Since ancient times, frontier poems have boasted of the fierce spirit of the northwest’s two Long regions, and today, the lands west of the northwest are no exception.
Deputy General Xie Xie of Liuzhou personally led ten thousand monk soldiers from Mount Lantuo out of the city, doing everything possible to slow the retreat of the Northern Mang infantry and two thousand cavalry from the southern border garrisons. Yet, they refrained from engaging in full-scale combat. Whenever the Northern Mang army turned to form a charge, the monk soldiers would likewise halt and form defensive formations, holding their ground like a wealthy host preparing ample wine and waiting for guests to arrive.
The infantry, already heavily depleted in the assault on Fengxiang Garrison, quickly realized the dire situation. Though they still had six thousand able-bodied soldiers, supported by two thousand swift cavalry, they found themselves at a disadvantage whether they chose to fight or retreat. The infantry commander, a veteran of the Northern Court’s Kheshig Guard, knew that in Northern Mang, where martial prowess was the foundation of the state, advancement came either through family influence or battlefield merit. As one of the three commanders of the infantry, he was no mere beneficiary of nepotism but a capable leader. The defense of Fengxiang Garrison had been strangely deceptive—initially appearing impregnable, only to deliberately lure them in, like a courtesan feigning coyness, ultimately leading to the loss of four thousand lives.
Now, with ten thousand monk soldiers doggedly pursuing them, the intent was clear: a detachment of Northern Liang cavalry was likely on its way. But which one? The infantry commander couldn’t fathom it. Logically, Liuzhou’s cavalry should have been fully committed elsewhere. The Northern Mang’s southern border army had dispatched twenty thousand infantry and five thousand elite cavalry for this raid on Fengxiang and Linyao garrisons. Even divided, they shouldn’t have been vulnerable to a few thousand Northern Liang horsemen.
Moreover, Liuzhou’s cavalry was already outnumbered—how could they spare a large force to leave the main battlefield north of Qingcang City? Could it be the two Northern Liang light cavalry units that had bypassed garrisons and penetrated deep into Gusai Province? But how could they return to the border in time? Were these two weakly defended garrisons mere bait from the start? That seemed even more implausible. Even the infantry commander himself had only learned of the raid’s target after crossing the Liang-Mang border. The intelligence had claimed the twenty thousand monk soldiers were heading straight for Qingcang—unless the Northern Liang’s Qingliang Mountain and Protectorate had foreseen it all?
Frustrated by the relentless monk soldiers, the infantry commander was caught in a dilemma. A full assault was suicidal, but doing nothing meant waiting for the Northern Liang cavalry to arrive and claim their heads. The bald monks, armed with thousands of crossbows and arrows, harassed them incessantly, launching small but deadly strikes. The young Liuzhou general’s tactics made their numerical disadvantage irrelevant, as they reclaimed arrows from the fallen, turning the tide. The Northern Mang cavalry, though still numbering sixteen hundred, found themselves outmaneuvered, with the monks even commandeering their horses to form their own cavalry.
The battle left the infantry commander seething. The Liuzhou general, who never once joined the fray, was infuriatingly effective.
With time running out, the infantry commander sought out the cavalry officer from Shiya Garrison in Gusai Province. The two, barely acquainted, shared a silent understanding. The cavalry officer handed over a worn jade belt, a family heirloom, asking it be delivered to his young son.
The sixteen hundred cavalry turned south, their blades gleaming. The officer, a man of little renown, didn’t know that elsewhere in Liuzhou, another cavalry commander had led a similarly desperate charge, shouting, “Those willing to die, follow me!”
The Northern Mang’s martial culture, though still strong, had softened over time, much like the endless grasslands. This officer, a mere fourth-rank commander, had once heard tales of the south—of misty rains and blooming branches in Jiangnan. He knew he and his men would never see such sights.
With a roar, he drew his blade and cried, “Kill!”
Xie Xie, mounted on a Northern Liang steed, watched from behind the monk formations. Soon, a Northern Liang light cavalry of ten thousand would arrive to turn the tables.
Yet, as he witnessed the Northern Mang cavalry’s desperate charge, Xie Xie couldn’t help recalling the carnage at Miyun Pass, where the dead—Northern Liang or Northern Mang—lay indistinguishable.
In his long career, Xie Xie, who would rise to become a peerless scholar-general and pillar of the northwest, never again referred to Northern Mang soldiers as “savages.”
※※※
South of Huaiyang Pass’s outer walls, a lone rider waited on a sandy slope. Soon, a burly figure arrived like a thunderbolt.
The young Prince of Northern Liang dismounted and asked grimly, “Well?”
The man, a sect unto himself, looked troubled. “By the time I reached Dunhuang, it was too late. Tens of thousands of grassland cavalry had surrounded the city. I couldn’t find the woman you mentioned. All I know is a man named Xu Pu died in battle.”
Xu Fengnian’s lips trembled.
Xu Pu.
A man he’d once called “Uncle Xu.”
A first-generation cavalry leader of the Xu family, senior even to Chen Zhibao, Yuan Zuozong, and Chu Lushan.
Huyan Daguang hesitated, struggling to speak.
Xu Fengnian forced a smile. “Is there worse news?”
Huyan Daguang remained silent.
“Speak,” Xu Fengnian said calmly.
Huyan Daguang exhaled heavily. “The old dowager’s orders were clear: whether Dunhuang resisted or surrendered, upon its fall, every soul was to be slaughtered.”
Xu Fengnian released the reins.
In an instant, he vanished.
A thunderous crash echoed across the slope.
Huyan Daguang stood firm, shaking his wrist. Between them, a deep fissure had formed.
“Tens of thousands of Northern Mang cavalry are waiting for you,” Huyan Daguang said coldly. “Li Mibi and hundreds of assassins are among them.”
Another explosion.
Huyan Daguang, fists raised, shouted, “Xu Fengnian! Can’t you see the lack of news about her is bait? A trap to lure you to your death!”
A third, even louder blast.
Huyan Daguang, using all his strength, forced the stubborn young man back.
“If words won’t stop you,” he growled, “then I’ll fight you half to death. Let’s see how you reach Dunhuang then!”
Perhaps the old saying “third time’s the charm” held true.
The young prince stopped. He walked to the northern edge of the slope and crouched beside Huyan Daguang, gazing northward.
“If you don’t show yourself,” Huyan Daguang said quietly, “she might still have a chance.”
Xu Fengnian nodded. “I understand now.”
Huyan Daguang sighed in relief. Fighting this young man to the death was not something he relished.
After all, he was a family man.
Xu Fengnian murmured softly, almost inaudibly:
“Call me not poor, though my sleeves catch only the wind. Mock me not for sleeping under the sky, with earth as my blanket. Laugh not at my thirst, for the rivers are my wine jar. Think not my life bitter, with a sword at my waist… There is no one as fortunate as I, no one as fortunate as I…”
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