Chapter 182: Deadlock on the Central Front

Dengzhou is not like Tangzhou.

Li Yi saw this clearly during the forward reconnaissance on the third day of the fifth month. Dengzhou City sits at the confluence of the Tuan River and the Diao River, surrounded by water on three sides. Its walls were reinforced anew during the Dading era of the Jin, clad in green bricks on the outside and filled with rammed earth within, standing three zhang and five chi high, with an arrow tower every forty paces along the ramparts. More troublesome is the area outside the city—Jin soldiers dug a new moat south of the city, filling it with water from the Tuan River. Behind the moat they built a low wall, and behind that low wall stood dense rows of sharpened wooden stakes, their tips coated in black lacquer, looking from afar like a leafless dead forest.

Li Yi led his cavalry around the high ground south of the city for half a shichen; the longer he looked, the heavier his heart grew. He pointed his whip south and said to his deputy, "This is not the posture of preparing to abandon the city."

On the eighth day of the fifth month, Xue Shusi arrived with the main force of the Central Army before the walls of Dengzhou. He did not rush to attack. The Central Route's strategy differed from the Eastern Route—the Eastern Route was a hammer, smashing a breach and charging in; the Central Route was a chisel, striking again and again, steady and solid. Xue Shusi pitched his main camp five li south of the city and spent three days building fortifications: digging moats, raising earth walls, erecting arrow towers, and laying out warhorses, making the camp resemble a small city. Only then did he lead his generals to scout around the city. After one full circuit, everyone's expression was far from pleasant. Dengzhou's defenses were stronger than, or at least equal to, Lingbi, yet the Central Army's siege equipment was inferior to the Eastern Route's—heavy trebuchets numbered only two, the rest being light field crossbows, with range and power lagging far behind. More crucially, spies reported that the defender of Dengzhou was Wanyan Kuang, of Jin royal lineage, who had spent ten years training with the northern border armies. Excluding the troops previously withdrawn from Tangzhou, he commanded at least six thousand men. Six thousand men defending a fortified city, with ample grain and an unbroken water supply, could hold out for two or three months without issue.

And the actual force Xue Shusi had available for a siege numbered fewer than thirty thousand.

The first probing attack began on the eleventh day of the fifth month. Xue Shusi committed two thousand men to launch a feint from the south, aiming to gauge the city's defensive firepower. Those two thousand men never even reached the moat—Jin soldiers had stationed large numbers of archers and crossbowmen behind the low wall; their arrows were dense and accurate, and as soon as the Song troops charged to the moat's edge, a whole swath was cut down. Even more alarming, the Jin rolled out two large bed crossbows from the ramparts; their bolts were as thick as spears, and a single shot could pierce two shields. One squad leader was pinned to the ground by a bolt, his shield pierced clean through, and the soldiers behind him retreated in terror.

"Retreat." Xue Shusi lowered his command flag, his face as calm as still water. The two thousand feinting troops withdrew; casualties were tallied—thirty-seven dead, over a hundred wounded. This was merely a probe.

Over the next seven days, Xue Shusi tried every siege method at his disposal. The trebuchets battered day and night, but with only two machines, the stone projectiles struck the walls and left only a few dents, utterly unable to bring them down. He tried tunneling—sending two hundred soldiers, former miners, to secretly dig from behind the camp toward the walls. On the fourth day, the Jin discovered them. The Jin had dug a cross-trench inside the city, flooded it with water, and when the Song tunnel reached beneath the cross-trench, it was flooded completely; dozens of soldiers who could not withdraw in time drowned in the tunnel. Xue Shusi also tried fire attacks—he gathered the oil jars captured at Tangzhou, sent men under cover of night to the city gates to douse and ignite them, but the Jin were well prepared; the gates were clad in three layers of iron plate, stuffed with wet mud inside, and the fire burned for half a night before scorching only the outermost layer of iron.

By the eighteenth day of the fifth month, the Song army had not even touched the edge of Dengzhou's walls. Casualties had already mounted to nearly four hundred. Morale in the camp began to drop. The soldiers did not fear fighting; they feared fighting without killing—enduring arrows, stones, and bolt-cannons day after day, never even seeing the enemy's face. This dull blade cutting flesh wore down morale most of all.

Wanyan Kuang stood on the southern gate tower of Dengzhou, watching every Song attack. He was not as fierce and ruthless as He Shi Lie Heshilie Zhizhong at Lingbi, but his steadiness was another kind of terror—he never counterattacked, never pursued; when the Song retreated, he let them go, not even opening the city gates. He simply inspected the defenses once in the morning and once in the evening, walking the full length of all four walls, personally checking every merlon, every crossbow mechanism, and every pile of boulders. During these inspections, he always held a small teapot in his hand, sipping as he walked, unhurried, like an old wealthy gentleman strolling in his own courtyard. The phrase he repeated most to his subordinates was—"No rush. If they are in a rush, we are not."

This "no rush" troubled the Song army more than any ferocity. He Shi Lie Heshilie Zhizhong at Lingbi fought you to the death; you could fight him, and whether you won or lost, it was satisfying. Wanyan Kuang did not fight you; he crouched behind the walls, drinking his tea each day, watching you run about outside the moat as if watching a play unrelated to himself. If you did not attack, he ignored you. If you attacked, he repelled you with the least effort. When you lost men, he did not even clear the battlefield—the corpses lay there beneath the city, baking until they stank, the odor choking the attacking Song troops themselves.

Xue Shusi sat before the map in his tent for an entire night. He was not without options—if he disregarded casualties and threw all his forces into a direct assault, Dengzhou could likely be taken. Thirty thousand against six thousand; even with half the army lost, the city could fall. But then what? The Eastern Route at Lingbi had already suffered nearly three thousand casualties; if the Central Route lost several thousand more elite troops, even if Dengzhou were captured, the strategic strength for the subsequent Northern Expedition would be severely diminished. He was not Guo Ni; Guo Ni was a battle general, and a battle general cared only about winning the immediate fight. Xue Shusi was a commander-in-chief; a commander-in-chief considered not only Dengzhou but what lay beyond Dengzhou. Attacking Dengzhou was not to occupy Dengzhou, but to open the road to Bianjing. If the fist was battered to pieces along the way, what would be left to strike at the gates of Bianjing?

He stood and walked outside the tent. By mid-fifth month, the Nanyang Basin had grown hot; the camp reeked of horse manure and sweat. In the distance, the silhouette of Dengzhou City crouched heavily under the moonlight, the torches on the walls like a row of wolf's eyes. Suddenly, he understood one thing—Wanyan Kuang did not intend merely to hold Dengzhou; he intended to use Dengzhou to pin him down. Delay one day, delay one month. Delay until the Jin could redeploy forces from the northern border and the western front, delay until the Eastern Army battered its head bloody at Suzhou and Xuzhou, delay until the Great Song's treasury burned dry, until the Zhuhe Sect in the court rose to prominence, until Grand Preceptor Han's resolve wavered—Dengzhou was a nail, not driven into the Central Army's foot, but into the entire timeline of the Northern Expedition.

On the twentieth day of the fifth month, Xue Shusi wrote a military report to Lin'an. He phrased this report with extreme caution, neither concealing the fact that the siege was going poorly nor letting the court think the Central Army was incapable of fighting. In the end, he used four characters—"The war is deadlocked." Then he detailed Dengzhou's defenses, the Jin troop strength, and his own counter-strategy: shifting from direct assault to a long siege, cutting Dengzhou's supply lines, and starving Wanyan Kuang into submission.

At the end of the report, he added a passage heavy with meaning: "Your subject observes that the Jin employ their forces by abandoning frontier small cities, contracting their main strength to hold strategic points. This is not cowardice, but the gathering of strength to await the proper moment. As long as Dengzhou remains unconquered for one day, Bianjing remains unattainable for one day. Your subject shall exert all effort to overcome it, yet I also implore the court to urge the Eastern and Western Routes to advance in tandem, thereby dividing the Jin's strength on the western front."

He sealed the report with hot wax, handed it to a courier, then returned to the map, continuing to stare at the Tuan River north of Dengzhou City. The Jin supply boats entered from there. He pondered how to sever it. The hard battle at Dengzhou was not the kind that drew blood with every strike; it was the kind simmered slowly over a low flame. Such a battle tested not the valor of the soldiers, but the patience of the commander.

And patience was precisely the scarcest commodity since the Northern Expedition began.