Chapter 190: Slaughter and Reward and Punishment

The sky had not yet fully brightened.

The horizon was a taut, blue-black line.

The wind was the present master of this grassland, coming from afar, howling as it swept over the withered grass.

Silence.

A deathly silence.

Suddenly, the earth began to tremble faintly.

It was a highly rhythmic, muffled rumble rising from deep within the ground.

On that blue-black line, a creeping shadow bulged forth.

It was a cavalry force.

They seemed to grow out of the frozen soil, soundless and silent; only the sound of hooves crushing frost merged into a suppressed undercurrent.

The undercurrent was aimed at several dozen tents scattered in the wind.

No horns, no battle cries.

This battle was never meant to be a raid, but a slaughter.

When the first sentry was startled awake by strange noises outside his tent and raised his head from the extinguished campfire, a feathered arrow precisely nailed into the center of his brow.

He did not even have time to let out a startled cry before his body went limp, warm blood instantly bursting across his face.

Arrows rained down in torrents, hundreds of them, precise and deadly as venomous bees, buzzing as they drilled into every tent.

The sound of fabric being torn, the sound of heavy objects collapsing, and the death-rattles stifled in throats all rose almost at the same instant.

The cavalry surged into the camp, the arc-light of curved blades starkly clear in the dim morning light.

A man who had just grabbed a curved blade had his wrist cleanly severed; he stared blankly at his severed hand, and before he could wail, his head flew off the next moment.

An old man had just picked up a bow when a lance thrust through his chest, pinning his grandson behind him as well.

The blood did not splash — it flowed out gurgling from the corpses like a turned faucet, soaking the frozen earth beneath into patches of dark-red mire.

The screams of women and the wails of children finally shattered the silence before dawn, but were soon drowned out again by fresh sounds of slaughter.

A Mongol nobleman clad in iron armor reined in his horse atop a gentle slope, watching all this in silence.

The gruesome sight of the massacre did not make his gaze waver in the slightest.

He was Ligdan Khan's brother-in-law, the commander of this Chahar cavalry force — Guiyingqia.

The battle ended very quickly.

When the last man who tried to resist had his throat pierced by a lance and was hoisted up like a tattered sack, the camp completely lost its voice.

A blood-drenched tribal officer charged up the slope, dismounted, and knelt on one knee:

"Ejen! All who dared take up arms have been killed."

"The plunder is meager: five hundred and eighty-seven sheep, forty-seven head of cattle, one hundred and eighty-seven horses. But they're all scrawny beasts that won't stave off hunger."

He spat a mouthful of saliva, his face full of contempt.

"The most valuable things were actually two bolts of southern satin. We couldn't even dig out any silver from the rest."

Another officer also gathered around, his tone unable to hide his disappointment:

"Too poor! They couldn't even scrape together enough grain to last the winter — we only found four cartloads of wheat in total. The remaining men number eighty-nine, women and children three hundred and forty-eight."

Guiyingqia finally withdrew his gaze and looked at the men.

"What's the rush? Once we've trampled Qingcheng flat, will we still need to rob these paupers?"

He bared his teeth in a grin, his eyes utterly cold.

"I hear the spire of the pagoda there is cast from solid gold, and the water-meadows along the Chile River are richer than all the pastures of our entire Chahar."

"Tens of thousands of Han people till the land there, harvesting hundreds of thousands of shi of grain a year."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the men, the flame of greed igniting in every pair of eyes.

"The women there are more tender than the plumpest lambs. As long as you ride fast enough, you can change three in a single day."

The soldiers let out bestial growls, their breathing heavy, as if they could already smell the scent of blood and riches.

"Trample Qingcheng flat!"

"Seize all their grain and women!"

Just as the men were immersed in fantasies of wealth, a tiny feathered arrow came flying crookedly, landing softly on the ground before Guiyingqia with a weak, trembling thud.

Every voice stopped abruptly.

Not far away, a boy of about six or seven was standing beside his father's corpse, holding a small rabbit-hunting bow, his whole body trembling.

After a brief moment of shock, the surrounding soldiers erupted into even louder guffaws.

"Ha! The little wolf cub wants to bite now!"

But the smile on Guiyingqia's face vanished.

He looked quietly at the child and uttered a few words:

"A wolf that won't obey deserves to die in the winter."

Before the words had faded, a bowstring twanged softly.

The arrow flew; the man fell.

A bloody hole appeared in the center of the boy's brow, and he toppled straight backward, dying beside his own father.

Guiyingqia put away his bow, expressionless, as if he had merely crushed an ant underfoot.

He turned his horse around and gave orders to his officers:

"Assign some men to transport the captives and livestock back."

"Pick two more men, cut off their ears and noses, and send them to the Tumed tribe to deliver a message. Tell them: this is the fate of those who do not submit."

"The rest of you…"

Guiyingqia wheeled his horse around and laughed loudly:

"Move out! Follow me to the next one!"

The men answered in unison, their voices like muffled thunder.

They no longer spared a glance at the corpses on the ground, nor paid any heed to the wailing of the captives. On every face surfaced a cruel, feverish excitement.

Guiyingqia rode at the head, his horse's hooves churning up blood-flecked grass and soil as he sped into the distance.

Behind him, several hundred cavalry followed close, coalescing into a black iron current that flowed silently across the vast grassland.

The day was still young. This slaughter had only just begun.

After a full day of fighting, having broken through several camps, Guiyingqia finally led his troops back to camp.

By now dusk had fallen, and the western sky blazed into a spectacle of fierce crimson.

Guiyingqia narrowed his eyes, watching that great red sun sink below the horizon.

He liked this color — it was like blood, and like gold, brimming with the savor of conquest and plunder.

The mount beneath him sensed its master's will and let out a ringing neigh, quickening its pace by a few notches.

The dust churned up by the horses' hooves surged toward that enormous camp ahead like a yellow dragon.

He could not even be bothered to wait for the camp gate to fully open. His fine steed shot through like an arrow leaving the bowstring, bursting through the gap the moment it was barely wide enough.

Herders in the way scrambled aside in panic; those a step too slow were met with a lash across the back from his personal attendants, drawing a muffled grunt.

Guiyingqia paid it no mind.

On this grassland, the wails of the weak were simply the battle hymns of the strong.

The camp was as chaotic and teeming with life as ever.

The stench of horse dung, the sour smell of cheap kumis, mingled with the clamor of women and children — together they formed a symphony unique to the grassland.

He could feel the gazes cast his way — some reverent, some envious, and some concealing greed beneath their deference.

These gazes filled him with satisfaction.

He was Ligdan Khan's sharpest blade. The more blood it drank, the greater its master's favor.

And that favor would in turn bring him more and more followers, so he could drink still more blood.

Rounding several enormous cart-tents, the golden-roofed white tent that belonged to Ligdan Khan came into view at the edge of his sight, like a colossal white beast crouching low.

(The illustration is just to give an idea. A real encampment would be enclosed by all sorts of large carts, not this loosely spread out. But the cavalry passage is reasonable.)

Guiyingqia swung down from his horse, tossed the reins carelessly to the young servant who came forward to meet him, straightened his dust-caked armor, and strode inside.

The tent flap lifted, and a wave of warm air, thick with the smells of kumis, roast meat, and pungent spices, rushed to meet him.

Unlike the din outside, the great tent's interior was, unexpectedly, somewhat quiet.

A dozen or so tribal chieftains were already seated on both sides. Though they drank and ate meat, their talk and laughter were kept low, and they seemed somewhat distracted.

The moment they saw Guiyingqia enter, every man's eyes turned toward him.

The fire pit's glow danced across their faces, illuminating their varied thoughts.

Guiyingqia's gaze swept past them and settled on the tall figure reclining against the tiger-skin throne at the place of highest honor.

Two beautiful women, like docile cats, nestled against him — one kneading his shoulders, the other feeding morsels of trimmed mutton into his mouth.

This was their Khan, the master of the Chahar's tens of thousands of bowstring warriors — Ligdan Khan!

"God of gods, all-wise Chinggis Khan of Prosperity, may you be blessed and fulfilled!"

Guiyingqia dropped to one knee, his voice ringing out and breaking the silence within the tent.

Ligdan Khan's gaze slowly settled on him. Those deep-set eyes betrayed neither pleasure nor anger. Only after a moment did the corner of his mouth curl into a faint smile.

"My 'Blood Hawk' has returned. How did the business go?"

"Reporting to the Great Khan! Seven disobedient camps have been wiped from the grassland. Their tongues I have also sent men to deliver westward. I trust the Prince of Shunyi of the Tumed will appreciate the gift."

Guiyingqia's reply was terse and bloody.

"Good!" Ligdan Khan laughed heartily. "Pour him wine! Give him meat!"

Guiyingqia raised his cup and drained it in one gulp, then took his appointed seat. He seized a roasted leg of lamb and fell to devouring it without the least ceremony.

He could sense that with his arrival, the taut string within the tent had been drawn a few notches tighter.

He swept the outer vassal chieftains among those seated with the tail of his eye, sneering inwardly.

These men were like sheep in a pen. Only when they saw the wolf's fangs would they learn obedience.

After a while, the tent flap was lifted again.

This time it was Agula, the Aha Gūsa Ejen under the name of Empress Dowager Nangnang.

After the customary greeting of "May you be blessed," he reported:

"Today we only took three camps, seizing back over five hundred sheep and more than a hundred horses! The main trouble was that we ran into Tumed main-force cavalry midway. We fought a probing engagement and lost a dozen or so good men."

Ligdan Khan's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then smoothed out at once:

"When a wolf travels a thousand li for meat, how can it not suffer wounds? Bringing back the prey is merit enough. Pour him wine, sit down and eat meat!"

Agula was overjoyed and gave thanks for the grace.

The atmosphere in the tent relaxed a little.

But this ease did not last long.

Yet another chieftain pushed through the entrance — this was Sangharjai Jinong, leader of the Alakchut tribe, a Chahar outer vassal.

His face was ashen. After entering and saluting Ligdan Khan, he spoke with barely suppressed fury:

"Great Khan! Today I led my men westward and ran straight into Tumed cavalry! Those sons of bitches, relying on their numbers, hounded us like mad dogs!"

He slammed his fist against the floor and said bitterly: "We didn't seize a single thing, and we lost over a hundred of our good men!"

Ligdan Khan's hand, holding the golden cup, stopped in midair. The smile had vanished entirely from his face, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He did not erupt at once. Instead, he drained the kumis in his cup in one swallow, then slammed the golden cup heavily onto the low table with a dull thud.

"Sangha'er Stockade." Ligdan Khan spoke. "Are you telling me that the warriors of my Chahar are inferior to the Tumed cavalry?"

Sangha'er Jinong jolted as if struck, only now realizing the emotion in his own words. He threw himself to the ground in prostration. "Great Khan, I would never dare say such a thing! The Tumed are cunning, they used numbers to bully the few! I beg the Great Khan to see clearly!"

Ligdan Khan gave a cold laugh. "Agula lost a dozen men and brought back cattle and sheep. You lost over a hundred men and brought back nothing but shame."

"This is the rule passed down from Genghis Khan! He who seizes cattle and sheep gets wine to drink and meat to eat! He who returns empty-handed is worthless!"

He looked down at the prostrate Sangha'er Jinong and coldly issued his command.

"Since you lost, you must be punished."

"I decree that your tribe shall transfer one hundred households to Agula. Let him teach your people how to be wolves that bring back prey!"

"Do you accept this?"

At these words, a flash of greedy, delighted light burst from Agula's eyes. He quickly lowered his head to hide the grin about to split his face.

Sangha'er Jinong's face cycled through shades of blue and white. His fists clenched rigidly at his sides.

One hundred households! Damn it, another hundred households!

Ever since following Ligdan Khan on this westward migration, he had seen this slow-boiling frog tactic far too many times.

Today this tribe lost men—a dozen households peeled away. Tomorrow that tribe hunted poorly—a few more households stripped off.

Piece by piece, the strength of their outer-vassal tribes had been whittled down by who knew how much.

The spoils all went to the Chahar main tribe. The hard fights, the bitter battles—all fought by their outer vassals.

Damn it all! Had he known it would come to this, he would have been better off following the Aohan and Naiman lot and defecting straight to those Jurchen in the east! Better than swallowing this humiliation here!

His heart churned like an overturned sea, curses raging without end—but what could he say? What dared he say?

In the end, he only buried his head lower. A muffled, sullen voice replied, "... I have no objection."

Guiying Qia watched this performance of master and servant playing out at the center of the great tent, a flicker of imperceptible mockery passing through his eyes.

The strong rule, the weak become prey—this was always the law of the steppe.

Yet this Great Khan insisted on using the methods of the Southern Emperor, playing these thinly veiled games!

Why not just swallow him outright?!

This Khan, the more one looked at him, the more he resembled Yuan Shao from the Three Kingdoms.

Guiying Qia chewed forcefully on his mutton, his gaze once again drifting toward the heavy night beyond the tent.

Right now it was Sangha'er being "taught." When it was over, who would be next?

But it did not matter. The one being taught would never be him, Guiying Qia!

Soon, one chieftain after another arrived in full.

After offering salutations and well-wishes, each reported the day's spoils of battle.

Ligdan Khan dispensed rewards here, imposed punishments there, and soon had everything arranged.

By the time the last man arrived, the tent was packed full with several dozen tribal chieftains seated in place.

In the very front row sat six women in magnificent attire. They were Ligdan Khan's wives and consorts—and, more importantly, the actual commanders of the six core gūsa under his command.

Below them sat the trusted confidants of the Chahar main tribe, and the stronger or more favored chieftains among the outer vassals.

Seated in order of closeness and rank, all turned their eyes toward the center of the Khan's tent, toward the man seated high upon the great tiger-skin chair.