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“That was before,” Hong Chenglue said bluntly. “Now that He Chunhua is Governor-General of Xia Province, he’s been shoveling grain to the front nonstop. From the looks of it, he can keep doing it and keep it coming. If Zhao Pan’s no longer short on supplies, how exactly does Lord Nian plan to fight him?”
Nian Zanli swallowed a flicker of irritation and kept his tone pleasant. “Then might I know what brilliant plan General Hong has in mind?”
If Wu Qing had not sent word that Hong Chenglue had some special way to break the enemy, there was no way that he would sit here swallowing this tone.
Of course, there was another delicate reason, one they both understood and both could not name aloud.
Hong Chenglue was a legitimate Beijia general with real merit to his name, while Nian Zanli was a turncoat, a recent defector.
Who owed whom deference did not require spelling out.
Hong Chenglue glanced toward the tent flap, where rain drummed down in relentless sheets. “Rain, not snow. In weather this foul, it’s actually the best time to launch an attack.” The noise of it, the darkness—it all buried the sounds and signs of preparation.
Nian Zanli waited for his next words. Any commander with a shred of sense would never try to force a river crossing in conditions like this. Otherwise, the only thing he would be crossing was the...
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