Volume One: Flames of War on the Border Chapter Seventy: Fierce Battle-Dominant Warlord's Court(Lu Bridge)

No one had foreseen this torrential rain—it poured from the heavens, washing blood across the ground, turning the ramparts into a sea of crimson water. Lightning split the sky; thunder roared over the earth, drowning out the shouts of battle and killing. Yet not a soul considered ceasing the fight; in the raging wind and rain, life was wagered for every inch of ground.

"Your Highness! Your Highness! Your Highness!"

Suddenly, the soldiers of Northern Wei erupted into shouts of exultation, their blades quivering in their hands as they roared in unison: "Wind! Wind! Wind!" Their flagging spirits seemed infused with new life, as though a potent draught had run through their veins. Both sides had reached the limits of exhaustion—this was now a contest of willpower alone. The first to falter would lose all.

Tuo Ba Yan and Cui Liang, together with other commanders, had been directing the battle from the grand tent beside the city’s watchtower. Seeing the dire turn of events, and wishing to rally her troops, Tuo Ba Yan herself mounted the walls, riding her horse at full tilt to inspire the soldiers of Wei.

Surrounded by the most elite heavy cavalry, she rode at the heart of her loyal guard, her safety fiercely protected. Yet the city wall was a living hell—one false move would bring ruin. Cloaked in scarlet, astride her rose-pink steed, with a great red banner streaming behind her inscribed: “Tuo Ba Yan, Grand Princess and Supreme Commander of Pingcheng, Guardian of the Wei State,” she rode like a red cloud over the battlefield. By her side was Qing Yun, clad in white armor, gripping a goose-feather saber, charged with the Princess’s personal protection.

As she galloped, Tuo Ba Yan cried out: “Sons of heroic mothers, warriors of Wei! Are your swords dulled? Are your bows broken? Behind you stand your parents, your wives, your children—before you crouch our mortal enemies! Let your noble fury blaze forth—strike back at the foe, and with their blood, win us immortal glory!”

Such words inflamed the hearts of her soldiers; in an instant, all Wei’s men surged forward, driving the Later Yan army back to the edge of the walls.

Whoosh—whoosh—

From the ranks of Later Yan, assassins loosed arrows at Tuo Ba Yan.

Clang—clang—

Her bodyguards hastily raised their shields, deflecting the deadly rain.

There were but few of these Yan shock troops scaling the walls in He Yu’s sector. After he cut one down, none dared approach again. He Yu thought, “These shock troops are armored as if impervious to blade or spear—unless they are slain, the enemy will only surge on in greater numbers.”

From their brief clash, He Yu had discerned that these warriors wore at least four layers of armor: leather on the outside, chain mail beneath, then lamellar, and finally a padded silk vest against the skin—all together weighing no less than a hundred pounds, wearable only by men of extraordinary strength. Not even a legendary weapon could pierce them with a single blow.

He Yu glanced around and spotted, twenty paces to his left, a Yan shock trooper wreaking havoc—his blade kept the Wei troops at bay, allowing more Yan to scale the wall behind him. The Wei defenders, though valiant, had not been established long; their arms and armor could not compare to those of Yan. They could not forge such quadruple-layered armor; lacking in equipment, they fought with flesh and blood alone. Already, the shock trooper stood atop a mound of fallen men.

“It seems the only way to bring these shock troops down is with blunt weapons.” As he dispatched another Yan soldier, He Yu’s eye fell upon an iron hammer standing upright amid the blood and water. He seized it—this was a siege crossbow hammer, used for striking the firing mechanism of great siege bows. The crossbow lay overturned, its operator surely dead.

Delighted, He Yu grabbed the hammer and in a few strides was upon the shock trooper, swinging the weapon down. The enemy, exhausted from prolonged fighting, attempted to parry—the hammer struck his sword from his grasp with a resounding clang. Without a word, He Yu swung again, the iron head smashing into the man’s face, sending his helmet flying and leaving his head ringing.

“Die!”

He Yu, eyes bloodshot, raised the hammer with both hands and brought it down like Mount Tai collapsing from the sky—a dull, heavy thud. The shock trooper, hands clasped to his head, coughed blood from nose and mouth before collapsing with a crash.

“General He! General He! General He!”

The soldiers of Wei revered strength above all. Seeing He Yu dispatch a shock trooper with such ease, they were filled with awe and broke into cheers, their morale surging.

Leaping atop the battlements, He Yu shouted, “Soldiers of Wei, listen! Attack the Yan shock troopers in groups of three, use blunt weapons—strike them down!”

These shock troopers were Murong Lin’s secret weapon—barely a hundred in number, never revealed before. The Wei defenders had no specific countermeasures and nearly suffered disaster. With He Yu’s guidance, they cast aside their swords, picking up iron hammers, staves, axes, and maces to rain blows upon the Yan shock troopers.

The rain fell with wild abandon, turning the ramparts into a watery battlefield where both sides fought desperately in blood and mire. Thanks to He Yu’s timely advice, the assault of the shock troopers was checked; though at heavy cost, Wei’s soldiers bludgeoned several more to death. With the shock troopers slain, the Yan reinforcements were bottlenecked on the ladders, easing the defenders’ burden.

Qing Yun, having escorted Tuo Ba Yan on her circuit of the walls, returned to the city and heard the thunderous shouts of “General He!” She feared He Yu was in danger, her heart in turmoil, nearly tumbling from her mount.

Tuo Ba Yan steadied her and said, “Do not worry, sister Qing Yun. This is our soldiers’ cheer—General He must have won a great victory.” Though reassured, Qing Yun still fretted, longing to fly to the walls.

Though both were women, their fearless charge to inspire the troops had won the admiration of all. Cui Liang, receiving word that Yan’s assault was waning, decided it was time to unleash the cavalry stationed outside the city. He ordered the signal flags to be raised on either side of the watchtower.

Linghu Xiao and his men had been lying in wait, their nerves taut. At the sight of the red flags, he vaulted onto his horse, shouting, “Sons, your moment has come—charge!”

The two thousand elite cavalry had listened to the battle-cries from the city all day, chafing for action. Now, at last, the order came.

With shouts of “Ohoho! Ohoho! Ohoho!” the Northern Wei horsemen, raised on horseback from childhood, rode out in a great crescent, sweeping toward the Yan camps.

Each man carried twenty barbed arrows and ten javelins, ordered to make every shot count, targeting the enemy’s conscripts and auxiliaries. Once their missiles were spent, they were to withdraw, avoiding prolonged engagement.

The howling wind and rain masked the thunder of hooves. The cavalry slowed their advance, creeping silently toward the enemy encampment.

Dusk was falling, the storm dark as twilight. Murong Lin, Murong Shao, and their lieutenants sensed defeat, yet refused to withdraw and braved the rain, rallying their men beneath the walls. The time had come for a trial of wills—who would hold out the longest? With a flourish of his blade, Murong Lin sent another twenty-five shock troopers to scale the walls, all siege engines and crossbows raining missiles upon the defenders.

Cui Liang and his companions knew this would be the final clash of the day. They donned their armor and went to the ramparts. Now, numb to life or death, they were driven by a single furious resolve—to annihilate the foe. Even the overseers leapt from their posts to join in the defense, while the city’s laborers were organized to haul stones and logs for the defense.

Standing beside his uncle Cui Liang, Cui Hao, robed in white, unarmored and elegant, spoke suddenly: “Now that the battle has reached this point, Murong Lin will surely stake everything on a final assault from all sides. I suggest we open the city gates, lure them into the barbican, and destroy them there. Also, let our archers aim for Murong Lin’s puppet troops, to shatter their morale.”

He Yu agreed at once: “The young master speaks wisely. Murong Lin is cunning, and his men are discontent. If we do this, suspicion will spread among them, and their resolve will crumble.”

Ooooo—

The soul-chilling horns sounded! Drums thundered, shaking the heavens. The rain was easing, the wind falling, and visibility improving. Murong Lin seized the chance and ordered the attack.

The Yan soldiers, having fought all day without food, were now wild-eyed with desperation, howling as they stormed the walls.

Boulders from the catapults crashed onto the ramparts, shattering the stonework and strewing corpses everywhere. A massive battering ram, driven by armored men, thundered against the city gate. With a deafening crash, the southern gate of Pingcheng was breached.

Murong Lin exulted, waving his blade and shouting, “Kill!”

The Yan soldiers, seeing victory within reach, surged into the city without waiting for orders. But as they rushed in, there was a tremendous crash behind them—a great stone gate dropped from above, sealing the entrance and cutting off their retreat.

Murong Lin realized too late and frantically ordered a withdrawal. It was hopeless—three or four hundred Yan soldiers were trapped within the barbican, unable to move.

Pingcheng, being the capital, had been fortified with exceptional care. In addition to the main gate, a secondary stone gate had been installed for just such a contingency.

Now Cui Hao appeared on the ramparts and, with a wave of his hand, commanded a hail of arrows, stones, logs, and jars of lime to rain down upon the trapped Yan soldiers.

In an instant, screams of terror and agony filled the air—the barbican became a slaughterhouse. Crowded together, the Yan troops could not move; above them towered sheer stone walls, smooth and unscalable.

Murong Lin groaned inwardly as his overseers drove another battering ram against the stone gate, seeking escape. But then a great vat of scalding water was poured from above, seeping into every crevice, scalding the trapped soldiers until their cries echoed to the heavens, steam rising in clouds to blind their eyes.

Cui Hao, standing atop the wall, wore a faint, inscrutable smile. He had always compared himself to Zhuge Liang or Guan Zhong, and though others had mocked his youthful boasting, after this battle, none would ever take him lightly again.

Clang—