Volume One: How Could There Be a Path for Mortals in These Troubled Times Chapter 3: Fengzhou III

First, Deng San’s force was small and had little influence. Being former bandits, every one of them excelled at riding, and now, focused solely on survival, they had no intention of lingering in battle or seeking crowds. Second, the Yuan army’s main camp was not yet fully established. They likely had not anticipated that Fengzhou’s city walls would fall so quickly, unable to withstand even the first probing assault. For a time, as different units maneuvered to and fro, everyone’s attention was fixed on the western walls amid chaos, which gave Deng San and his men the opportunity to escape.

Even so, by the time they regrouped in a safe place, their three hundred had dwindled by another third. At least, none of the old brothers were lost, though every man bore wounds and blood. Looking back toward Fengzhou, they could see at the base of the western wall a mass of reinforcements in red and a constant flow of white-clad troops tangled together in a maelstrom of battle—cannon thundered, arrows filled the sky, and tiny figures, like ants, fell to the ground or tumbled from breaches in the walls. For the moment, the two sides seemed evenly matched. Yet all present understood that, under the Yuan army’s overwhelming firepower and numbers, Fengzhou was finished.

“Brother, what do we do now?” asked a burly man, an impressive figure seven feet tall, his robust form carrying two heavy hammers that together weighed over a hundred pounds.

His given name was Wen Sier, an old subordinate of Deng San, a true peasant who could not read a single character but admired learning. After becoming a company commander, feeling his name sounded crude, he asked someone for a more refined one and was henceforth called Hua Guo.

Deng San looked around at his men. Bloodstains and grime covered their bodies, weapons, and mounts; their armor was filthy, their hair in disarray, and both men and horses panted heavily. Some still had arrows lodged in their flesh, blood dripping steadily to stain the remaining snow.

Wen Huaguo continued, “Confucius said, ‘Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated...’”

Deng She interrupted him. “Uncle Wen, that was Sun Tzu, not Confucius.”

—He had attended private school for a couple of years in this world, so his literacy surprised no one.

“Is that so? Among us rough men, Deng She is the true scholar.” Wen Huaguo was unfazed, praising Deng She offhandedly before continuing, “In my opinion, until we know the situation in Yunnei and Dongsheng, we shouldn’t rush in blindly. Judging from Fengzhou’s fate, things can’t be much better in those two places. We must not escape the tiger’s jaws only to fall into the wolf’s den.”

“The Tartars pressed hard; we don’t know about Yunnei and Dongsheng, but look—how many enemies besiege Fengzhou?” Another commander beside Deng San lifted his broadsword and pointed toward the city.

He was short but strong, another of Deng San’s old band, a former butcher named Chen Hu.

“The encirclement is tight on all sides, not less than a hundred thousand.”

“The father of Bolotemur was often defeated by Chancellor Liu, and Bolotemur himself was once captured by him. He’s come for revenge now, seeking a decisive victory. These must be all his forces,” Chen Hu analyzed, then concluded, “I believe he will not divide his army to attack Yunnei or Dongsheng. Those two regions should still be at peace.”

Deng San hesitated for a moment before turning to Deng She. “What do you think?”

“I agree with Uncle Chen,” Deng She replied without hesitation. “Not only can we go to Yunnei, but we should also select swift riders to report there immediately. Even though the walls have fallen, Fengzhou’s thirty thousand Red Turbans can hold out for a while. If Yunnei and Dongsheng are still safe, with their abundance of horses and cavalry, timely reinforcements might even turn the tide.”

He was not one to seek attention, especially among elders he had known since childhood, so unless Deng San solicited his opinion, he would rarely speak up. Yet he had seen many battles, read several military treatises in his spare time, and, armed with insights from a previous life, Deng San and the others valued his counsel. As the saying goes, “Read ten thousand books, travel ten thousand miles.” Having both knowledge and experience, Deng She, though young, was already considered a prodigy of both civil and martial talents among the Red Turbans.

Deng San made his decision. He picked out the swiftest riders and ordered Chen Hu to take two horses each and set out for Yunnei to scout and deliver news. The rest were to tend to their wounds and rest briefly before heading for Yunnei.

Yunnei lay southwest of Fengzhou, more than a hundred li away, with Dongsheng a further hundred li to the southwest. The three prefectures formed a tripod with Fengzhou at the center. Had Bolotemur not come so swiftly, if the Red Turbans had just a little time to respond, the outcome of the conflict would have been far less certain.

“Scouts and patrols are essential. Even after a great victory, vigilance must not be relaxed.” As night fell and they were halfway to Yunnei, Deng She wrote down his greatest lesson from the day’s siege in his notebook.

Since his first battle, he had filled nearly three such notebooks. Deng San once asked him why he kept such records; he replied with a quote from his old teacher: “To learn and review constantly—is this not a joy?” In his former life he had kept a diary out of habit; now, he wrote to sum up experience and improve his chances of survival.

Night deepened. The two hundred-odd survivors hid in a small grove, not daring to light a fire for fear of being spotted by distant Yuan scouts. They silently ate dry rations, scooping up snow water in the gloom. The sky was starless, the moon unseen, the darkness oppressively silent.

Deng San gazed toward Fengzhou, where, even fifty li away, the faint glow of fire could be seen—proof that the city was still locked in desperate battle.

“I wonder if Chen Hu has arrived yet. The fate of Yunnei and Dongsheng is truly worrying,” Wen Huaguo muttered, frowning as he paced to Deng She’s side. He craned his neck to peer at the writing but soon shook his head, sighing, “Not a word of it makes sense to me.”

Paired with his earlier pretense and his current careless tone, the remark was so absurd Deng She couldn’t help but smile. Deng San barked, “Quit the scholarly act, you old rascal.”

“Brother, you know my surname is Wen—‘literature’ itself!” Wen Huaguo grinned.

Just as Deng San kicked at him, Deng She’s expression changed. He dropped his notebook and pressed his ear to the ground. The earth trembled faintly, and the chaotic drum of hooves gradually became audible. “A cavalry force is approaching from Fengzhou!”

The men instantly mounted up. The quickest among them rode out to scout the approaching force.

Silent and tense, weapons drawn, the group stood poised in the darkness, eyes glued to the forest’s edge, ready to charge at the first sign of danger.

The scouts quickly returned, reporting to Deng San, “It’s Yellow Mule’s men.”

Everyone relaxed. Leaving Wen Huaguo to organize the troops, Deng San and Deng She rode out to meet the newcomers. Yellow Mule’s direct command had always been at odds with theirs, but after such a battle, even a familiar face was preferable to the enemy.

Yellow Mule’s men were in even worse shape than Deng San’s. Of two hundred who had set out, only thirty or forty remained. They had discarded helmets and armor, possibly after being hit by fire arrows. Yellow Mule himself had lost his brows, beard, and hair to the flames. Blood covered him, his face blackened and blistered from burns.

“Commander Huang, where are you headed?” Deng San, who had suffered years of slights from the Red Turban regulars, couldn’t help but laugh heartily at Yellow Mule’s sorry state, shouting the question.

Led by the scouts, Yellow Mule rode close, halted, and immediately asked, “Any rations?”

His men, less skilled in riding and fighting than Deng San’s, had abandoned weapons and armor in their desperate breakout, let alone any food. After a hard fight and a night’s ride, they were famished.

“What’s happening in the city?” Yellow Mule asked, mouth full of flatbread Deng She had handed him, wincing as he chewed with blistered lips. “No idea. When we broke out, the west wall had already fallen. Judging by the flag signals atop the White Pagoda, Chief Guan was gathering the best troops at the north gate, probably planning a breakout there.”

He pulled two letters from his tunic and called a few riders, “You, take rations and ride to Yunnei and Dongsheng with these dispatches.”

“My men are already on their way,” Deng San said.

“If the message doesn’t get through, my head is forfeit!” Yellow Mule insisted, still sending his own men—such was the discipline of Guan Duo’s command.

Deng She gazed toward Fengzhou, frowning deeply. “That fire’s burned all night and hasn’t stopped. Who knows if Chief Guan managed to break out?”

“You’re heading to Yunnei too?” Yellow Mule asked once he’d eaten his fill.

Deng San didn’t answer, but exchanged a look with Deng She before saying, “If Yunnei and Dongsheng are also besieged by the Tartars, then our only option is to retreat to Shangdu.”

The night wind was bitter cold. Deng She pulled his armor tighter, its chill biting through. Seeing that Yellow Mule’s men had finished eating, he softly reminded Deng San, “It’s time to move on.”

The long road ahead was shrouded in darkness, without stars or moon. The reunited warriors glanced to the horizon—only to see endless, ink-black night pressing in from all sides. The wind whispered through the trees, an urgent, ceaseless refrain: “Go, go.”