Chapter Thirty-One: Smoke of War Everywhere (3)

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Nianhan’s golden wolf-head standard hung over Taiyuan’s ashen sky like a heavy iron curtain, pressing down without mercy.

On the eighteenth day of the twelfth month, the northern wind drove flecks of snow across the endless camps of the Jurchen left army, lashing them with a mournful howl. The Jurchen forces had formally begun their siege.

Taiyuan was bound layer upon layer in icy chains. Deep trenches coiled around it like colossal serpents, choking off every vital passage. The siegeworks were the fangs of some monstrous beast, grinding this unyielding fortress to pieces—bones, flesh, and all—before swallowing it whole.

North of Taiyuan, the land of the Three Jin regions had already become a hell on earth.

Louban Stockade, Yunnei Stockade, Yangwu, and other strongholds had either fallen or surrendered.

The blood at Guo County had yet to dry. The roars of loyal souls still seemed to echo through the wind and snow. Li Yi, Regional Inspector of the Western Route of Daizhou; Li Song, the county magistrate; Wang Tangchen, the county deputy; Liu Ziying, the county commandant; Yan Cheng, the superintendent of wine; and the military officer She Ke had all died together.

The Buddhist chants of Mount Wutai had been utterly drowned out by the butchers’ wild laughter.

Yanmen, Guo, Wutai, Fanzhi—one after another, these once-thriving county towns had been reduced to scorched earth beneath the iron hooves of the Jin army.

Massacre.

The streets of Wutai County were blocked by corpses. The well water of Guo County had turned a murky red.

The common people were driven like livestock to fill the city’s moats. The bodies of the defenders were dismembered and hung up at random. Thousand-year-old bronze statues in the temples were crudely melted down and forged into weapons of slaughter. The guardian deities of the Jin Ancestral Shrine twisted and wailed in the flames.

Jurchen cavalry spread in every direction, attacking Yangqu, Taigu, Yuci, Shouyang, Yu, Jiaocheng, Wenshui, Qi, Qingyuan, Pingjin, and other places. Beacon fires rose everywhere.

Yet upon this blood-soaked wasteland, the sparks of resistance had never gone out. Instead, in the depths of despair, they erupted with a staggering force.

Even the wise Gushen had failed to anticipate it.

During the defense of Guo County, the blacksmith Zhang Tieniu melted down the last farming tool in his possession and forged it into a spear. With seething hatred, he drove it through the throats of three enemies before a blaze of snow-bright blades chopped him into pulp.

Amid the ravines of the Taihang Mountains, Liang Xing scattered his entire fortune, sacrificing his household to save the nation. He rallied hunters, farmers, defeated soldiers, and even wandering martial heroes.

The mountains and forests became their hunting grounds. Jin supply trains and scouting parties were repeatedly met by deadly arrows and ambushes. Every successful raid sent the Jin soldiers into a fury, while rekindling a glimmer of hope in the eyes of the desperate people of Hedong.

More nameless heroes emerged. Hunters loosed poisoned arrows soundlessly from the treetops. Wandering swordsmen slit sentries’ throats beneath the cover of night. Farmers dropped deadly poisons into wells and lured Jin soldiers who forced their way into homes into traps bristling with spikes.

The entire Taiyuan Valley—every mountain, every river, every village—had become a vast thorn thicket beneath the feet of a colossal beast.

Every day, every moment, Jin soldiers fell in unseen corners. Every cartload of grain and fodder that went up in flames delayed Nianhan’s southward march toward Bianliang by another instant.

Nianhan, the foremost Jurchen commander forged in the wars that destroyed the Liao, led the true and undisputed iron fist of the Jin Empire: its left army.

This was a battle-hardened force tempered by ten years of war against the Liao. Every warrior from the Meng’an and Mouke units was an elite fighter who had grown up battling tigers and wolves amid the White Mountains and Black Waters.

Its commander, Nianhan, was cold as ice and bloodthirsty as a wolf. Ruthless in warfare and particularly skilled at assaulting fortified positions, he possessed a will as hard as iron and stone.

The generals beneath his banner were terrifying. Wanyan Loushi commanded with almost supernatural skill, turning every campaign into a classic. Wanyan Yingshu was fierce and fearless, like a murderous blade drawn from its sheath.

Gushen was full of stratagems, deep and impenetrable as a frozen pool. There were also the savage and brutal Tuohesu and Wanyan Huonu. At the heart of this army stood the true elite of the Jurchen homeland—forces incomparably superior to the eastern army.

They should have been like tigers descending from the mountains, racing straight for Bianliang to tear apart the heart of that prosperous yet rotten dynasty.

But now, the tiger had been dragged deep into the blood-soaked mire of Hedong.

Nianhan’s impatience was almost visible.

He could feel that every time this invincible iron fist swung, it sank into a viscous swamp of flesh and blood, where countless unseen, unyielding vines wrapped around it, tearing at it and draining its strength.

The daily casualty reports were no longer cold figures. They were tangible wounds, steadily blunting his army’s edge. The barefoot peasants and contemptible commoners resisted like a festering curse clinging to the bone, leaving his army unable to move.

March south to Bianliang? Taiyuan had not fallen, and beacon fires burned everywhere. How could he leave?

Divide his forces?

That would only make the flames of resistance in Hedong burn brighter—and might even cause them to turn back upon the dragon that had thrust so deeply into enemy territory.

For the first time, Nianhan felt a stifling rage. This was not the pressure of facing the Liao imperial guards in a formal battle. It was the sensation of being gnawed by countless ants, of steadily growing weaker as blood flowed without end.

He could only pour his fury a hundredfold upon the prefectures, counties, and common people who dared to resist, using ever more frenzied slaughter to cow them into submission. Yet all he achieved was to provoke even fiercer resistance.

Nianhan’s elite left army had been nailed beneath the Taihang and Lüliang Mountains by a wall of flesh and blood raised by the people and soldiers of Hedong.

It could not move.

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As for the eastern route, Wanyan Zongwang—known as the “Second Prince”—commanded what was supposedly the right army. Compared with the western army, its fighting power was inferior by far more than a little.

Zongwang’s army of sixty thousand appeared impressive enough, with banners rippling and iron cavalry massed like clouds. In truth, it was strong only on the outside.

How many true Jurchen cavalrymen formed its core?

Barely more than ten thousand.

The rest consisted of Khitan defectors pressed into service, Bohai, Xi, and Goryeo auxiliaries, along with the infamous Changsheng Army under Guo Yaoshi—a force notorious for pursuing profit above all else.

These troops fought like wolves when victory was assured and plunder, rape, and pillage were at hand. But once they met a hard battle and suffered heavy casualties, they were liable to collapse—or even change sides.

More fatally still, in his pursuit of the intoxicating speed of reaching Bianliang, Zongwang had committed a cardinal military blunder: he had advanced deep into enemy territory with an isolated army, leaving his rear exposed.

His vanguard had indeed reached the northern bank of the Yellow River, posing a distant threat to Bianliang. But what of his base?

He had no strength to truly control the vast lands of Hebei. He had merely swept through them like a swarm of locusts, leaving behind a few symbolic units of surrendered troops to maintain order—forces fragile in the extreme.

His supply line was like a slender thread stretched to its limit, winding south from Yanjing through Zhending and Handan. It was long and vulnerable.

Every inch of it lay exposed to attack. And after detachments had been left to garrison various points along the way, and after the inevitable losses, the core mobile force he could truly deploy against Bianliang had been drastically reduced. It was nowhere near the sixty thousand proclaimed on paper.

Now—this very moment—

Nianhan was being held in place by the soldiers and people of Hedong, who were giving their lives to stop him. The Song Empire needed only to concentrate its full strength against Zongwang’s route—and against the weakest, most vulnerable route of all.

Those with foresight had already glimpsed this possibility. Scouts of the Imperial City Office risked their lives to transmit reports, while many Khitans unwilling to see their nation perish secretly extended aid, sending news capable of overturning the entire situation to Emperor Zhao Ji’s desk.

If Jin and Song exhausted each other, that would be their chance to restore their kingdom.

In the grand hall of the Bianliang palace, Li Gang’s eyes were bloodshot. He slammed a finger down upon the thin supply line behind Zongwang’s army.

“Your Majesty! Nianhan is trapped in Hedong and cannot advance an inch! Zongwang is stranded in Hebei with his rear exposed! If he dares cross the river, Heaven itself has granted us this opportunity! A chance such as this comes once in a thousand years!”

His voice trembled with excitement.

“The western army! Transfer the western army at once!”

He pointed toward Tong Pass on the map.

“General Zong Shidao! General Yao Gu! Mobilize every elite soldier of Qinzhou, Fengzhou, Jingyuan, and Xihe! March day and night, pass through Tong Pass, and drive straight into Luoyang! Then, like a red-hot dagger, plunge into Zongwang’s rear and make directly for the Yellow River crossings! Cut off his retreat! Lock that crippled wolf of his on the southern bank of the Yellow River!”

Even after its failed campaign against the Liao, the western army’s fighting strength was still nothing like that of the imperial guards stationed in Bianliang.

“Hebei! Set Hebei ablaze!”

Li Gang stabbed his finger into the lands of Hebei once more.

“How many loyal patriots are still resisting there? Tell them the court has not forgotten them! Burn the Jin invaders’ grain and fodder! Cut their roads! Kill their lackeys! Let beacon fires rage behind Zongwang, so that every night becomes a nightmare!”

“Bianliang!”

Li Gang wheeled around and fixed his blazing gaze upon Zhao Ji seated on the imperial throne.

“Your Majesty! You must decide with absolute authority now! Appoint me to take overall command of the city’s defenses and the fighting beyond its walls! Gather every imperial guard, provincial soldier, and brave civilian militia in the capital! Open the arsenals and arm the people! A million soldiers and civilians of Bianliang will stand united against the enemy!

“Once the western army draws near and Hebei erupts in beacon fires, when Zongwang’s army is thrown into confusion, I shall personally lead our forces out of the city to meet him in battle. Together with the western army, we will attack Wanyan Zongwang from front and rear, crushing that paper tiger and his rabble utterly upon the banks of the Yellow River!”

Li Gang’s voice rang through the hall like a great bronze bell, making the palace itself hum.

“If we win this battle, Zongwang will be slain and the eastern army will vanish like smoke! When Nianhan hears the news, terror will seize his heart, and the siege of Hedong will be lifted of its own accord! The prestige of our Great Song will be restored, and a revival of the empire will be within reach! Your Majesty, this is the battle that can reverse Heaven and earth and rebuild the realm! You must not hesitate!”

The court erupted at once.

The war faction burned with enthusiasm, seeing the first light of victory.

Yet shadows were everywhere.

The plump, pale face of Vice Chancellor Zhang Bangchang instantly drained of color. His shrill voice nearly pierced the roof.

“Li Gang! You—you mean to plunge His Majesty into everlasting ruin! The Jin army is overwhelmingly powerful and invincible in open battle! Though Nianhan has been delayed for the moment, Taiyuan will fall at any time! Zongwang’s army is already in Hebei and could cross the river at any moment!

“You would send the elite western army far from its homeland on a forced march. If anything goes wrong, Shaanxi will be imperiled! You would have our soldiers leave the city to fight recklessly in the open? And if—if Bianliang falls, who will bear such an enormous crime? You are bringing disaster upon the state! You are gambling the empire itself!”

Zhao Ye and the other members of the peace faction echoed him like parrots. With tears streaming down their faces, they described the horrors that would follow if the Jin army breached the city, as though Li Gang’s strategy—not the enemy—were the true source of destruction.

Chancellor Wang Fu added anxiously, “The western army is the pillar of the state. If it leaves its entire force, what will happen when Western Xia takes advantage of the opportunity? This plan is far too dangerous!”

Vice Chancellor Bai Shizhong opposed organizing resistance and advocated immediate peace negotiations. He argued forcefully that war would bring ruin upon the state and suffering upon the people, while only peace could bring lasting stability.

In the second year of the Zhenghe era, in the year 1112, Zhao Ji had reformed the official system, following the institutions described in the Rites of Zhou. The former Left Vice Director of the Secretariat had been renamed Grand Chancellor and placed at the head of the chief ministers, overseeing all state affairs. The former Right Vice Director had become Junior Chancellor, serving as deputy to the Grand Chancellor. The Vice Chancellors of the Gate and Central Secretariats were likewise deputy chancellors.

The precedent of the Chanyuan Treaty already stood before them. Song Emperor Zhenzong had been praised to the heavens for it, portrayed as a ruler whose glory surpassed even that of Emperor Wu of Han and Emperor Taizong of Tang—though, of course, those emperors had actually known how to wage war.

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And as the conscience of the people, as scholar-officials who revered benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust, as disciples of the Sage Confucius—

They absolutely could not permit a war that would force the common people to endure its suffering.

The dissolute chancellor Li Bangyan, then serving as Junior Chancellor, was even singing an opera, warbling and trilling as every verse urged an end to arms and the sharing of peace.

Tang Ke, Zhao Ye, and the others applauded repeatedly. They demanded that the court send envoys to offer rewards and negotiate peace with the Jin army, swearing that war must never be permitted and calling for the strict punishment of the war faction.

All they knew was how to wage war. They had no understanding of the horrors left wherever armies passed. They could not allow those bandits and convict-soldiers to bring disaster upon the people.

The peace faction was immensely powerful and occupied nearly all the seats among the chief ministers, while Li Gang was merely a Junior Court Gentleman of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, a fourth-rank official responsible for ritual music and state ceremonies.

For a man of such modest office to advocate war was, by any measure, bewildering.

Upon the imperial throne, Zhao Ji’s expression shifted repeatedly. Beneath the desk before him, his legs trembled faintly.

In recent days he had lost even the inclination to paint or write. Every night, he needed to seek relief from his anxiety and fear in the company of his consorts.

Li Gang’s grand vision of victory captivated him for a fleeting instant. But Zhang Bangchang’s words—“Bianliang may fall,” “an unimaginable calamity”—coiled around his heart like cold venomous snakes.

Nianhan… Had Nianhan’s army truly been held back? What if he breached Taiyuan tomorrow?

What would happen if Western Xia attacked while the western army was away from Shaanxi?

Was Zongwang truly as weak as Li Gang claimed? What if—what if they were defeated?

He seemed to see Bianliang’s walls shattered and himself fleeing in panic like his old friend Yelü Yanxi, or even being captured by the Jin. The vision filled him with terror.

No. No, it would not do. It was far too dangerous. Compared with an uncertain victory that could neither be seen nor touched, the “safety” before him mattered more.

He should hurry and carry out the plan.

The emperor’s fear and wavering became the peace faction’s sharpest weapon.

In the court, saliva flew as voices rose and fell. Loyalty and treachery became impossible to distinguish, and every man clung to his own calculations and convictions.

Time raced away, breath by breath and moment by moment, amid the endless quarrels, attacks, fears, and schemes.

Meanwhile, on the eighteenth day of the twelfth month, in the camp of the Jin eastern army, Jin forces reached Baozhou—modern Baoding in Hebei—but failed to take it. The city lay deep within Hebei, with the so-called Song-Liao defensive line behind it, including Xiongzhou and Bazhou.

On the twenty-first day of the twelfth month, the Jin army besieged Zhongshan Prefecture, modern Dingzhou in Hebei, but again failed to capture it.

Reports brought back by scouts left Wanyan Zongwang deeply hesitant. Resistance in Hedong was fierce, and Nianhan’s advance was painfully slow. The plan to join forces in the south had collapsed.

His isolated army had advanced hundreds of miles into enemy territory. Behind it lay Song subjects who had never truly submitted, together with rebel forces rising here and there.

Its supply line grew longer—and ever more fragile.

The eyes of the Khitan defectors in the camp began to flicker. What scheme was that bastard Guo Yaoshi plotting now? Could he be preparing to betray them again?

A chill crept up Zongwang’s spine.

For the first time, he seriously questioned his own advance. Every day, informants brought him news from the Song court. If the Song truly followed Li Gang’s proposal, sending the western army through the passes to cut off the roads in Hebei, what could he do?

In secret, he had already ordered his trusted aides to prepare for a retreat northward at any moment should the situation deteriorate.

He, Zongwang, was no single-minded madman like Nianhan.

Beneath Tong Pass, the white-haired Zong Shidao stood fully armored. The hardened soldiers of the western army held weapons like a forest, their warhorses shrilling, their morale soaring like a rainbow.

They waited eagerly. All they needed was a single imperial decree from Bianliang, and they would burst from their cage like tigers, pouncing upon the fatal rear of the eastern army.

Veterans rubbed their fists, flames burning in their eyes—the fire of wiping away humiliation and winning glory.

“Marshal! Send the memorial and request the imperial decree! This opportunity will vanish in an instant!” the deputy general urged anxiously.

Zong Shidao gazed toward Bianliang. Deep worry covered his wrinkled face. He sensed that the imperial decree they awaited would never come.

Within Taiyuan, Zhang Xiaochun and Wang Bing, holding the city to the death, looked southward with hope and anxiety filling their eyes.

“The court… Bianliang… Can you see us? We are still fighting! We are holding Nianhan here! Act! Act quickly! Do not let the blood of Hedong be shed in vain!”

Across Hebei, forces resisting the Jin rose one after another, and beacon fires blazed everywhere.

At the end of the Xuanhe era, the Great Song still possessed a chance to reverse the entire situation.

Everything depended on the people of the two river regions fighting and holding their ground to the death.