Chapter Seventy-Two: Princess Yiyi

The more incapable a person is, the more likely they are to blame others for their problems, and Emperor Huizong of Song was undoubtedly such a man.

When the urgent news from Taiyuan arrived in the capital, traveling eight hundred miles in haste, Liang Shicheng and his associates seized upon it as if it were a treasure. Without delay, they presented it to Emperor Huizong; their efficiency was truly unprecedented.

He had just demoted his troublesome son Zhao Yu to commoner status, and in the next moment, that scoundrel, the Celestial Emperor of the Liao, had bestowed upon the boy the title of King of Song. Was this some deliberate provocation? Even the most tolerant would find this hard to endure.

“Summon the Minister of the Imperial Clan. I will have this traitorous son expunged from our family records!”

Liang Shicheng, seeing that Emperor Huizong's face had turned the color of eggplant skin from rage, hurriedly bowed and soothed him. “Your Majesty, Zhao Yu’s crimes are indeed unforgivable, but the Khitans’ wolfish ambition is also plain to see. According to the latest reports, the northern territories of Liao are virtually lost. Your humble servant believes it is time for us to act. Otherwise, if the Jurchens destroy the Liao, reclaiming the lands of Yan and Yun will become far more troublesome.”

At these words, Huizong composed himself. The dream of reclaiming Yan and Yun had always been the ultimate aspiration of every Song emperor. Yet, whether it was the founder or his successors, every campaign launched to recover those lands had ended in crushing defeat. Was it truly his fate to accomplish this elusive goal?

Liang Shicheng understood Huizong’s nature all too well—mediocre in ability, yet vain and easily swayed by flattery. He was a man most susceptible to persuasion.

This was the perfect opportunity to secure military command for the Crown Prince. In private, Tong Guan had already promised that if he were given the army to march on Yan and Yun, victory was assured. Tong Guan had also hinted at his willingness to support the Crown Prince, so Liang Shicheng was determined to help him achieve this aim.

Zhao Yu’s predicament offered the ideal pretext for Liang Shicheng and his group to urge Huizong toward action.

“Does Your Majesty recall Zhao Liangsi?”

Years ago, Zhao Liangsi had brokered a maritime alliance between the Song and the Jurchens, but Huizong’s indecisiveness rendered the pact meaningless.

“Where is he now?”

“Your Majesty, he has just returned from the Jurchens. According to his account, the Jurchens are preparing a large-scale assault on the Liao before winter, hoping to seize Shangjing before the spring thaw.”

“They’re already advancing on the capital?”

At this, Huizong’s excitement was palpable. If the Jurchens were marching on Shangjing, the Liao capital, then the rest of the country must be defenseless. If the Song attacked now, the Liao armies could not possibly come to their aid.

“Convey my command—summon the court for immediate council.”

War was no small matter; he would have to hear the ministers’ opinions.

Of all the nine fortified passes of the realm, Yanmen was the most renowned. It was said that wild geese migrating north and south must pass through here, hence the name.

Beyond Yanmen Pass, the Song’s jurisdiction ended. Standing before the gate, one could see the peaks and winding mountain paths stretching into the distance.

After leaving Taiyuan, Zhao Yu was now accompanied solely by Khitan soldiers. Their first destination was the Western Capital of Liao, known as Datong Prefecture.

As Zhao Yu and his party exited Yanmen Pass, the gates thundered shut behind them, symbolically severing all ties between this former prince and the Song dynasty.

Lin Chong and the others felt a heavy gloom. Zhao Yu had promised to return, but who could say when that might be?

Yet Zhao Yu was not weighed down by sentiment. He had never considered Emperor Huizong his true father; after being stripped of everything, he felt even less attachment.

The Khitan officer tasked with escorting Zhao Yu was named Yelü Huan. Though the surname Yelü was of the Khitan imperial clan, it was so common among the Khitans that not every bearer was royalty.

Yelü Huan’s manner toward Zhao Yu was neither warm nor cold, strictly by the book.

Descending the Gouzhu mountains, the temperature dropped sharply. Gazing at the boundless grasslands, Zhao Yu suddenly felt a surge of exhilaration. With a shout, he spurred his horse forward, galloping freely across the open land.

The northern wind cut like a knife, stinging his face, but Zhao Yu felt nothing but joy. Here, he no longer needed to wear a mask or curry favor with anyone.

Lin Chong and Wu Song, fearful for his safety, hurried to follow.

Unexpectedly, Zhao Yu’s actions gave Yelü Huan and his Khitan soldiers a new impression—this Song noble was no pampered weakling afraid of hardship.

Thanks to Zhao Yu, the group picked up their pace. Just then, a dark line appeared on the distant horizon, followed by the mournful blare of a war horn.

It was their first time witnessing the thunderous charge of an army. Zhao Yu and his companions were awestruck.

Lin Chong had trained soldiers, but nothing in the Song's imperial guard compared to these horsemen, raised on the steppe.

“Your Highness, fall back at once!” he cried.

In the face of a cavalry charge, personal valor meant nothing; the only choice was to flee.

“There is no need for alarm, Your Highness. These are the Imperial Flying Bear Guards,” Yelü Huan announced, appearing at Zhao Yu’s side.

Ahead of the charge rode a woman, cloaked in crimson.

Though her features were still indistinct, Zhao Yu already knew who she was. A smile crept onto his lips as he unconsciously gripped the dagger at his waist.

Northern women were truly unrestrained.

This was a force of three thousand elite cavalry, each rider wearing a bearskin cap, a longbow slung across the chest, a spear in hand, and at their waist both a quiver and a curved blade.

From their very equipment, one could tell this was a unit of utmost discipline and skill.

Zhao Yu knew that in earlier times, the Khitans, like the Jurchens now, swept across the north, undefeated in battle. But over time, that ancestral ferocity had vanished from their descendants.

Three thousand mounted warriors thundered over the plain like a tidal wave. Even with their mental preparation, Zhao Yu and his companions were shaken to the core.

No wonder the Song armies lost every battle against the Liao—the Song simply had no cavalry to compare.

The cavalry swept forward like a whirlwind. At their head rode a woman of fair skin and radiant beauty—who else could it be but Xiao Yiyi?

“You Han boy, you do keep your word. I haven’t misjudged you.”

“You’ve lost weight,” Zhao Yu replied.

Xiao Yiyi had not expected such words to be the first from his lips. For a moment, she was stunned, her eyes moistening.

So the boy had a conscience after all; she had not held him in vain in her thoughts.

With the experience of two lifetimes, Zhao Yu knew well how to win a girl’s favor. But truth be told, Xiao Yiyi was indeed the first woman to truly catch his eye.

Their eyes met, and for a while neither knew what to say.

Just then, a jarring voice sounded from behind Xiao Yiyi.

“Hans are well-known for their honeyed lies. One look at this pretty boy, and you can tell he’s up to no good. Princess, don’t let yourself be fooled.”

A burly Khitan warrior, his face bristling with a thick beard, urged his horse forward.

“Yelü Min, this is none of your concern. Stand down!” Xiao Yiyi retorted, her voice a touch flustered as she glanced at Zhao Yu.

Zhao Yu was no naïve youth; he immediately understood from Yelü Min’s wolfish expression that he had encountered a rival in love.