Chapter 1430: A Misunderstanding of Unyielding Bravery

With over four hundred arquebuses firing from both flanks, such carnage was hardly surprising. The only thought left at that moment was to charge the enemy line, close the distance, shoot with bows, hack with blades — see if they could carve out a path to live, or drag a few down to die with them. Otherwise, this battle would have been fought far too wretchedly.

The dismounted riders charging forward were not just this one company, but Hulegen's was the largest. The corpses they used as shields held out only briefly before collapsing, but those who fell were immediately treated the same way. They struggled forward a dozen-odd paces like this, until in the end Hulegen and his men threw caution aside entirely, dropped the corpses, and charged.

They finally reached bow range, but many of these dismounted riders never even drew their bows before being shot dead on the spot. What caught Hulegen and his men even more off guard was that arrows came back at them from the other side, and the aim was no worse.

By this stage of the fight, even a coward like Hulegen had turned fierce. Watching his comrades fall one by one around him, the arquebuses unstoppable, the enemy also wielding bows — every instant was torment. Better to fight for a quick death than endure such agony!

The dozen or so men left charged upward, brandishing swords and blades. Though Hulegen ran fast, instinct kept him hidden behind the others. Watching them fall one after another before him, he still made it to within a few paces of the arquebuses.

Heaven be praised — the arquebusier before him had just finished firing, and the others had no attention to spare for this side. Hulegen cast everything aside, thinking only of taking one of them with him.

The arquebusier opposite had just shoved the ramrod into the barrel. Seeing he would not make it in time, he grabbed the arquebus and struck out recklessly. At a few paces' distance, the ramrod shot forth like an arrow loosed from the string. Hulegen dodged desperately, but the rod still pierced through his left shoulder — his iron-studded leather armor offering no resistance at all.

Agonizing pain bored into his heart. Hulegen's body shuddered. His right hand had already raised the long saber. Blood spraying five paces, life for life — it was worth it!

These gutless Han curs, good for nothing but loosing their fire-sticks from afar — the moment you close in, they run. An inexplicable thrill surged through Hulegen's heart, imagining the enemy fleeing in terror.

He never expected that this arquebusier, his shot spent and only two paces away, far from fleeing, would instead draw his own saber and charge straight at him!

Hulegen's shoulder was wounded; every lift and swing of his arm tugged at the injury, already hampering him. Still less had he imagined that a man stripped of his firearm would charge head-on. Hulegen had assumed this Han opposite him was quaking with fear, useless in close combat. He never expected such ferocity. When brave men meet on a narrow path, the brave one wins. At this moment, Hulegen was already somewhat panicked — but there was no room left for panic.

The arquebusier's saber stabbed straight into his chest and belly, then pulled and twisted. Hulegen's iron-studded leather armor could stop nothing — it was ripped wide open. All strength drained from his body. The weapon fell from his hand, and he collapsed face-down into the snow.

Weren't the Han curs with fire-sticks all supposed to be timid as mice, fleeing the moment you closed in to kill? Why was this one different? That was Hulegen's last thought, before darkness swallowed him.

What Hulegen did not know was that the arquebus soldiers were the elite of the Zhao family army. Only battle-hardened veterans became arquebusiers. Their experience in cold-weapon combat, the bloodshed and slaughter they had witnessed — all of it surpassed that of ordinary pikemen.

The Jianzhou riders who survived the arquebus fire began gathering into small squads and charging the slopes on either side of the road. At this point, the Zhao family army's arquebusiers were starting to find things difficult.

When the ambush began, the arquebusiers had loaded and fired in volleyed succession, hardly needing to aim — just level the muzzles at the horse column and shoot. But now, with the enemy charging up, the trees obstructed them, and the arquebuses' traverse was limited. They could not achieve any accuracy and were easily rushed. Though that one soldier had finished Hulegen with his blade, in cold-weapon melee, the arquebusiers were after all at a disadvantage.

"Halberdiers forward! Archers, follow!" Someone began shouting orders. The non-commissioned officers and junior officers wielding long halberds started advancing. Some arquebusiers also dropped their firearms, picked up bows placed nearby, and followed.

One older arquebusier, having slung his bow across his back, said irritably to a young man beside him: "See? Still have to use this. This is what we Mongols make our living with. And you — you won't let go of that arquebus!"

"Father, have you never seen the short arquebuses the cavalry use in succession? If I had one of those in hand, who'd bother with a bow and arrow? This thing is outdated!" The young man shot back, his face full of defiance.

The two were arguing when a company commander, holding his halberd level, lost patience and turned his head to roar: "You two, father and son, argue about this every day — aren't you sick of it? The Tatars are here! Keep your eyes sharp, and don't let a stray arrow hit me!"

With that shout, the company commander strode down the slope in great strides. The father and son glared at each other defiantly, arrows nocked and bows half-drawn, and followed at a quick pace.

From the arquebus ranks behind them, someone could not suppress a laugh: "The Gerelt father and son are at it again!"

This father and son were men who had voluntarily joined the caravan after Wang Ziyang was brought under the Zhao family army's control. The two, who depended on each other for survival, both had considerable martial skill and spoke fluent Mandarin. They were directly incorporated into a Zhao family army brigade, and later, because of their seasoned battlefield experience, were assigned by regulation to an arquebus company.

In the end, the son mastered the arquebus faster and better than the bow, while the father believed the skills passed down by their ancestors could not be abandoned. The two often debated the merits of arquebus versus bow and arrow — a well-known amusing story within the First Brigade.

The dismounted Jurchen and Mongol riders all harbored a sliver of wishful thinking, believing that once close combat was joined, the men holding arquebuses would flee. They never expected that not only would the enemy not run, but they would instead grab their weapons and come down to fight.

And the men who came down to fight were practically made of iron, every one of them. They all wore face guards on their helmets. Once those were fastened, landing an arrow through those few small openings would truly take a master marksman.

Arrows loosed, only to glance off the enemy's armor. All they saw were men clad in iron armor, wielding long halberds, charging down through the trampled snow — the halberds thrusting straight at them.

This face-to-face slaughter was even more brutal than the arquebus fire. Some were impaled straight through by the long halberds; others were cleaved open. Yet their own weapons could do nothing to the enemy. What broke them even more was that arrows still came at them from time to time, and these arrows were in no way inferior to their own.

The desperate counterattack was quickly shattered. With not a shred of hope for victory, all that remained was to flee. Though there might be nowhere to flee to, fleeing was the only choice.

After all, several hundred of their own riders were still behind them. If they could regroup with them, their chances might be a little better.

When the vanguard encountered the arquebus fire, those behind had halted immediately. These Jurchen and Mongol riders, once they had fallen to the rear, had already lost any desire to compete for spoils — they were merely hoping to scavenge some easy pickings. Now that the front had become a slaughterhouse, who would still be willing to go to their deaths?

Yet on this mountain valley road, turning to flee at once was no easy matter. Several hundred horsemen were jammed together on the narrow path, pressed even tighter by the halt. Turning a mount around required considerable space, and with so many trying to turn at once, the chaos only worsened. Watching the carnage ahead — men and horses toppling, shrieks rising unending — no one wanted to linger here a moment longer. This urgency threw the column into greater disorder. Impatient men had already drawn their blades and were gesturing, shouting curses at one another. A deadly brawl seemed imminent.

Those truly at the very rear, who moments ago had been lamenting their lack of spoils, now counted themselves lucky. On the outer edge, the rear guard was the easiest to break away from — the easiest to flee.

They had not run far when they heard the sound of hoofbeats ahead. From the fork in the road they had passed earlier, over a hundred riders came charging out!

Could it be their own reinforcements? The Jianzhou Jurchen riders immediately dismissed the possibility. The armor and uniforms those men wore were completely different from their own.

These were the Zhao family army scouts they had been chasing. So they had been hiding in the rear all along! This was no pursuit — this was a trap, plain and simple. What was it they said — the mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind? They themselves were the cicada; they themselves were the mantis!

The Jianzhou riders' hearts and gall bladders split with terror, while the hundred-odd Zhao family army cavalrymen were utterly composed. Their leader waved his lance, then pressed forward. The foremost four or five lances were all leveled straight ahead.

Scouts and reconnaissance riders, for the sake of stealth and convenience, carried only sabers, axes, and bows — who brought long weapons? These Zhao family army riders were no scouts; they were clearly heavy cavalry meant to break a formation!

Under normal circumstances, with the two forces suddenly clashing like this, the Jurchen and Mongol riders might still have had the stomach to fight. But at this moment, who still had the will to keep fighting? They thought only that if they fought any longer, those thunderclap arquebuses would be right on their heels — and who could endure that?

The whole lot of them threw caution to the wind. Turning around was all but impossible, but spurring their horses into the wooded slopes on either side was still worth a try. Utter chaos ensued. The Zhao family army cavalry charging at the very front paid no attention at all to the Jianzhou riders scattering in flight; they simply pressed forward at speed. Their target was never these scattered, fleeing horsemen, but the main body still tangled in chaos ahead.

As they rode, the Zhao family army riders at the head hung up their lances and drew their short arquebuses. Straggling Jianzhou riders kept rushing toward them head-on, but their reaction was the same as those before: every one of them turned and fled. If they could not make it into the wooded slopes, they would rather dismount and flee on foot.

The moment they saw these hundred-odd riders appear behind them, the remaining several hundred Jianzhou riders collapsed entirely. The Zhao family army cavalry's short arquebuses never even had a chance to fire — they simply charged all the way to the battlefield ahead. Jianzhou Jurchen and Mongols fled wildly over the hills and across the fields, abandoning their mounts and running for their lives.

"Weren't we always told the Tatars were fierce and unyielding, fighting to the death without retreat?"

"You believe what the Ming army says? Just look at their sorry state and you'll know!"

They had set a simple sack ambush, the enemy had blundered straight into it, and then they had been devoured at leisure. What they had thought would be a bitter fight — the final cavalry charge — had turned out to be a rout.

Even as they voiced their contempt, they were redeploying troops from the rear. Squads of halberdiers and arquebusiers in mixed formation swept through the mountain valleys and wooded terrain, while the horse teams checked the ground suited for cavalry movement.

No matter how fearless and death-defying a warrior might be, in such a situation, surrender was the only option. In this world of ice and snow, having abandoned their horses to flee, without supplies, to freeze or starve to death in this terrain, or be hunted by wild beasts — that was a fate worse than death.