Volume One: Flames of War at the Border Chapter Seventy-One: Guerrilla Warfare-Dominant Warlord's Court(Lu Bridge)

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With a tremendous crash, the stone gate finally shattered into several pieces and fell with a clatter. The main entrance stood wide open, but of the trapped Yan soldiers and horses, not a single one survived.

Murong Lin’s eyes were bloodshot as he stared into the gaping darkness of the city gate. Raising his war blade, he intended to make one last desperate assault on the city.

“Sixth Brother, you can’t! Not today, we can’t attack again. The soldiers have suffered heavy casualties and haven’t eaten all day.” Murong Shao had regained some composure and seized the right hand with which Murong Lin held his blade.

The Yan army’s casualties in today’s assault already exceeded twenty thousand. More than sixty of the bravest storming warriors had been killed or wounded. Continuing the attack would be futile.

Moreover, in his view, Murong Lin had underestimated the difficulty of storming the city and had been far too arrogant—this gross miscalculation had resulted in suffering a grievous loss. Should word of this reach their father, King Murong Chui, it would certainly diminish his trust in Murong Lin. That might even give Murong Shao a chance to replace his brother, perhaps even to stake a claim on the throne.

“That’s right, Lord Seventh speaks wisely. Today’s fierce battle has cost us dearly, but Tuoba Yan’s losses are surely not light either. Let us withdraw for now, send them a letter urging surrender, and give ourselves a chance to catch our breath,” another general echoed Murong Shao’s suggestion.

“General Pei’s words are sensible. We’ve suffered heavy losses, but so have Tuoba Yan’s forces. If she refuses to surrender, we can devise another plan to take the city. Their numbers are few, ours are many; our chances of victory are better,” a clan leader suggested. His own retainers had been placed in the vanguard and suffered heavy casualties; he had no desire to wade further into this mire.

Without certainty of victory, retreating risked shattering morale, making future assaults even harder. Murong Shao’s treacherous ambitions and the wavering resolve among the generals were also deadly threats.

Murong Lin was well acquainted with Tuoba Yan, knew her strength, and had learned that the garrison in Pingcheng numbered just over ten thousand. With sixty thousand men under his command, taking the city should have been no difficult feat. He had even planned to besiege, not storm, the city, hoping to lure Tuoba Gui to split his forces from Shengle for reinforcements. Who could have foreseen that, after such a herculean effort, they would not make an inch of progress? Renowned as a general, failing to take the city would make him a laughingstock and bring him into disfavor before his father.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Murong Lin gritted his teeth, shook off Murong Shao’s hand, and raised his blade again, preparing to order another assault.

At this moment, dusk was falling. In the fading light, the ruined gate of Pingcheng looked like the gaping, bloodied maw of a beast, swallowing the lives of Yan soldiers, and the wind carried its eerie sound.

“Warriors of Great Yan, the gate of Pingcheng is breached! Victory is at hand! On behalf of His Majesty Emperor Murong Chui, invincible commander of Great Yan, I call upon you: make one last desperate assault! Take Pingcheng and capture Tuoba Yan alive! Take Pingcheng and capture Tuoba Yan alive...”

“Take Pingcheng and capture Tuoba Yan alive!”

...

Murong Lin’s words, laced with insult and incitement, had the desired effect. The Yan soldiers roared as one, rallied, and surged once more toward the walls.

Their shouts, carried by the wind, reached within the city. Tuoba Yan’s jade-like face flushed with anger as she spat, “Shameless,” then turned to look at Cui Liang. Now certain of victory, Cui Liang adopted the poised demeanor of a noble scion and said slowly, “Your Highness need not worry. Murong Lin is only making a show of strength. The Yan bandits are at their last gasp; they can no longer pierce even the thinnest silk.” He turned to the army clerk and instructed, “Prepare the register of merits. Record the deeds of all our officers and men.”

In this great battle, Cui Liang was the commander of Wei’s forces. Achieving such a resounding victory against the odds, defeating the renowned Murong Lin, would shake the entire realm. Cui Liang’s name—and the prestige of the Cui clan of Qinghe—would soar. In centuries to come, such glory might even outshine the power of a feudal lord or monarch. Even more gratifying was the emergence of his nephew, Cui Hao, who, though still a child, had already won such renown—a remarkable boon for the Cui of Qinghe.

Elated, Cui Liang displayed the airs of a true man of letters. He sought to emulate the poise of Zhuge Liang in command: while others fought at the front, he sat calmly at headquarters, arranging the register of merit, steady as a mountain, certain of victory.

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He Yu watched Cui Liang’s posturing and could not help but find it amusing: “So this is the air of Wei and Jin nobles. Yet, in fairness, he does play the part well. Judging by today’s command, Cui Liang is indeed resourceful—open to advice, decisive, but never stubborn.”

The discerning could see that Murong Lin had committed a fatal error—overconfidence and rash advance, staking everything on a single throw without a proper probe, and thus lost it all. Without reinforcements, after today, the Yan army would find it hard to mount another such fierce assault.

Treating the initial engagement as the decisive battle can sometimes bring swift victory, but if the enemy withstands those opening blows, the initiative passes entirely to the defender, leaving the attacker in a passive position.

Cui Liang understood this; so did He Yu, and so, of course, did Murong Lin. Having wagered everything, there was now no retreat—only the path forward into darkness. Thus, he ignored all advice and insisted on another assault.

The Yan soldiers formed human walls, shouldering siege engines, advancing on the city in the gathering dusk. Suddenly, with a series of creaks, ten massive blocking chariots rolled out from within the shattered gates of Pingcheng, sealing the entrance. Behind them stood Wei soldiers in full armor, bearing giant shields and long spears, flanked by crossbowmen and archers. Clearly, Wei’s forces would not allow Yan’s troops to enter the barbican so easily.

“Ah—!”

“Kill—!”

“Not one step back!”

“Any who retreat will be executed!”

...

The mingled shouts were like the roars of beasts; in this moment, soldiers became wild animals.

Just then, a messenger rushed in to report, “Report to Prince Sixth: our main camp is under attack on three sides, with heavy casualties already.” Clearly, Linghu Xiao’s two thousand cavalry had arrived and launched a fierce assault.

Murong Lin had staked everything on the siege, deploying all elite troops, and now worried about the enemy seizing the chance to attack his camp. No sooner had he renewed his assault than his fears became reality.

With the city’s defenses blocking the way ahead and cavalry harassing the rear, there was no way this attack could continue. In that instant, Murong Lin felt all was lost. His arms fell limp, and then, with effort, he lifted them again to give the harsh order to halt the assault.

Ding, ding, ding, ding...

The clear sound of the gong carried across the chaotic battlefield and into every ear. Advance at the drum, retreat at the gong.

Both sides, as if hearing a pardon, broke contact. The Yan soldiers retreated in waves like the tide.

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To break Pingcheng, the enemy’s cavalry outside the city must first be dealt with. Harried and exhausted by these raids, Murong Lin gave a death order for his own light cavalry to circle back aggressively, determined to crush these troublesome foes in one stroke.

The aim of Linghu Xiao’s raids was to draw the enemy and relieve the pressure on the city. So, when pursued, he did not flee immediately but repeatedly wheeled about to strike back. With night having fallen, the light of torches made it impossible for either side to judge the other’s numbers. The Yan cavalry dared not pursue too far and soon fell back as well. Murong Lin, seeing no gain, recalled his horsemen.

Yet Linghu Xiao did not rest; seeing the enemy halt, he waited a moment, then softly whistled to gather his scattered riders and launched another raid. Linghu Xiao was shrewd, having discovered that a whistle was swifter and more covert than a bugle for rallying his troops. The Xianbei, a nomadic people, were well-practiced in using birch-bark whistles to call deer, and always carried them.

The Northern Wei cavalry fought in war, hunted at leisure, and sometimes spent entire days out grazing, far from camp. Thus, each rider was highly self-reliant; well-trained, the troopers could scatter and yet be recalled at will. They could launch coordinated attacks, split and merge with lightning speed, making them unpredictable and impossible to guard against. Unlike Han infantry, disciplined but less mobile and prone to rout if the line broke, the Yan soldiers of Murong’s tribe were also Xianbei, but years of statehood and Sinicization had softened them: in endurance and fighting spirit, they were now far inferior to the Wei troops.

The Northern Wei cavalry had long prized face-to-face combat, and at first found harassment tactics distasteful. But, bound by discipline, they did not complain. After several such raids, suffering no casualties themselves and seeing the enemy thrown into panic and confusion, they grew to admire their commander’s cunning. Their spirits transformed, and Linghu Xiao, already respected, found his authority unchallenged after these successes.

Linghu Xiao rallied his men: “Brothers, word has it that Murong Lin has been crippled by Her Highness. He’s only struggling in his death throes. We gave the city brothers the day; tonight is ours! Soon, follow the plan—blow those whistles and let the Yan bandits wonder how many of us there really are.”

“Yes, sir!”

Linghu Xiao’s plan perfectly embodied the future art of guerrilla war: “When the enemy advances, we retreat; when he camps, we harass; when he tires, we strike; when he flees, we pursue.” It was nothing short of brilliant.

At his command, the cavalry pressed close to the Yan camp. Suddenly, whistles erupted all around, rising and falling, so that none could tell how many horsemen were attacking.

Murong Lin, utterly exasperated, had never fought such a humiliating battle. Though he held the advantage, he could gain not a single inch.

“Sixth Brother, it’s just a Wei bandit raid. We should send cavalry to wipe them out,” Murong Shao advised.

“I know full well it’s their mischief. But if we loose our troops in pursuit, they’ll just vanish again. In this darkness, we can’t even properly chase them—it’s a futile effort,” Murong Lin replied in frustration.

“Your Highness, if we do nothing and let the Wei bandits harry us all night, the troops will be restless and sleepless. Morale will plummet, and it will be even harder to attack the city tomorrow,” another general warned.

Murong Lin fell silent: “Both Murong Shao and this general are right. But to strike rashly and find no enemy—what then?”

Torn between worry and indecision, he could only wave his hand and at last ordered his newly formed fast cavalry to launch a covert raid. His orders were clear: success would be best, but if not, they were not to pursue too far, lest they fall into a trap.