Chapter Twenty-Four: A Brutal Slaughter

Qin Cheng and Ji Zhu left General Li Guang’s command tent one after another. The county city was still shrouded in darkness; a bright moon hung high, casting its pale glow across the land.

They had barely walked a few steps when Qin Cheng heard the distant rumble of horse hooves approaching from outside the city—an immense and growing commotion. Hearing this, Qin Cheng’s heart stirred. He thought to himself that it must be the Xiongnu’s flanking forces passing along the post road before Qiansang City.

Just as this occurred to him, Li Guang’s voice sounded from behind. “Could it be the Xiongnu have already arrived? Qin Cheng, come up to the city wall with me.”

“At your command!”

Qin Cheng followed Li Guang, ascending the wall alongside Li Hu. By now, the pounding of hooves was at its height. Leaning over the parapet, they saw on the post road before the city a dragon of torches racing swiftly in the direction from which the Han army had retreated. The Xiongnu cavalry charged forward without any hesitation; though Qiansang City loomed ahead, they showed not the slightest concern. The city’s defenders were clearly beneath their notice—no detachment guarded the main force, which rode straight and unguarded down the post road.

“These Xiongnu are infuriating! They treat Qiansang as if it were nothing, taking not the least precaution against an ambush!” The garrison captain, already at Li Guang’s side, could not help but snarl as he witnessed the Xiongnu’s audacity. “Such arrogance is an insult to us all!”

“They’re so sure we have no forces left to strike at them, and so they dare act with such impudence.” Li Guang hammered his fist against the wall. “Were it not that our cavalry numbers less than two hundred, I would lead them out myself and teach these Xiongnu a lesson they’d not soon forget!”

He finished with a face full of grief and indignation. This campaign had left Li Guang deeply stifled. Now, Qiansang City could muster barely two thousand fighting men, and the cavalry were pitifully few. For all Li Guang’s valor, he could not conjure an army out of nothing; he could only hold the city and hope. The fate of Vice General Li Xi’s force was still uncertain, and Li Guang’s brow furrowed all the more.

Qin Cheng, meanwhile, gazed thoughtfully at the mountain post road.

“General,” Ji Zhu spoke through gritted teeth, “though our cavalry numbers less than two hundred, the post road is narrow. We might yet mount a fierce ambush here—one man may bar a thousand, as the saying goes. If the Xiongnu wish to force their way to Qiansang City, they will pay dearly for it!”

“No,” Li Guang shook his head. “Your cavalry is Qiansang’s last mounted force; they cannot be risked in a rash attack. The tide of battle turns in an instant, and we may soon need your horsemen for a decisive moment. Besides, the post road is narrow, but should the Xiongnu force their way through, a single volley of ten thousand arrows would wipe you out. We would gain nothing but lose everything.”

Ji Zhu started, cold sweat forming on his brow. He had not considered that; if it happened as Li Guang described, his two hundred horsemen would become easy prey for the Xiongnu.

“I spoke out of turn!” Ji Zhu bowed.

Li Guang waved him off. “There’s nothing to mind. For now, we have no choice but to hold the city. All else is beyond our means. My only concern now is for Li Xi’s situation; I can only hope he does not let me down.” With a long sigh, his old face was marked by regret.

“General, do not worry. General Li Xi is a man of talent, and the Xiongnu force he faces is not large. Even if he cannot win a great victory, he will not fail you,” Ji Zhu offered consolingly.

“Let us hope so,” Li Guang sighed again. “I have fought the Xiongnu half my life, but never have I faced such dire straits. It’s shameful, truly. The Emperor has only just begun to take the Xiongnu seriously, and now I have suffered defeat at such a moment. How can I face His Majesty?”

“Do not blame yourself, General. The Xiongnu are cunning indeed; anyone else in your place might not have escaped from the Gourd Valley alive…”

“That’s right, General. The Xiongnu came in force this time; they must not be underestimated…”

Everyone tried to console him.

“General!” At that moment, when all others were offering comfort, Qin Cheng suddenly cried out, his voice cutting through the air. “The cavalry may not be suitable for an ambush, but the infantry could still prove decisive. General, do not despair—the true course now is to strike the Xiongnu swiftly!”

All eyes turned to Qin Cheng. Among these men, the lowest in rank was a captain of a thousand, and seeing this unknown youth speak so boldly, they were not pleased. Under their disapproving glares, Qin Cheng remained unperturbed. He had already weighed the matter carefully and was confident he could deal the Xiongnu a heavy blow, so he stated his intent without hesitation. Besides, with his lowly status, if he wished to rise quickly, he had to be bold—think what others could not think, do what others dared not do. If he missed this chance, his fate might forever rest in the hands of his superiors’ whims.

“Insolence! Who are you to speak here?”

“Ignorant boy, hold your tongue!”

The officers rebuked him coldly. Only Li Guang regarded Qin Cheng thoughtfully, saying nothing. Of those present, he alone sensed the young man’s intelligence. Seeing Qin Cheng’s determined expression, he signaled the others to quiet down. “Speak your mind,” he said at last.

...

At dawn, the Xiongnu flanking cavalry finally arrived as expected at Eagle’s Mouth Pass. But the force that awaited them was not Li Guang’s battered Han troops—it was the army of the Xiongnu Left Wise King. The commander was the Right Bone-Duke of the Left Wise King’s tribe. As they neared Eagle’s Mouth, they saw the blaze of torches in the distance. The Right Bone-Duke, thinking it was Li Guang’s battered remnant, was elated and ordered his men to ready their bows for slaughter. The night was deep and the moon shone, but visibility was poor. In his excitement, the Right Bone-Duke nearly loosed his arrows at his own Left Wise King. For this, the Left Wise King responded with a flurry of punches and kicks.

Once the two forces united, the Left Wise King did not immediately march on Qiansang City. He ordered a brief rest, waiting until nearly dawn, estimating that their arrival would coincide with first light. Then, leading seven to eight thousand cavalry, he sped toward Qiansang.

All was calm on the road, and the Left Wise King pondered his campaign. Allowing Li Guang to escape the Gourd Valley was his greatest failure. With nearly ten thousand horsemen and a surprise two-pronged attack, he had believed Li Guang doomed. Yet the famed general had slipped away, leaving the Left Wise King deeply vexed. Still, he recognized that the Han army’s fierce, death-defying spirit was something the Xiongnu, who for decades had preferred to flee rather than fight if things went ill, could not match.

Looking at the battle’s course, the Left Wise King knew his plan to annihilate the Han’s foremost border general was finished. But inflicting maximum casualties would at least partially avenge the humiliation of Mayi.

Estimating that Qiansang City was less than half an hour away, the Left Wise King sharpened his focus, scanning the surroundings.

Suddenly, from the front of the column came the screams of horses and men. The leading ranks stopped abruptly; those behind crashed into them, plunging the formation into chaos.

“What’s happening? Hold steady! Do not panic!” the Left Wise King bellowed, reining in his horse.

Hours earlier, Han infantry had slipped from Qiansang’s camp, lying in ambush at this very spot. Under the moonlight, following the instructions of Li Guang and Qin Cheng, and led by their captain, they worked for an hour to prepare. By the time the Xiongnu approached, everything was set.

As the Xiongnu thundered into the trap, the Han captain raised his right hand, then brought it down sharply. Instantly, Han soldiers hidden on either side of the road sprang up, seized thick hemp ropes at their feet, and pulled with all their might. In the next moment, rows of sharpened stakes shot up from the center of the post road, their deadly points angled toward the onrushing Xiongnu cavalry.

By the time the leading Xiongnu noticed, it was too late. The foremost riders crashed into the stakes, impaling both horse and man.

With the vanguard halted, the whole column shuddered to a stop. The horsemen behind, unaware, pressed forward. Though raised from childhood in the saddle, the sudden chaos was too much; in a heartbeat, hundreds crashed together, a tangle of men and beasts, the air filled with screams and the shrill cries of horses.

The blockage quickly triggered confusion in the rear. The post road, nowhere more than six or seven meters wide, was now a bottleneck. Flanked by steep hillsides, there was no room for horses to climb. The Xiongnu were packed tight, barely able to move.

As panic reigned, over a thousand Han infantry burst from the forests on both sides. These men, still smarting from the sting of defeat, now found a chance to vent their rage. Undaunted by death, they charged like wolves. The light infantry, armed with powerful bows and crossbows, formed the first lines; the heavy infantry advanced in support, ready to meet any Xiongnu who dismounted to fight on foot.

A moment later, a storm of arrows rained down on the trapped Xiongnu. The valley echoed with endless wails as the unsuspecting horsemen fell in droves.

Among the Han archers, even some of the heavy infantry had seized bows and crossbows, unleashing volley after volley into the dense Xiongnu ranks. At such close range and with the enemy packed so tightly, even the least skilled archer could hardly miss.

Over a thousand archers loosed wave after wave of arrows into the throng below—a scene of carnage beyond description.

Many Xiongnu were pierced by several arrows, tumbling from their horses, only to be struck again as they fell. They looked like bloodied porcupines, and it was no exaggeration.

Blood blossomed like lotus flowers beneath the cold moonlight, a grisly beauty amidst the forest shadows.

The long, narrow road had become a hell on earth—screams splitting the forest and scattering the drifting clouds.

The Xiongnu were stunned by the slaughter. A few, driven mad, spurred their horses up the slopes to attack the Han archers, but were cut down by crossbow bolts. Others kept their wits, drawing short bows to return fire, but most milled aimlessly, leaderless in the chaos.

If this turmoil lasted much longer, the Xiongnu cavalry would be finished.

“Do not panic! All chiliarchs, rally your men!” the Left Wise King roared, brandishing his saber from horseback.

At his command, the chiliarchs collected themselves and began to re-form their units. Gradually, order returned; under the harsh cries of their officers, the Xiongnu dismounted, found cover at the roadside, and began to fire volleys at the Han in the trees. The initial panic subsided, and the wolfish ferocity of the Xiongnu reemerged.

Because the cavalry column was so long, the Han’s concentrated fire fell mainly on the vanguard, while the rear ranks, unable to advance, were initially safe. But as the fighting continued, the rear began to dismount, climbing the slopes to engage the Han, firing arrows as they came.

Now the Han infantry faced attack from both flanks.

Yet the darkness and thick trees shielded them from much of the enemy fire, and casualties were light. Even so, the Han captain quickly ordered a retreat; their surprise advantage was spent, and the situation had evened out.

But in those few minutes, their arrows had claimed one to two thousand Xiongnu—a tremendous victory.

The Xiongnu, raised on the open steppe, were ill-suited to fighting in thorny forests, while many Han soldiers had grown up as hunters in the mountains and moved with ease. With these men leading, the Han broke contact and slipped away into the woods.

This, too, was Qin Cheng’s idea. The Xiongnu could do nothing to Qiansang’s high walls and deep moats. Keeping the infantry in the city would be a waste; after this ambush, they could hide in the woods with supplies, waiting for the Xiongnu to withdraw before returning. If anything changed, they might even become a surprise force.

Of course, the main deployment of the ambush was Li Guang’s work—a renowned general of the age, his grasp of battlefield details far surpassed Qin Cheng’s.

The Han’s attack cost the Left Wise King dearly; even many Han captives escaped in the chaos. The Left Wise King’s first reaction was not rage, but to send a detachment of cavalry to seize the mountain pass, fearing the Han might block it or set another trap.

Li Guang and Qin Cheng had considered blocking the pass, but their manpower was too scarce, and since the Xiongnu could do nothing to the city, they gave up the idea. Thus, the Xiongnu advance guard easily took control.

The Left Wise King then set about clearing the battlefield. The mountain road stretched for miles, strewn with the bodies of Xiongnu men and horses—many trampled to death in the confusion. Seeing so many lost, the Left Wise King nearly coughed blood in fury.

After half a day clearing the road, just as the column was ready to move again, another volley of arrows rained down from the woods. Once more, the formation dissolved into chaos.

The Left Wise King, nearly vomiting blood, could only dismount and lead his men to the shelter of the trees for cover and return fire. This time, experience made the Xiongnu quicker and more orderly, but before they could respond, the Han had loosed several volleys and withdrawn again into the forest.

Watching the enemy strike and vanish, the Left Wise King was tempted to order the woods burned—only the fear of hindering his own retreat held him back.

By now, dawn was breaking. With a heavy heart, the Left Wise King ordered the road cleared and his men to guard the woods against further ambushes.

But the Han did not attack again. Once, twice—enough. To press their luck further would be folly, and in daylight, concealment was much harder.