Chapter 399: Rout

On the afternoon of the seventh day of the sixth month, the main forces of the Marshal's Manor and the Oirat armies faced off in attack and defense across the Gobi.

Meanwhile, at Yangqu City, Bee-Tail Needle was plotting to desert before the battle.

Bee-Tail Needle was a commander with a fairly wide range of military experience: he had led a bandit gang composed mainly of starving civilians and robbers, joined an uprising army made up of refugees and deserters, surrendered to a regular Ming Dynasty field army, and served in the Marshal's Manor, a quasi-emergent armed group.

For a bandit gang whose purpose was plunder, deserting before battle was only natural; for an uprising army with low combat effectiveness, fleeing from a field battle was a matter of having no choice; for a regular army short on supplies, surrendering before the fight was forced by survival.

A commander's actions are rarely the product of sheer willfulness, nor can anyone truly act with sheer willfulness, because an army is a collective, and the vast majority of power flows from below — this is especially true for peasant army leaders.

Although Bee-Tail Needle's past conduct would be despised, every time he made a decision, it had to win the support of officers and soldiers at all levels to be carried out effectively; after all, leading an entire unit to surrender or flee is also a test of control and execution.

But at Yangqu City, the decision to desert before battle was very difficult to gain the support of the officers and soldiers under his command.

Because the soldier group he led had changed. Among the five hundred-odd soldiers under him, the most prestigious were two hundred veterans from the Training Battalion — the very Lion Soldiers who had once followed Liu the Lion on campaigns across northern Shaanxi.

They were the least bandit-like of bandits, vastly different from the vast majority of peasant armies; in fact, compared to their rations and equipment, the Ming troops in Shaanxi looked like penniless bandits.

These men might not all have great prospects, but they all possessed outstanding military qualities, capable of serving as grassroots officers and soldiers, and were reliable mainstays in any army.

As soon as Bee-Tail Needle proposed abandoning Yangqu, these lower-ranking officers did not even listen to his reasons for wanting to abandon it, directly vetoed his decision, and relieved him of his command on the spot.

Some of the more radical veteran officers even intended to simply kill this timid, hesitant surrendered commander outright.

As the saying goes, if you do not hold the position, it is hard to plan its affairs. In truth, the old Lion Soldiers had no great objection to abandoning the city and fleeing; they had abandoned plenty of cities and lands following Liu Chengzong, or rather, before entering Qinghai, they had never treated defending a city as a serious matter.

No one cared about that.

People simply felt it was bad luck to be assigned to serve under Bee-Tail Needle. This commander's record and identity were far too terrible, almost stacked with every negative trait the Lion Soldiers disliked or even despised.

So much so that people had no interest whatsoever in learning what talents he might have — it was pure dissatisfaction.

Normally, with military law in place, they had no recourse for their dissatisfaction, but this time, when Bee-Tail Needle proposed abandoning the city and fleeing, they seized on it, and with a collective uproar, it became the will of the group.

The old Lion Soldiers had a sense of where the line lay; they knew that in the Grand Marshal's eyes, relieving Bee-Tail Needle of his post was probably no great matter — seizing power was the great matter. Beyond that, the only thing they had to consider was the morale of the recently surrendered troops.

So after relieving Bee-Tail Needle of his post as Commander, the men elected Zhao Kebian, a surrendered officer nicknamed One-Hand who held the rank of Centurion, to serve as acting Commander.

Although Zhao Kebian was also a surrendered officer, both new recruits and veterans acknowledged his courage and intelligence. Never mind missing a hand — even if he were missing a leg, carrying him into battle on a sedan chair would not affect morale.

But Zhao Kebian was a brave commander of border army origin, and in the area of independent command, he was far inferior to Bee-Tail Needle, who had risen from a minor chieftain background. So he publicly spoke up for Bee-Tail Needle and asked about the reason for wanting to abandon the city.

Bee-Tail Needle thought to himself, what fucking reason could there be — fear, of course. The situation they were in was extremely dangerous.

That he had survived until now relied entirely on his decisive flexibility and sharp battlefield instincts.

Ever since learning that morning that the main Oirat army was crossing the river along the Yellow River line, Bee-Tail Needle had been pondering where he stood on the battlefield.

Then he realized that he was the furthest forward detachment of Liu Chengzong's main force, and very likely already deep in the enemy's rear or even behind them.

The central main force was to his northwest, the enemy was crossing the river directly to his north, there was a small enemy force to his east, he had no idea how many enemy troops were on the opposite bank of the Yellow River, and to his south were mountains, while to his southwest was Feng Rang's unit, locked in a standoff with the enemy.

His own mission had been to feign an attack on Yangqu City, but Zhao Kebian had carelessly captured it outright. So now the problem before him was that he was about to be surrounded, and it would be very easy for the enemy to cut off his connection to the main force.

So he had originally planned to retreat westward and link up with Feng Rang's unit, but the moment he mentioned abandoning the city, the veterans relieved him of command, leaving him utterly deflated and not daring to bring up the westward retreat again.

And he asked himself, he had done nothing wrong, and he harbored resentment toward the veterans in his heart. Now that Zhao Kebian was asking, he thought, don't you bastards all think I, Zhang Zhen, am a coward, and you're all so brave?

Fine, I'll propose something difficult and see if you're truly brave or just faking it.

Bee-Tail Needle, like a living map, had someone fetch a banner captured from the Mongol garrison at Yangqu and hung it on the wall. He dipped his hand in water and sketched the terrain on the banner: river to the east, mountains to the south, the position of the Marshal's Manor central main force marked in the middle, and Feng Rang's unit dotted slightly below center.

He said, "The Oirat Tatars are crossing the river in force from east to west — it happened this morning. How many troops? Ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand? I don't know."

"What if the Grand Marshal clashes with them? What use is it for us to guard these three stone walls here? Is that merit? We go back to reinforce!"

Had Bee-Tail Needle not been angry, he would never have said such a thing, because it was far too dangerous. To earn merit, one must also live to receive the reward. At the very least, he should have joined forces with Feng Rang; though the merit would be less, with three to four thousand troops reinforcing together, the odds of survival would be greater.

Unfortunately, Zhao Kebian thought he was absolutely right. Not only did he nod repeatedly, he even started calculating on the spot: "If we set out in a quarter-hour, we can catch sight of the central army before dark. If the two armies have already begun fighting, we might even see where the enemy commander is. Using the night to close in... we take the barbarian king's head in a single strike!"

Bee-Tail Needle was so anxious he could only lick his lips. That's not how you do the math! What if you fail to take the barbarian king's head — wouldn't that just be buying a head to reinforce Liu?

Yet, whether veterans or new recruits, everyone was uniquely enamored with this plan.

After enduring hunger for two or three years, no one liked steady, methodical advances. Living in discomfort for a hundred years was worse than dying; half an hour of glorious fury at least felt like living as a human being.

The Ming border troops loved this kind of tactic — one strike to take heads, earn titles, and become generals.

The five hundred sixty-six defenders of Yangqu City — no, not counting the dumbstruck Bee-Tail Needle, five hundred sixty-five defenders — roared their approval. Officers of all ranks cheerfully arranged to pack supplies, sharpen weapons and armor, and lead the packhorses.

Zhao Kebian dispatched six wounded soldiers on horseback to contact Feng Rang. He had no intention of running to Feng Rang to save his own skin; it was just that after they left, Feng Rang's left flank would have no sentry protection, so a routine report was necessary to keep Feng Rang informed.

They buried some homemade landmines at the ferry crossing, tied up two little lambs to beat drums, and lit two pots of water to make smoke, all to confuse the opposite bank.

Then, seizing a gust of wind that swept up sand, five hundred sixty soldiers, in a vast and mighty procession, against the backdrop of lonely smoke in the great desert and the setting sun on the long river, embarked on the perilous road to reinforce the main force.

Meanwhile, on the southern mountain to the west, Dalai Taiji, blocked halfway up the slope by Feng Rang, gazed northward, wanting to weep but having no tears.

The defensive fortifications he had built on the mountain were nearly turning into a castle, and the damn castle was almost roofed over, yet the reinforcements he had been straining his eyes to see still had not come.

To be precise, Dalai Taiji could actually see the distant, dust-shrouded Gobi — the battlefield where the State Preceptor Khan and Liu Chengzong were locked in slaughter.

They were only thirty to forty li apart. If not for the wind and sand, he could have observed the battlefield clearly.

But even if he could see it, it would be of no help, because Feng Rang was locked in a standoff with him.

Dalai Taiji's initial decision had been to build fortifications on the mountain, hold fast, and await reinforcements.

Because of the presence of the Dörbet musket unit and the narrow mountain path, Feng Rang, lacking heavy artillery, had suffered some setbacks attacking uphill from below. His stubborn donkey temper flared up: you won't let me up, then you can spend the rest of your life living on this mountain.

Feng Rang abandoned the plan for a forceful assault. He dug three lines of trenches and built two low walls below the mountain, making it crystal clear to Dalai Taiji on the mountain: even if it means a siege, I will besiege you to death!

That afternoon, Feng Rang first saw Ma Ke's cavalry and learned that battle had already begun at the northern central army camp, and that his troops would be redeployed north to join the main battle.

Upon receiving the order, Feng Rang immediately commanded the troops to set up positions. Their fight here was not finished, so they could not retreat rashly.

To prevent the enemy from noticing their intent to withdraw and pursuing them down the mountain, he had to camouflage the camp and leave behind all the army tents. Eight hundred men would stay to guard the camp and cover the rear, while the remaining two thousand-odd infantry and cavalry would depart under cover of night.

Just as the camp was nearly packed up in the evening, he also met the wounded soldiers sent by Bee-Tail Needle, who reported the withdrawal from Yangqu City and that Bee-Tail Needle's unit of over five hundred men would strike directly at the enemy formation.

Feng Rang froze. In that instant, his mind was flooded with phrases like "first to ascend and seize the flag" and "courage surpassing the entire army." Immediately, he gave the order to the two Brigade Commanders under him: the entire army mounts mules and races north.

The Logistics Right Battalion would also join this assault.

But their luck was poor. Had they left a moment earlier or a moment later, it would have been fine. Yet precisely as Feng Rang was leading his troops stealthily under the cover of night, a vast clamor of war cries and gunfire erupted from the west, and then a Mongol cavalry unit crashed right into them.

It was Dorji Taiji, who had been chased away by Ma Ke and the musket team.

After being scattered by Ma Ke, Dorji had led his men far to the west in panic, only remembering once they had shaken off Ma Ke that the retreat direction his father had arranged before the battle was east of the Yellow River. He had no choice but to rally his routed troops and carefully detour from the south, attempting to slip past the defensive line.

But in order to chase them, Ma Ke deployed his musket wagons as if they were border scouts, spreading them across a battle line a full fifty li wide from north to south — two wagons and twelve riders per li.

No rustle of wind or stir of grass could escape them. The moment they spotted the enemy, they would fire their muskets from afar; the cavalry behind would hear the shots and swiftly mass.

After half a day and several engagements, Ma Ke's cavalry could no longer physically sustain high-intensity combat, but their fighting spirit was extremely high — their morale went without saying.

At times like this, combat had almost nothing to do with tactics or troop quality; it was all about coordination.

Dorji Taiji's six thousand horse and foot, under repeated charges and relentless pursuit, scattered and regrouped, regrouped and scattered again. Morale was no longer even a question — they were nothing but a flock of utterly exhausted, panic-stricken birds.

By now, he had barely over two thousand horse and foot left under his command; the rest could not be found. The greatest problem was the loss of morale — a single casual charge by the Han cavalry, and his men would break apart.

But Dorji Taiji, fleeing in wretched disarray all afternoon, still kept a clear head. He had already realized that Ma Ke never had many troops to begin with, and now they were spread far too thin. The enemy who could actually pursue him in the first wave numbered no more than two hundred riders.

His own forces still held a tenfold advantage. To escape this pursuit that would otherwise hound him to death, he had to find a way to form ranks and strike Ma Ke with a sudden counterthrust.

If that counterthrust struck home, it would blunt the enemy's edge and rally his own side's morale — never mind then exploiting his overwhelming numerical advantage to swallow this tiny cavalry force whole.

At the very least, it would intimidate the enemy and make them think twice about chasing him to the death.

Ma Ke's forces were indeed spread absurdly thin. All his cavalry were led by company commanders, encircling, blocking, and intercepting — so much so that when he sighted the enemy, he did not have a single bodyguard beside him.

He was completely alone. His nearest subordinates were a hundred paces behind him, but the enemy was also forming an infantry square a hundred paces ahead.

In such a situation, Liu Chengzong would certainly have waited and let his cavalry charge the formation. But Ma Ke was pigheaded — and a reckless fool who treated his own life as worthless.

Brimming with fury at the thought of ever having to sort pickled vegetables again, he spurred his horse and charged.

Alone with his blade, trusting in his armor, he treated the incoming arrows as empty air. He swept his saber sideways to push aside spears and long shafts; his warhorse bowled over foot soldiers. He vaulted high from the saddle and crashed into the rank like a meteor.

His eight-jin long guandao whirled. One full-circle sweep, barely a light slash, and the skin and flesh of seven or eight herders wrapped in nothing but leather coats split open. He leaped, shifting his stance into a vertical chop, and smashed a soldier who tried to parry with a waist saber — weapon and man alike, bones snapped and sinews torn.

Two strokes, and only two nobles in four-mirror armor remained standing in the circle around him, frozen with terror, unable to move their legs. The one directly before him took the blade's slicing spin and staggered back two steps — he was not badly hurt — but before he could stumble and fall, the guandao had already reversed and pecked back at him.

The small cross-blade on the back ridge came pecking down with gravity. How could thin sheet-iron mirror armor stop an eight-jin sharp point? It punched a cun-deep hole through his chest like tearing paper, and he sat down hard on his backside, unable to rise.

Behind him, a Darhan in mirror armor saw this and charged with raised blade. He never expected that Ma Ke, having just skewered one man with the cross-blade, would reverse his grip and drive the sharp tail-spike straight at him, punching a deep dent into the four-mirror armor and shoving the man back several steps.

Before the man could recover from the heavy blow, the guandao had already spun a full circle in the air and slashed horizontally across his neck — a fine, fine head soared skyward.

Such an unwieldy weapon normally demands too much room to be used in battle formations, yet in the hands of Ma Ke, who had trained in martial arts since childhood, it became the deadliest weapon on the battlefield.

Alone, he rampaged through the formation, one guandao serving three purposes at both ends: the blade slashing and cleaving, the back ridge hooking and pecking, even reversing to wield the tail-spike as a spear — sealing, blocking, lifting, grasping, thrusting — spinning, shifting, leaping, utterly unstoppable.

In mere moments, Ma Ke, clad in heavy armor and wielding a heavy blade, had cut down and wounded over twenty herders in the infantry rank, cleaving a path straight through.

Seeing no one around him — though not far off someone was drawing a bow — Ma Ke, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, did not even bother to dodge. He merely lowered his head slightly, letting the arrows ping and clink off his helmet. He wiped the blood from his guandao on a still-twitching herder, planted the blade, and stood upon the dune under the setting sun, amid corpses strewn across the field.

Behind him came the earth-shaking thunder of hooves. Over a hundred riders crashed into the formation to Ma Ke's left and right, blades raised and spears leveled, their battle cries bringing yet another rout to Dorji Taiji.

And so the ill-starred Dorji Taiji, fleeing in defeat, ran straight into the face of Feng Rang, who was in the middle of redeploying.

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Good evening!