Chapter Forty-Two: Hoping Danger Will Arrive a Little Later

Although the bed crossbows possessed great destructive power, their attacks were not dense enough to inflict large-scale casualties among the rebels at the foot of the city. Many of the rebels managed to evade the bolts and arrows, and with their somewhat dispersed formation, surged toward the base of Tongguan’s walls. Very soon, their commanders at various levels began organizing the ranks, preparing to retaliate against the Tang soldiers on the ramparts.

Yet, for now, the initiative still rested with the Tang troops atop the walls. Both Li Fude and Pang Zhong understood that it was impossible to repel the rebel assault within just a few volleys of the bed crossbows. Against an enemy storming the city, it was the volleys of arrows that were truly lethal.

Thus, as soon as the rebels entered bow range, the order for archery was given without delay.

Upon receiving the command from Li Fude and Pang Zhong, three hundred soldiers at each of the east and south gates stepped forward in formation, drew their bows to full, and aimed skyward. When the leading officer shouted “Release!”, more than three hundred arrows flew almost simultaneously, the sound of their volley resounding sharply. Accompanied by the fearsome whistle of arrows slicing through the air, a dense swarm appeared overhead, rising upward before turning and plunging down toward the massed rebels below.

After the first volley, the three hundred archers immediately withdrew, giving way to a second group, who stepped forward and fired their prepared arrows with all their strength, not pausing to observe the effect of the previous volley. They, too, withdrew after firing, allowing the next group to advance and shoot in turn.

After each shot, the archers needed time to draw new arrows and ready their bows. By arranging two or three teams to rotate, the time spent nocking arrows was covered, maintaining a nearly continuous hail of missile fire. This relentless cycle of volleys inflicted maximum casualties on the enemy. Whether in city sieges or open battle, this was the standard method—commanders would order adjustments to the angle of fire as needed, directing their men to shoot from varied heights or directions according to the shifting situation.

The area within Tongguan’s walls that allowed for effective shooting was limited; it was impossible for several thousand men to stand side by side and fire. With this method, the interval between volleys was slight—as the first rain of arrows fell on the rebels’ heads, the next was already appearing overhead. At most, only ten seconds separated them. Such concentrated missile fire left the troops below with nowhere to hide.

The height of the ramparts made a crucial difference. Arrows shot from above could fall directly on the heads of the attackers, while those fired upward from below could not always reach the defenders atop the wall, or even hit the wall at all. The range of arrows from the ramparts, aided by gravity, always exceeded those fired from below—an immutable principle of physics. Thus, the Tang soldiers could unleash their volleys first, and with such density, the casualties inflicted were considerable.

As the arrows rained down, countless screams of agony rose from the rebels below. Soldiers fell from their horses or were knocked to the ground, some mortally wounded, others gravely injured, and some dying instantly. The rebels’ shields, too few and too scattered, could do little to fend off the storm of arrows. Their formations were thrown into chaos, and several of their officers and commanders were felled, unable to rally their men. Meanwhile, the Tang archers continued their relentless assault from above.

With the Tang arrows falling ceaselessly from the ramparts, wave after wave of rebels—who had charged forward eager to retaliate or scale the walls—were cut down outside the narrow east and south gates of Tongguan. The arrows, carrying tremendous force, struck with deadly effect. Many rebels who took arrows to vital spots collapsed and died quickly; many more, grievously wounded and lying prone, became targets for the next volley. Some of the attackers were riddled with arrows like so many bristling porcupines—and those struck so heavily rarely survived.

After just a few rounds of shooting, the ground before the undulating city walls was already piled high with corpses. Many wounded rebels, trampled by the advancing mass behind them, only added to the growing mounds. The cries of pain never ceased, becoming the grim accompaniment to the battle.

Even the screams themselves, once chilling and terrifying, no longer stirred fear after a time. One grew accustomed to them.

With the battle so far always favoring his side, and without having suffered the devastating defeat at Lingbao or faced the rebels atop Tongguan’s walls, Li Fude was filled with excitement. He kept urging his men to shoot without respite, intent on slaughtering every enemy beneath the walls.

He could not restrain himself and, joining the fray, emptied his own quiver of arrows before relenting. Li Fude’s archery skills were exceptional: of the twenty arrows in his quiver, eighteen found their marks, each target wounded or killed. His final arrow struck down a rebel commander leading a charge, killing him on the spot and drawing cheers from Li Fude’s personal guards.

Li Fude believed that, as long as this momentum was maintained, not a single rebel would ever set foot on the ramparts.

Pang Zhong, defending the south gate, was far less optimistic. Having just suffered the catastrophe at Lingbao, where nearly his entire force of one hundred thousand was annihilated and only two or three thousand men escaped with him back to Tongguan, he bore a heavy scar on his heart.

Moreover, after months of experience commanding countless defensive battles atop the walls, Pang Zhong knew all too well the brutal reality of defending Tongguan.

Before the defeat at Lingbao, the city had been well garrisoned, with numbers surpassing those of the rebels. The critical Han Tongguan fortress alone had nearly twenty thousand defenders. At that time, the garrison could rotate fresh troops to the ramparts, and there was never any worry about running out of arrows.

Now, however, only about two thousand soldiers remained atop Han Tongguan’s walls, all of whom were committed to repelling the assault—there were not even enough men for rotation.

Arrows, at least, were plentiful; the city’s stores were ample. But the soldiers’ strength would inevitably be exhausted. Drawing and firing a bow was physically demanding. Rotating archers could endure ten or twenty rounds without fatigue, but with time, their arms would weaken—they would no longer draw the bow fully, nor shoot as far.

When that moment came, it would be the rebels’ turn to launch a major assault, and the defenders would be forced to hold on desperately.

That was when true danger would arrive.

Pang Zhong could only hope that such danger would be delayed as long as possible.