Chapter Thirteen: Infighting

Flames flickered hungrily, licking their way up to the rooftops. The bandits, delighted with their spoils, hauled stolen grain and valuables out of the fortified compound, completely unaware that, not far from them atop a nearby ridge, a pair of eyes had witnessed their plunder from start to finish.

Within the walled manor, the wealthy families fought bravely to protect their possessions—none more so than the man with flowers pinned in his hair, who managed to shoot and injure seven, and, once the walls were breached, felled three more in hand-to-hand combat.

In Han dynasty times, such a man would have been born into the ranks of the six commanderies’ reputable families.

Were this a battlefield where two squads met face-to-face, his desperate resistance alone would have been enough to shake the enemy’s morale, perhaps even turn the tide of battle.

But those at his side—kin, servants, tenant farmers—were no true fighters. Their resistance was largely symbolic; they had no will to kill.

When resistance becomes less an act of defiance and more a desperate bid for escape, the more one tries to flee, the more likely they are to fall beneath club or blade.

At last, even the valiant scion of a good family was overwhelmed. A deserter in a patched war jacket split him from right ear to left shoulder with a heavy blade. He died before the others could strip him of his garments, boots, bow, and sword.

On the ridge, Liu Chengzong watched, his anxiety mounting. He gnawed at his fingernails. “Damn it, all of you just want to run! At least hold them back so I can avenge you!”

The lack of a chance to play savior offered him the perfect excuse for a clear conscience.

He had to admit—even putting aside the fact that the main force hadn’t arrived and rescue was impossible—he was, in this moment, selfish and cold-hearted.

He only wanted to kill bandits, especially a gang so laden with loot.

The ground was strewn with corpses—each one, before death, had tried to flee this hell on earth, while the living treated it as a paradise, even as black smoke spiraled skyward for half an hour.

The bandits, secure in their dominance, dragged large cauldrons from the village into the earthen fort. Soon, several plumes of cooking smoke rose from within the walls.

Liu Chengzong’s eyes remained fixed on the wooden cannon, calculating how to seize it with minimal loss.

But soon he no longer had to worry about that.

As he anxiously awaited reinforcements, the situation in the village shifted again.

A few bandits, draped in stolen bedsheets, clustered around the wooden cannon at the gate, reloading it with gunpowder.

Some noticed their odd behavior, cursed, and raced to alert their comrades inside the fort. Before one could reach the shattered gate, someone plunged a knife into his back.

Chaos erupted among the bandits once more.

The shouts and screams lasted only moments. Two deserters and seven or eight others, dragging a wounded comrade riddled with arrows, broke out toward the gate, only to be surrounded again.

Suddenly, a cannon blast thundered at the gate. Pebbles and woodchips exploded through the air.

Smoke and dust billowed, mingling with the cries of the wounded.

When the dust settled, the deserters and bandits lay wounded in heaps before the gate. Liu Chengzong searched for the wooden cannon but saw only its splintered remains.

It had exploded.

It took a long search to find the cannon’s breech, which had apparently embedded itself in the chest of the gunner, killing him instantly along with three others. Among them was the deserter in oxhide boots.

The deafening blast drew the looting bandits from the village. While some still gawped in shock, others rushed over and stripped the oxhide boots from the dead man’s feet—one boot barely off before the other was snatched away.

In moments, a series of scuffles broke out over the dead men’s belongings. The bandits, loosely organized, cared far more about the ownership of boots, belts, and battered armor than why the cannon had exploded or why the deserters were killed.

Liu Chengzong was the same. All he cared about was the grain and loot piled in the village.

Perhaps this was the first time he had ever felt such covetous desire for something that wasn’t his.

Voices approached from behind. On the mountain path, his elder brother Liu Chengzu led cavalry, horses in tow, while Cao Yao brought the infantry at a run.

As they drew near, Cao Yao waved his hand. “Pass the word: rest a while, wait for the cavalry.”

The infantry, exhausted after their headlong charge in armor, gratefully slumped down to rest, propping themselves up with weapons, sitting or standing as they pleased.

Cao Yao, still bearing himself like an officer, forced himself up the ridge, then, abandoning all pretense, crouched with his saber propped on his knees and, helmet askew, muttered complaints in his homeland dialect. “Damn it all, haven’t run like this in half a year!”

“Brother Cao, where’s your horse?”

“Could it carry me? What do you take it for? It’s not even as strong as your Red Banner!”

Liu Chengzong glanced at him, then at the thin horse on the path. Indeed, it could hardly carry Cao Yao.

The horse was well-formed, just starved. Its frame was as sturdy as Red Banner’s.

The real difference lay with the masters. Both were of average, robust build, but their armor’s weight differed.

Both wore iron-plated jackets, but there were differences even among such armor.

Liu Chengzong’s was like a red sleeveless military coat, with thin and few plates—only a hundred and seventy from neck to knee. With the helmet, it weighed just sixteen and a half pounds, light enough for daily wear.

Yet even with this, rider, and arms, Red Banner still bore over two hundred pounds.

But old Cao, wealthy and well-connected, wore armor that looked similar, but boasted over four hundred plates, iron bracers from shoulder to wrist, and little plates sewn into his thick oxhide boots—a set befitting a frontier soldier in the Ming army’s prime.

None of the horses had eaten their fill in a long while. At least Liu Chengzong’s Red Banner had rested after the journey, but the others had come straight to battle, not daring to ride on the way.

After catching his breath, Cao Yao stepped forward and crouched, observing the chaos below. “That’s them? Where’s the wooden cannon? I heard it fire just now.”

“It exploded. There was infighting among them, another dozen dead, and some of the wounded likely won’t live long.”

Cao Yao nodded, keen eyes searching the soon-to-be battlefield for any advantage. “Plenty of grain, weak opponents. We’ll have to follow your brother’s lead and rout them with no losses… the eagle?”

He spotted the signal, pressed his hand to the ground, eyes wide. “Damn it, that white hawk bastard isn’t dead yet?”

Liu Chengzong, having just been learning from the bandits’ lack of sentries and his brother’s habit of always posting them, was puzzled by Cao Yao’s reaction. “You know him?”

“Not just know him—know him well. The bastard was a ringleader near Suide, had a hundred or two men. Who knows how he ended up here.”

“Quick with a blade,” Cao Yao said, his expression darkening. “If you run into that limping bastard, don’t let him get close—shoot him with an arrow!”

It sounded like old resentment.

“I thought he’d gone south with Zuo, but turns out he didn’t dare try anything big, just stuck around to rob and plunder.”

At that, a rare look of grievance crossed Cao Yao’s face. “When I crossed the Yellow River, that bastard robbed me and threatened me with a knife. If my men hadn’t scattered, I’d have killed him.”

Ignoring Liu Chengzong’s amused grin, Cao Yao continued counting the bandits, then suddenly pointed. “That’s him, the limping one with flowers in his hair—I’d know him even if he turned to ashes.”

Liu Chengzong followed his gesture and saw, by the breached gate, a bloodstained bandit in a torn satin jacket stepping over corpses. Flowers—taken from the fallen archer’s hair—were stuck in his own hair, and he strutted out, turning in circles, showing off his belt knife and stolen bow.

Cao Yao continued, “I found out later: if not for the drought under the Tianqi Emperor, he’d have stayed an honest farmer. That postal runner brother of yours—Li Hongji—he’s walking the very same path now.”

Cao Yao spat on the ground, then smiled faintly. “But maybe his luck won’t be quite so bad.”