Chapter Eighty-Three: Seizing the Bridge (VIII)

“Damn it, the barbarians are desperate—what should we do now?” At some point, Yang Yu had come to stand beside Tian Zhen, his eyes wide with frustration, his face twisted in unwillingness.

The situation on the other side was clear in their eyes, yet beyond distant support, there was nothing more they could offer. Anyone could see—their small squad had reached the limit, barely holding out against this assault. If another thousand-strong unit appeared, they would surely be overwhelmed.

Not to mention, three thousand Tibetan cavalrymen lurked menacingly behind, waiting like hungry wolves.

It was a dead end, a hopeless predicament; not only Yang Yu thought so, not only Tian Zhen, but even Yang He, the governor of Yutian, had lost all desire to scold his son, staring silently at the enemy forces.

An arrow could barely reach a hundred paces—so all they could do was watch helplessly as their comrades were slaughtered before their eyes? No one could stomach such bitterness, but what else could they do?

Tian Zhen listened to the relentless, deathly blast of the war horns, his eyes burning with fury. Each soldier of the Tang army across the river was his brother-in-arms, and among them, one was his capable apprentice.

He was tormented—why had he not crossed the river first? Even if he died, at least he would have perished with them, sparing himself this agony. The long, piercing horn reminded him: they could lose their lives, but not their spirit.

“Where are the strongmen—have they all died out?” he roared.

At his shout, the army’s strongmen hurried to drag out the drum stands—double-layered war drums covered in thick oxhide, as tall as a man. Each drum was guarded by three or four hulking warriors, whose arms were thicker than a child’s waist. Heavy wooden mallets hung at their belts. Together, they unloaded the drum stands, shouted in unison, and hoisted the drums onto the wooden troughs.

There were eight such drums at the front of the army.

The Tang squad across from them on the riverbank could no longer form three full ranks; instead, they merged into a single, hundred-strong unit, bracing themselves in a reinforced anti-cavalry formation. For them, the thousand-strong light infantry was far less threatening than the three thousand Tibetan cavalry looming behind.

Duoguli commanded his small group, tightening their formation. In the previous assault, they had been cut off behind the Tang ranks, so their losses were not too severe—over a dozen dead. The enemy had archers too, and when the fighting got close, no one could escape arrows and stones entirely.

Now, the Tang formation had contracted, shrinking the area it could defend. Their own archers, positioned behind the lines, had to adjust as well. The wounded were moved to the rear, given rudimentary bandages; anyone who could endure without groaning was considered a “valiant fighter.”

But compared to the Tang soldiers at the front, what did that amount to?

Around their small formation, the corpses of fallen Tibetan infantry lay everywhere. Duoguli could even recognize a few he had once patrolled the night with, or shared a drink. In a single night, they had become mortal enemies.

Perhaps he, too, would end up as another corpse on the riverbank. He cast aside these thoughts and called out loudly to his men.

“Move quickly—gather as many arrows as you can. They’ll be upon us soon.”

It was necessity—things had happened so suddenly. While on night patrol, they had only their quivers on their backs, with no time to return to camp for supplies. The Tibetans had appeared right before them. Each quiver held only thirty arrows, far too few for battle.

Fortunately, the enemy used the same kind of arrows. Even if some were broken, they were better than none. They even pulled arrows from the bodies, bloody feathered shafts thrust into their quivers, ready for the next attack.

While they collected arrows, the Tang formation was set. At this point, assigning a vice-captain was meaningless—they had no way out. All captains and vice-captains stood at the front, working with the spearmen and shield-bearers behind to form a sharper spearhead.

At the tip stood the veteran Zhang Wu-jia, the most skilled in the entire unit. Liu Ji had held the captain’s post for a long time, but he knew he could not continue, and stepped aside.

He did not rest, but planted his saber behind the formation, pacing its perimeter with a relaxed air, speaking as he walked.

“Xu Bangzi, you still dare complain? That’s why I look down on you. Only a handful of barbarians killed, and you’re panting like a dog. Look at the brothers who came with us—they crossed snowy mountains and grassy plains, chased and blocked at every turn, yet their backs are still straight. Can you compare?”

Xu Guangjing, scolded mercilessly, grinned, muttering under his breath, “Who’s the coward? Let’s see who’s the real deal. You’re the one who’s backing out, yet you talk big…”

His voice was just loud enough for Liu Ji to hear, but before he finished, Liu Ji kicked him in the leg, silencing him.

“What are you saying?”

“To answer the captain, my name’s not Xu Bangzi—whoever calls me that is a fool. I won’t take it.”

His words drew laughter from the whole squad, even Zhang Wu-jia, usually stoic, was unable to keep from smiling. He knew the two were putting on an act, just to loosen the tension among the men, for soon, a harsher battle awaited—perhaps their last.

As seasoned soldiers, they understood this well. Yet understanding was one thing; facing desperation was another. Saying one didn’t care would be a lie. Survival was instinct, but where was their path?

At that moment, the young captain’s face, full of bold arrogance, gave them the illusion they were just an advance unit, with a larger force behind.

That thought would have been true—if not for the river that separated them.

Soon, their laughter was cut short by a sudden, urgent blast of horns. Liu Ji kept his nonchalant demeanor, patting a subordinate’s shoulder armor.

“The barbarians are so considerate, coming to deliver their lives again. After this battle, crossing the river will be our undisputed achievement—no one can take it from us.”

He raised his voice, making sure every man heard.

“With such glory before us, no one is allowed to die in haste. Brothers, let’s save our rewards for the court—if we want riches, we’ll take them from the Tibetans. Defeat them, and the land of Bolu will be ours for the taking. Thirty years of Tibetan wealth—what a fortune! We must survive!”

Even at death’s door, the lure of riches stirred every heart. Just then, the drumbeats behind them rose, fierce and overwhelming, drowning out the Tibetan horns.

“Boom, boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom-boom…”

The rhythm quickened, growing urgent, then merged into a single roar. Every Tang soldier knew that sound—when the drums sounded, advance without hope of life. Their comrades were sending them off in their own way.

A strong army—war drums stirring battle spirit. At that moment, every Tang warrior, veteran or recruit, raised his head, gripped his spear or sword, and waited for the moment to cast aside his life, to stain the earth with blood.

Before them, countless Tibetan infantry surged forth, torches raised, charging from the darkness with wild cries—a forest of flames, burning red.

This was a fresh force, determined to drive the Tang down to the riverbank, fighting to the death.