Firelight trembled and leapt in the wind and rain, devouring the grey-black fuse, sinking down into the iron.
Amid the cold wind came the thunderous roar of flame bursting forth, the iron cannon barrel jolting backward, and the iron ball parted the rain in visible furrows through the dim, grey downpour, arcing over the killing field.
The burning fuse atop the shell was doused by the rain in midair, but the iron ball still fell upon the heads of men below. With a crash, a silhouette danced through the rain, tumbling into the crowd trailing spattered blood, mud and water bursting in every direction.
Amid the roaring din, the charging Jurchen veteran did not so much as blink, nor did he pay any mind to his fallen comrade. His body unfolded with the most forceful economy of motion—arm raised, leg planted, hand swept forward—his arm, too, cut through the grey curtain of rain, parting countless raindrops between heaven and earth, and the iron spear, longer than his own arm, flew up into the sky.
Following that single spear came a dozen more of the same, howling as they tore across the sky above the battlefield, over the clashing front lines, past the black banners fluttering in the rain. Some were struck down before the raised shields; others, carried by their heavy momentum, punched through the chests of Huaxia Army soldiers, pinning the bloodied corpses to the ground.
Blood mixed with the mountain rain and washed downward. Not far off, where the two armies’ vanguards met, the collision of iron shields had already grown crooked and disordered.
“Fire the cannons! Switch to solid shot!” Mao Yishan bellowed in the rain. “Second Company, Second Battalion, forward!”
Another volley of spears came flying from ahead. The iron javelins struck the ground before them, jagged and crossed at odd angles; some had pinned the bodies of Huaxia Army soldiers where they stood, blood surging from their mouths even as they still roared defiance. Several valiant soldiers raised shields to escort the army physicians forward, but before long, the struggling bodies had become corpses. Spears thrown from a distance struck the shield walls with a chilling boom, yet the soldiers holding those iron shields did not so much as flinch.
Then more reserves advanced, shields raised as they went, and that chilling boom sounded again and again.
Meanwhile, the bases of several cannons stood planted in the mud, firing shells now and then into the rear of the enemy’s formation. The Huaxia Army already had explosive shells, but by their design, the impact within the barrel ignited the fuse on the shell’s exterior, which then, after a delay, set off the powder inside—and such ordnance had little killing power in the rain.
In this moment, the standoff at the front had regressed to the phalanx clashes of a decade or more past.
The wall formed by shields pressed together along the clashing front line, the comrades behind them pushing forward without pause, trying to shove the other side into collapse, spears thrusting toward the enemy through the gaps between shields. The Huaxia soldiers occasionally hurled grenades—some exploded, but most simply fell into the mud and water. In this valley, the water had already risen to the knees of both sides locked in the standoff, and some of the jostling soldiers fell into the water, a few even drowning outright for want of the strength to rise again.
The heavy rain swallowed the power of bows and crossbows. Mao Yishan committed to the fight every shell still usable, along with the grenades he had so carefully hoarded, while the Jurchens chose sharp, heavy javelins as their weapon of choice—spears that sailed over the shield formation to plunge into the crowd beyond, becoming instruments for reaping lives.
This was the method of assault long settled upon by the veteran Jurchen commander Elili. In this moment, before technological strength had yet opened a decisive gap between the two sides, the tactics he had chosen were genuinely closing the gap in the exchange rate of losses.
In the brief span since Eagle Beak Rock had come crashing down and the two sides had begun their formal slaughter, the casualty count on both sides had climbed at a staggering rate. The shouts and roars along the front line were enough to make one’s spirit tremble—these were all veterans, all men possessed of an unflinching will that feared not death.
In the blink of an eye, a comrade in the line would fall, and the reserves behind would already be pressing forward—both sides reacted with equal speed. But it was the Huaxia Army’s side that first broke the deadlock. Though the Jurchen javelins could inflict tremendous casualties behind the Huaxia Army’s shield formation, grenades were, after all, the true weapon for breaking a formation. As two fortunate grenades exploded on the backs of shield-bearing soldiers at the front, the Jurchen formation suddenly caved inward!
The shield wall surged forward, and sharp blades and spears poured through that gap. These Jurchen warriors were true elites—some even wore scale armor of iron—but in the blink of an eye, they too were hacked down to the ground.
Another volley of javelins flew overhead. The Jurchen battle line, having paid a heavy price, split apart to either side as their reinforcements from the rear surged forward to collide with the enemy!
With a total force of barely two thousand men filling the valley, each clashing front line held only a few dozen men, and with the comrades behind them, a single collision could form ranks of only one or two hundred at most. So although those who fell back meant a setback, it would never spiral into the kind of total collapse that struck armies of thousands or tens of thousands the moment a formation broke. In this moment, Elili’s side paid a price of twenty or thirty men to drag the fighting front down into the valley floor.
Both the advancing line and the defending line grew twisted in this moment, and the slaughter at the front began to descend into chaos. Elili roared, urging men to strike at one flank of the front line. Because the Huaxia Army’s line had pushed forward at the center, the strength at its flanks had thinned slightly, and the Jurchens began pressing through on the wings—in this moment, they were trying to form a pocket, to swallow the Huaxia Army whole at its center.
“Jurchen victory eternal—”
“Blast them!”
The remaining shells still capable of firing crashed into the mountainside, sending rocks raining down onto the crowd below. Two of the cannons had gone silent, misfiring in the damp conditions, and the logistics men ran over to report that the grenades were exhausted. The Huaxia Army’s reserves came down from the slope; the Jurchen formation pressed up from the valley floor. Javelins howled, shells thundered, and in an instant the fierce fighting on both sides was pushed straight to a white-hot pitch.
…
Against the wind and rain of the mountains, a specially made arrowhead cut across the sky, striking the air with a sharp, ringing whistle.
Amid the rolling hills and forest, a cautiously moving Jurchen scout caught the disturbance, his gaze cutting through the gaps in the trees to fix the direction. A scout who had climbed to a high vantage point was startled, looking about at the surrounding ridges. After one sound faded, another rose from the woods more than a li away, and moments later, yet another. The signal of this whistling arrow relayed itself in the blink of an eye, moving toward Rainwater Creek.
That afternoon, Qu Zhengyan received word that it was time to move.
Before his eyes, several positions held by the Fifth Division were still enduring the relentless assaults of the numerically superior Jurchen forces. Qu Zhengyan lowered his telescope.
“Time for the counterattack.”
Across the complex terrain of Rainwater Creek, reserve force after reserve force moved through the rain-soaked paths, rushing toward the front of the battlefield.
…
Several li behind Rainwater Creek, at the wounded soldiers’ camp.
The whistling arrow cut across the sky.
Before Zou Hu’s eyes, the notorious bandit chief known as Ren Hengchong suddenly exploded with force beneath his feet, his body like a cannonball, tearing through the sweeping cold rain, mud and water bursting beneath his feet, blooming into lotus flowers in the rain. In an instant, he was surging toward the tent already blossoming with blood.
There would be no shortage of soldiers near the wounded soldiers’ camp, and once the whistling arrow had flown, all that remained for them was this brief moment to react. But the target had already entered view, and in an instant, Ren Hengchong’s power surged to its peak.
The sudden burst of power from a grandmaster-level expert was terrifying beyond words. Zou Hu’s scalp prickled—both awestruck and exhilarated—and in this same instant, the blood within his own body surged, his strength roaring to new heights.
If only they could take down that young man in this brief span, the wounded camp beyond held nothing but the old, the weak, the sick, and the crippled.
Their own group could still make their escape.
The moment this thought crossed his mind, he rushed forward another two zhang. At the far edge of his vision, the young man who had burst from the tent had already, in the blink of an eye, cut down the first three men to reach him. Ren Hengchong closed in like a storm, and at the final zhang of distance, his arm shot out, a fierce gale tearing through the wind and rain—the young man’s body dipped low, his sword-wind sweeping out, and he actually traded a single blow with Ren Hengchong.
The punch he threw slammed into the tent, shaking the entire structure, and half the canvas was torn into the air with a ripping sound. Ren Hengchong, too, had been running too fast—his feet dug into the ground, and before the tent he stamped out a half-circle arc of momentum, his arm reaching to seize the young man.
In this moment, they had overlooked that among the wounded, there were also those with lesser injuries and those with grave ones.
Behind Ren Hengchong, a pair of arms suddenly rose beneath a sheet of cloth, taking on a shape vast enough to swallow the sky and devour the earth, and before Ren Hengchong’s headlong momentum had fully dissipated, it came crashing down over his head and shoulders.
The tent canvas wrapped entirely around Ren Hengchong—this notorious bandit chief was like a shark caught in a net, throwing wild punches within the sack of cloth. The young man named Ning Ji, spinning back, hurled the short surgical blade in his hand; he paid Ren Hengchong no further mind, instead lifting his ancient sword and cutting his way toward Zou Hu and the others. Behind Ren Hengchong, a man wielding a blade raised it in a flash of light, hacking again and again in a frenzy at the figure wrapped in canvas—in an instant, blood had soaked that sheet of cloth red.
Ren Hengchong tore the cloth open, half his body a mass of mangled flesh and blood. He opened his mouth in a mad howl, and a hand reached out suddenly from beside him, pressing down on his face and slamming him into the mud with a crash, then stamping down hard upon his chest. Beside him, a loosely clad man with a blade struck once more across the bandit chief’s neck.
This first wave, roused by the whistling arrow and rushing to the attack, were all wounded men.
Zou Hu’s legs went weak beneath him, and he turned and ran.
More figures of the wounded broke through the curtain of rain, charging toward this place alongside the soldiers…
…
Eagle Beak Rock.
The white-hot fighting had continued across the narrow valley for half a shichen. In the first small portion of that time there had still been several clashes of formed shield formations, but after that, all that remained was continuous, frenzied skirmishing—the Jurchens charging up the slope again and again, the Huaxia Army charging down to meet them again and again.
The cannons had gradually gone silent. The Jurchens continued to hurl their javelins; the Huaxia soldiers picked up the fallen javelins and hurled them right back at the Jurchens. Blood and sacrifice climbed with every passing moment.
Both sides fighting had, in this moment, their own reasons to seek a swift victory.
Elili worried that the Huaxia Army’s reinforcements would finally arrive, leaving his men unable to hold their ground here; Mao Yishan worried equally about the Jurchen reinforcements continuing to climb in through the rubble at the mouth of the valley. Several charges from both sides had already pushed their blades to within sight of the enemy’s own commanders—Elili himself had led men into the mud and slaughter several times, and Mao Yishan, too, had already thrown his reserves into the front of the battlefield.
The sky hung grey as a cold night, and the slow, seemingly endless winter rain kept falling. Corpses lost their warmth swiftly in the mud and water; in the sodden valley, long blades cut across throats, blood sprayed, and all around were countless roars and howls. Mao Yishan swung his shield to knock aside a Jurchen soldier ahead of him, advancing through water that reached past his knees.
“Rally to me—”
“Jurchen victory eternal—”
A sharp javelin nearly grazed past his neck. The water ahead churned with the soldiers’ rushing movements; a comrade drew close beside him. Mao Yishan raised his shield as a long blade came slashing down fiercely from ahead.
With a resounding crack, Mao Yishan’s arm bent slightly, his shoulder pressing into the shield, and riding the momentum he turned it aside; his steel blade struck out fiercely, and the enemy’s blade came slashing back once more, the two steel blades crashing heavily together in midair. All around, the din of slaughter filled the air.
The Jurchen commander wielding the long blade fell back two steps; his comrades had strung four shields together on a long spear, carrying them forward. Mao Yishan roared, “Form up—” and the comrades beside him closed ranks, a small shield formation suddenly taking shape. “Charge!”
Both sides’ footsteps churned the water aside as the shields crashed violently into one another. Some threw their whole hearts into the effort, some hacked and slashed with their blades, some lost their footing—many on both sides of the shield formation tumbled into the mud and water. Mao Yishan hauled up a fallen comrade, braced his iron shield, and swung it with all his strength. Elili, blade and all, was knocked back a step with a resounding crash; he steadied himself, gripping his blade with both hands. Mao Yishan crouched low, his stance planted as solid as a mountain, and behind his shield, his gaze crossed with his enemy’s.
“Kill—”
In the driving rain, in the churning mud, shadows of men surged and clashed against one another!