Chapter 206: Slaughtering the Barbarians by the Jaxartes (Two Chapters Combined, One Update Today)

Three or four hundred meters — warhorses covered that in an instant. The Persian brave never expected the thousand-li steed beneath the Man Bear to arrive so fast, and even less expected the Man Bear to have thrown on his padded armor in a matter of moments.

Caught off guard, it was already too late to mount his horse. The forty or fifty jin of heavy armor slowed him down.

Crack! With a sharp snap, the Man Bear first lashed out with the long lance laid across his horse's back, striking hard at the Persian brave's carelessly fastened neck guard.

A lance used as a whip in this way hit no less hard than a mace, and it landed on a neck guard that wasn't properly secured. Instantly, the Persian brave staggered on the spot — his brain was probably nearly beaten to pulp.

A pity, though. The Man Bear had originally wanted to couch the lance and thrust, but the simple fellow, because of his own body weight, wasn't well suited to being a mounted champion, so he had never really practiced lance technique.

Besides, what he held wasn't even a proper cavalry lance, so he had no choice but to use it as a whip.

The warhorse roared past the Persian brave, and by the time the Man Bear reined in, he had already galloped more than ten paces beyond.

So he simply, unhurriedly, set down the cavalry lance where he was, then drew his stiff bow, drew it to the full, and aimed at the Persian, who was still staggering about, trying to shake off his dizziness.

Twang! The arrow loosed from the one-dan strong bow struck its target squarely. The Persian brave abruptly stopped staggering, a thick arrow shaft jutting from his head, and toppled to the ground.

"Wind! Wind! Wind!" A mountain-shaking, sea-surging cheer erupted. This Persian giant, six chi tall — roughly one meter eighty-five — had not even gotten a chance to strike back before he was put down, heavy armor and all.

"Elder Brother! I'll kill you!" A roar of fury pierced through the cheering from far away. Another Persian giant of similar build came charging at the Man Bear on a warhorse.

The Man Bear had already dismounted, intending to go collect his spoils, but now another fool had come seeking death.

He gave a cold laugh, loosened up his limbs, then suddenly let out a thunderous shout. A second arrow shot out like a meteor, and the quivering shaft struck squarely in the neck of the onrushing warhorse.

The warhorse, which had been galloping straight at the Man Bear, immediately lost its nerve under the searing pain. Ignoring its rider's commands, it wrenched itself to a halt, turned, and tried to flee.

"Where do you think you're running!" the Man Bear bellowed, and instead charged at the warhorse.

Boom! With a tremendous crash, the Man Bear, clad in heavy armor, slammed bodily into the turning warhorse and knocked it to the ground.

The rider on the horse still tried to stab the Man Bear with his long spear, but his control was off and the thrust hit empty air. The next instant, he was pinned by the thigh beneath the fallen horse.

The Man Bear grinned a cruel, savage grin, raised the great axe in his hand, and smashed the Persian's head, helmet and all, into a pulped watermelon. Bright red blood practically sprayed out from under the helmet's rim.

Having slain two Persian brave generals in quick succession, the Man Bear was immensely pleased with himself. He raised his great axe in his right hand and pounded his chest with his left, howling loudly in defiance at the enemy.

"Kill him! He must be killed!" A Persian chiliarch facing the Man Bear directly shouted in a harsh, furious voice. If the Man Bear were not killed, the blow to morale would be too severe.

At the chiliarch's command, four Persian mounted generals on warhorses immediately broke away from the infantry square, which was still forming up, and charged straight at the Man Bear.

Shameless! They were actually resorting to a relay fight. On the Khotan army's side, furious shouts and curses rose to the heavens. Amid the cursing, Dunzhu dashed out of the formation carrying two throwing spears.

"Shameless mixed-blood barbarians! Watch how your granddaddy kills you!"

Dunzhu's greatest skill was the throwing spear — two in his hands, two on his back, all forged of fine iron. Combined with the power bursting from his long arms and powerful waist and belly, their killing force was astonishing.

Whish! Whish! Whish! Whish! Four throwing spears were loosed in the space of two breaths. Of the four Persian mounted generals who had charged out, three went down in an instant.

With a great killer like the throwing spear, it doesn't matter whether you're armored or not — one hit, one kill.

The last of the Persian mounted generals, running at the rear, was terrified by the throwing spear that whistled past over his head. His courage and spirit utterly shattered, he wheeled his horse around to flee.

But just as he turned his horse's head, a tremendous force slammed into him from behind. In wrenching agony, he felt himself flying through the air, then crashed heavily to the ground.

That arrow was shot by the Man Bear — one arrow, one kill! At this moment, the two of them had slain six men in a row, awe-inspiring, like war gods descended to the mortal world.

Then the Man Bear set down his stiff bow, picked up his great axe, and he and Dunzhu, shoulder to shoulder, began slowly withdrawing toward their own lines.

On the Persian side, all fell deathly silent. No one else came out to challenge. Only the infantry square, urged on by its officers, began slowly advancing.

"Well killed!" Zhang Zhao, mounted on his warhorse at the highest point of the hill, clapped his hands again and again, his heart surging with excitement, wishing he could charge down and fight someone one-on-one himself.

"Pass the order! Beat the drums and advance! Smash them!"

Boom, boom, boom! The rolling thunder of drums first sounded from below the command hill where Zhang Zhao stood. Several great drum wagons were set up there.

Next came the great drums of each army, then those of each battalion, then each company. By the time it reached the squad generals, there were no more drums — instead, the squad generals listened for the drumbeats, read the banners clearly, and then issued orders.

"Three drumbeats — advance!" Qiong Reduojin shouted at the top of his voice.

Zhang Zhao's force had inherited the Guiyi Army's drum-signal meanings: one drumbeat meant advance ten paces, and the blowing of horns meant halt. This was how they controlled the spacing and formation discipline of each square. Three drumbeats meant advance thirty paces.

Whether in the age of cold weapons or firearms, a reliable indicator of an army's fighting strength is this: when two armies close in for the decisive clash, watch which side can better hold its formation.

Because getting tens of thousands of men to hold formation at such a moment — neither rushing forward rashly nor collapsing — requires enormous amounts of training.

"Divine Arm crossbows ready! Crouch! Loose!" At about sixty paces, both sides halted their advance almost simultaneously.

In that instant, arrows filled the sky like locusts, flying at the enemy. The time for the crossbow and bow exchange had come.

In this regard, the Khotan army held a great advantage, because in addition to the several dozen Divine Arm crossbows in each Hanshan unit, they also had large numbers of horn crossbows.

The Persians, by contrast, rarely equipped themselves with crossbows; almost all of them were shooting with Persian recurve bows.

Screams of agony rose one after another. In the exchange of bows and crossbows, the Persian army toppled to the ground in swathes.

Their Persian bows were mostly in the seven- to eight-dou range, but the Khotan army's horn crossbows were at least two dan.

Even if the rate of fire was somewhat slower, against armored men the latter was probably more suitable. As for the Divine Arm crossbows, there was no need to say more — not only was their power great, their rate of fire was fast too.

The drums beat on without pause, fierce as thunder. Now they were no longer urging the men forward, but used to raise morale. The two sides advanced as they shot, and soon four rounds of exchange had been completed.

The ground was covered with the gravely wounded, who could only twitch feebly, and the lightly wounded, who shrieked and wailed. Blood welled up from every direction, and a nauseating stench of gore began to drift through the air.

"Woo-woo!" The horns suddenly sounded. The two armies were now less than twenty paces apart — at this distance, each side could clearly see the other's faces.

At the sound of the horns, the archers, whose arms were already beginning to ache, put away their foot bows and took up their long-hafted weapons. The more brutal, decisive hand-to-hand combat was about to begin.

"You thieving barbarian, fuck your mother! In a moment I'll grab you by your monkey fur and cut that monkey head right off!"

"You pig-dog thing, you dare wave a blade and spear in front of your granddaddy? I'll slaughter your whole family for sure!"

That was the cursing of normal men.

"Fuck your fucking —! If you glare at me again, I'll gouge your eyeballs out and stomp them to paste!"

This one was clearly a hot-tempered brother.

"Fuck your mother! Fuck your mother!"

This one belonged to the over-stressed type, only mechanically repeating abuse with no technical content whatsoever.

"All kafirs will feel the wrath of Allah! You must all die!"

"Kill them! Spread the will of Allah to distant lands!"

The Persians across from them also began shouting furious curses. They were only twenty paces apart — about thirty meters — yet both sides advanced with excruciating slowness.

A thunderous crash of a charge was out of the question. That kind of heroic, fearless super-warrior would never be found in the fine matchmaking system of the Transoxiana region.

Such men existed only among the fierce troops of the Weibo Silver Lance Xiaojié Company, Zhu Liang's Luoyan Company, and Yang Xingmi's Black Cloud Longsword Company.

Perhaps Great King Zhang's Hanshan Company could produce that effect too, but their numbers were far too few.

A drop of sweat rolled down Wang Tongxin's face. Motherfucker, the tension was simply too much. Even a battle-hardened veteran like him was infected by it, and felt the faintest trace of fear. In the old days, when thousands of men brawled, he had never once felt this.

Ten paces, nine paces — closer and closer. Wang Tongxin could even see, through the cheek guard, the thick beard of the Persian facing him.

In the cold air of only six or seven degrees, white mist rose continuously from inside the helmet with its cheek guard pulled tight over his head.

It was the breath of tension. Closer and closer, the air seemed to freeze solid. Even the mutual cursing fell silent.

"Kill!" In the stillness, where only footsteps and heartbeats could be heard, someone suddenly let out a wild howl, and the crowd erupted like a monster abruptly awakened.

In an instant, along a battle line stretching more than a li, combat erupted like a volcano.

Amid earth-shaking battle cries, Yang Shouli, wearing two layers of armor, howled and raised his long spear, smashing it violently at a Persian.

He had asked to be on the front line himself. Anyone who had endured the torment he had suffered would cherish the present beyond measure — cherish having a homeland to rely on.

Yang Shouli understood why he fought. If Great King Zhang were defeated, he would return to that misery of being besieged on the mountain by the mixed barbarians, his wealth and even his closest kin stripped away from him again and again.

But here with Great King Zhang, at least he did not have to worry about Cainiang being carried off by some mixed barbarian, did not have to worry about his white-haired father having his head cut off, did not have to worry about his little sister, who could already recognize a hundred characters, being used as a tool to vent the beasts' lust.

"I'll kill you! Kill your whole family!" The more he thought, the more resolute he became. Yang Shouli howled, each blow harder than the last, each blow faster.

In a fury, he hammered his long spear at the Persian before him like raging waves. Though he himself took several hits, he felt no pain at all.

The Persian was beaten until his head split and blood flowed. His crude helmet quickly sat askew, and blood streamed down in all directions along the cheek guard made of iron wire.

The men around him howled too. They had no choice — Yang Shouli was a Commandant of a company. If he went forward, the rest had to go forward as well.

According to Zhang Zhao's military law: if a Commandant died in battle and the company commander retreated without merit, the company commander would be executed and his whole family enslaved.

If a company commander died in battle and the squad leaders and fire-team leaders retreated without merit, they would be cut in half at the waist.

If a squad leader or fire-team leader died in battle and the soldiers retreated without merit, all of them would be executed!

"Motherfucker! Motherfucker!" A soldier beside Yang Shouli sobbed and cursed as he followed forward and began thrusting with his spear. It was unclear whether he was cursing the enemy or cursing Yang Shouli.

Gradually, under everyone's valor, the Persians across from them began a slow retreat.

However, Yang Shouli and his men were at the edge of the great formation. They were not the main force of this battle. The main force was Zhang Zhao's Fengtian Army and the five elite main regiments of the Khotan palace guard.

In particular, the Hanshan Company of the Fengtian Army — as the trusted core among Zhang Zhao's trusted core — bore the most arduous task of this great battle.

And facing them were the elite of the Persian army as well. The Hanshan Company uniformly wore black-green cotton armor on the outside, ring-mail armor underneath, and padded cotton jackets against the skin.

The Persians across from them wore mirror armor on the outside and chain mail underneath. Both sides were heavy infantry wearing two or more layers of armor.

The only difference was that the Persians held long spears of three or four meters, while the Hanshan Company held modao glaive glaive glaives of over three meters.

The Persians quickly sensed that this army was different. When the two sides closed to fifteen paces, everyone else was tense beyond measure, but the Hanshan Company collectively drew small hand crossbows from their waists.

Thwip! Thwip! The chilling sound rang out. This kind of hand crossbow was small and quick to reload, but its power was also weak — weaker than an ordinary stiff bow, only about seven dou of draw strength — so it had to be fired at extremely close range.

Fifteen paces — that was a perfect distance, enough to bring out the full power of the hand crossbows.

The dozens of Persian heavy-armored soldiers in the front rank felt as if struck by lightning. Seven dou of force at fifteen paces could not pierce armor deeply, but it could pierce.

And even if it could not pierce the armor, the sheer impact of the bolt striking was terrifying.

Moreover, the armored men of the Hanshan Company had deliberately aimed at the enemies' faces in volley. Anyone hit was certain to be dazed, with blood streaming down.

The hand-crossbow volley complete, the armored men of the Hanshan Company immediately drew the modao glaive glaive glaives planted in the ground. Those in the front rank even tossed their hand crossbows straight to the ground — that was how willful they were. The loss of a few dozen hand crossbows was something Great King Zhang could well afford.

Seizing the moment of chaos among the Persian heavy-armored soldiers, the forest of gleaming modao glaive glaive blades rose high. The same tactics as always: two ranks advancing like a wall, coordinating with each other, unbroken and unending.

Wang Tongxin cut down the Persian heavy-armored soldier before him with a single blow. The man's black chain mail was utterly incapable of stopping the modao glaive glaive glaive chopping down upon his head.

The razor-sharp blade sliced effortlessly through the chain mail's links, carving a massive bloody gash through the flesh beneath.

Had it not been blocked by the iron plate of the breastplate mirror armor, this single blow could have cut from the left shoulder all the way down to the abdomen.

One chop complete, Wang Tongxin retreated to the rear. Qiong Reduojin of the second rank had already raised his blade and stepped forward.

And when the Persian heavy-armored soldier across from them fell, the Persian who squeezed into the front rank had not yet had time to thrust his long spear before Qiong Reduojin's modao glaive glaive glaive chopped down.

Unlike the previous man, Qiong Reduojin's modao glaive glaive glaive chopped directly onto the enemy's helmet. The helmet of rawhide reinforced with iron plates was equally unable to stop the blow.

The modao glaive glaive's pointed blade sliced easily through the Persian's helmet, then through the face guard, then burst his eyeball, sliced off his nose, took away half of his mouthful of yellow teeth, removed a third of his tongue, and carried away his entire chin.

An inhuman howl issued from the ruined organ that could no longer be called a mouth. The wretched man did not die immediately.

He spun around violently, sobbing and wailing, hoping to get farther away from the demon before him. But there were people all around, packed too densely. Apart from blocking the advance of the comrades behind him and causing chaos, his efforts were utterly futile.

Wang Tongxin came forward again. The third round of modao glaive glaive chopping began, and this time the destruction wrought by the forest of long blades was even more horrifying.

It seemed to carry an additional blow to the Persian army's morale. Many who had not even been struck by a modao glaive glaive let out the same screams.

Fourth round, fifth round, sixth round!

In an extremely short span of time, the Hanshan Company's modao glaive glaive glaives chopped out six rounds, as easily as slaughtering pigs and dogs.

Blood sprayed wildly, severed limbs flew in all directions. Wang Tongxin suddenly found the space before him empty — they had fought their way through the Persian army's first line.

In the distance, the Persians' strange instruments sounded again. Under their officers' orders, the second line of Persians began slowly advancing toward Wang Tongxin and his men.

Without the slightest hesitation, spurred by blood, adrenaline surged rapidly. The armored men of the Hanshan Company grew fiercer the more they fought.

Zhang Zhao gazed into the distance. The battle had reached a white-hot intensity. The Persians, despite their greater numbers, were being beaten back by his own side.

They had been compressed from their original arc-shaped formation back into something approaching a circle. Both wings had fully contracted — a clear prelude to collapse.

"Great King, it has been a quarter hour!" Guo Tiance beside him, watching the water clock, reminded Zhang Zhao. Since the champions' duel ended, the battle had gone on for a quarter hour.

This was a sensitive point in time. Even for well-trained warriors, fighting in armor for a quarter hour was a very long time.

Those in later generations who often watch brawling videos will notice that ordinary people, using only their fists, can last at most two or three minutes before panting like oxen.

"Sound the horns, all troops halt!" It seemed they could not defeat the Persians across from them in a single push, and the vanguard's advance had slowed. Zhang Zhao simply called a pause to the battle.

The Khotan army's horns sounded, and the Persians' horns sounded in response. The soldiers who had been locked in combat moments before suddenly froze as if under a paralysis spell.

They began to halt their steps, and the two sides gradually broke contact. Then the second horn sounded, and everyone began slowly retreating a short distance, pulling back beyond the range of each other's bows and crossbows.

Of course, the process was not that harmonious — some tried to charge out but were beaten back by the enemy, and some attempted to launch a counter-charge that failed.

More of them, like Wang Tongxin and Shan Zhu'er, still had strength left. They had already drawn their longbows and begun shooting at the enemy. The slowly retreating Persians left behind quite a few corpses under the concentrated arrow fire.

The battlefield fell into a brief lull. The soldiers in the rear who had not advanced hurriedly took on the role of support troops.

They brought out rice balls made of polished round-grained rice mixed with cheese and honey, warm water, and stands for the armored soldiers to lean against. They began tending to the heavily armored soldiers in the front ranks, helping them eat, drink, and rest so they could recover their strength as quickly as possible.

At this moment, the advantages of the padded cotton armor became even more apparent. After a short rest, once their body temperature dropped, the cotton armor was quickly stripped off.

The armored soldiers could eat, drink, and rest more lightly, but the heavily armored Persians across from them did not dare remove their armor at all.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, the wounded on the battlefield began to be carried away. In the silence, a second storm began to brew.

For everyone present, this was a familiar sight. In this era, battles between heavily armored infantry could, at their most brutal, last two or three days and require seven or eight or more engagements before victory was decided.

But Zhang Zhao estimated that he would not need that long, because neither side was made up of the kind of fierce men from the Central Plains of the Five Dynasties — fighters so formidable they could be called war maniacs, battlefield lunatics.

At most two more rounds, or perhaps even in the very next round, the decisive moment would arrive. It all depended on which side broke first. Zhang Zhao felt certain it would not be him.

Zhang Zhao was very confident. Adular was not so confident, because the battle reports he had received were far from encouraging.

The most elite thousand-man unit on his front had already suffered nearly twenty percent casualties, while the modao glaive glaive glaive army that had defeated them could be said to have lost very few men. They had been defeated with great ease.

"Move the reserve right-rear third thousand-man unit to the front. Everyone fought with great valor just now. Pass the word down: each man is to be rewarded with three silver coins. After victory, the bravest officers and soldiers will also be granted beauties from Bukhara!"

After much deliberation, Adular still decided to rotate his formation. No matter how valiant a thousand-man unit was, after losing twenty percent, its fighting strength would surely continue to decline. Sending them forward again could very likely cause a collapse.

'Dong! Dong! Dong!' Amid the blood-soaked ground, the war drums that had been silent for about a quarter of an hour sounded once more.

Neither side had a fortified camp to rely on — this could be called a meeting engagement. Therefore, unlike an army that had set up camp and could hold out behind its fortifications if it felt it could not fight on, there was no such option here.

On this open wilderness, there was no room to retreat — not for either side. If one side launched an attack, the other had to respond. And so the attack drums of both sides sounded again.

This time, the approach brought them much closer than before, and the exchange of crossbow and bow fire nearly ground to a halt.

After all, they had already been locked in fierce combat for a quarter of an hour. Those who still had the arm strength to draw a bow and shoot at this point were basically the soldiers in the rear who had not advanced.

But because they were far away and it was inconvenient to adjust formations, the arrows appeared sparse and scattered.

Wang Tongxin noticed that the enemy had rotated their men. He and Shan Zhu'er beside him exchanged a knowing glance and smiled at each other. This meant the enemy had been frightened by them just now, and so could only switch in fresh troops to fight.

"Raise!" Wang Tongxin bellowed. The two hundred modao glaive glaive glaives in the front rank were instantly lifted high.

'Shua!' The gleaming blade-light caught the approaching noonday sun, dazzling to the eye.

Shan Zhu'er even saw the Persian armored soldier opposite him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing — clearly gulping in fear. This also meant the man had no throat guard.

Zheng Shouli's face was taut, but that did not mean he was nervous — it meant he was now utterly furious.

The company he was in had already lost nearly twenty percent of its men. These were all descendants of the sons of Tang of Anxi. Every single one lost caused him deep pain. Killing ten Persian barbarians could not make up for even one.

"Second Brother, kill the barbarians! Kill the barbarians! Don't worry about me! We of the Zheng family cannot let these mongrel barbarians bully us again!"

The howl of his younger brother Zheng Sili still seemed to ring in his ears. Zheng Shouli suddenly felt his eyes sting, and a tear the size of a bean rolled from his eye socket. Sili had been stabbed in the lower abdomen — who knew whether he would survive?

As his elder brother, I absolutely cannot disgrace my younger brother. Even at death's door, he still called on me to kill the barbarians. Then I, Zheng Shouli, will kill every barbarian before me even if I die in battle.

'Dong!'

The two sides closed in. Zheng Shouli took a hard blow to the head. Dizzy and reeling, his ferocity erupted, and he kept urging the soldiers around him on, fighting ever more fiercely.

Both sides had turned savage, stabbing at each other madly with no thought of dodging. Blood sprayed out through the pierced armor plates.

Around Zheng Shouli, men kept screaming and collapsing to the ground, but those behind immediately stepped up to fill the gaps, utterly resolute.

Looking at the Persians, however, when they saw how valiant the Khotan army was, those who came up to fill the gaps almost always hesitated for a brief moment. And it was this momentary hesitation that caused the Persians to retreat further and further as the battle went on.

In the frenzied slaughter, Zheng Shouli heard terrified wailing from the right. This was not from his own side, because he could not understand a word of the wailing.

"Hanshan Company, mighty! modao glaive glaive army, mighty!" A great shout rose from behind him.

Zheng Shouli understood. He did not need to look to know that Great King Zhang's elite armored troops, the Hanshan Company, wielding modao glaive glaive glaives, had already shattered the Persians opposite them.

Everyone began to shout. The wailing of the Persians across from them was like a war drum urging them forward!

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