37. Remarkable Results

After hurling the corpse and knocking down three or four enemy soldiers, the frenzied Xu Erleng resembled a furious brown bear. He no longer cared about the Wolf Owl Guards who were besieging him from behind, and with wide, sweeping arcs of his long blade, he tore through the ranks of Xie Guini’s personal guards, scattering them in disarray. Their cries for their fathers and mothers filled the air as they abandoned all thoughts of rescuing their master. They could only stare helplessly as Xie Guini’s armor was pierced by twin spears, and Zhou Cang’s blade fell, sending a fine head flying, blood spraying in a crimson arc. Before the head had even fallen, Pei Yuanshao caught it on his spear and whirled it about for all to see.

At the sight of their once-invincible general’s head severed by the Rising Han Army, the Xianbei cavalry—so desperate moments before—were struck by terror. Someone let out a wild shriek, and panic erupted into a total rout. Not even Xie Guini’s corpse was spared a backward glance as they turned their mounts and fled toward the camp gates.

Zhang Liao, ever quick to seize the moment, was already waiting with Wu Huan and Huang Long near a passage by the deep trench in front of the enemy camp. There, they cut down the fleeing, demoralized Xianbei riders without mercy.

Watching from atop the pass, Wang Bo saw the opportune moment to reap the spoils of victory. Not only had the main Xianbei camp failed to muster a strong cavalry response, but the enemy was already in chaos. With a wave of his hand, the call to charge sounded. The Rising Han soldiers, long restless in their trenches below the pass, surged forth at Liao Hua’s command like tigers descending a mountain, chasing down the broken Xianbei cavalry and loosing volleys of arrows after them.

It was a resounding victory—over a thousand enemy slain, three thousand captured, and hundreds more trampled or crushed in the chaos. Under interrogation, it was revealed that the general slain by Zhou Cang and his men was none other than Xie Guini, famed throughout Yunzhong and the entire Xianbei tribe. Moreover, he was the cherished nephew of Budugen himself. Wang Bo was overjoyed at the news, heaped praise upon the Wolf Owl Guards, and grew ever more determined to forge this ironclad corps into an unstoppable force.

Yet Zhou Cang and his fellows flushed with embarrassment, knowing full well this glory was only theirs because Xu Chu had chosen to stand aside. Exchanging glances, each secretly resolved that next time, they would earn such honors with their own hands.

Meanwhile, Budugen, upon receiving the report, was momentarily dazed. But when the truth was confirmed, he spat a mouthful of blood several feet and, shoving aside the beauties at his side, roared at his trembling herald, “Pass the order! Tomorrow we storm the pass!”

That same night, the second squad of the Wolf Owl Guards, led by Huang Long and Wu Huan, were deeply frustrated at having been outshone by the first squad in the day’s battle. When Chen Dao persistently begged Wang Bo for a chance to attack the Xianbei’s “Turtle Nest” on the eastern riverbank, they all eagerly clamored to join. They each took turns pounding their chests before Wang Bo, urging even the newly-joined Du Yuan to help persuade him.

Du Yuan, a long-standing member of the Rising Han stronghold and regarded as an elder, was usually addressed as “brother” by Wang Bo and thus held considerable sway. He could only gather everyone to deliberate on the feasibility of the plan.

Their assessment: it was doable. Days of relentless raids had left the thousands of Xianbei troops on the east bank both weary and less vigilant. Budugen had not rotated his forces. The riverside wall, destroyed just the previous night, had not been fully rebuilt for lack of timber. A night raid, timed for the hour before dawn when the enemy was at their lowest ebb, would surely succeed.

So, in the darkest hours before dawn, the Rising Han Army, fierce as wolves and tigers, conquered the Xianbei camp on the eastern bank, whose exhausted defenders were caught off guard.

As a band of soldiers, blackened with grime and stripped of armor, slunk back to the main camp, Budugen—still grieving his nephew’s brutal death—kept a stony face and waved them off, but inwardly, his resolve to break through the Yunu Pass as soon as possible only hardened. This was not just for vengeance; he yearned to end these hellish days. Budugen sensed a growing mood of defeatism and war-weariness spreading within the army, especially among the less steadfast Southern Xiongnu. If not checked, it could threaten the entire force.

At dawn, Budugen, stifling his rage, summoned the relatively rested rear battalions to the front and began preparations for the assault: filling the deep trench below Yunu Pass with earth and stone, using countless Han slaves as forced labor. Thus began a days-long, ceaseless tragedy.

Budugen sat afar beneath his grand standard, sipping Xianbei-made milk wine. He appeared calm and composed, but his bloodshot eyes betrayed his seething fury. Despite this, his years as a tribal chieftain allowed him to command steadily, advancing the operation methodically.

Nearly nine thousand Han slaves were driven forward, each carrying sacks of earth and stone to fill the trench. This time, the Xianbei cavalry, having learned from their earlier losses, mingled among the slaves, urging them on and preventing any from escaping to Yunu Pass.

Seeing their own kin below, the defenders atop the pass could not fire the ballistae, and the enemy was too far for ordinary arrows. The trench was gradually filled in as the defenders, trying to mount a sortie, were pinned down by a rain of arrows from Xianbei archers disguised among the slaves. After taking needless casualties, Wang Bo called off the effort, instructing only the best archers—Li Damu, Niu Da, and a few others—to snipe any visible Xianbei, though with little effect.

Some Han slaves tried to escape but quickly gave up after one attempt. Hundreds of able-bodied men, sacks on their backs, made a dash for the gates—only a dozen survived, most with arrows protruding from their behinds. After that, no one dared risk it again; all labored obediently under the Xianbei’s whips, hauling earth, heads bowed.

It took less than a day for the once-bottomless trench at Yunu Pass to be filled more than halfway. Now, only a few concealed horse pits and the withered mounds of skulls remained to slow the Xianbei horde.

By late afternoon, Wang Bo received Budugen’s request: to exchange cattle and sheep for his nephew Xie Guini’s head. After listening to the battered Xianbei envoy, Wang Bo was amused and countered: five hundred cattle, a thousand warhorses, and the return of ten thousand Han prisoners. The envoy, thinking himself lucky, was dumbfounded by the demand—how could they possibly hand over a thousand warhorses?

Before he could protest, a guard struck him, knocking out several yellowed teeth, and scolded, “How dare you remain silent before my lord’s question? Fool!”

“Don’t be so rough! We of the Rising Han Army are reasonable men,” Wang Bo rebuked the guard, then smiled at the envoy, telling him to relay to Budugen that, to show good faith, the Rising Han City would throw in ten catties of fine liquor, worth hundreds in gold. He sent the envoy off with half a bucket of wine left over from Chen Dao’s pilfering.

In his grand tent, Budugen cursed the Rising Han Army, wondering why this envoy was taking so long—had he defected to the Han? Of the last batch, two were killed by arrows before reaching the pass, and one, having barely made it up in a basket, was dropped to his death by the defenders. Now he had to pay for the basket, too. Who knew what trouble would arise this time?

Yet he had no choice but to persist; Xie Guini was not only his nephew but also a hero in the eyes of the Xianbei. Not retrieving his head would demoralize the troops, and how could he face his brother, Fuluohan, back home?

Just as he was about to send another envoy, the previous one, clutching a small bamboo tube, was carried in. Budugen took a deep breath and asked, “Well? How did it go?”

The envoy, unused to speaking without teeth, mumbled incomprehensibly, then handed over the blood-stained letter and bamboo tube. Budugen, literate in Han script, hadn’t finished reading before he hurled the tube to the ground, filling the tent with the heady aroma of wine. He sighed, picked up the letter, and read on.

After much haggling, Budugen finally gritted his teeth and exchanged several hundred cattle and sheep, one hundred warhorses, and five thousand Han slaves for Xie Guini’s head. The Rising Han Army did not mistreat the head; save for the gouged eye from the spear, it was intact, not a scrap of flesh missing, and the promised liquor was delivered.

Seeing Xie Guini’s one-eyed gaze even in death, Budugen’s eyes reddened. He suppressed his hatred and ordered the camp to withdraw two miles, splitting his seventy thousand men into two alternating camps, each to assault the pass in turn.

Overtaken by rage, Budugen abandoned his customary caution. The assault began with unprecedented fury.

Every three battalions formed an attacking wave, surging forward every half hour. Any infantryman who retreated was executed on the spot. Only the Xianbei archers, once they had exhausted their arrows, might be spared, only to be shuffled into the next assault wave.

Long scaling ladders and battering rams, lashed together with sharpened wood, were brought up ceaselessly from the second day. Xianbei soldiers, bellowing beneath large and small shields, flattened the horse pits and advanced on Yunu Pass. Among them, a dozen sturdier shield carts, pushed to the base of the ladders, offered some close-range protection.

The cavalry, as before, circled the pass, loosing arrows. This time, however, their arrows struck with greater force, rattling atop the walls like a summer hailstorm on cabbages, making even the bravest flinch. Yet where hail merely raises welts, Xianbei arrows take lives.

The Rising Han Army’s countermeasures, however, were even more deadly.

Hidden in chambers within the walls, Wang Bo had installed another dozen ballistae, each launching its massive bolt with a shrieking roar. The missiles tore through ranks of Xianbei soldiers—sometimes skewering several together into a “human kebab,” sometimes shattering the shield carts, which, sturdy against arrows, fell apart beneath the ballista’s force.

To increase the range and stability of these missiles, Wang Bo ingeniously attached tail fins made from horsehide or thin wood, doubling their effectiveness.

Each wave of assaulting Xianbei faced multiple trials by fire. Only the luckiest and bravest ever reached the top, where they met the Rising Han’s spear and shield infantry.

At first, the carnage wrought by the ballistae was horrific, leaving no whole corpses, but the numbers killed were still relatively low. The heavier shield and battering carts could sometimes be maneuvered around, offering a sliver of hope.

But as the attackers drew close to the wall, there was simply no escape. From lower chambers, arrows fell thicker than rain, thudding ceaselessly into shields, striking exposed shoulders and thighs with bloody shrieks. The badly wounded fell where they were hit; the lightly wounded pressed on grimly, for only by advancing did they stand a chance. Most casualties here were among the cavalry.

Those who survived made it to the base of the wall, where, relatively safe, they only had to dodge the falling boulders and the bodies of their own falling comrades. After two or three waves, survivors clustered here, swarming up the ladders. The clumsy battering carts, built with Xianbei’s rough craftsmanship, rarely survived long enough to reach the gate; those that did were quickly set alight.

But the true death trap awaited on the final stretch, just below the parapet. Here, weapons—spears, halberds, sickles—jabbed and hooked from hidden loopholes. The warriors who managed to climb so far were cut down like dumplings dropped into boiling water: some fell with screams, some leapt off in terror, others clung to the weapons impaling them, determined to drag their enemies down with them.

Grim faces, twisted deaths, a ground littered with arrows and spears—the land was soaked in blood, forming a tableau too terrible to contemplate. Not even the birds that once perched atop the walls dared sing, frightened into silence by the stench of carnage.

After five hours of relentless assault, the Xianbei army finally spent its strength. The survivors retreated in a tide of relief, scrambling away without a backward glance for their fallen comrades.

Wang Bo gazed at the scene of slaughter, breathing deeply to quell the nausea rising within him. He ground out an order to Niu Da: “Go! Be careful.” Niu Da set out again with his boats to harry the enemy.

Turning to descend the pass, Wang Bo issued further commands: General Liao is to bring all defenders from Yuhu Pass, leaving only the scouts and a few hundred reserves to hold the line. Order Yang Feng to muster auxiliary troops—they are to assemble at Yunu Pass by tomorrow afternoon. All labor battalions are to be closely guarded, and any sign of betrayal is to be met with immediate execution.

The Rising Han Army had withstood its greatest trial since its founding—and prevailed. With nearly a thousand casualties, Wang Bo resolved that this bloodbath must end soon; perhaps taking the offensive was now the wisest course. If they won, Yunu Pass would finally know peace; if they lost, then they would hold the pass to the last man. To drag things out further would only bleed the city dry, and any dream of expanding into Yunzhong and Shuofang would become a mirage.

In the Xianbei grand tent, Budugen, his eyes bloodshot and face ashen, stared at the subordinate reporting casualties. The order to attack again that night died on his lips. Regret gnawed at him for his rashness, but the arrow was loosed—there was no turning back. Would he let the heads of thousands more brave warriors become another mound of skulls beneath Yunu Pass?