After sending Zhang Qiwei off, Jin Feng summoned his deputy, Xu Xiao, via Zhong Wu. The two stood in the main tent, poring over maps and a sand table, discussing strategy for over half an hour until dusk, when Xu Xiao finally departed.
Leaving Jin Feng’s tent, Xu Xiao, without time for a meal, led several hundred soldiers to the left hill, relieving the troops who had previously gone up to cut timber for catapults.
That night, the prisoner camp was unusually lively. Each Han slave received a piece of sackcloth and a coarse grain bun. Though small, the sackcloth offered some modesty. The bun, hard as it was, was the most delicious food they had eaten in nearly a year. Most importantly, the soldiers recorded their household registries, and once verified, they would be allowed to return home.
With so many Han slaves, there was no time to build cells. The Dening Army felled trees, encircled a clearing, and confined all the slaves there. Until verification was complete, they remained under guard, their hands and feet bound with ropes. The ropes weren’t tied tightly but fashioned like shackles, allowing walking and eating, though running was impossible, and a misstep could trip them. The Dening Army warned that anyone undoing their ropes would be executed. The Han slaves had no objections; compared to their rescue, mere inconvenience was nothing.
Outside the camp, Zhang Qiwei asked, “Have all the spies been identified?”
“Rest assured, General. The Dangxiang speak with a different accent from us Central Plains folk. Spotting them is easy,” the deputy replied. “We found twenty-six spies. Two tried to pass as mutes, but I had them killed.”
Whether those two were truly spies or just mute, the deputy wasn’t certain, nor did he care. With so many Han slaves, two deaths were insignificant.
“Stay vigilant. Double the night watch,” Zhang Qiwei ordered. The camp reeked from the captives’ and slaves’ waste, so he covered his nose and left.
Behind him, the Han slaves, accustomed to the stench, kept the camp lively. Some laughed loudly at the prospect of returning home, others wept quietly for kin lost to the Dangxiang. It wasn’t until the early hours that the camp quieted. Exhausted from laughing and crying, the slaves lay in groups, sleeping soundly.
The Dening guards yawned incessantly; some dozed against posts. By four or five in the morning, the darkest and sleepiest hour, most guards were asleep, save for two playing a game of “wolf eats baby” chess under a torch. Most torches had gone out, and no one bothered to refuel or relight them.
In a shadowy corner of the enclosure, a young Han slave missing an ear cracked his eyes open. Glancing cautiously around, he rose slowly. The slaves slept so closely packed that he inevitably brushed against someone nearby.
A boy of twelve or thirteen rubbed his eyes and asked, “Brother Black Dog, going to the latrine?”
“Yeah,” Black Dog nodded.
“I’ll come with you,” the boy said, getting up. They headed to the makeshift latrine in the corner.
After relieving himself, the boy turned to leave, but Black Dog suddenly grabbed his throat, pinning him to the ground. The boy struggled fiercely, kicking at Black Dog, but malnourished and young, he was no match. Pinned down, he soon stopped moving, his face purple, eyes bulging, staring at Black Dog.
“Mud Egg, don’t blame Brother Dog. I’ve no choice. The Dangxiang are holding my wife and daughter. If I don’t act tonight, they won’t live past tomorrow,” Black Dog whimpered, closing the boy’s eyes.
But when he let go, the eyes opened again, still staring. After several tries, Black Dog gave up. “Mud Egg, if you hate me, I’ll accept it. Tomorrow, I’ll join you, and you can do what you want with me.”
He hid the boy’s body in the latrine’s deepest corner and stepped out. Instead of returning to his sleeping spot, he stood in the clearing’s centre, coughed lightly twice, then yawned loudly—the signal the Dangxiang had given him.
At once, a dozen others in the camp quietly sat up. Like Black Dog, their loved ones were held by the Dangxiang. To save them, they had to betray their own.
The group skirted the two chess-playing guards, gathered in a darker, less guarded spot, untied their ropes, and slipped through the enclosure. Minutes later, Black Dog, recalling the day’s layout, led them to the Dening Army’s weapons tent. They dispatched the sleeping guard, who was out like a dead pig, and each grabbed a bundle of sabres, stealthily heading to the Dangxiang captives’ area.
Despite his foppish ways, Zhang Qiwei wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate the Dangxiang captives. They were tied to beams suspended between posts, about two metres off the ground. Taller captives could just touch the ground; shorter ones hung in the air. Over the past days, dozens had died from being strung up. As for relieving themselves, they did so in their trousers.
The guards here were far stricter than at the Han slave camp. Half remained awake, and two squads of recruits patrolled constantly. Black Dog’s group waited in the shadows for ten minutes until a tent near the captives caught fire. With a brisk wind, the blaze spread to two nearby tents.
“Fire! Fire!” The patrolling soldiers shouted, rushing toward the flames.
As the fire grew, all attention turned to it. No one noticed Black Dog’s group slipping into the Dangxiang captives’ enclosure.
“Move quickly. If we’re lucky, we can get back to the Han slave camp,” Black Dog instructed, rushing to the nearest beam, cutting a captive’s ropes, tossing a sabre to the ground, and moving to the next.
The freed Dangxiang captive grabbed the sabre and began releasing others. By the time the Dening soldiers noticed, more than half the Dangxiang captives had been freed.
