Chapter 49: Beneath the Heavy Fog

The cold wind howled.

Upon the ramparts of Qinghe County, torches flickered precariously under the biting chill of the late night wind, as if ready to be extinguished at any moment. Countless bodies lay strewn along the battlements, but none had the mind to remove them. Under the faint moonlight, it was clear that the number of living soldiers remaining atop the walls was desperately few compared to the armored corpses.

“County Prefect Yang, I fear at dawn the rebels will lead their forces to storm the city. We cannot hold out much longer. Please, Prefect, hide within the city. I am willing to hold the walls to the death!”

Deputy General Qiu Ziqian looked upon the exhausted soldiers leaning against the ramparts. With him stood Cui Duxing of the Cui clan and Magistrate Fan Yichuan, all three approaching Yang Shanhui, the County Prefect, and bowing in deference as Qiu spoke.

Cui Duxing and Fan Yichuan both turned their gaze to the man in his fifties, Yang Shanhui.

“I am the Prefect of Qinghe. How could I cower before bandits?” Yang Shanhui sat cross-legged atop the wall, bloodied sword in hand, eyes closed in meditation. At Qiu’s words, he replied sternly.

“But if the Prefect perishes, who in all Hebei will be left to bar Zhang Jincheng?” Qiu Ziqian’s eyes reddened as he pressed on.

Years ago, the bandit Zhang Jincheng had stationed his forces on the county borders, massacring villagers and seizing cities. None among the counties could withstand him; even the imperial commander Duan Da was defeated by Zhang. Only in Qinghe, under Prefect Yang’s command, had resistance been mounted. After hundreds of battles, Zhang had yet to bring disaster to Qinghe. If Yang Shanhui were to die tomorrow by Zhang’s hand, there would be no one left in Hebei to halt his rampage.

“We beg the Prefect to avoid the rebels’ onslaught, to hide within the city and bide your time for the future!”
“Please, Prefect, reconsider! I, Duxing, have conferred with my kin—we will do all we can to ensure your escape!”

Fan Yichuan and Cui Duxing both raised their hands in plea.

In the frigid wind, Yang Shanhui’s stern face creased with deeper lines as he stood, frowning at the three men. Without a word, he walked between them, seized a torch, and gazed at the bloodied, despairing Sui soldiers huddled along the wall.

“Soldiers!” Yang Shanhui shouted.

In the cold, silent night, every weary soldier raised his eyes to him.

“The rebels are cruel, devoid of humanity. Should the city fall, they will slaughter the people, burn, pillage, rape, and plunder. I, Yang Shanhui, will fight them to the death. While I still draw breath, the gates shall not yield; while I have strength, I will slay the rebels. If the city falls...”

He swept his gaze over the assembled men.

“Then I shall live and die with you all!”

The wind wailed. The numb faces of the soldiers showed a flicker of emotion at his words.

They knew well that Prefect Yang hailed from the illustrious Hongnong Yang clan, kin to the noble Cui family within the city. Now, seeing their Prefect willing to die alongside them, what regrets could they hold? No one wished for the bandits outside to breach the walls and ravage Qinghe.

On the battlements, Qiu Ziqian and the others watched and understood that Yang Shanhui had resolved to fight to the end. They ceased their entreaties and stared into the darkness beyond the walls, preparing themselves to face death with him at dawn.

Time passed.

Two hours later, the first light crept over the horizon outside Qinghe. Chilling mists shrouded the ramparts, limiting sight. In the dim glow, where once all would still be asleep, every Sui soldier and official now stood armed and alert, eyes fixed beyond the city walls.

Soon, faint sounds carried from the mist.

Everyone on the wall tensed, Adam’s apples bobbing, but none were surprised—they were long accustomed to this.

“Loose!” Qiu Ziqian commanded.

Arrows flew into the fog, and soon came the muffled impacts and agonized cries from beyond the walls.

Not long after, a mass of rebels surged from the mist like demons, swarming the ramparts. Ladders clattered against the stone, and the rebels began their ascent, shields raised.

More and more clambered up, and soon the defenders found themselves in desperate hand-to-hand combat.

“Kill!”

“Kill!”

The rebels’ assault was met with thunderous shouts, echoing across the sky.

On the walls, the defenders let fly volleys of arrows, felling many rebels—but their own ranks thinned under enemy fire as well. The bodies of Sui soldiers and rebels alike piled up, blood spattering the walls, the stones slick with gore. Still, the Sui soldiers fought on—each time a rebel crested the parapet, he was slain, though often at the cost of another defender’s life.

Within the city, the once-bustling streets lay desolate; shops shuttered, vendors vanished. Here and there, a townsman clutching a bundle would hurry by, fearful, footsteps quickening at the distant sounds of battle until they disappeared into an alley. Deathly silence reigned.

...

By the banks of the Yongji Canal, Fu Zihou stretched his limbs, swallowed the last bite of cold millet cake, and stared at the mist over the river. He turned to the nearly thousand armored soldiers behind him.

“Remember: cowardice in battle means death! Hesitation in the face of the enemy means death!” Fu Zihou’s voice was harsh as he looked from Cao Yong and the other overseers to the assembled troops.

“Today, only by defeating the rebels can we survive! Only by breaking the siege of Qinghe; any who fall in battle, their families will be rewarded!”

Having finished, Fu Zihou read the men’s eyes, a smile flickering on his lips.

Zhang Jincheng’s men could flee if they wished. But for these thousand, there was only one path.

“To the river!” Fu Zihou commanded softly, leading the way to the water.

Xiong Ruixiang, Kong Yan, and Du Lang followed, their men at their heels. Cao Yong and his group took up positions on either flank, eyes hard as they watched the column pass. At the slightest sign of retreat, they would kill without hesitation.

Outside Qinghe, Zhang Jincheng sat astride his horse, commanding his army. Though the morning mist obscured the city walls, the sounds of battle reached his ears, and he remained calm.

Qinghe’s proximity to the Yongji Canal, much closer than Qiao County, was why it had always served as the seat of the region. Yet this was also its weakness—the city was often veiled in river mist, especially in the cold of winter.

Were it not for the fog, the Sui defenders might have rained death upon his troops, making it far harder to approach and storm the walls. Zhang knew he owed his swift progress to the cover of the mist.

Today, the fog was thicker than ever—it seemed even heaven aided him.

“Yang Shanhui, I’ll see who can save you this time.”

Hatred twisted Zhang’s features as he imagined capturing Yang Shanhui—he would chop him to pieces and toss him into the pot. He had already set guards on all roads leading to other cities, and his own men held Wucheng. Only Gaojibo posed a threat, but those there hoped for Yang’s death, and even Gao Shida had come to terms with him.

As Zhang Jincheng rode before his army, plotting his vengeance and the plunder of Qinghe, shadows moved like ghosts in the dense fog by the river behind his ranks.

Near the rear, several rebel sentries grumbled about how, once the city was taken, those at the back would struggle to get their share of loot. At a faint noise from behind, one of them turned—his eyes widened in shock.

The others, puzzled, were about to turn as well when an arrow struck the first man in the head and he fell instantly.

Panic erupted among them—they looked back and saw, through the fog, several armored soldiers had crept up unnoticed.

They had no time to draw swords. In a heartbeat, the rebels were struck down by the soldiers’ blades, butchered where they stood.

Moments later, dense footsteps trampled over the corpses as more armored soldiers emerged from the fog, advancing toward the rebel army’s rear.

Under Fu Zihou’s command, the thousand men drew ever closer to the rebel ranks, the sounds of battle from Qinghe’s walls growing clearer.

As the fog thinned with the rising sun, the Sui soldiers saw the rebel army ahead—and the rearmost rebels noticed the approaching threat.

Without hesitation, Fu Zihou, at the head, raised his longbow and took aim at the startled rebels.

“Loose!”

At his command, his men drew their bows and sent a volley of arrows into the rebel host.

Screams erupted as over a hundred rebels fell, unprepared for this sudden attack from behind.

Fu Zihou advanced, loosing arrow after arrow, until the rebels began to rally and raise shields. Only then did he cast aside his bow, draw his sword, and charge—he could not allow the enemy time to regroup.

“To arms!” Fu Zihou roared, sword in hand, rushing the rebel army.

“Kill!” Xiong Ruixiang, Kong Yan, and Du Lang drew their swords and followed.

With their leaders at the fore, every handpicked soldier drew his weapon, faces twisted with murderous resolve—they knew their only chance at survival lay in annihilating the enemy.

On the battlefield, the two armies clashed. Fu Zihou, first to meet the rebels, dodged a thrusting spear, closed in, and struck with unrelenting ferocity.

His sword fell upon the head of a panicked rebel, then, with practiced efficiency, he turned and slew another.

Years of relentless training, drilled into his body by Master Liu, now bore fruit. Li Qiong and Cui Wenjin’s polite fencing matches at the Li estate had never impressed him. As Master Liu had said, swordplay for ladies was for show—true killing art was stripped of all ornamentation, seeking only the swiftest, deadliest blow.

A splash of blood streaked across his face as he felled another foe. Fu Zihou wiped it away, cold eyes scanning the fearful rebels ahead.

When the rebels mustered their courage and charged with savage cries, Fu Zihou surged forward, sword poised for the kill.

The terror he had once felt when forced to kill at home had faded, burnt away by his family’s acceptance. Now, facing life and death on the battlefield, his chest swelled with the fierce joy of combat.

His trembling limbs steadied, body burning beneath his armor, nerves numbed to pain—all told him one thing.

Gazing at the endless ranks of the enemy, Fu Zihou knew:

His body was ready for the slaughter.