Before Wei Musheng, the captain of the Northern Liang White Horse Scouts, fell in battle, he never got to witness the thunderous arrival of Yuan Nanting’s ten thousand White Feather Light Cavalry. Yet his fearless charge into enemy lines secured an unimaginable advantage for Yuan Nanting’s forces. In clashes between evenly matched cavalry, the side that seizes the initiative often claims victory.
For nearly two decades, the Liang and Mang armies had clashed along the border, each knowing the other inside out. The grassland cavalry’s signature tactics—hit-and-run feints and false retreats—had once annihilated the 200,000 elite border cavalry of the late Dafeng Dynasty in just two battles. But now, facing the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry—whose warhorses, weaponry, and battlefield formations were unmatched in Liyang—the Northern Mang cavalry dared not loosen their own formations to split the enemy ranks and create localized advantages for piecemeal destruction. This was no ordinary clash between nomadic and agrarian forces, where the latter could only rely on towering walls or heavy infantry to fend off the swift grassland riders. This was cavalry against cavalry, pure and simple. That was why, for twenty years, the Northern Mang had viewed the Northern Liang as their greatest threat, prompting the Taiping Chancellor to insist on conquering the Liang before swallowing the Central Plains. One of his famous sayings spread far and wide: “Once we grit our teeth and take the four provinces of Northern Liang, the thirty provinces of the Central Plains will fall like ripe fruit!”
Yuan Nanting’s ten thousand White Feather Light Cavalry emerged abruptly from the flank of Dong Zhuo’s private cavalry, forming an exceptionally long front line. The Northern Liang cavalry had a tradition of favoring crossbows over arrows—except for this White Feather Guard. Each rider carried a quiver of white-feathered arrows, excelling in mounted archery. Legend had it that when the old Liyang emperor once toured the Northern Liang border, the cavalry Xu Xiao led in military drills was none other than the White Feather Guard. As the emperor watched the sky darken with white-feathered arrows raining northward, he sighed in awe: “Never thought I’d witness a blizzard in midsummer. Magnificent!”
The commander of the Dong family’s private cavalry, Agudamu, galloped across the field, roaring orders. Over time, especially after the Hongjia Northern Migration brought a flood of military treatises from the Spring and Autumn refugees, the grassland cavalry had evolved beyond crude daytime flags and nighttime torches for battlefield commands. Generals now had dedicated flag-bearing riders to relay orders, ensuring the army moved as one, with every centurion understanding the commander’s intent—not just the general direction of charge or reinforcement. But few Northern Mang cavalry units truly achieved this. Liu Gui earned the Northern Mang Empress’s favor and the moniker “Half a Xu Xiao” precisely because his cavalry tactics mirrored the Northern Liang’s—meticulous and precise, ensuring victories were decisive and defeats never catastrophic.
Beyond Liu Gui, Dong Zhuo’s infantry and Helian Wuwei’s Xihe Army were two others. As for Dong Zhuo’s cavalry, it was a source of regret for Northern Mang’s astute observers. Initially celebrated for its exploits, it later faced such political interference from the Northern Mang court that its numbers were deliberately capped at around ten thousand. Huang Songpu’s quiet departure, ostensibly due to setbacks at Wazhu-Junzi Pass, likely also stemmed from his sweeping reforms of the Southern Dynasty cavalry, which the Northern Court’s tribal leaders and Southern Dynasty’s old guard saw as treasonous tampering with ancestral traditions.
In contrast, the new Summer Nabu Zhongtan’s reforms during the Hulu Pass siege drew little court criticism—partly because the grasslands needed a hero, but also because Zhongtan’s native Northern Mang identity served as a shield.
After a brief respite, the ten thousand White Feather Guard loosed their arrows like a midwinter blizzard. Hundreds of Dong Zhuo’s private cavalry fell in the initial volley. Yet the eight thousand private riders proved their mettle, executing Agudamu’s orders flawlessly, their formation expanding to avoid being encircled by the White Feathers’ deadly arcs.
But the Northern Liang border cavalry, having seized the initiative, didn’t relent. They shifted formations, leveraging the White Feathers’ unmatched mobility. The battlefield thus unfolded a breathtaking spectacle: the ten thousand White Feathers, instead of thickening their center, accelerated their flanks mid-charge, transforming their unified arc into two parallel “dragons.” Agudamu’s cavalry, initially split into left, center, and right, now saw its two thousand vanguard trapped between the two Liang forces. The Dong family’s main force, led by Agudamu, didn’t charge blindly forward—doing so would have left over a thousand corpses in their wake. Instead, Agudamu wheeled his center southward to clash head-on, while ordering his rear two thousand to stall the northern Liang riders at all costs. Outnumbered, Agudamu was sacrificing two thousand to buy time for his six thousand to crush five thousand White Feathers—a desperate move, but one that exploited the White Feathers’ Achilles’ heel: their stretched, thin formation couldn’t withstand a full six thousand-strong charge.
Speed.
The essence of both cavalry forces was speed—not just in horses’ sprint or archers’ volleys, but in the lightning shifts of battlefield response.
The Central Plains boasted many heroic frontier poems and warlord fiefdoms, but since the Qin Dynasty’s founding, few scholar-generals had excelled in both letters and arms. Most were adept at defense but inept at expansion. Thus, from Dafeng to the Spring and Autumn Northern Han to modern Liyang, while many earned the prestigious posthumous title “Wenzheng” (Cultured and Upright), none ever received “Xiang” (Meritorious in Expansion)—a title reserved for those who conquered lands beyond the borders. The Dafeng founder decreed that only those who “cracked whips in the deserts” deserved it, setting a precedent later emperors tacitly upheld. The rarity of “Xiang” stemmed from Dafeng’s bloody lessons: at its peak, the dynasty boasted 800,000 warhorses; even in decline, it fielded 200,000 border cavalry. Yet two successive commanders—one a grizzled veteran, the other a brilliant strategist—both crumbled under grassland cavalry charges, dragging half the Central Plains into ruin. The reason? Large-scale cavalry battles hinged on fleeting opportunities; once momentum shifted, collapse was inevitable. Central Plains chronicles often glossed over grassland tactics until Liyang, after three devastating defeats, switched from offense to defense. Only under Gu Jiantang’s military reforms did they seriously study grassland cavalry tactics, revealing that their centuries of dominance stemmed from more than just innate horsemanship.
Whether Liyang admitted it or not, its courtiers privately thanked heaven that the Zhao family’s gates were guarded by the Northern Liang cavalry—a force that had drained the northwest’s resources but kept the Northern Mang at bay for twenty years, buying the Central Plains time to recover and dream of one day fighting the grassland riders beyond their borders.
As Agudamu adjusted, the White Feathers shifted again. The northern five thousand split mid-line: half engaged the rear two thousand Mang riders, half trailed the main Mang force southward, denying the enemy numerical superiority while maintaining pressure. Had Agudamu seen this seamless coordination, he’d have marveled at the northern White Feather captains’ uncanny Tacit understanding—no communication, just instinct, courage, and trust.
The White Feather Guard was once the elite of Northern Liang’s “Four Fangs” under Wei Fucheng, one of Chen Zhibao’s two top generals. After Wei and Dian Xiongchu left for Shu with no troops, Qi Dangguo took over the Iron Pagoda, while Yuan Nanting, a veteran of the Lotus Camp, assumed command of the White Feathers. The former, a sworn son of Xu Xiao, was unquestionably loyal; the latter, less factional, had once joined hundreds of Northern Liang elders in bidding farewell to the then-heir Xu Fengnian as he left for the capital. With Xu Fengnian’s succession, the Northern Liang border army’s transition was smooth—though few believed the Iron Pagoda and White Feathers, both tied to Chen Zhibao, harbored no resentment. This campaign to Longyan Plains was a catharsis for the White Feathers: better to die gloriously in battle than endure sidelined in Liangzhou, watching others fight while they languished. The first Liang-Mang war had been so brutal that even the Snow Dragon Cavalry and two long-hidden heavy cavalry units were deployed—yet the Iron Pagoda and White Feathers, both Xu family veterans, never even saw the enemy. The frustration and whispers were inevitable.
At the Huaiyang Pass headquarters, Yuan Nanting had practically pounded the table, telling Chu Lushan that if the White Feathers were sidelined again, he’d rather stay as a lowly clerk than return to his troops in shame.
Spotting the White Feathers’ maneuver, Agudamu’s scalp prickled. “Break their lines with me!” he bellowed.
Yuan Nanting, a third-rank general like all Northern Liang commanders, wore the same armor as his men in battle—though his retinue was sizable. A middle-aged veteran between the older He Zhonghu and the younger Yu Luandao, he epitomized the Northern Liang’s backbone: seasoned in the Spring and Autumn wars but not early standouts, their rise came post-Xu family’s enfeoffment, earned step by step. Men like Wei Fucheng, Dian Xiongchu, and Ning E’mei were cut from the same cloth—yet their strategic acumen was formidable. Xu Xiao once quipped, “Any Northern Liang captain could be tossed into the Central Plains as a provincial general,” and it wasn’t entirely a joke.
Shielded by his guards, Yuan Nanting narrowed his eyes. Agudamu’s decisiveness surprised him, but his northern captains’ response was textbook.
Yuan Nanting raised his arm, signaling his southern “dragon” to curve further south, its flanks accelerating. Though seemingly avoiding Agudamu’s charge, the real tactic was to let the six thousand Mang riders waste their momentum, while his five thousand—especially the center—fell back, forming a pocket. Combined with the three thousand White Feathers pursuing from the north, they’d trap the six thousand like turtles in a jar, whittling them down slowly. The two-thousand-versus-two-thousand skirmish, regardless of outcome, wouldn’t change the doom of Dong Zhuo’s main force.
The White Feathers’ evasive tactics infuriated Agudamu, who longed for a quick resolution. It was maddening—like swinging at air.
Their foe wasn’t weak but too fast: all Northern Liang grade-B warhorses, light armor, sabers, and bows. Even if their shifting formations showed flaws, the Dong cavalry couldn’t exploit them.
Usually, it was grassland cavalry that bogged down Central Plains infantry. But here, it was the Northern Mang elite—Dong Zhuo’s private cavalry—who felt mired in quicksand against Northern Liang’s premier light cavalry.
Yet Yuan Nanting, though confident, stayed vigilant. Several White Horse Scouts had galloped along the formation’s edge with grim news: six thousand Rouran Iron Cavalry were coming, led by the martial arts master Hong Jingyan, and would arrive within half an hour!
As the scouts approached, Yuan Nanting recognized the bloodied central rider. “You must be White Horse Captain Li Hanlin?”
The rider nodded gravely. “At your service, General!”
Yuan Nanting smiled wistfully. The eldest son of Northern Liang’s Chief Administrator Li Gongde had actually risen to the elite scouts’ captaincy through battlefield merit. Today’s youth were remarkable—their drive matched, if not surpassed, his generation’s. Back then, they’d been reckless, with nothing to lose. But these young men—Li Hanlin, Kou Jianghuai, the aristocratic Yu Luandao—were born with silver spoons. In the Central Plains, they’d be carousing, not crawling through corpses.
Noticing the heads hanging from their saddles, the battle-hardened general took a deep breath. “Captain Li, I’ve heard Qi Dangguo’s six thousand are nearing—they’ll beat Hong Jingyan’s Rouran here. Your scouts may withdraw. Don’t be stubborn—you’re Northern Liang’s last scout seeds. I won’t see you die! Gather your men and leave within two quarters. If I spot even one of you after the Iron Pagoda and Rouran arrive, I’ll expel you from the scouts—dead or alive!”
Saluting, Li Hanlin rasped, “Wei Musheng… is already dead.”
Yuan Nanting froze, silent.
Watching the three young riders depart, the old general thought: The 300,000 tombstones on Qingliang Mountain’s back slope mustn’t keep filling with young names.
Turning to his six or seven elite guards—men whose calm amidst chaos spoke of both martial prowess and a detachment from conventional warfare—Yuan Nanting said lightly, “Gentlemen of the Fushui Bureau, you heard the news. Not good—Hong Jingyan himself is coming.”
A lightly armored elder, fingers resting on his sword, replied calmly, “Rest assured, General. You won’t die before we do.”
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