Chapter Thirty: A Decent Fellow

Southwest of Mafang Village stood an abandoned stable, currently holding nearly a thousand captured Ming subjects. The captives were mostly men, with very few women among them.

A bondservant, sporting a grotesque queue, sneered at a man sobbing inside the stable. "Judging by your looks, you seem to be a scholar. What are you blubbering for? Our Great Qing Emperor values scholars most. If you behave and follow us, who knows—you might just earn yourself a life of glory and wealth..."

*Whiz!*

An arrow flew through the air, striking the chattering bondservant squarely in the throat. It pierced through the back of his neck and exited the front, pinning him to a heavy wooden post of the stable, where the fletching continued to quiver.

Less than forty paces to the west of the stable lay a shallow ditch. Amidst the weeds along its edge, a line of red-clad figures emerged. Over thirty arrows soared into the sky, aimed directly at the auxiliary soldiers and bondservants patrolling the perimeter.

The previously nonchalant Qing auxiliaries and bondservants were thrown into a state of panic, scattering like startled livestock. Most of these bondservants had never seen real combat; some were even ordinary folk from the capital region who had been abducted during the previous raid and kept as servants for their apparent usefulness.

"Ah! Mother! Save me! Save me!"

Chaos erupted around the stable. In an instant, eleven bondservants and four Qing auxiliaries were struck; some lay on the ground wailing in agony, while others scrambled away in a frenzied attempt to escape.

One auxiliary soldier held a shield in his left hand and a short axe in his right. He managed to deflect three arrows in succession, then crouched down, backing against the wooden fence of the stable with his shield held upright, peering toward the ditch.

Suddenly, a pair of calloused, rugged hands reached through the gaps in the fence, locking tightly around the auxiliary’s throat. A grime-streaked, fierce-looking face appeared, roaring at the sobbing man beside him: "Scholar! Stop your blubbering! Pick up that arrow and stab this son of a bitch!"

The frail man beside him had stopped crying, but his face was a mask of terror. His hands gripped the wooden fence so tightly his knuckles turned white; his mouth hung agape as he stared, paralyzed, at the auxiliary soldier’s protruding, blood-red tongue.

Instead, another dark, vein-popping hand reached out from beside the rugged man, snatched up an arrow the auxiliary had blocked, and began stabbing wildly at the soldier’s face.

"Harder, Meng! Tighten your grip!" a voice rasped.

The auxiliary, already deprived of air, his eyes bulging and tongue lolling, could no longer struggle as the arrow repeatedly pierced his head and face. The rugged man kept him in a crushing chokehold while the other hand continued to drive the arrow home.

The soldier’s face was soon a bloody pulp, with streams of crimson blood spraying over all three of them.

In the distance, an auxiliary in cloth armor swung a short axe to sever the reins tied to a post. Freed, the horse reared and bolted toward the west gate of the village. The auxiliary chased after it for two steps, reached out to grab the remaining piece of the rein, and vaulted onto its back. While riding, he turned his head and spotted a Ming cavalryman drawing his bow, aiming at a bondservant. Just as he prepared to hurl his short axe at the rider, a short spear flew silently through the air. With a cry, he toppled from his horse, the spear embedded in his chest, its shaft still swaying.

...

Huang Daguang, commander of the Second Platoon of the Left Sentry, wielded a great axe in his left hand and a short spear in his right. He had just climbed out of the ditch north of the stable when he saw the Qing auxiliary trying to flee on horseback and hurled his spear.

Just as he released the weapon, two bondservants rushed toward him, brandishing their sabers and screaming.

*Bang! Bang!* Two crisp reports rang out, followed by a puff of white smoke.

Huang’s four guards charged forward. Two of them fired their three-eyed matchlocks at point-blank range, hitting one of the bondservants in the abdomen and sending him to the ground, howling in pain.

The other bondservant, though untouched by the shot, was stunned by the thunderous roar and the sight of his companion’s agony, standing rooted to the spot.

A guard rushed forward with a shout and swung his axe. The bondservant’s queue and head were severed in one stroke, rolling to the ground as a jet of crimson blood sprayed toward the sky.

*Whiz! Whiz!*

Two Qing auxiliaries fired heavy arrows at Huang Daguang. He leaped aside, dancing his great axe to deflect one, while the other whistled past his ribs.

"Ah!"

A cavalryman behind Huang, who had just climbed out of the ditch and killed a bondservant, was struck by an arrow and collapsed with a cry of pain.

Hearing his man fall, Huang roared in frustration and charged at the two auxiliaries.

Before the auxiliaries could reload, they dropped their bows, pulled out their sabers and maces, and lunged at Huang. One slashed downward from the left, while the other swung his mace horizontally toward Huang’s waist.

A seasoned veteran, Huang remained calm in the face of danger. He planted his great axe into the ground, used it for leverage to vault forward, and kicked his feet together into the face of the auxiliary wielding the mace.

*Clang!*

Huang’s axe was knocked aside by the mace, but his feet, fueled by his full strength, slammed into the auxiliary’s head, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

The other auxiliary, his slash having missed, saw Huang on the ground and twisted his body, attempting a full swing to crush Huang with his saber.

*Boom!* A cloud of white smoke rose ten paces away.

One of Huang’s guards stepped forward, leveled his three-eyed matchlock, and fired. The projectile slammed into the auxiliary’s head with tremendous force, splattering brains and blood everywhere. The body slumped to the ground and lay still.

After kicking the auxiliary down, Huang pushed himself up with his hands, rolled forward, pulled a knife from his boot, and drove it into the auxiliary’s throat.

As he pulled the blade out, blood gushed from the wound. The auxiliary clutched his throat with a weak hand, trying to scream, but only a mouthful of blood erupted from his lips before he collapsed, struggling feebly.

Huang stood up and saw the scene by the fence: two black hands still gripped the auxiliary’s throat, while a grimy hand stabbed repeatedly at the soldier’s ruined face. The frail man stood nearby, still dazed.

The auxiliary was motionless, his feet limp and arms dangling, his face a mangled mess.

Huang walked over and shouted, "Hey! Stop! I still need that head to claim the bounty."

The three snapped out of their trance. The rugged man’s black hands slowly relaxed, and the auxiliary slumped to the ground with a thud.

The three gasped for air, the rugged man muttering, "Revenge... finally... revenge..."

The grimy hand was still gripping the broken arrow, unable to let go. The frail man beside him seemed to finally wake up, bursting into a loud, tearful wail.

Huang ignored them and surveyed the surroundings. The Qing auxiliaries and bondservants had suffered heavy casualties. To the south, the Third Platoon had also inflicted significant losses and had even captured a few prisoners.

Yu Jin, commander of the Third Platoon, walked over carrying his polearm, his clothes stained with blood. From a distance, he shouted, "Nothing but auxiliaries and bondservants! Not a single one of those dog Tatar foot soldiers!"

Huang grinned. "The Commander ordered us to save these villagers, so we follow his orders."

He waved for his guards to come over. "Count the casualties. Tie up the living Tatars; if they're too far gone, just take their heads."

The guards acknowledged and moved off.

"I want to kill Tatars with you," a deep, muffled voice said.

Yu Jin paused, looking at Huang. Huang grinned, then gestured toward the fence and said, "Over there. That black-faced fellow isn't bad."

Yu Jin turned to look inside the stable. The three men were staring back.

The frail man, young and still trembling with residual terror, was clearly not the one Huang meant.

The older, stocky man, his hands still stained with blood and gore from the broken arrow, looked too old to be the one.

Then there was the third: a dark-faced, broad-shouldered man, his face covered in dried blood and gore. His large, vein-streaked hands were locked in a gaze with Yu Jin as he repeated, "I want to kill Tatars with you."

Yu Jin was momentarily startled by the man’s intensity. He steadied himself and laughed, "You dog-hearted Tatar, killing isn't easy. You’d best go home and farm."

In normal times, he might have recruited such a sturdy man, but on the front lines, taking him in would be a death sentence. A good physique wasn't enough; without months of training, he would only be cannon fodder.

Huang turned to Yu Jin and whispered, "He's a good man. He killed a Tatar auxiliary already. It’s a pity."

Yu Jin didn't reply. He glanced at the man once more, shook his head, and sighed before walking away with Huang.

"I want to kill Tatars with you," the muffled, persistent voice called out behind them.

The guards returned, reporting the final tally: seven auxiliaries killed, three captured, all wounded; eleven bondservants killed, nine captured, five of them wounded; one hundred and eighty-nine horses and mules seized, four of them wounded.

Their own side had suffered only three minor, inconsequential injuries.

Huang and Yu Jin stood by the stable, gazing toward the entrance of Mafang Village. Rows of Ming elite cavalry, wearing red cloaks, were galloping into the village.

Against the backdrop of the late autumn sunset, the golden light shining on the riders made them look like a dazzling red cloud sweeping in, as if they were coming to harvest the heads of the invaders.

"It's snowing," Huang murmured, extending his palm and looking up at the sky.