by the sturdy horses or struck down by arquebuses and other weapons. The rest no longer dared to move a muscle, watching wave after wave of cavalry surge past, each man trembling with fear, praying to every god and Buddha for protection.

At last, they heard a shouted command: "All of you, dismount and kneel! Do not move recklessly — violators will be killed!"

These remaining lucky survivors had no thought of resistance. Every one of them dropped to his knees and kowtowed like pounding pestles: "Yes, yes! Thank you, sirs! Thank you, sirs!"

Only then did one retainer notice Ma Fuming's condition and wailed in horror, "Assistant Regional Commander Ma's head has been smashed."

The first rank of Jingbian cavalrymen thundered past the routed troops. Some of them had just used their arquebuses and quickly thrust the empty weapons back into their saddle holsters, then drew another arquebus.

Each Jingbian cavalryman was equipped with three to four arquebuses. According to combat regulations, in slow moments they were to holster the empty ones; in urgent moments, they could discard them. After all, in Wang Dou's mind, how could a mere arquebus compare to the life of a battle-hardened warrior?

Just after charging past this wave of routed troops, the field ahead briefly cleared — then the cavalry Squad Commander's eyes suddenly narrowed. Not far ahead, several dozen Tartar heavy cavalry were spurring their horses toward them at speed.

These Tartar soldiers, judging by their armor, were troops of the Eight Banners' Manchu Plain White Banner — every man's armor plates were exposed, gleaming silver. Each bore a flame-bordered back-banner, and the tall red plumes on their helmets marked them all as bayara soldiers.

Among them, a few carried slanted-point plain-colored banners on their backs — these were bayara junior squad leaders. One in particular was a burly middle-aged man in heavy armor, with a massive chest-protecting mirror plate, holding a large bayara command banner in his hands.

The Squad Commander knew that by Qing military law, from the banner lord down, commanders personally bore their banners, and men watched where the banner moved and followed. When troops were dispatched, only a jala ejen or above was entitled to a command banner; otherwise, a funde bošokū or the like carried only an ordinary triangular slanted-edge banner.

The Tartar soldiers opposite were elite Qing warriors. The battle-lust in the Squad Commander's blood surged, and he roared, "All arquebuses ready! Kill the slaves!"

They shifted formation in an instant — frontal assault, with flanking envelopment on both sides.

The rear ranks of Jingbian cavalry did the same.

Maise was a bayara jala ejen of the Manchu Plain White Banner, of the Namdulu clan. From childhood, he had trained in mounted archery.

As an infant, his mother had bound him with ropes to a horse to accustom him to the animal. At five, he began practicing with a small bow and short arrows, galloping before crowds. Year by year he grew, and he became a renowned warrior of the Later Jin and the Qing.

At eighteen, he was selected as a bayara soldier — as were his two elder brothers and one younger brother, all of whom successively became bayara and armored soldiers of the Qing. The Manchu rose and proved invincible, and pursuit battles like the one before him had, since his enlistment, become routine for Maise.

Battle always brings casualties. Although compared to the Ming army, Later Jin or Qing casualties were always low, losses were still unavoidable.

Only in pursuit battles were casualties minimal, sometimes even zero. As in the historical Battle of Songshan, after the Ming army collapsed, over fifty thousand were killed, while the Qing troops lost only eight men to friendly fire — a staggering contrast.

In a pursuit battle, the enemy flees in rout, without any formation or will to fight; they rarely turn back to fight you to the death. That is, of course, provided you have not driven them to utter desperation. So pursuit battles are both simple and difficult — the key is grasping the right measure, and in this, Maise was extremely experienced.

From time to time, he would ride up behind a fleeing soldier, thrust with his spear or slash with his blade, making them shriek and flee with every last ounce of strength.

Even if you outflanked and cut into their ranks, they rarely stopped to fight to the death, because the moment you stopped, your comrades would seize the chance to flee.

In fleeing for one's life, one need not run faster than the enemy — only faster than one's comrades. This was a truth known to every soldier on both the Ming and Qing sides.

And in an army prone to rout, the soldiers' ideological awareness was clearly not so lofty that they would sacrifice their own lives to let others escape to safety.

Of course, there were always reckless fools or unwilling officers who tried to rally the routed troops — that was where the outflanking cavalry proved their worth. Maise led several dozen bayara in constant outflanking maneuvers. He had lost count of how many times he had shattered Ming troops attempting to regroup, how many stalwart Ming warriors he had slain.

He had even nearly outflanked his way to the very front of the routed troops, and he had his eye on one fleeing band ahead. It seemed to be some Ming officer leading a group of retainers — they ran incredibly fast. Even with his men rotating between two or three horses each, they could not match the speed of their flight.

But no matter what, that Ming officer's head was his for the taking. Perhaps after this battle, the seat of Plain White Banner bayara commandant would beckon to him. Though there were several bayara commandants in the banner and only one substantive post, there was always hope, was there not? If only pursuit battles like this one came a few more times.

But in Maiser's heart there was always a shadow. Looking across the various armies of the Ming realm, he feared none — except that one army he encountered at Julu a few years ago. … It was truly a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. Two of his elder brothers and one younger brother, who had rarely suffered serious wounds in past campaigns, all died in battle at Julu.

When he returned from the campaign and learned the news, his mother wept until she went blind. A’nen was also sunk in gloom, because several of the elder brothers who doted on her were gone. It was not just their family — during that time, in Shengjing City every household wore mourning and every home wailed in grief.

Toward that army, Maiser’s feelings were complicated — hatred, fear, admiration, caution, helplessness. Unable to do anything else, he vented his full rage on a few Han slaves he found displeasing, torturing them to death.

But the dying words of one Han slave made him jolt in terror. The man said, “Tartar, you will meet no good end. In the future you will die more miserably than me!”

Perhaps influenced by that man, Maiser afterward often had nightmares, dreaming that he was hacked to pieces by a thousand cuts, or that his scalp was flayed off alive — in short, dying by every kind of cruel torture.

Every time he woke from the dream, Maiser broke out in cold sweat. He knew that in that army there was an officer named Wen Daxing, who delighted in flaying people alive. Whenever the Qing soldiers mentioned this man, they gnashed their teeth in hatred, yet feared falling into his hands someday. Deep in Maiser’s subconscious lurked the same dread. …

In cruelty and savagery, that army was no less than their own Great Qing army, which truly made the Qing people hate them. Where had these Han people learned all their gentility, propriety, righteousness, and sense of shame?

At this moment, Maiser held in his left hand the great banner of the Plain White Banner’s Bayara camp, the banner of a Jalān-i Janggin, and in his right hand a tiger lance nearly nine chi long. The tiger lance’s blade was nine cun long, with several blood grooves; ridges rose along the blade, giving it a jade-tablet shape. Now it was deep crimson, having drunk its fill of enemy blood who knew how many times.

Nearly half the lance shaft was fitted with an iron tube connecting the head and the shaft. Near the socket of the blade, on the left and right, were two short antler prongs. From them hung two long leather strips — these prevented the thrust from penetrating too deep and injuring the wielder.

After all, the tiger lance was originally designed for fighting fierce tigers. The blade was like a knife, the point extremely sharp; even a savage tiger or bear, with tough hide and thick bones, could be pierced in a single thrust. So the short antler prongs on either side near the blade were absolutely necessary.

After the Manchus rose to power, the tiger lance was widely used on the battlefield. One tiger lance camp after another was established. Those who could wield the tiger lance were mostly outstanding warriors from each banner, usually heavy-armored troops and Bayara.

Besides this, on Maiser’s saddle hung several iron maces, each like a small bronze hammer studded with sharp spikes — miniature versions of wolf-tooth clubs, designed specifically to deal with heavy armor and shields. When thrown, whatever they struck would shatter.

Because the Bayara were mostly used for shock assaults and their opponents were usually Ming armored soldiers and retainers, the Bayara soldiers of each Qing banner were mostly equipped with iron maces, throwing axes, and javelins.

Although Maiser now held the banner in his left hand and the lance in his right, his horsemanship was so skilled that he needed neither hand; he controlled the horse with waist and leg strength alone. He maneuvered on horseback, turning left and right, with great agility.

Looking around at the Bayara beside Maiser, most were the same. Their equipment was also mostly tiger lances; only a few used long-handled slicing blades. Those blades were narrow and curved; blade and shaft together were nearly seven chi long. If struck by one, a man and his horse would certainly be cleaved in two.

Each of them also carried a huge quiver of infantry arrows on his back, though only a few used horse bows.

Because of their training methods, the Manchu cavalry’s strength was mainly in their legs, and they were skilled with large bows. In mounted archery they were no match for the Mongols. Although many could twist left and right, looking left while shooting right, they still preferred to dismount and fight on foot.

For some reason, as Maiser watched the Ming routed troops ahead, so many thoughts flashed through his mind. He was somewhat surprised — was he getting old? He had heard that when people aged, they grew sentimental. But he was only in his forties; that was not old, was it?

He was pondering whether to spur his horse faster and chase them down — he absolutely must not let that Ming officer escape, or else his own hopes for the seat of Bayara Jalān-i Janggin would be indefinitely postponed.

Just then, he heard hoofbeats ahead like rolling thunder, followed by a great roar of firearms. Ahead, the Ming routed soldiers were falling from their horses one by one.

Maiser had just frozen in shock when, from within the white smoke of the firearms ahead, fierce and menacing Ming cavalrymen charged out. Every one of them wore a cap-helmet, red coat, and red armor; even their warhorses’ manes were dyed blood-red. Each man was seething with killing intent, and from their eyes flashed cold, bloodthirsty light from time to time.

The moment the two sides met, both were stunned.

In an instant, all kinds of complicated emotions surged into Maiser’s heart. Looking around, the Bayara beside him were the same — after all, most of them had crossed blades with the Border Pacification Army at Julu and elsewhere.

But then Maiser forcibly suppressed his terror and other emotions, and with practiced skill shouted orders to form ranks.

Seeing that some beside him were reaching for their horse bows, Maiser roared to stop them. One look at the Border Pacification Army’s armor told him that horn bows were useless against them. Against elite armored soldiers like these, only thrown weapons like javelins and maces would work.

In that lightning-flash instant, it was not that Maiser did not think of fleeing. But their own side had been pursuing and outflanking the Ming army for a long time; even with several horses to switch between, how could they compare to the enemy’s fresh troops just entering the fray? And fresh troops of the highest caliber at that. If they turned and fled, the scene of chasing routed soldiers just moments ago would become their own fate. …

Only by fighting to the death was there a sliver of hope. Especially as the deaths of his brothers surged into his heart, Maiser’s eyes reddened.

Both sides were battle-hardened and well-trained. In an instant, officers on both sides roared, and they spurred their horses into suitable battle formations.

Maiser’s unit of fifty Bayara formed a wedge formation, with him and several Bayara squad leaders at the tip. Behind them were several layers of elite Bayara soldiers, with fifteen men on each wing. One by one, they took the iron maces, javelins, throwing axes, and other weapons hanging from their saddles and held them ready.

They watched the Border Pacification Army form a fish-scale formation, roaring and surging toward them. Their strength was overwhelming; dense ranks of elite cavalry kept emerging, sweeping toward both flanks in an outflanking maneuver — no one knew how many there were.

Maiser’s eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. They were veterans of a hundred battlefields — what scene had they not witnessed? Though the Ming elite troops were numerous and powerful, once their resolve to fight to the death was set, they would not be afraid!

Maiser raised his banner. All the Bayara watched his banner. He spurred his horse forward first and bellowed, “Kill all the Nikans!”

All the Plain White Banner Bayara roared, “Kill all the Nikans!”

“Kill all the Tartars!”

The Border Pacification Army on the opposite side roared back.

Dust billowed. The iron hooves of the cavalry on both sides pounded heavily on the ground, producing a dull, chilling sound.

In the blink of an eye, the distance between the two sides closed. Once they came within twenty paces, both sides struck as if by unspoken agreement. The Border Pacification Army cavalrymen’s hand cannons roared in a great volley, while the Plain White Banner Bayara hurled their javelins, iron maces, and other weapons with all their might.

The two wings engaged first. The first rank of Border Pacification Army cavalry, the first to contact the enemy, changed formation first. Their one company of two hundred riders left only fifty in the center; the remaining one hundred fifty swept around both flanks. Their wings were divided into multiple layers, each layer slanting upward from the inner side to the outer, to facilitate angled shooting with their hand cannons.

Layer after layer of cavalrymen swept past, firing. One hand cannon after another belched flame, then turned into smoke that quickly dispersed behind them.

To increase power, the Border Pacification Army’s hand cannons had large bores. Though they lacked range, at close distance they could pierce heavy armor. One Bayara after another was struck; the large lead bullets instantly tore through their expensive outer armor plates, then punched through the cotton armor beneath, and finally broke through their innermost layer of chain mail, slamming into their bodies.

After the lead bullet tumbled inside the body, the wound met the air. The immense internal pressure caused the blood within to jet out in sprays of blood arrows. Shrieking, they fell backward off their horses.

But these Bayara were highly skilled horsemen, and many were adept at dodging. Some lead bullets only struck their horses. The horses, hit, let out long, mournful neighs, bucking and rolling wildly, throwing their riders to the ground.

During the first clash between the two sides, several Plain White Banner Bayara on the wings hurled their throwing axes, iron maces, and other weapons. Aided by the momentum of their horses, their throws were both accurate and ferocious.

One Border Pacification Army cavalryman had just fired a shot, knocking a Bayara off his horse, when he saw an object hurtling toward him with terrifying force — it was an iron mace.

Instinctively he raised the round shield on his left arm to sweep it aside. With a boom, the round shield shattered into pieces. Under the savage force, the cavalryman lost his seat and tumbled off his horse.

Another Border Pacification Army cavalryman had not yet fired when a javelin shot straight at his face. The cavalryman had no time to dodge; it pierced through his chest and out his back.

His hand cannon fell into the dust. He struggled to hold onto the saddle. His lung must have been pierced. The cavalryman fought to breathe, but only coughed up blood-flecked foam from his mouth. He felt waves of darkness closing over his eyes. He struggled to look once more at these mountains, these clouds, this land for which he had fought so hard, but he could not do as he wished.

Finally, he fell straight off his horse.

Although the Plain White Banner Bayara on the wings fought desperately, continuously hurling their weapons, they were outnumbered and could not match the enemy’s numbers. …

Whenever they threw a weapon, or even before they could throw, several hand cannons were aimed and fired at them. When both sides were roughly equal in elite quality, the advantage of many bullying the few lay precisely in this.

The Border Pacification Army cavalrymen on the two flanks did not engage them in close combat. They only came wave after wave, sweeping past their side, keeping a distance of several paces, or ten to twenty paces, from their horses, and fired their hand cannons at them.

These Bayara soldiers, who had practiced combat skills since childhood, could only bring to bear a single skill — mounted throwing.

The Border Pacification Army cavalrymen sweeping in seemed endless. The crack of hand cannons never ceased. One Bayara after another howled and fell as they were struck.

A Bayara with the back of a tiger and waist of a bear roared in unwilling rage. He hurled his tiger lance, which he treasured like a jewel, with all his might, piercing through both man and horse of a Border Pacification Army cavalryman a dozen paces to his right. But an instant later, a spray of blood burst from his throat guard. It seemed dense — with the crack of gunfire, jets of blood mist shot from his chest and abdomen in several places.

The Bayara opened his mouth to roar, but no sound came out. He had been shot in the neck, and his windpipe was torn open. He wanted to roar, but it only made the blood from his neck spray out faster. In the end, the Bayara glared with unspent fury, and thus died upright on his horse.

The Bayara on the two wings of the wedge formation grew fewer and fewer. The Border Pacification Army cavalrymen sweeping in on the flanks, besides striking them, also kept firing at the Bayara in the center of the wedge formation.

These Qing soldiers had to deal with the Border Pacification Army cavalry charging straight at them and could not attend to the flanks. The shots fired at them were one more accurate than the next.

“Kill the Nikans!”

Maiser roared, holding the banner in one hand and the tiger lance in the other. He, several Bayara squad leaders, and the strongest Bayara soldiers in the unit led the charge, forming the tip of the wedge formation. Behind them, the formation gradually spread open toward both sides.

Iron hooves churned. The heavy snorting of warhorses wove together into a single sound. The Border Pacification Army cavalry on the opposite side also roared as they surged forward.

Neither side showed fear; both possessed the courage to fight to the death without retreat.

In the blink of an eye, both sides closed to within twenty-five paces. The Ming troops opposite fired their hand cannons with a crackling burst, plumes of white smoke and tongues of flame erupting.

Ming troops on both flanks also fired their shot. Some Bayara and warhorses in the formation were hit, and even two Zhuangda tumbled from their horses. Maise's own warhorse was also struck; he nimbly leaped onto another warhorse beside him and continued charging, holding the banner aloft.

Some Bayara beside Maise roared and hurled a wave of javelins and iron maces. Several Jingbian Army cavalrymen screamed and fell from their horses. The javelins and throwing axes cast by those few Zhuangda, in particular, nearly all found their marks.

In an instant, the two sides met. The Jingbian Army riders in the front wave threw aside their emptied hand cannons, drew their lances, and came charging ferociously.

The iron cavalry thundered in, the dull crash of warhorses colliding and the shrill, agonized screams from all sides ringing out.

Maise held the banner in his left hand and his lance in his right. His legs clamped tightly to the horse's belly, and his hips lifted from the saddle. He locked onto a stocky Jingbian Army rider charging straight at him. Watching the man roar and rush forward with leveled lance, Maise likewise bellowed and spurred his horse to meet him.

In a flash, the distance between them shrank to less than ten meters. Each could see the ferocious expression on the other's face.

In that instant, Maise saw the black tassel fluttering atop the rider's helmet and the black-and-red waist tag at his belt. The Qing state now had a fair understanding of the Jingbian Army's organization. Maise knew that this Ming soldier ranked at least as a superior trooper within the Jingbian Army and held the post of Squad Commander.

Maise gave a great shout and thrust his tiger lance, just as the Jingbian Army Squad Commander thrust his own lance.

The two horses crossed, blood spraying. In that lightning-flash instant, Maise twisted his body slightly aside. The Jingbian rider's long lance grazed past his left arm, tearing away a mist of blood — perhaps a large chunk of flesh was gone from Maise's left arm.

But Maise's tiger lance, its blade a deep crimson, driven by the horse's momentum, plunged with a hiss fully into the Squad Commander's chest. It sank in until the blade socket stopped, halted by the short antler prongs on either side. Even so, the tiger lance blade was exceedingly long and nearly burst through his back.

Cavalry duels are many times more brutal than infantry combat. Beyond courage and martial skill, they demand rich experience and keen anticipatory judgment.

Because the warhorses on both sides move at great speed, the slightest miscalculation means death and a fall to the ground.

Clearly, Maise had campaigned on the battlefield for decades and had been appointed Bayara Jalan Zhangjing of the Plain White Banner of the Qing state. His combat skills were truly extraordinary. Whether in battlefield experience or anticipatory ability, he was exceptionally outstanding.

Yet Maise's expression was one of frustration. In the instant he tried to withdraw his lance, he saw the resolute look on the Jingbian Army Squad Commander's face. Even wracked with agony and convulsing uncontrollably, the man instinctively gripped the lance shaft and refused to let go. The opportunity lasted only a split second, causing Maise to lose his own

beloved tiger lance, and also lose a weapon vital to his slaying of foes.