34. Raid

Although the cavalry of Bing Province belonged to the formal ranks of the Han army, their usual training was lax, and compounded by their ingrained fear of the nomads, their performance as a defeated force was all too convincing: helmets and armor discarded, weapons flung aside, their retreat a chaotic rout with no semblance of formation—truly the picture of a beaten, ragtag remnant.

Watching from atop the city wall, Wang Bo frowned: Was this really the mettle of Han soldiers? Bing Province was, after all, a strategic frontier, and the Wolf Riders of Bing had once been renowned throughout the land! These must be the rabble sent by Ding Yuan, surely only for show! If it were up to me, I wouldn't send my finest either—why risk them being used as cannon fodder? That would be a shame.

Zhou Xiu and his brother led a crowd of able-bodied men, women, and children, their cooperation equally convincing. They shouted and wailed, scattering clothes and grain sacks in a line along the road. A few simple-minded adults even brought young children along to watch, laughing and darting about, utterly unafraid of the fearsome nomads in pursuit.

Seeing how slowly the refugees were fleeing, Liao Hua could only smile wryly and hurriedly organized a rearguard to fight and withdraw at the same time. The nomads, spotting Han civilians ahead, howled with excitement, oblivious to the fact that they were marching straight toward death.

Wang Bo watched, his heart pounding: This performance was worthy of an actor’s award! Even the children weren’t afraid of battle? Perhaps I should form a troupe to amuse the men—after all, endless drills would grow tedious over time.

When all the “actors” returned, Wang Bo praised Liao Hua and Zhou Xiu and the others for their excellent work.

But Niu Er wore a bitter expression. “My lord! We were only trying to be convincing, but I never imagined that these women and children would cause so much chaos—even three oxen couldn’t have held them back! Luckily, no one was hurt, or I’d never have dared face you again!” With that, he began to sob.

A few Han cavalrymen, arrows still in their backsides from the nomads, joked from the side, “The sages said: ‘Since ancient times, children and women are the hardest to manage!’ General, there’s no need to be so downhearted! Hahaha…”

Wang Bo could only offer soothing words. Inwardly, he wondered: Why is he crying over a good thing? Have I been too harsh? I was tougher than this as a boy, wasn’t I?

After some banter, everyone turned their attention to the pass below. The Xianbei and Wuwan coalition, having rushed to the gate in vain hope, now shouted in discontent. But after a sparse volley of arrows from atop the wall and a glance at the darkening sky, they cursed and began setting up camp.

Watching the nomads set up their crude encampments, Wang Bo was overjoyed: So, they’re really just wild men from the steppe! Their camp defenses were pitiful.

The Xianbei at least placed barricades and sharpened stakes around their clustered tents, dug a few shallow trenches, but the Wuwan did nothing besides pitching tents. They simply piled wood in open spaces, presumably for fires at night.

Utterly reckless! Such sloppy, crowded encampments—if the Xinghan Army swept through, they’d be annihilated in a flash! I worried for nothing.

As night fell, bonfires were lit one by one, illuminating the camp, especially the conspicuous main command tent, which glowed like daytime. To their credit, the nomads realized the night was dangerous and set many mounted sentries to patrol, their movements frequent at the peak of activity, with a new group every quarter-hour.

After dark, the Xinghan Army, under orders from their officers, slept soundly. Wang Bo, however, was wide awake and, ignoring advice to rest, sat atop the gate, watching every movement in the enemy camp below and calculating possible losses for the coming battle.

As the night wore on and the number of sentries dwindled, the once-bright bonfires faded. The few remaining guards, clutching weapons, nodded off, waking only occasionally to toss another log onto the dying flames. Patrols became sporadic, and by the second watch, only one went out every half-hour.

Having observed for most of the night, Wang Bo saw the defenses grow slack and finally exhaled in relief: Victory was within reach! Just you wait, you mongrel dogs of the steppe. I’m exhausted—time for some sleep.

Thinking this, he stretched his aching shoulders and headed down for some rest. Xu Chu grumbled behind him, muttering complaints. Irritated, Wang Bo turned and said scornfully, “The Niu brothers can guard me well enough. If you wish to fight, then fight! Hmph!”

Xu Chu, hearing this, instantly beamed, lavishing Wang Bo with flattery, the perfect example of a loyal lackey.

At the appointed hour, after finishing their dry rations, the Xinghan Army, fully armed and in high spirits, stood at attention inside the pass.

The Anti-Nomad Battalion formed the vanguard, several hundred cavalry at the fore; behind them stood the regular Xinghan infantry, even the heavy-shield battalion having abandoned their shields in favor of spears. A thousand archers from the hunting corps were tasked with breaking up enemy formations once battle was joined. Finally, the Han cavalry waited at the rear, ready to exploit the rout.

Thousands stood silent and unmoving under the dim moonlight, figures like statues. Only the restless snorts of warhorses and the crackle of torches broke the deathly silence.

Yet within each heart burned a mixture of excitement and nerves before the battle. Even the usually lax Han cavalry, influenced by the Xinghan Army’s discipline, stood tall and straight, appearing every bit the elite force.

Xu Chu, fully armored at last, hefted the heavy, broad-bladed saber crafted for him by the quartermaster, mounted the prized western steed he’d taken from Zhao Yun, and strode to the very front, shoving aside any who blocked his path. His eyes gleamed with a hungry light as he awaited the signal: the moment when Zhang Liao’s attack would begin in the enemy camp.

At last, with the shriek of a signal arrow, chaos erupted in the nomad camp outside the pass. Only moments before, all was still—now pandemonium reigned.

Xu Chu, astride his horse, brandished his massive blade and ordered dozens of Xinghan auxiliary troops to heave open the heavy double gates. He shouted, “Sons of Xinghan, kill the nomad dogs!”

Then he charged out, single-handed, with thousands following, roaring “Victory to Xinghan!” The sound was so thunderous it seemed to shake the pass itself.

Wang Bo, who had been feigning sleep, could no longer resist the commotion. He leapt up and rushed to the top of the gate to watch.

The fighting began at the southeastern corner of the camp, where the Wuwan were stationed. Zhang Liao, worthy of his future fame as one of the Five Great Generals, displayed a keen sense for the battlefield.

The nomads, roused from sleep, were thrown into confusion—some ran about half-dressed, others fired wildly under their officers’ orders, while some flailed about by the dying fires.

Meanwhile, the rekindled bonfires to the north seemed almost to point the way for the Xinghan cavalry, their charge following the light, sweeping up fleeing enemies as they pressed toward the main command tent.

Behind them, the Xinghan soldiers no longer needed to fire flaming arrows to start blazes—the burning wood on the ground sufficed. The front lines cut down panicked foes, while those behind, with no enemies left, simply used their weapons to toss flaming sticks into the tents, setting off seas of fire.

The Xianbei tried to organize resistance, falling back toward the central command tent, but as more of them were gathered, the Xinghan charge slowed.

Meanwhile, the main Xinghan force, led by Xu Chu and shouting their battle cry, drowned out even the screams of the dying nomads. The Wuwan, under massacre, panicked and fell into a full rout.

The Xianbei, hard-pressed by Zhang Liao, heard the dreadful shouts behind them and turned to defend, chaos inevitable in their haste. When Xu Chu, like a god of slaughter, charged into their midst with the Anti-Nomad cavalry, the Xianbei lost all will to resist and fled in every direction—river, cliffs, tents—anywhere the Xinghan Army was not.

Seeing this, Wang Bo couldn’t help but yawn, drowsiness overtaking him.

After two or three hours of blissful sleep, Wang Bo awoke to hear that the Xinghan Army had returned victorious and hurried to inquire about the results.

Over four thousand nomads were slain, as was customary, their heads piled into a mound. More than six thousand prisoners were taken, and countless others drowned or burned in the chaos.

Because of the darkness and the sheer number of fleeing enemies, the Wolf Owl Guard couldn’t intercept everyone, so they focused on killing larger groups and leaders, with some success. The Han cavalry, who fought last, killed fewer but captured the most prisoners.

They seized five to six thousand intact warhorses, though many more were lost to the flames, much to the regret of those who prized horses above all. The nomads brought little livestock this time, so the Xinghan Army took only around a hundred head—perhaps, given the long winter march, most brought only dried meat, with fresh meat reserved for chiefs.

However, they did capture several thousand pack mules, which delighted the logistics troops: now they could form many new transport teams, and perhaps retire the old man-powered carts.

After hearing everyone’s reports, Wang Bo nodded in satisfaction and loudly praised Zhang Liao, Niu Feihu, and others for their outstanding performance, especially commending the Anti-Nomad Battalion and Han cavalry. The Anti-Nomad Battalion, though it was the first battle for many and some had never even drawn blood before, performed much better than the original Xinghan troops.

With a grand gesture, Wang Bo declared that all Anti-Nomad soldiers who had made kills would become official Xinghan soldiers, with exceptional performers promoted to officers.

The Anti-Nomad soldiers, who had long envied the Xinghan Army, rushed to spread the news: finally, they could shed the “auxiliary” label and stand tall as full-fledged warriors. Those who failed to qualify silently vowed to earn it next time.

Many of the bold Han cavalrymen were envious and asked to join the Xinghan ranks as well, but Wang Bo, glancing at the thoughtful Zhang Liao, merely smiled and declined.

As for Pei Yuanshao’s report of several captured nomad leaders, interrogation revealed one was Kebineng’s own brother, Lord Juluo. Wang Bo, thinking they might be useful, ordered him held, while the rest of the prisoners were scattered and assigned to labor battalions.

After the battle reports came Liao Hua’s casualty report.

The main attacking force, the Xinghan cavalry, lost 430 dead and over a hundred seriously wounded, with countless minor injuries. The Anti-Nomad Battalion suffered six or seven hundred casualties; the Han cavalry, over two hundred. The rest were negligible.

After reporting, Liao Hua looked at Wang Bo’s somber face and added, “As you ordered, all fallen horses had their legs cut off and their tack recovered. All numbers have been checked and none are missing.”

“Indeed. Warriors die in a hundred battles, but generals return in glory! The fallen are the pride of Xinghan—their courageous souls are the backbone of the Han! They are our eternal models.”

With solemn dignity, Wang Bo ordered the fallen to be buried in the Xinghan Heroes’ Cemetery, to be enshrined in the memorial hall after the war. Then, suppressing their grief, the army hurried off to Yunu Pass to face Budugen.

Only five hundred soldiers and several hundred hunters were left to guard Yuhu Pass under Liao Hua and Niu Feihu; the rest marched to Yunu Pass.

Budugen, crafty as ever, had not been idle. Upon reaching Yunu Pass, he issued no order to attack, but instead established an impregnable camp, to call it anything less would be an understatement.

Nearly a hundred thousand Xianbei—Wang Bo wondered if any were left in Yunzhong! When had Budugen gathered so many? Only later did he learn that many Southern Xiongnu had joined them. It seemed that kindness is often repaid with betrayal—the Southern Xiongnu, who once admired the Han, now saw the weakened empire as easy prey. Very well, I’ll remember this debt!

The nomad camps stretched for miles, as far as the eye could see, resembling scattered piles of manure on the steppe, converging into a vast inverted triangle, completely blocking the valley outside the pass except for a narrow passage.

A deep trench ran across the front of the camp, leaving only two narrow entrances. Behind the trench stood rows of sharpened wooden barricades. Having learned from their previous losses, the nomads built a wall of wood and thorn along the riverbank.

On the narrow west bank, the Xianbei had, in just two or three days, dug a channel to divert the river, stationing at least five thousand men there. The Xinghan Army would no longer be able to hide there for surprise attacks.

Chen Dao, too, had been busy, following Wang Bo’s earlier tactics against the Chile chief by making many rafts, sending hunters to harass the enemy by night.

However, the first attempt ended in disaster: before they could approach the riverside camps, alert sentries spotted them and fired a barrage of flaming arrows, turning the rafts into fire ships. The officer in charge quickly ordered a retreat, but by the time they returned, most of the rafts were lost, and nearly the entire hunting party was swept away in the river—their bodies unrecoverable. Chen Dao, looking at the few survivors, simply shook his head and waited patiently for Wang Bo to arrive. Fortunately, the battle at Yuhu Pass had ended quickly.