Volume One: In a World of Chaos, Is There Any Path for Mortals? Chapter 5: Collapse II

Deng San wielded a wolf’s tooth mace, while Wen Huaguo gripped two great hammers—both were first-rate heavy weapons. Borrowing the momentum of their galloping horses, the two men fought with broad, sweeping strikes. Any Yuan soldier who dared approach them often found their weapons shattered, their bones broken, and tendons torn asunder. Deng She guarded their flank, and in an instant, they plunged dozens of meters into the enemy ranks, scarcely meeting any true resistance.

More and more enemies were unhorsed, the thick scent of blood mingling with the earthy aroma churned up by hooves in the crisp morning air, assaulting their senses.

Deng San dodged an enemy’s iron mace; Wen Huaguo followed up with a hammer blow, smashing a Yuan soldier’s head to pulp. Brain matter sprayed, and bits of flesh spattered onto Deng She’s eyelids, but he had no time to care. The battle was at its fiercest, the ranks around them packed with Yuan cavalry, their spears and halberds sweeping and stabbing like a forest of deadly steel.

Their small squad had plunged deep into the Yuan army. The horses slowed, and the pressure intensified. If not for their long battlefield experience and their men’s flawless coordination and mutual protection, they would have been devoured in moments.

A greater collision was imminent. The Yuan vanguard, crossing paths with Deng San’s men, could not help but shout, just as the Red Turban cavalry from Yunnei charged in opposite. It seemed only through such wild cries could they transform pent-up hatred, fear, and a strange exhilaration into the courage and strength to fight.

When two larger, swifter forces crashed together, the carnage and destruction were even greater.

Deng San’s men felt the pressure ease. Along the path they had cleared, in a few breaths, the fastest Red Turbans were nearly riding abreast with them.

Deng She, still young and lacking full strength, had already exhausted himself in the brutal siege at Fengzhou and the long, arduous retreat. After a while, most of the pressure was absorbed by Deng San and Wen Huaguo, but he still felt he was at his limit.

During their breakout at Fengzhou, an arrow had struck his back, slipping into a gap in his armor. It wasn’t a deep wound, but in his exhausted state, sweat soaked the injury, and the armor’s chafing made it agonizing. Yet soon, the pain faded, replaced by numbing cold. Not only did he cease to feel pain, but even the thunder of countless hooves, the shouts, and the slaughtered cries grew distorted—at times deafening, at times fading to nothing.

Hallucinations flickered before Deng She’s eyes. Past and present, this life and the last, all blurred together, flashing before him like frames of a black-and-white film, leaving him disoriented, unable to tell where he truly was. Yet his spear moved without pause, his actions driven now by pure instinct. Each time his spear pierced an enemy’s chest or throat, a spray of blood would spatter across that black-and-white world, the one vivid color—scarlet.

His mount, exhausted, stumbled. Deng She’s spear struck empty air. The enemy centurion who had narrowly escaped death swung his iron spear downward like a club, smashing the horse’s neck. The beast screamed and struggled to rise, trembling. Yuan troops closed in, their spears stabbing wildly—some at men, some at horses.

The black-and-white visions shattered. Iron hooves, battle standards, and the rising sun flooded back into Deng She’s eyes. Whatever life or lives he’d lived before, in this moment, in this world, he wanted only one thing: to survive, by any means necessary. The desperate urge to live rekindled his senses, and he felt the blows rending his armor, pain lancing through his left ribs, legs, and arms. At last, his horse collapsed.

Life and death on a knife’s edge, Deng She’s potential erupted. With a great shout, he leapt as his mount toppled, twisting to land behind the enemy centurion. Clamping his legs around the horse’s belly, he dropped his spear, drew his sabre, seized the enemy’s helmet to wrench his head back, and, with a swift stroke, severed it cleanly.

Blood gushed in a tall fountain from the decapitated body, drenching Deng She from head to toe. Holding the severed head in one hand and his sabre in the other, he raised both to the sky and howled with wild abandon. Deng San’s men, still fighting desperately, saw this and became as possessed, each joining in the howl.

In battles such as this, individual valor counted for little.

The Red Turbans’ hesitation to form up before the engagement had doomed them. The Yuan offensive crashed in ever more ferocious waves; in the end, they even had the strength to send their rearguard around to flank the Red Turbans in a half-encirclement—main forces clashing head-on, while the wings harried with arrows.

The taut string inevitably snapped. Somewhere along the line, Red Turbans began to retreat and fall back, soon collapsing in a rout. A defeated army is like a landslide—nothing can stop it.

By this time, Deng San and his men were no longer at the front lines. Their strength was spent, their horses exhausted; they were swept along in the fleeing Red Turban throng, heads down, eyes blind, fleeing for their lives with no sense of direction.

At first, groups of Yuan soldiers pursued them, but gradually the Red Turban ranks thinned, and the bitter stench of blood in the air faded. Only when they once more tasted the icy chill of the night air did they realize the world around them had fallen silent.

The fields stretched away, grass and trees shivering in the wind, boundless and empty. They had escaped.

Looking back, then at the dozen or so battered comrades who remained, Deng San gave a grim laugh. “Well, hell. Good men don’t live long—scoundrels last a thousand years. We really are hard to kill.”

Among them, Wen Huaguo was the luckiest; though he had led the charge, he escaped with only a scratch to his cheek. Deng She also spotted an old acquaintance among the survivors—Yellow Mule, who must have realized the significance when Deng San’s men charged the Yuan and followed after them.

Deng She tried to smile at him, but darkness closed in, and he fell from his horse.

He awoke to deep night. The sky above was a deep blue, cloudless, the moon icy and clear, a few cold stars hanging at the edge of heaven.

His head throbbed, his mouth was parched, and his armor had been removed. His wounds were well bandaged, but he felt utterly drained, his limbs limp and powerless, barely able to move. Forcing himself to turn his head, he looked around.

He lay beneath a small hill. Nearby, Deng San dozed against a tree. Their horses were tethered there; one slept, while the other grazed on some trampled night grass.

Scattered around were a hundred or so Red Turbans, some lying haphazardly, with a few sentries posted farther off. He did not see Wen Huaguo; perhaps he was among the sentinels on the hilltop. Deng She tried to rise, but the pain in his wound made him gasp, waking Deng San.

“You’re awake?” Deng San hurried to his side in three quick strides. He, too, had been wounded in the leg during the battle, but it was not serious and had been bandaged.

Deng She nodded weakly. “Father, where are we?”

“East of Yunnei. We crossed the Black River this afternoon. Originally we meant to reach Dongsheng, but we were scattered. At nightfall, we sent scouts ahead—the Yuan army is already blocking the way. Dongsheng is out of the question now.” Deng San briefly explained their situation, quickly checking Deng She’s wounds and, satisfied they had not reopened, nodded and reassured him, “The wounds aren’t serious. Rest a few days and you’ll be back on your feet.”

He patted Deng She’s head. “You little devil, truly your father’s son. You fought well today—just like me.”

“These men,” Deng She asked, noticing unfamiliar faces among the Red Turbans nearby, “are they survivors you gathered?”

Deng San nodded. “Some are ours, some we picked up along the way. All told, forty or so of our own left.” Including the other survivors, their force now numbered about one hundred and twenty or thirty men.

“Where’s Uncle Wen?”

“He went back toward the river. Still not willing to give up—wants to gather a few more. Yellow Mule’s with him. Poor soul, lost every man under him.” Deng San’s tone was heavy, without the slightest schadenfreude. The Red Turbans had known defeat before, but never such utter disaster; since the start of the Northern Expedition, this was the first time. Those who crossed the Black River had escaped mostly unscathed. It was easy to imagine that, across the river, not only the dead but many wounded awaited only one fate: to be slaughtered, their heads taken as trophies.

Deng She felt strength slowly returning. Deng San helped him sit up, and he asked, “What do we do now?”

Deng San fell silent. With the defeats at Fengzhou and Yunnei, and uncertain whether Yunnei or Dongsheng had fallen, it was clear this region had become Yuan territory. They had been lucky this time; the Yuan, eager to take Yunnei, had not pursued them to the death. But what about next time?

“We return to Shangdu,” Deng San said at last.

That was Deng She’s thought as well. To the south, the passage through the Taihang Mountains was blocked by Chaghan Temur’s main force—impossible to break through. Their only real hope lay in heading northeast to Shangdu.

At dawn, Wen Huaguo returned, bringing with him a considerable number of survivors—three or four hundred men.

“Left behind the ones with missing limbs,” he said. “Most, I heard, retreated toward Yunnei. Not many came our way.” That might explain why the Yuan had not pursued them so relentlessly.

“And Yellow Mule?” Deng San asked.

“Still waiting back there. With me around, he can’t take a single man.” Wen Huaguo patted the great hammer hanging from his saddle and grinned.

After an army rout, leaderless soldiers instinctively gather around the highest-ranking officers. Deng San and Yellow Mule were both commanders of a thousand, but Yellow Mule had greater influence among his direct troops. Yet, unable to best Wen Huaguo in might, alone and unfamiliar with the Yunnei cavalry, his efforts failed.

No matter what, after this crushing defeat, Deng San now possessed, at least temporarily, a force comparable to his prime. With their path decided, his first concern was not how to reach Shangdu, but how to truly bind these four hundred men to his command.

In this world, a man with horses and men is a warlord; without them, he is nothing but a sheep awaiting slaughter.