Echoes of the Past

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Battle of Xiashang, 1298bc

The Great Master has commanded that men make war, and how is man to refuse the calling of heaven? Four men rose their banners to war, to stake their claim to glory and victory, with their own legions ready to die, forsaking their lives time and time again. First, was Zhao Shun, or King Zhao Shun, Lord of Dignity, Endlessly Pious, Humble in Posture and in Stature, Yet Mighty in Grace. The only member of the lesser races to compete in this campaign, after his father’s usurpation of the Kingly title in the previous generation. Meeting Zhao in battle, was the imposing Tumulin, a relative outsider to the competition, yet he had brought down many of his rivals. Tumulin, of the Kegihan Clan, adorned himself in black and grey, striking fear into lesser men, as he struck with rage. However, before this battle, the two combatants agreed, in the spirit of honour, to meet and sit before their armies, indulging in the delicacies of tea and other luxuries, while they spoke. Tumulin exposed his tired, yet firm face to Zhao Shun, who kept his visage open to his men. Shun was the elder man, though as a member of the Zheng, the collectively inferior races, he bowed first, and prepared the foods. Tumulin, as a Weishun, was expected to win, and was astonished that a Zheng even made it this far. He spoke first, after the food was prepared.

“Zhao Shun, it is with great honour and dignity to face a Clansman in battle, is it not?”
Tumulin drank his tea, his exposed mouth smiling callously.

“The Bazhu are an honourable race, I shall honour the racial spirit and solidarity through battle.”
This formal, denigrating speech was more than normal for a Zheng, to recognise his own inferiority, in the presence of the mighty Weishun. Bazhu, roughly meant “overlord”, all Weishun belonged above the Zheng, and always would do.

“Noble sentiments may break the skies with zeal, though I am not the sky, I am the mountain, that shall stand imposing, and no matter the assault, I shall not bend, nor falter.”
Tumulin’s poetic words only served to highlight his aggressive posture, as he adjusted his position on his seat, attempting to take the dominant role in this precursory discussion, before the end. Zhao Shun was having none of it.

“The mountains are of great height, the standing upon the peak bestows great glory, yet they are cold, can Tumulin endure?”
Such a condescending question, in a poetic manner, was almost too romantic, too stereotypical, for the period.

“We shall see, for Tumulin shall be joined by your wives in the deed!
Zhao Shun’s eyes narrowed in contempt, motivated to protect his family from the start, he had already moved his family south, away from Tumulin’s hunters, in case of his own defeat. Zhao Shun had no care for Tumulin’s Weishun pig wives, far too domineering, entitled, for any civilised man to appreciate. He merely nodded, as Tumulin laughed.

“Let this battle be worthy of the heavens.”

“Xixixi! Come, Zhao Shun, may the greatest warrior win!”

Tumulin drank the remaining tea in a swift gulp, before turning towards his army and running away while laughing, his regal robes flaying comically in the wind, as he met his cavalry with a salute. Zhao Shun sat, perplexed over his rival’s behaviour, before taking flight himself, as his trusted lieutenant greeted him. Both generals were aristocrats, though with Zhao Shun’s relatively new position as King, many onlookers, even those within his army, believed Tumulin’s victory to be inevitable. However, Zhao Shun prepared for any confrontation, and stationed his army beneath the rising sun, on the raised plateaus on the outskirts of Xiashang. Here, he ascended to the highest point in the settlement, and entered meditation, honouring his Zheng ancestors, and the arbitrary heavens, so that victory may not be impossible. He maintained this trance throughout the day, after commanding the troops to rest in the evening. Critical to his plan, was the Xiashang winds, that were so loud, that they would cover the horses’ hooves, provided they moved in small attack movements. He launched one hundred raiding parties, dividing his thousand man cavalry force into ten man squads, before launching them into Tumulin’s Weishun camp, with the aim of disorientating, distracting and imposing weariness upon the Weishun. The secondary objective was to nullify Tumulin’s cavalry advantage, by allowing a covert force to enter the area wherein the horses of the Weishun were kept, and kill them. Normally, killing a Weishun horse was a death sentence, though these were desperate times. If possible, his force would decapitate the enemy by slaying Tumulin, while he slept, or in a small skirmish. These raids would continue throughout the night, in rotation, to force Tumulin’s camp to remain awake at all times. Such operations were successful, though the ultimate objective of killing Tumulin was unsuccessful, due to difficulties in locating the Khan’s camp. The man had insisted on sleeping with his troops, in a sign of Weishun solidarity. Regardless, it was estimated that approximately eight percent of the Khan’s army had been overtly purged by Zhao Shun’s assault, while a vast portion of the remaining army had endured with virtually no sleep. By contrast, three hundred of Zhao Shun’s cavalry had been killed by the Weishun, most killed by Tumulin personally, who had joined the skirmish with his men, or in the assaults on the stables, where the Weishun made a spirited defence. Among the dead was Zhao Shun’s son, Zhao Baolin, which struck a cord of hatred. The main attack, wherein the full force of Zhao Shun’s fifty thousand strong army fell upon the foe, was far less successful. Zhao Shun’s armoured infantry ploughed through the Weishun central line, though was swiftly encircled by Tumulin’s personal guards, and a detachment of light infantry. Following assaults to break out the heavy infantry were repelled, despite Zhao Shun’s conviction. In the finale, Tumulin’s personal guards, combined with the remainder of his cavalry, charged against Zhao Shun’s left flank, breaking it in minutes. In response, the Zheng General joined the fray directly, in unison with his great men, and for but a moment, Zhao Shun’s heart raced with trepidation, as he caught a glimpse of Tumulin’s shining black armour. This fear was replaced, as a skillful, swift slash cut across the mane Tumulin was riding, slicing a deep wound, causing an outpour of gore. The horse let out a horrible moan, and threw the Weishun general to the floor, the impact would have killed him, had another horse not trampled over the general’s body. Tumulin spent the last seconds of his life in sheer, paralysing pain, screaming as his soul ascended to the heavens, to serve in the Great Master’s war. Upon hearing the traditional Celestial Horn, signifying the death of a general, Tumulin’s army collapsed, as Zhao Shun’s remaining cavalry forbade any retreat. Gradually, the remaining Weishun forces were encircled, picked off, and defeated. Zhao Shun felt no pride, for he only saw oceans of blood, over his hands, his steed, and his feet. He would put an end to all this death, the arbitrary wars. It was all in sight, he only needed the strength to strike.