Chapter Sixty: Seizing the Fortress

Are the Tatars really this careless?

The scene inside the fortress made the defeated soldiers’ hearts pound twice as fast—not out of fear, but excitement, the thrill of a hunter who has finally caught his prey. Moments ago, they were preparing to have Jiang Tong and the others climb the walls, but now it seemed unnecessary. Lu Qing, though inexperienced in command, understood the importance of seizing opportunity: the Oirat had grown so lax and overconfident that they hadn't even closed the fortress gate. To let such a heaven-sent chance slip by would indeed be a poor way to repay the Oirat’s generosity.

Without another word, Lu Qing drew his saber and leapt toward the fortress gate, intent on leading by example. Only by doing so would he earn the respect of these routed soldiers and gradually elevate his own standing among them. It is one thing to shout, "Charge, brothers!" and quite another to cry, "Follow me, brothers!"—and the difference tests a man's character.

"Onward, brothers!"

With someone taking the lead, the defeated men would not be left behind. Weapons in hand, they surged after Lu Qing toward the open gate.

Jiang Tong, Zheng Xiu, and Zhang Qing spurred their horses ahead, crossbows already loaded, ready to shoot down any Oirat who showed himself.

The sudden battle cry of the Ming soldiers outside startled the Oirat warriors within, who were reveling in their pleasures. Amid curses in Mongolian, naked Oirat men tumbled out of the houses. When they saw Ming troops had already breached the fortress, all their previous ferocity—so recently displayed on Ming women—evaporated. Terror overtook them; more than a dozen immediately dropped to their knees in surrender.

The rest of the Oirat soldiers, used to such scenes, were not surprised by their kneeling comrades and made no move to scold them. A few drew their sabers to resist, but the majority simply turned and fled.

The captive Ming women inside the fortress, seeing their countrymen storm in, began to shout and wail—some out of relief, more out of bitter weeping.

More than a dozen fierce Oirat warriors could hardly hope to withstand over two hundred Ming soldiers charging into the fortress. In cavalry skill, these Oirat far surpassed the Ming, but now, horseless and mostly unclothed, they could not match the Ming in close combat.

Jiang Tong led with a crossbow bolt, felling a howling Oirat. Zheng Xiu’s shot missed, but Zhang Qing’s arrow struck an Oirat in the left thigh, piercing the artery. Blood spurted; the man screamed and collapsed, only to have his throat casually slit by a Ming flag-bearer close behind.

One Oirat was particularly unlucky. Among the Ming, only seven had firearms, and only three of those had powder and shot ready. When they stormed the fortress, two fired wildly, hitting nothing. The third was also aimed haphazardly—yet by sheer chance, the shot struck an Oirat between the legs, blasting off his manhood and sending him into a faint from the pain.

After losing several men, the remaining Oirat—still fierce—did not yield or beg for mercy, even when outnumbered. Eyes bloodshot, they roared defiance, determined to drag the Ming down with them.

But their foes were desperate survivors, hardened by death, and aided by Night Scouts among them. With the element of surprise and superior numbers, the Ming would not allow these Oirat a chance for a last stand, nor suffer casualties at their hands. Three or four men surrounded each Oirat; in a matter of moments, blades flashed, and the Oirat were cut down.

Just as they turned to deal with the remaining Oirat, an unexpected development occurred—the rest, led by an officer, dropped to their knees and surrendered en masse.

Surrender, just like that?

Lu Qing and Song Bangde stared in disbelief. In their minds, Oirat warriors were always savage and fearsome, fighting to the last man rather than surrendering. Why, then, did these Oirat seem so spineless?

According to Ming military regulations, unless otherwise ordered, prisoners were not to be executed on the battlefield—especially Mongols from the north. If the enemy surrendered, they were to be accepted and, if physically fit, incorporated into the Ming ranks. This was a longstanding method of supplementing the army with Tatar officers and soldiers.

Influenced by these rules, the defeated Ming soldiers instinctively halted, weapons raised, awaiting orders from Lu Qing and Song Bangde.

Among the surrendering Oirat, some noticed the Ming force was not large and began to waver, but were quickly rebuked by their leader.

"What do we do? Do we accept their surrender?" Song Bangde, unfamiliar with such situations, turned to Lu Qing for guidance.

Lu Qing had just killed an Oirat in the chaos, striking so hard his blade was nicked and would no longer fit in its scabbard. He tossed the scabbard aside, glanced at Song Bangde, and shook his head. "I don’t speak Tatar. However you decide, I’ll follow."

He had scarcely spoken when, from among the Oirat, someone called out in Mandarin: "Brave Ming warriors, we surrender! Spare our lives! We are willing to serve the Ming Emperor!"

A Han? Lu Qing looked instinctively toward the speaker, only to find a typically broad-faced Mongol with a distinctive steppe hairstyle. Not a Han at all.

A Tatar who could speak Chinese?

Lu Qing was momentarily taken aback, then secretly delighted. He had been fretting over the language barrier, yet now, as if someone had brought him a pillow just as he was dozing, he could learn about the movements of the Arat Division straight from this Oirat’s mouth.

"You, come here. I have questions for you." Lu Qing called out. After a moment’s thought, he added, "Have your men lay down their weapons and approach one by one, or we will not accept your surrender!"

"We understand. Rest assured, we won’t break the rules." The Oirat who spoke Chinese knew the Ming did not trust them, but took no offense. After a few words to his followers, the Oirat dropped their weapons and walked over to the Ming.

Lu Qing signaled for Song Bangde to have men guard the Oirat, then stepped up to the one who spoke Chinese. "Who are you?"

"I am Tulushi, centurion under Great Lord Getu, left commander beneath the esteemed Arat administrator."

A centurion?

Lu Qing sized up Tulushi. "So, you are in charge of the Oirat here at Jin Family Stronghold?"

"Yes, these are my men." Tulushi hesitated, then pointed to the Oirat who had resisted. "Those are not my troops, but personal guards of Lord Getu." He added, "In truth, I am not a member of Lord Getu’s personal retinue, nor did I mean to offend the Ming. I only came to the border because Lord Getu forced me."

Tulushi had assumed that Song Bangde, in his officer’s uniform, was the leader of the Ming, and was surprised when it was the plainly dressed young man who questioned him. Baffled, he remained respectful and did not dare show any hint of insolence.