Volume Two: The Lord and His Grandson Chapter 81: The Army Approaches

The impostor Jincheng Army entered the city and immediately began dividing their forces to take control of the four city gates, with a thousand troops dispatched to guard the county and prefectural offices. At the South Gate, the local militia were caught off guard by these arrangements; ordered up onto the walls flanking the gate, they watched as five hundred “Jincheng soldiers” assumed command of the gatehouse defenses.

Not long after the Jincheng Army’s takeover, a dense mass of people appeared in the distance—militia and laborers arriving from the Han River, a black tide stretching far into the horizon.

“Fufeng, here come four thousand militia and over twelve thousand laborers from Fufeng. What do you make of it?” the grandfather asked.

“I think there are too many laborers. Even if they’re being well fed, it’s unlikely they could conscript more than ten thousand. I suspect at least three thousand among them are inside agents,” Wei Fufeng replied.

The grandfather nodded gravely. “And what do you propose?”

“Pretend not to know; let them get on with the repairs. But we mustn’t be careless. On the pretext of dividing the labor by difficulty, have the laborers draw lots for groups as they enter, splitting up the infiltrators. Continue to feed and treat them well—ordinary soldiers, once full, rarely cause trouble on their own,” Fufeng answered.

Satisfied, the grandfather turned and left the battlements to make arrangements. Fufeng’s second uncle glanced at him, then followed.

Wei Fufeng walked to the parapet, resting his hand on the crenel, gazing toward the distant riverbank. Nearly twenty thousand people poured into the city, causing immediate congestion as the main streets filled up.

The laborers believed they had been brought in to repair the city. Since their conscription, they had been well fed and not harshly overseen, so the shift to working within the city sparked little discontent.

Thanks to prior preparations, many officials and militia, following the prefecture’s orders, methodically dispersed and settled the laborers. They were divided into dozens of groups and sent to various worksites around the city. Within an hour, the packed streets cleared, though the crowds remained several times denser than usual.

In the afternoon, sentries atop the city walls spotted a large enemy force approaching from the west. No alarm was sounded; instead, the gates were quietly shut, the drawbridges raised, and great stones set against the doors.

...

Seventy thousand Hanzhong troops advanced on Jinzhou and, before dusk, encircled Xicheng, a densely packed, overwhelming mass of men, their presence exuding an invisible aura of death that crashed against the city like a tidal wave.

On the west gate’s battlements, Wei Fufeng stood shoulder to shoulder with his grandfather before the parapet. On his grandfather’s right stood the military overseer, Yang Hui.

To Yang Hui’s right was the army’s Chief of Operations, Wan Long, along with numerous officers, including Amber’s father, resplendent in heavy armor, standing imposingly behind Fufeng.

His grandfather turned with a smile and asked, “Lord Yang, how many do you think they have out there?”

Yang Hui hesitated, swept his gaze over the scene, and replied, “Thirty thousand, at least?”

“They claim seventy thousand, but it’s more like sixty thousand. Most of them are pikemen and militia,” the grandfather said.

“Sixty thousand? This city will be hard to hold,” Yang Hui replied with a strained smile.

The grandfather shook his head, smiling. “To be frank, Lord Yang, this attack by Yang Shouliang is something my grandson and I have long anticipated. Our only fear was that the Hanzhong Army would not come.”

Ah? Yang Hui gasped in astonishment, as did those nearby—looking forward to an enemy siege?

The old man continued with a laugh, “Yang Shouliang’s assault is his own undoing. I am prepared to defend for a hundred days. Should he assault the walls, his losses will be dreadful. If he keeps his army here in siege, Hanzhong’s agriculture will suffer, and come winter, famine will break them.”

A shadow passed across Yang Hui’s face as he pondered this. The grandfather went on, “Moreover, the summer floods are rampant. Yang Shouliang’s troops will suffer the punishment of wind and water, leaving him trapped in a dilemma.”

Yang Hui nodded unconsciously. The grandfather added, “Lord Yang, do you know of a place where forces are resting and training, waiting until the autumn harvest is done, at which point a well-provisioned army can march forth?”

Yang Hui nodded in silence. The old man looked out beyond the walls and said, “Yang Fugong is a fool. He thinks that by seizing Jinzhou, he can scare the Emperor into reinstating him. In truth, his best course would be to bide his time and gather strength. The worst thing is reckless warfare by one ignorant of military affairs—it will only undermine his authority. If Yang Shouliang fails to take Jinzhou quickly, the Emperor’s fears will be greatly eased.”

Yang Hui agreed, and the grandfather continued, “But Yang Fugong has his troubles. Dismissed by the Emperor, he must fear his foster sons might betray him, so he is forced to pressure Yang Shouliang into action. Shouliang, as Military Commissioner of Hanzhong, wants only to rule his region in peace, not to launch a campaign now—but he cannot disobey Yang Fugong’s orders.”

Yang Hui sighed lightly and nodded. The grandfather smiled. “Lord Yang, do you notice anything unusual about the gate guards?”

Yang Hui and Wan Long turned to look. After a moment’s hesitation, Yang Hui said, “These seem to be troops from southern Sichuan.”

“Sharp eyes, Lord Yang. The gate guards are not the Jincheng Army. The real ten thousand Jincheng soldiers, commanded by my son, are outside the city, waiting for Hanzhong to deliver them provisions,” the grandfather said with a smile.

Yang Hui fell silent and bowed in respect, signifying his admiration.

...

Half an hour after the siege began, the enemy sent letters over the walls by arrow. The grandfather read them and laughed. “They threaten me with surrender, as if I am truly afraid. Reply that they should wait three days—we must discuss it.”

Many atop the battlement smiled; not a trace of fear or panic was to be seen.

...

Three days later, within the besieging army, by the banner of command, Yang Shouliang stood resplendent in armor, his eyes burning with anger as he glared up at the battlements. After waiting three days, the only answer he received was to wait further—a clear mockery.

“Assault the city,” he ordered. Three hundred siege ladders, borne by thousands of soldiers, surged toward the walls, with two hundred more bridging the moat.

As they reached the moat, archers atop the walls unleashed a hail of arrows, hundreds raining down from above. Some attackers bore shields, others only makeshift wooden boards; screams echoed as dozens fell, pierced by arrows.

With a crash, the ladders were raised at the moat, then toppled forward to span it. Another tactic was to fill part of the moat, but Yang Shouliang, hoping for an easy victory, had delayed for three days.

With the bridges set, another hundred ladders were rushed forward, borne by shielded troops sprinting for the walls, while thousands of archers advanced behind, loosing arrows to suppress the defenders.

War is brutal. On the walls, men fell screaming, struck by arrows. In the middle section, the militia cowered, terrified, behind the parapets.

Then the officers driving the defense bellowed orders, and two hundred Fufeng Guards swiftly reinforced the embattled section, joining over a thousand militia to hold the line.

Thousands of the enemy’s elite surged forward, each with shield on left arm, saber in right, storming across the moat and swarming up the ladders.

Wei Fufeng, stationed before the gatehouse, signaled, and Amber’s father took up his great spear, leading a hundred armored guards to reinforce the defense.

The first clash of a siege is always the fiercest and most critical; it sets the tone for subsequent battles and directly impacts morale. The arrival of armored reinforcements bolstered the wavering militia, and even the timid dared not shrink back, knowing officers behind would kill any deserter.

Amber’s father swung his spear, sweeping three attackers from the ladders with screams and a shower of blood.

The militia seized the moment, thrusting long hooks and spears to push away the ladders; three toppled, and more than twenty enemy soldiers fell to their deaths.

The enemy’s war drums roared as thousands pressed the assault, swarming up the ladders. A hundred armored Fufeng Guards coordinated with the other defenders.

Under a hail of arrows, the armored guards blocked the ladder tops, while militia pushed ladders away or stabbed at attackers whenever they found an opening. For a time, not a single enemy managed to set foot on the battlements.

After half an hour, the enemy’s assault slowed. Over a thousand bodies piled beneath the walls, while hundreds of defenders had fallen—mostly felled by arrows.

Wei Fufeng signaled, sending out another hundred armored guards to relieve the first wave. Of the first group, eighty-four returned, the dead also carried back. The relieved guards removed their armor, handed it to the next group of Fufeng Guards, and went to rest.

The militia rotated in shifts as well. Thousands were stationed on the main streets, and those coming down from the walls spread news of the battle’s outcome.

Because it was not a fight to the death, the militia, though afraid, clung to the hope that they might survive, and so morale held steady.

The grandfather sat within the gatehouse, listening to the slaughter outside, his expression uneasy but forcing himself not to demand constant reports—he knew the importance of keeping morale steady.

Why did he speak at such length on the first day of the siege? Partly to inspire the troops, partly to steady his own nerves.

Half an hour felt like a year to him, until finally a trusted aide entered calmly and reported the results in a low voice.

The old man let out a long, uncontrolled breath, instinctively grabbing his teacup—his hand visibly trembling—as he took a sip.

By noon, Yang Shouliang’s forces had launched four attacks, losing nearly four thousand men.

Over a thousand defenders had fallen, and of those, only a third were dead—the rest wounded.

In siege warfare, if weapons and morale are roughly equal, the attackers always suffer the greater losses. The longer the siege drags on without success, the faster their morale will collapse.

“Mealtime!” came a clear shout, bringing life to the blood-soaked walls.

Over a hundred cooks arrived with plentiful food, jogging as they distributed it, warmly urging, “You’ve all worked hard, brothers! Eat your fill!”

A kind word in the midst of carnage sent a wave of warmth through the defenders, each one eating with gratitude and renewed spirit.

Next came clerks to record deeds, explaining the rewards and pensions they could expect.

After the meal, the soldiers took turns standing ready on the walls, facing the tens of thousands outside, making a clear show of resolve—a battle of morale had begun in earnest.

Wei Fufeng entered the gatehouse to see his grandfather, who stood waiting by the door. Fufeng hurriedly saluted.

His grandfather smiled. “Fufeng, you’ve worked hard.”

“It is my duty, Grandfather,” Fufeng replied with a smile.

The old man nodded and sighed. “Your second uncle is truly useless—feigning illness, he refused to come to the walls.”

“Grandfather, I too am afraid. But we are gambling everything—having made our choice, we can only grit our teeth and endure,” Fufeng said.