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The strength of the Hu lies on horseback—a phrase perhaps exaggerated but largely true. Fei Qian watched as the Hu, with just a few rags tied to their saddles, twisted left and right with ease, like acrobats in later times balancing bowls on unicycles. They seemed on the verge of falling, only to regain balance with a deft twist…
The acrobats' movements might be comical or graceful, but the Hu's actions inspired no such feelings—only fear.
As the Hu began their charge, the soldiers in Beiqu camp instinctively drew a collective breath. Each individual gasp was faint, but together, they merged into a sharp "hiss," like a fierce northern wind roaring from frozen tundra, slamming against Han houses and whistling through door cracks and window gaps.
The leading Hu suddenly nocked an arrow, loosing it in a high arc. It streaked through the air before plunging into the ground just before the camp's wooden wall.
This was the Hu's ranging shot!
But they'd need to get closer to lob arrows over the wall and hit the men behind it…
Fei Qian glanced at the arrows, noting their neatly fletched tails. He also saw recruits crouching in fear at the sight of those few stray shots, and he frowned.
The blood and fire at Hangu Pass had taught him much, including how to stand tall, eyes open, facing death's threat. Only with open eyes could one see where Death's scythe would fall; only by standing straight could one decide whether to parry or dodge. Cowering with closed eyes and hunched shoulders made one not a hedgehog but a meatball in Death's chopsticks.
Clearly, the recruits beside him weren't there yet.
Huang Cheng, standing nearby, silently raised his hard bow, nocking an arrow.
A sharp "twang" rang out. A black line appeared and vanished instantly. Only the sudden bloom of blood on the leading Hu proved the line's existence.
The arrow pierced the first Hu's body, then struck the horse of the rider behind. The horse's front legs buckled, collapsing, and its rider was flung high, crashing to the ground.
The advancing Hu swerved to avoid the horse's corpse and the fallen rider, briefly disrupting their formation. But like water flowing past a rock, they quickly regrouped. The dead Hu didn't dampen their spirit—it fueled their frenzy. They ducked low, hiding behind their horses' necks, rapidly closing in on the camp.
The front rank of Xiongnu suddenly rose from behind their horses' necks, half their bodies exposed, raising pre-nocked bows like a thicket of thorns sprouting from the ground. The thorns shot into the air, arcing viciously toward the men behind the camp's wall.
"Shields!"
"Raise shields!"
The veteran officers roared, crouching while angling their shields overhead to protect themselves as much as possible.
Quick-witted recruits mimicked them, clustering together, raising shields to cover each other against the falling arrows. The slower ones, still dazed, were struck, screaming as they fell.
After the first rank fired, they split to the sides, followed by the second and third ranks…
The Hu controlled their horses as deftly as their own legs, trotting unhurriedly, tracing a small semicircle before the camp, then regrouping for a second volley.
Their practiced movements were like playing a symphony of death. The twang of bowstrings set the rhythm for Death's dance, the falling arrows like its scythe, reaping lives one by one.
Fei Qian, like Huang Cheng, crouched with a shield, peering through gaps in the wall to observe, resisting the urge to look back at the wounded. He knew focusing on them wouldn't ease their pain or save them. Instead, he fixed his attention on the Hu's attack formation, waiting for an opportunity.
Arrows cost money; arrowheads required iron. Though the Hu could use sharpened bone, such arrows lacked the weight for arcing shots. This suppressive arrow rain couldn't last forever, and the Hu wouldn't expect a few arrows to breach Beiqu camp.
Several Hu riders broke from the ranks, not carrying bows but swinging lassos, shouting incomprehensible cries like herders roping sheep or horses. They charged to the camp's trench, expertly lassoing the chevaux-de-frise at the gate, then wheeled their horses to drag them away…
This was a classic Hu tactic for attacking camps—simple and effective. Mounted archers suppressed the defenders, while lassos cleared barriers like chevaux-de-frise or even walls, toppling what couldn't be dragged away to create a path for a cavalry charge to overrun the camp.
So far, everything matched the Hu's expectations, like an old song sung for years, the next verse coming without thought.
Seeing the lassos catch the gate's barriers, the Hu let out cheers, as if already envisioning the camp's fall. But their cheers cut off abruptly, like ducks grabbed by the neck…
It wasn't the gate's barriers that fell, but the Hu riders galloping back!
The ropes, tied to their horses, snapped taut, cutting deep into the animals' chests and bellies. Four horses were grievously wounded instantly, collapsing with broken legs, bloodied by the rough ground. Though they wailed, they were clearly done for…
Of the fallen Hu, two landed head and chest first, dying silently. The other two broke their legs, white bones piercing skin, exposing pale yellow marrow, soon stained dark red by blood…
The sound of horses and men crashing to the ground was like a heavy hammer striking randomly in the melody, or discordant notes shoved into the score, instantly disrupting the Hu's smooth performance…