Chapter Fifteen

It was late autumn, and with each passing day, the wind grew colder. The grass and trees had all withered, all living things crouched in dormancy. Across the vast expanse between Jinzhou in the east and Shenyang in the west, the land of Liao was shrouded in the dust of marching armies. Nearly two hundred thousand troops from the Qing and Han armies pursued and slaughtered each other with desperate fury. The armies surged forward across the open plain, where small-scale cavalry skirmishes erupted dozens of times daily. Both sides threw everything they had into slowing the enemy’s advance, seeking to win the decisive battlefield advantage for their own main force.

Since Wang Shirong had arrived at the central command tent, Mu Tianyan had led his staff officers back to the Imperial Guard, assisting their superior, the Commander of the Feathered Forest, Ruike, in dealing with the pursuing forces at the rear.

This cavalry unit that had trailed them all the way from Shenyang was, in truth, not particularly formidable—just over eight hundred strong, most of them men in their fifties or sixties, or boys barely in their teens. Yet the tactics they employed were nothing short of infuriating. Ever since the Han army had abandoned Liaoyang, these pursuers had haunted their rear like restless spirits, harassing the rearguard incessantly. They relied on their familiarity with the terrain and the mobility of their light cavalry, appearing and dispersing at will—sometimes loosing a few arrows from afar, sometimes pretending a great charge with drums and shouts, startling and exhausting the hard-pressed Han troops. Captain Wang Zhongxiao, in charge of rear security, had repeatedly led his men in counterattacks, cutting down many of the old men and boys who lagged behind. Yet, for reasons unknown, the will of these pursuers was preternaturally tenacious. Though their losses were heavy, they clung to the Han army’s trail like maggots to bone, refusing to relent.

With this hidden threat removed, Lin Feng’s troops marched with far greater speed, covering the distance from Panjin to the outskirts of Beining in just two days. During this time, Ma Ying sent messengers for reinforcements to headquarters in an unbroken stream. In these few short days, Ma Ying’s forces had already clashed over ten times with the Manchu-Mongol coalition. The rearguard skirmishing was nearly continuous; ever since they crossed the Liao River, the elite Manchu-Mongol cavalry had dogged their heels relentlessly, launching attacks day and night without rest. By the time Lin Feng’s main force reached the outskirts of Beining, the Third Brigade of the Sixth Cavalry Army—once six thousand strong—was reduced to fewer than four thousand. Even these survivors, after more than ten days of ceaseless combat, were wracked with wounds and fatigue. Yet without Lin Feng’s explicit order, Ma Ying dared not withdraw his men fully into Beining, and so, weary but resolute, he led his battered remnants in a desperate struggle with Buyagema and Sabusu around Heishan and Dahu Mountain.

Lin Feng, heart heavy with guilt, slowly knelt on one knee and apologized to Ma Ying’s officers and men: “A general’s incompetence brings disaster to the whole army. Brothers, this is all due to my poor command, falling into the Tartar’s trap. I am unworthy to call myself your Han King!”

Ma Ying hurriedly knelt in return, bowing his head. “This is not our lord’s fault! Once we march to war, how can we not expect casualties? Besides, Your Highness captured Liaoyang and slew more than a hundred thousand Tartars. In truth, our victories outweigh our losses!”

Lin Feng gave a bitter laugh, shook his head, then stood and declared in a loud voice, “Enough, enough! Damn it, what are we doing here? A bunch of grown men staring at each other with tears in their eyes—do we want to be a laughingstock?”

The soldiers fell silent for a moment, then a low chuckle rippled through the crowd. Lin Feng beckoned, took the wine bowl from his guardsman, strode up to Ma Ying, and called out, “Forget it! Come, come, let’s eat and drink! To hell with it—everyone dies someday! Only a turtle lives a thousand years—real men lick blood from the blade, not turtle’s blood!”

The thousands of officers and men roared with laughter. The Imperial Guards and camp followers rushed forward to pour wine and offer roasted meat to the cavalry. Lin Feng drained his bowl in one gulp, tore a leg from a roast lamb and bit down hard, then swung into his saddle, still chewing, and called out, “Listen up, brothers! All of you here are men who once roamed these Liao lands for a living. Later, you followed General Ma to serve under me. But why?”

Ma Ying looked up in surprise, as did all his men, staring blankly at Lin Feng.

“We each have a hundred pounds of flesh and blood, we’re all good men, wielding good blades. So why should those bastards feast and drink while we scrape by, robbing and struggling for a few scraps of bread?” At these words, the laughter ceased. The soldiers fell silent, each face a mask of wonder and anticipation.

Lin Feng raised his voice, “I’ll make it plain: we have nothing but the bodies our fathers and mothers gave us, and the good sabers fate has put in our hands. Our whole lives, we’ve survived by risking our lives. Now you serve under me, you’ve put your lives in my hands—so I swear to give you a fair price!”

He pointed behind him at his grand banner bearing the character “Han.” “As long as I live, as long as this banner stands, the living will have hope, and the dead will be remembered!” Then, brandishing his horsewhip at Ma Ying’s men, he shouted, “Sixth Cavalry, hear my order! For your valor in the campaign for Central Liao, I promote you to the Second Imperial Guard Cavalry Army of Han. Each officer and soldier is granted twenty acres of land, twenty taels of silver, and two Manchu slaves. For those who fall in battle, their names are enshrined in the Temple of Loyal Martyrs; their families receive eighty acres, one hundred taels of silver, five Manchu slaves, and thirty years’ tax exemption, all to be overseen by the local authorities…”

He swept his gaze across the crowd and called out, “How about that? Is that a fair price?”

For a long moment there was silence. Then Ma Ying dropped to the ground, leading the others in a cry: “We thank our lord for his generous reward! With such kindness and justice, we will lay down our lives!”

“Thank me for what?” Lin Feng snorted. “This is only the beginning. The Han army will grow larger still, conquer more lands. Any man who dares to fight can rise high. Good things are won with blood and risk—if you won’t pay the price, don’t expect a share of the spoils. Do you understand?!”

Another roar of laughter followed.

Lin Feng flung down the lamb leg, smashed his wine bowl on the ground, then suddenly drew his saber and pointed north. “Now is your chance! I’ve spent a fortune to lure the enemy here. They’ve all been drawn to Beining, and now we must annihilate them—none must escape!”

The officers and men were shocked, exchanging uneasy glances. All the way here, they had been relentlessly harried by the Manchu-Mongol army, suffering nearly half their number in casualties. The fear of the enemy ran deep. Yet now, hearing their lord declare that the enemy had fallen into his trap, their spirits stirred.

Lin Feng laughed heartily, sneering, “Who is Sabusu? Who is Buyagema? Even Kangxi fell to my blade—what do these fools amount to? Just brothers here, so let’s speak plainly—look at Beining ahead!”

He gestured to the city behind him. At that moment, the walls were ablaze with torches, bright as day. Laborers and craftsmen passed bricks and stones, strengthening the ramparts. Dozens of great cannons were hauled up by ropes, the work chants rising in urgency. Shadows moved ceaselessly atop the walls—tens of thousands toiling through the night. “See? I’ve prepared all of this. Today, Beining is a fortress with deep moats and high walls, hundreds of cannons at the ready. When the enemy arrives, we will surround and annihilate them—none will escape alive!”

Exhilarated, the officers and men drew their sabers and pointed them north, roaring, “None shall escape! None shall escape! Capture Sabusu alive! Take Buyagema alive!”

Waving his saber, Lin Feng shouted with excitement, “They’re already in my trap. Once we wipe out these Tartars, Tongliao, Shenyang, Xingjing, Dandong—the whole Northeast will be ours! Then their fields will be your fields, their houses your houses; their men our slaves, their women our concubines! Anyone who dares stand in our way—we will kill them all!”