Volume III: Heroes Fall in Silence, the Universe Grows Old Chapter 22: The Fisherman (I)

When infantry faces cavalry, they rely on only two things: courage and discipline. While Deng She's troops could not boast of "freezing to death rather than dismantling houses, starving to death rather than plundering," with ferocious generals like Yang Wanhu inspiring them from the front and the gleaming executioner blades of the supervising officers glaring from behind, it was guaranteed that everything would remain firmly under control for the time being.

The sun in the sky was swallowed by thick clouds, plunging the entire world into a sudden gloom.

Deng She's body was splattered with blood. The shaft of his long spear had long since snapped, forcing him to switch to a sabre. He cut down everyone in his path with relentless fury. The whistling wind rushed past his ears, and blooming flowers of bright red blood burst forth in the air. He had grown numb to the death rattles of dying enemies; the battlefield was a chaotic storm of flying severed limbs and thunderous hooves.

"Where is Yang Wanhu?"

Bi Qianniu strained every sinew, sticking firmly to Deng She's side. Ducking sharply to dodge an arrow shot from afar, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "He just fell back!"

"What time is it?"

"Close to the hour of Mao."

Dividing his attention, Deng She made a quick mental calculation. Yang Wanhu had held out for more than forty-five minutes; despite the advantage of field fortifications, it was a remarkable achievement. Having faced thousands of elite cavalry with a mere thousand men, his casualties must have been heavy, rendering him incapable of further major service. The battle was still raging, and the outcome remained undecided. "We must seize the left flank immediately!" Deng She sensed that the Yuan forces dispatched to intercept his army consisted of more than just these few thousand men.

"Keep a sharp eye on the rear signal flags. The moment there's any change, report to me at once!" After instructing Bi Qianniu, Deng She raised his sabre to parry a thrust from an opposing spear, spurred his horse to wheel around, and executed a swift reverse slash, severing the arm of an enemy rider. "Kill!"

Bi Qianniu thrust his long spear forward, knocking the one-armed rider off his horse and trampling him underhoof. The soldier cried out twice, spewed a massive mouthful of blood, and died instantly. The splashing, billowing blood blurred Bi Qianniu's vision. He wiped his face casually and roared at the top of his lungs, "Kill!"

Deng She realized they had penetrated deep into the enemy formation. The cavalry on both sides were inextricably entangled, and the space for maneuvering was growing narrower by the moment. If this continued, they would cease to act as cavalry and degenerate into foot soldiers. Decisive as ever, he pulled on the reins and commanded the personal guards who had taken over the standard-bearing: "To the right! To the right!"

With him serving as the spearhead, officers like Li Jing acted like wedges, driving the surging torrent of iron into a sharp turn. Amidst the vast sea of men and horses, they carved out a bloody path. After all, some soldiers lacked rigorous training, causing the turn to be ragged, and men were continually unhorsed and wounded. If the battlefield on both sides was compared to a giant millstone, the individual cavalrymen were the grains caught between them, crushed and churned together.

The number of cavalrymen who broke out of the enemy formation with him was not large—only about two hundred or so. In the open space between the infantry and the cavalry, Deng She led them in a wide circle, raising clouds of dust as countless warhorses neighed.

Off to his flank, the main forces of the Yuan army and the Red Turban infantry had also clashed. Deng She cast a quick glance: the chariot barrier was on the verge of being breached, and fire-lances, bows, and crossbows rained down incessantly upon both sides. He spotted Xu Ren's banner standing tall and unyielding amidst the forest of spears. Further back fluttered Yang Wanhu's banner within the melee formation, and trailing at the very rear was He Guangxiu's rearguard standard.

Deng She withdrew his gaze and shifted his focus to the front. Several hundred meters away, the struggle on the left flank was reaching a fever pitch. The Yuan forces committed fewer than two thousand men, while his own side had a little over a thousand. Judging by the casualties so far, the losses on both sides were roughly comparable, hovering around a hundred or so each.

"We must rout this cavalry force within half an hour!" If the Yuan army had reinforcements that managed to circle around to the rear of the Red Turban lines for a pincer attack, the consequences would be unthinkable.

While relentlessly circling without stopping, Deng She swept his gaze across the field. In a situation of general equilibrium where two forces were locked in a chaotic melee, how does one achieve victory? Looking back through military history, the victors triumphed not only because they possessed favorable timing and terrain, but also because of one crucial commonality: they always used their own superior force to crush the enemy's minority.

To the center-right of the battlefield lay a small hillock. Because both sides were mounted, the armies instinctively skirted around it, leaving it completely open and conspicuous amidst the swirling chaos of horses and lances.

The window of opportunity was fleeting, and hesitation was fatal in battle. Dwelling on it no longer, Deng She made up his mind. He glanced back at his men; those who had broken through with him were all fierce and valiant warriors. Catching sight of a centurion—a plump, round-waisted fellow riding a skinny horse, a comical sight indeed—

Deng She remembered this man was quite courageous. He shouted, "How many have you killed?"

The centurion replied, "Speared five, cut down three with my own blade." Judging by his accent, he was a southerner.

"Fine fellow! What is your name?"

"This humble officer is Liu Yang."

Deng She pointed his sabre toward the hillock and said, "I'll give you a hundred men. Do you have the guts to take that place for me?"

"Fifty men are enough."

"What a southern barbarian!" Deng She laughed heartily to the heavens, swung his sabre back to inflict a shallow cut on his own arm, smeared the blood across his face, and roared sternly, "A fight to the death today, victory is ours! Order: Liu Yang, lead a hundred men to seize the hilly terrain within a quarter of an hour. Use your horses as a barricade to cut off the Tatars' vanguard from their rear. Without my direct command, not a single man shall retreat a step!"

Many of Liu Yang's subordinates were still locked in combat within the main formation, but he knew enough familiar faces to quickly select a hundred men known for their courage and strength. With a mighty shout—"A fight to the death today, victory is ours! The general fights to the death, and we are his sworn shield!"—they drew their blades, slashed their arms, and smeared their faces with blood. Looking ferocious and demonic, they wheeled their horses about and galloped away.

"Wave the banner, follow me."

Deng She plunged into the enemy formation for the second time. Having circled the perimeter earlier, their horses were already at full gallop, striking like a sharp sword straight into the heart of the Yuan forces. This time, he did not charge merely to kill; his primary focus was to link up with his own troops trapped within. Charging out, cutting through, and diving back in once more, he gathered over four hundred men in a short span of time.

The battlefield was a scene of utter chaos and noise. Bi Qianniu's eyes were sharp as he called out, "General, Liu Yang has made it!"

Deng She looked into the distance. Liu Yang's plump figure was easy to recognize, and the Red Turban banner was now raised atop the hilly terrain. Since the hill had been vacant, half of the hundred-odd men dismounted to provide cover, pushing their mounts to the front to form a defensive line. Moving step by step, they quickly drove themselves into the position like a spike.

There were already numerous corpses of fallen soldiers and dead horses scattered around the area from earlier fighting. The men dragged them together for cover, interlocking them for defense. The Yuan commander simultaneously realized this maneuver and guessed Deng She's intentions. The chaotic melee grew momentarily still; like waves crashing against a shore, successive surges of Yuan troops shifted their direction of attack to sweep over the hill.

No one would ever allow an enemy wedge to remain planted in such an obstructive spot.

"He won't be able to hold out for long..." Deng She surveyed the surroundings. With over five hundred Red Turbans locked in close combat with a thousand Yuan soldiers, he absolutely could not spare any more troops. To pull any more away would shatter the fragile balance, turning a favorable or even match into renewed chaos.

Four hundred men would have to suffice. Deng She raised his sabre high: "In the past, they slaughtered us like grass; today, we slaughter them like grass. Men, what could be more exhilarating!"

"Ho!"

Courage and cowardice depend on strategy; strength and weakness depend on momentum. If strategy succeeds in creating momentum, the cowardly become brave; if strategy fails and momentum is lost, the brave turn cowards. Not only had Deng She exhausted his intellect and engineered the momentum, but as the supreme commander—and de facto King of Guanbei—he was personally leading the charge on the very front lines. One must realize that on a battlefield, the psychological impact of a commander leading by example is immense.

Though these cavalrymen were not personally familiar with him, his reputation preceded him everywhere. Secondly, Li Jing, the commander of the cavalry, remained closely trailing behind his horse, which exerted a powerful, positive influence.

Thus, at his fierce rallying cry, the entire army was stirred to fury.

"Kill!"

"Kill!" Thousands of hooves pounded the earth, causing the ground to tremble and the clouds to dissolve. The blazing sun reclaimed its dominion over the sky. Deng She was attacking from the southwest toward the northeast; the afternoon sun hung directly in the west, casting blinding rays that flashed off the armor of the enemy troops like a vast ocean of metal.

Deng She closed his eyes slightly, a wave of elation surging through his heart. While they were attacking with their backs to the sun and still felt some glare, the Yuan forces were charging directly into the blinding light at high speed, suffering an even greater disadvantage.

This was the advantage of heavenly timing.

The scorching sun hung high in the western sky, coldly watching over the human wars that had never ceased for thousands of years across this vast and desolate land. At this moment, the battlefield was split into two distinct arenas, one large and one small. The larger arena featured cavalry versus infantry, where the Yuan forces had already broken through the chariot barrier and entered the thickets of spears and caltrops. The smaller arena was gradually fracturing into two separate segments: on the left, Yuan soldiers outnumbered the Red Turbans; on the right, the Red Turbans far outnumbered the Yuan troops. Right between these two segments fluttered the Red Turban banner, swaying erratically yet stubbornly refusing to fall.

The battle cries soared straight to the heavens. The sun yawned lazily; in another hour or two, it would be time for the moon to take over. Yet the fires of war were so fierce that even nightfall could not conceal them. An unidentified army quietly emerged at the rear of the battlefield, their ostentatious banners closing in rapidly upon the rear guard of the Red Turban infantry.

"Tatars! Tatars!"

The western enemy vanguard was waving white flags. The rear scouts galloped back at breakneck speed, the white flags in their hands waving so violently they almost slipped from their grips. Sweat beaded on He Guangxiu's palms. He saw a piece of black cloth several feet long trailing from the tail of the flag—the standard signal indicating a massive enemy force.

"Cavalry or infantry?"

The standard-bearer squinted at the white flag in the scout's hand for a moment. "Infantry."

No wonder it had taken them over an hour to circle around to the rear. "They arrive right on time." He Guangxiu tremblingly stroked the mustache on his lip, lost in thought. The thick, glossy, black false mustache seemed to instantly instill him with a burst of courage. He straightened his waist. Pan Cheng's look of utter contempt from yesterday flashed through his mind. "A eunuch?" he muttered to himself.

Composing himself, he faced the hastily returning scout and the Yuan banners now cresting the horizon with a calm smile. Yet his personal guards caught a flash of resolute and formidable confidence flickering within that smile.

"I am a commander of ten thousand!" His shrill voice pierced his guards' ears. "Pass the order: form up!" Whenever Wen Huaguo went into battle, he always liked to say a certain phrase, and He Guangxiu felt it suited the present situation perfectly. Brandishing his sword, he screamed, "Brothers, hold the line!" His eyes were bloodshot as he pointed his short sword backward to rally morale, howling, "Do you hear me? You are not alone..." He roared at the top of his lungs, "Behind you stands a myriad of tiger-like warriors!"

"Order them: advance and never retreat!" he whispered fiercely. "Report this immediately to the General."

From centurions down to squad leaders, the Red Turban rear guard sprang into motion. Even before the report reached him, Bi Qianniu had spotted the scout's flag signals.

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1. Southern Barbarians: During the Yuan dynasty, the population was divided into four classes. The third class comprised the Han people—including those from northern China as well as Yunnan and Sichuan—often referred to as "Han'er." The fourth class consisted of Southerners, namely the Han people formerly under the rule of the Southern Song dynasty, frequently derogatorily termed "Manzi" (Barbarians).