The Yellow River’s flood season stretched the rainy months on, making word hard to carry. By the time more news arrived from the north, corroborating each account, it was already the eighth or ninth of the sixth month. The two armies at Liangshan each made ready, as news of the upheaval in Guanzhong and the Jin region had reached them as well.
The rebel army had suffered a crushing defeat in the northwest, and Guanzhong had fallen in an instant. The Lady Chancellor, having regrouped her forces at Weisheng, had routed the overextended Zou Xu — though she had not managed to hold him. Following Ma Ling’s uprising, two more great clans in the Jin region had risen in rebellion in Zou Xu’s wake, and with Ma Ling’s forces in tow, Zou Xu had fled north through the gaps in the Lady Chancellor’s encirclement, feinting an all-or-nothing assault on Taiyuan before suddenly veering off toward Yanmen Pass.
No matter how stirring the scene of the Lady Chancellor’s return had been within the walls of Weisheng, to anyone even a little removed from it, what remained was the ruthlessness of Zou Xu’s single savage stroke — cutting away more than half the strength of the Jin region. If he could still escape the dragnet closing around him in the Jin region afterward, this whole gambit of the summer of the third year of Zhenxing would be seen by everyone as a masterstroke of a total victory, and his failure to finish off the Lady Chancellor would be dismissed as nothing more than a minor, forgivable flaw.
Messengers from the army crossed the Yellow River, carrying news from the north toward both the Southwest and the Southeast, awaiting the final decision from the central authorities in the south.
It had been only two years since the last great war under heaven. After the crushing defeat of their western route army, the Jurchens had lost effective control over great swaths of the Central Plains, and had since endured the death of Wuqimai and the succession of Wanyan Dan. Nearly everyone had believed the realm would enjoy three to five years of respite. Who could have known that, without warning, another calamity capable of sweeping across the entire realm was once again bearing down upon them…
The Jin state, in Yanjing, the central capital.
In the military camp south of the city, forces were gathering from every direction, one after another, while columns transporting provisions and supplies streamed in from all quarters outside Yanjing, vast and unbroken.
The first thing every noble commander did upon arrival was go to the Marshal’s residence at the city’s southern end to pay respects to Wanyan Zongbi.
Gathered now under Wanyan Zongbi’s Marshal’s residence were the old guard — imperial clansmen such as Wanyan Saliha, Wanyan Shulisu, Wanyan Tuhesu, and Wanyan Saili — as well as battle-hardened nobles who had defected from various tribes, such as Tabuye, Han Chang, and Li Qiong. Over this campaign of the south — sudden, grand in scale, yet somewhat rushed — everyone privately harbored their doubts, though a little thought soon made the reasoning clear.
In the Jin state’s first three southern campaigns, the drive to sweep the land and comb the seas had, step by step, sought to topple the Wu Dynasty entirely. Though it had never fully succeeded, it had pushed the Wu court’s territory south of the Yangtze. North of the Yangtze — and especially the vast lands north of the Yellow River — had come, in effect, under the rule of the puppet Liu Yu court. And though pockets of resistance remained active in places like the Jin region and Shandong, every year still saw great quantities of gold, silver, and enslaved Han captives flow into the Jin state.
By the fourth southern campaign, launched with resolve just over three years earlier, the scale had been vast and the ambitions bold. For the lands north of the Yangtze, the court had already prepared plans to abolish the Liu Yu regime and formally annex the territory; and for the Wu Dynasty south of the Yangtze, the Jin state had likewise resolved to wipe it out in one stroke.
At first, everything had gone smoothly enough. The Eastern Route Army, despite the brutal battle of Daming Prefecture, had met with essentially no serious resistance after crossing the Yellow River. By the time they reached Lin’an, Zhou Yong had fled to sea as he always did, and though Yue Fei and others had resisted stubbornly, none of it had changed the basic fact of the Wu Dynasty’s near-collapse.
As for the Western Route Army, Gushen’s stratagem had made short work of Tian Shi, and the army had then driven straight on toward the Southwest — but the Southwest turned out to be a cursed place.
This army, which had once given the Jin state and the puppet Qi years of grief on the northwestern plains, showed, once the Jin state’s strongest western army pushed into Shu, a tenacity several times fiercer than even in the northwest. Ning Yi then sent out a mere six thousand troops to crush nearly thirty thousand Yanshan Guards under Xiebao at Wangyuan Bridge, and afterward beheaded Xiebao himself right before the eyes of the war god Zonghan, chasing down one famed Jurchen general after another as they fled toward Jianmen Pass — killing Geli Li, killing Dalai, killing Yuyu, killing Balishu, and even, in front of Zonghan himself, killing his second son Sheyema. This forced the Jurchen western faction — which might otherwise have contended for the throne — into a panicked retreat north. This news, as if delivered straight from hell, left even the Eastern Route Army feeling uneasy about its own victory.
After the two armies, east and west, returned north, the Black Banner’s agents had already moved first, so the plan to abolish Liu Yu and formally take over the lands north of the Yangtze could not proceed. With resistance fierce on every side, the Jin state had no choice but to hand off part of its authority to anti-Southwest Han factions such as Dai Mengwei’s, and in the end lost real control over the lands north of the Yangtze — even north of the Yellow River. More than a decade of Jurchen campaigning had, in the end, come to nothing.
After returning, and after several rounds of maneuvering and political struggle, it became clear — everyone blamed Xiyin.
— No one could quite explain exactly how it was his fault, but that had become, for now, the settled social conclusion.
Last winter, Xiyin had been made to drink poisoned wine and died. After his death, the western faction should, by rights, have been dismantled, and Zonghan further suppressed or even executed. But whether out of magnanimity, or because Zonghan had spent the time since Xiyin’s death lobbying the old generals across the realm — reviving the alarm over the Southwest threat — or perhaps out of the need to keep Zongpan in check, in the end, Zongbi’s faction held off on persecuting the western faction this year, and not long ago even proposed this campaign south.
Rushed though it seemed, at least the eastern faction was, for now, willing to cooperate.
The last southern campaign had cost enormously, and while the Eastern Route Army had made it back with some gains, they were not many, and the various nobles had not really felt they’d come out ahead. But by the end of last year, with the new sovereign’s ascension, along with the pressure applied to the western faction, everyone had gained no small political advantage. And now this year, with Zongbi laying the groundwork to divide up merit through military achievement in the south once more, those with a longer view at court saw in this new power-holder a man of real ambition and vision.
To continue crushing the western faction, tearing at Zonghan’s flesh, or to move against Zongpan at court and seize what remained of Wuqimai’s old power — none of that was impossible, but it didn’t sound quite as impressive, and it lacked the grand spirit with which the Jin state’s first two generations had once swallowed the world whole.
As the commanders arrived one by one, their first stop was the Marshal’s residence to pay respects, and in the course of these audiences, Zongbi explained to them the broad purpose of this campaign: conquering the entire Wu Dynasty realm was not, for now, under consideration. But over the summer and autumn, they meant to thoroughly wipe out the two remaining pockets of resistance in Shandong and the Jin region, reclaim rule over the lands north of the Yellow River, and thereby lay the groundwork for the Jin state’s further expansion afterward. Everyone present could use this campaign as their chance to stand firmly in the court under the new sovereign’s rule.
“This time, the western faction will go too.”
Amid the strains of music in the Marshal’s residence, Zongbi expressed his own magnanimity and generosity to the assembled commanders.
“Last year’s southern campaign failed, and Zonghan and that damned Xiyin spent the whole time weeping to everyone about how formidable the Southwest is, just to save their own skins. A man who’s had the nerve knocked out of him like that shouldn’t command troops again by rights — but His Majesty is a generous man, and says this old fellow stood at Grandfather’s side back when the founding army first rose, so even without merit, he has earned some credit through hardship. Besides, he keeps insisting he no longer seeks power or advantage, only wishes to burn what’s left of his strength — so this time heading south, the western route will still be entrusted to him. Let this also serve as a spur to the rest of you!”
“Last southern campaign, the western faction suffered a crushing defeat. All of you gained something from it — those who wanted more soldiers got more soldiers, those who wanted captives got their share of captives, none of your households lack for armor or weapons, you’ve even added firearms to your stores. The western faction, by contrast — after Xiyin died, most of what belonged to him went to all of you as well. I know Zonghan means to stake everything on one final gamble, and that’s fine too — let him serve as our proving ground. This southern campaign is a small test of the blade. If Shandong is settled, we may, depending on how things go, press on to the Yangtze — just don’t you dare embarrass the rest of us here—”
People came in wave after wave, and audiences at the Marshal’s residence went on day after day. Wanyan Zongbi was a coarse, powerfully built man, given in his idle hours to Wu-style music. He kept a troupe of enslaved Han women at his residence to perform for him — those who had dealt with him for years would recall that, some years back, these women had not been allowed to wear clothes at all; back then, Zongbi had even had them shackled together, taking his pleasure with them whenever the mood struck. Only in recent years, as his standing and power grew, and as he took on more and more Han generals under his command, had these women finally been permitted to dress.
Amid the gentle strains of that music, when Zongbi at last finished speaking, his face turned stern, and a chilling martial air could still be seen behind his eyes. Everyone present understood the stakes, and none dared show anything but the utmost solemnity.
Mustering an army of this size naturally took time. As the commanders left the Marshal’s residence, in the midst of their conversation, more than a few couldn’t help glancing westward. What had happened to Zonghan in the Southwest was hard to explain, but everyone understood their present position well enough. Some hoped the old man really had grown too old; others, who had witnessed the might of the western faction and the Tushan Guards in years past, could only wonder what kind of blaze this old man’s final all-out effort would ignite this time…
And thinking further south, and of everything on their own side — of how the new sovereign, upon taking the throne, had been decisive enough to cast aside internal strife and set his sights on the realm as a whole — a faint sense of world-swallowing ambition stirred once more in everyone’s hearts. They thought back to the Jurchens’ first generation — hadn’t they, too, once seized the entire future of the world in just this way…
…
A fierce wind howled.
In Yunzhong, the sky hung dark and overcast.
Zonghan woke from sleep and studied himself in the bronze mirror — his head was now entirely white with age.
These past few days, the city had grown noisy and its mood grim, for many of the old veterans of the Tushan Guards, even the aged and the crippled, had been mobilized, sending the able-bodied young men of their households into Yunzhong Prefecture. The old general meant to seize one more measure of glory from this world, to win back a foundation for those who came after him, and the soldiers who had followed him for so many years had answered in kind.
Gathering the troops would still take several days. Zonghan summoned his steward and had him dye his hair black.
Halfway through the dyeing, a servant came to report that General Huonü had arrived.
“Let him in.”
Wanyan Huonü was Loushi’s eldest son, and had inherited his father’s ferocity. Now in his forties, he too was a seasoned veteran of the army. In the last southern campaign, he had guarded the rear together with Xiyin and others, and so had not suffered losses in the Southwest. Now he was one of the few remaining generals of the western faction fit for great responsibility.
“Marshal, Huonü has arrived.”
He entered the room and bowed to Zonghan, who, still having his hair dyed, turned around and looked him over.
“How many more days before your army arrives?”
“Two days’ march remain.”
“No need to come to Yunzhong.” Zonghan said, then produced a document and handed it over. “Word has just come that there’s unrest in the Jin region. Take your eight thousand men straight to Yanmen Pass and move south as opportunity allows. Provisions, equipment, and supplies have already been sent ahead to Yanmen Pass — you can collect them there.”
“Yes.” Huonü took the document listing the various supplies, then looked up. “May I ask — what exactly do you mean by ‘opportunity’?”
“In the third month, the Lady Chancellor of the Jin region sent envoys north to sue for peace and request trade — in reality, hoping to use the time to build up Taiyuan. She has laid down some defenses in that ruined city. Ordinarily that wouldn’t matter much, but since Zongbi has decided to head south, we can no longer let this woman have her way.” Zonghan sighed. “Find your opportunity, and go put that place to the torch once more.”
“Yes.”
“There’s also this — the Jin region is in rebellion.” Zonghan tapped a finger idly. “If those causing the trouble get close to Yanmen Pass, there’s no need to attack — you might even give them some help… To wipe out the Jin region this time, their enemies are our friends. Perhaps later they can even be put to use as puppets. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Also… how is my uncle’s health?”
“Still eating and sleeping well, only his hair’s gone white.” Zonghan smiled, and then his sharp gaze turned this way. “After Gushen’s death, the western faction should by rights have faced repeated prosecution — Gao Qingyi, Han Qixian, and, along with them, you and I, would hardly have escaped. But… given this opportunity, do you understand the stakes?”
“This humble general… does understand.”
Zonghan nodded: “Fight well, fight beautifully, and there will be a place for us going forward. If we lose again this time, there won’t be much chance left… Fortunately, Zongbi is overconfident — he means to take Shandong, and even hopes to push south across the Yellow River. The army in Shandong is the Southwest’s direct successor line — its fighting strength is formidable, and there’s a good chance they’ll bring weapons to bear like the ones at Wangyuan Bridge back then. Watch closely, and learn well from it. If their advance stalls, and we manage to crush the Jin region — we must do it beautifully.”
Huonü nodded, and after a moment, said: “This humble general has been thinking — both the Jin region and Shandong are deeply entangled with the Black Banner of the Southwest. This time we move south… will he come out?”
As he spoke these words, a suppressed battle-lust and rage burned in the eyes of this middle-aged general. His father Loushi had died in the first battle against the Huaxia Army in the northwest, and the later slaughter in the northwest had also, in part, been carried out under his own hand. During the fourth southern campaign, Xiyin, recognizing his talent for command, had feared he might be overtaken by the fury of revenge, and so had kept him stationed in the rear. Now, at the mention of the Southwest, only a hunger for war showed in his eyes.
Zonghan gazed at him quietly for a moment: “Perhaps not. But who can really say for certain?”
He had seen Ning Yi once before, on the front lines at Lion Ridge, and everything from that time remained vivid in his mind even now. Ning Yi had said then: “Over these ten-odd years, the lives of the millions upon millions across the Central Plains — from the Xiaocang River right up to today — every drop of blood on your hands, you will pay back, drop by drop, when you’re at your most hopeless…”
But as for what Ning Yi’s next move would be — even now, with more intelligence in hand than ever, he still could not calculate it.
He could only say: “Make every preparation you can.”
“Yes.” Huonü saluted.
Wanyan Huonü, like his father Loushi, was a stern soldier who rarely wasted words in ordinary times. But having said all this, he showed a moment’s hesitation before he spoke again: “There’s one more matter to report to Uncle.”
“Go on.”
“Dezhong has learned of this affair and has asked to join our army, to go to the front and fight the enemy. I have already granted his request.”
Zonghan closed his eyes, and after a moment, let out a sigh: “It’s no great matter. The western faction is fighting with its back to the wall now — if he wants to go, let him go.”
“He also said…” Huonü hesitated, “…that he wished to trade his own life for his mother’s freedom…”
With a crash, Zonghan flew into a sudden rage. He seized the large bowl of hair dye beside him and hurled it against the floor with a resounding smash, and in an instant half the room was splattered black with the dark liquid!
“The western faction’s every misfortune has sprung from that wretched Han woman! Out of respect for his father’s dying wish, I have not killed her, and let her keep her worthless life! If they come whining to me again with this kind of talk, I’ll have them see that woman’s head before the day is out—”
Xiyin had commanded great respect within the western faction, and on his deathbed had entrusted his son to both Zonghan and Huonü. Having delivered his message now, Huonü showed no reaction of his own. The two men exchanged a glance and then took their leave.
Zonghan sat alone in the room for a while, dazed, and as his steward cleaned up the spilled dye on the floor, he spoke: “Send for Yindan.”
The servant went out, and after a while, a young man came in. Among the Jurchens, this young man was considered rather too gentle and bookish — he was one of Zonghan’s less accomplished sons, named Wanyan Yindan. After the deaths of Xiebao and Sheyema, because of his relative fondness for the study of natural principles, he had been chosen by Zonghan and Xiyin together and kept at their side for the past year.
Zonghan studied him for a while, then said: “It’s time for you to leave.”