The Magnolia Sword

by Thomas, Sherry

  Another conscript might feel a sense of relief at the scale of the muster, to be one among so many. But I have read plenty of histories. At Red Cliffs, two hundred and fifty years ago, Cao Cao had four times as many soldiers as his opponents did, yet they defeated him, killing a hundred thousand of his men in a single decisive battle.

  What if I were one of the hundred thousand caught in that turning tide? To have no room to maneuver, all escape routes cut off, and only a sword against a forest of spears? I have promised everyone at home that I will return safe and sound. How do I do that? How do I take charge of my fate when all around me, men have submitted to theirs?

  A good while passes before it is our turn at the entrance. The admitting officials examine the list of names, count us three times, and finally allow us through the gates.

  “Better look lively,” says one official to Gao as he stamps the list of names. “The princeling is here.”

  The term he uses—xiao wangye—refers specifically to a son of a royal duke.

  “Who is this princeling?” one conscript wonders as we move into the encampment.

  “Probably a useless braggart,” mutters another.

  My hands tighten around the reins. Young noblemen are the worst—or at least in the South they are, preying freely on those who are the most powerless.

  We lead our horses to a pen. Then Gao marches us deeper into the encampment. “Where are we going, Master Gao?” asks one conscript.

  “The sanitation trenches. You’ll have to wait for your tent assignment. Better go now before I take you to the training ground.”

  Trenches? Is that how it is? I swear inwardly.

  The trenches don’t smell quite as offensive as I expect—there must be some unfortunate minions assigned to shovel dirt in on a regular basis. My fellow conscripts shuffle up to the edge and relieve themselves. I do not. Gao gives me a curious glance but makes no comment.

  On the training ground, a wide, open space at the center of the encampment, around two thousand men wait. They sit in rows, some looking around, others quietly talking. The mood is relaxed. Everyone has had to leave home behind, but they’ve arrived safe and whole at their first destination and they’ll soon be fed and given a place to sleep. Some appear to have even made a few friends.

  I, on the other hand, feel grim. The war is becoming more real. There is no good way for me to navigate the sanitation trench. And I’m suddenly wondering whether, in taking Dabao’s place, I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Half a dozen men on horseback ride onto the training ground as we approach. The one closest to me is in his late twenties, bold-featured, strapping in build, and magnificently clad in a shining breastplate and a crimson cape. In fact, five of the six riders are in such eye-catching uniforms.

  Against this wall of splendor, the civilian who rides with them, front and center and all in black, should be practically invisible. But I stare at him the moment he turns to listen to an older soldier on his other side. It is a simple motion, but something about it is oddly familiar. And the way he handles his steed—or hardly handles it at all, since the horse is proceeding at a leisurely walk—

  Why do I feel that I have seen him before?

  “Is that the princeling?” asks someone behind me.

  “That’s him,” Gao answers. “His father, the royal duke, is in charge of all the forces of the central commandery.”

  The older soldier who is talking to him must be highly placed, possibly the commander of the encampment. And yet he is deferential in his demeanor, leaning toward the princeling, bent a little forward at the waist. The princeling listens with a grave courtesy, not the sort of petulant impatience I associate with aristocratic scions.

  I shake my head a little. What am I thinking—that a Xianbei royal duke’s son met me three times in predawn hours to cross swords?

  Yet I keep studying the princeling. He is young, close to my age. And he may be one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. But there is something else.

  Just then the older soldier indicates the training ground. The princeling makes a slow survey of the sprawl of conscripts. And I see it, the barely leashed intensity behind his eyes, which contrasts sharply with his aura of calm self-possession.

  Perhaps what I’m witnessing is no more than the confidence that comes of his extremely elevated station, of having been obeyed and catered to his whole life.

  Still my eyes do not leave him. Still I cannot shake the unsettling sense of familiarity.

  The seated conscripts are being told to get to their feet when a young man comes running down the wide lane at the center of the training ground. “Captain Helou!” he shouts. Judging by his drab uniform, he isn’t a conscript, but a low-ranking soldier. “Captain Helou!”

  The strapping soldier I first saw raises a brow. Helou is a Xianbei family name. The princeling is also, of course, Xianbei, as is the commander to his other side, most likely. I may be seeing more Xianbei this afternoon than I have in my entire life.

  “Captain Helou, this lowly soldier learned only now that you are looking for exceptional martial artists for the royal duke,” says the young man. “I am heartbroken to have missed the trials earlier. If it is not too late—and if the commander will permit me this impertinence—may I beg for a chance before Captain Helou departs?”

  The commander frowns. But the princeling makes a small gesture with his hand. Seeing that, the commander bows his head. Captain Helou also inclines his head in the princeling’s direction, then he turns to the young man.

  “What makes you think you’re good enough?” he asks. He speaks Chinese with a Northern accent, not a foreign one.

  The young man puffs out his chest. “I’ve been undefeated my entire life.”

  Captain Helou smiles indulgently. “That could be because you haven’t found good opponents. But very well, let’s test that.”

  He dismounts in one agile motion; for a big man, his landing is incredibly soft. He carries a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back, but he does not bother to take them off.

  “I use a broadsword,” the young man declares.

  “I left my broadsword at home,” replies Captain Helou. “My fists will have to do.”

  “Then I will also fight bare-handed,” says the young man.

  I shake my head. He isn’t good enough for that sort of pride.

  They stand ten paces apart and salute each other. The young man attacks first. Nothing wrong with that, but he should have given himself a little more time to assess his opponent. As it is, he goes straight for Captain Helou’s strong side. Captain Helou sidesteps the attack. The young man, hitting nothing, turns around and launches a kick.

  I shake my head again. The young man has already exposed a multitude of his own weaknesses. When he didn’t hit Captain Helou, he needed an extra step to regain his balance, which means that his stances aren’t firm. The kick is too much for show: He is aiming for the neck of a taller man when he could more profitably go for a vital organ just beneath the captain’s breastplate. And of course, with that questionable balance, a high kick opens him up to attack just about everywhere.

  Captain Helou doesn’t take advantage. He toys with the young man, letting him become more impatient, more frustrated that none of his blows are landing. But I can predict that by their tenth exchange, the young man will go down.

  In fact, he lands flat on his back on their ninth exchange. And judging by his bewildered expression as he struggles to his feet, he barely felt Captain Helou’s boot hooking his ankle, exploiting a moment when he was already off balance.

  I half anticipate that he will demand a rematch. But he does himself credit by bowing deeply as he salutes. “My gratitude to Captain Helou for his instruction. I see now that I have been far too ignorant.”

  Captain Helou smiles again and returns the salute. “You have a good foundation and the road i
s long yet. I hope to someday learn from you, after you become an exceptional ­martial artist.”

  The young man makes himself scarce. Captain Helou places his hands behind his back and looks around the gathering. “Anyone else here think he is an exceptional martial artist? Better come forward now. His Highness and I are leaving.”

  “Where are they going?” I ask Gao. “And why would the royal duke seek martial artists?”

  “I don’t know—I just got here myself,” says Gao. “Maybe to guard the princeling. You want to try?”

  Do I? I do want out of this encampment—if I never see those sanitation trenches again, it will still be too soon. But in a smaller group, members pay more attention to one another. How well can I pretend to be a man under close scrutiny?

  And if the princeling and Captain Helou should realize that I am a woman . . .

  The crowd has fallen silent, waiting for someone to step up. But now murmurs stir again. Captain Helou salutes the gathering.

  “If no other hero will come forward, then everyone please take care. Let us meet again on an auspicious day.”

  He heads for his horse.

  “Wait!” I cry.

  Captain Helou turns around, surprised and half-amused.

  I stride onto the training ground, past my astonished companions, past ranks upon ranks of conscripts, their faces lit with anticipation, before coming to a stop fifteen paces from Captain Helou. “This lowly conscript is an ignorant nobody. But with His Highness’s and the commander’s indulgence, I would also like some instruction.”

  Compared to the niceties I’ve been taught, this request barely qualifies as polite. But it has been a long day, and I’m less inclined toward elaborate courtesy when I’m dressed as a man.

  Captain Helou grins. The commander frowns. And the princeling stares at me as if I have challenged him—a look that could fell trees.

  I stare back. In that moment, I do not remember his parentage or that I am hoping to perhaps become one of his protectors for the sake of my own safety. In that moment, he is only a potential opponent who must know that I am not daunted.

  Often the outcome of a contest is decided before either party unsheathes a sword.

  I come to my senses only when Captain Helou speaks. “Very well. Young xiong-di, do you have a weapon of choice?”

  He means the sword on my back, but I am loath to draw Heart Sea. After a lifetime of being inculcated on its immeasurable worth, I don’t want to let anyone see it unless absolutely necessary. However, I’m also reluctant to get into a fistfight with Captain Helou.

  My gaze lands on the weapons on his back. “Captain Helou has a bow and arrows.”

  “I do. Would xiong-di prefer a shooting contest?” He sounds amused.

  I incline my head. “Captain Helou, please shoot. I will catch.”

  His brows almost meet his hairline. “Xiong-di will catch arrows bare-handed?”

  “Three of them at fifty paces—while blindfolded.”

  Captain Helou’s jaw drops. A collective gasp rises. And then excited murmurs spread as men within earshot pass on the word to those who are too far away to hear what I said.

  I don’t catch arrows as a normal part of my practice, but at fifty paces—and I plan to make those big paces—an arrow’s flight would be almost spent. Captain Helou looks up at the princeling, who considers me and says, “We will have our eyes opened today.”

  He is more soft-spoken than I anticipated, the Northern accent in his speech crisp rather than harsh.

  “But won’t it be too dangerous, Your Highness? It wouldn’t be auspicious for something to happen here.”

  “Young xiong-di there isn’t worried. You needn’t be either, Captain,” replies His Highness.

  Still Captain Helou hesitates.

  “The day grows late,” the princeling reminds him. “We should leave soon.”

  Captain Helou bows. “Of course, Your Highness.” He turns back to me and gestures at the avenue down the center of the training ground. “Let us proceed, young xiong-di.”

  He indicates where he will stand. Hundreds of men count softly alongside me as I measure out fifty paces. At my spot, I pull out a large kerchief, fold it diagonally, and cover my eyes, making sure the blindfold is wide enough that no one can doubt its effectiveness. And then, as a precaution, I take my sheathed sword in my left hand. Should I be completely mistaken about how fast the arrows will arrive, at least I’ll have something I can use to deflect them.

  The crowd falls silent. My heart beats fast, but I don’t feel any more nervous than during practice sessions with Father. I inhale slowly and exhale with just as much care and deliberation.

  “Watch out now!” cries Captain Helou.

  The arrow leaves the bow with a soft twang, its calm flight producing a very gentle sibilance. The depth of my training is such that I need only a fraction of a moment to discern an object’s speed and trajectory. And what I hear is Captain Helou’s great chivalry. Not only has he drawn the bow just enough for the arrow to reach me, but he has aimed at least two handspans to my right.

  I reach out and snatch the arrow from midair, its shaft smooth beneath my fingers.

  The crowd cheers raucously. I drop the arrow and wait for them to quiet down, feeling just a little smug.

  “Well done!” shouts Captain Helou.

  This time he shoots without warning, but the arrow’s flight is still leisurely and again a bit wide—to my other side. Still holding Heart Sea, I pluck the arrow with my left hand.

  The cheering is twice as raucous.

  “Magnificent!” cry Captain Helou and the commander in unison.

  I hold myself back from smiling. This contest isn’t over yet.

  I exhale and focus. The third arrow will come straight at me. Faster too, as Captain Helou knows now that I am not putting my life in jeopardy. This, then, will truly be a test of my skills and reflexes.

  But the arrow doesn’t come.

  The conscripts begin to whisper. “Look, look! My Heavens! Nobody can catch that!”

  What is going on?

  Abruptly silence falls again. I bow my head and try to loosen my shoulders. My heart thuds, not knowing what I’m up against, only that it has dismayed the entire crowd.

  Thoughts begin to whirl in my head. I force them out. I cannot let my concentration lapse. I cannot—

  The arrow releases.

  No, not one arrow: three. Headed directly at me, with a velocity that freezes my blood.

  I yank out Heart Sea and slash at the oncoming arrows, even as I bend backward to avoid them. The legendary blade is so sharp that I barely feel it slicing through the shafts. Somehow I catch one of the broken pieces in my left hand as the rest plummet to the ground all around me.

  With difficulty, I straighten. I am panting. I throw aside the broken arrow and drag off my blindfold.

  Only to see, fifty paces away, the princeling standing on his horse, lowering the bow in his hand. And it is not Captain Helou’s bow, but a much longer, more powerful one.

  The bastard!

  I grab Heart Sea’s sheath and carrying case from the ground and march toward him. How dare he put a conscript at risk for his own amusement! Few under the sky would have come through unscathed. Were my training a shade less intense, I would be pierced through right now.

  The princeling leaps off his horse, a motion so gentle and casual it is as if he descended a single step on a flight of stairs. He hands the bow to a waiting soldier and faces me, his gaze stark yet fierce.

  Bastard.

  I grow aware of the profound silence, as if thousands of conscripts are all holding their breaths. It is only when Captain Helou steps in front of the princeling—and the latter gently but firmly pushes him aside—that I realize I am storming toward them with my sword drawn, as if I am about to skewer the prin
celing clean through.

  I force myself to slow. Ten paces out, I stop and sheathe Heart Sea. “This humble conscript thanks His Highness and Captain Helou for their instruction. I caught only two and a half out of the five arrows. Would one of the elevated ­personages present please inform me how that should be counted in this contest?”

  I have never spoken so rudely in my entire life. Then again, I’ve never had my life endangered till this moment.

  The princeling considers me, even as the commander appears ready to have me disciplined for discourtesy. “Xiong-di, what is your name?”

  “Hua Mulan.” After a moment, I add reluctantly, “I offer my humble respects to Your Highness.”

  He inclines his head. “It is said that the Central Plain is a place of crouching tigers and hidden dragons—extraordinarily talented heroes everywhere. Hua xiong-di successfully challenged Captain Helou, who is an extraordinary talent himself. Does Hua xiong-di wish to come with us?”

  I did. But do I? I’m still breathing hard, my heart is still thumping from afterfright, and my fist still longs to plow into the ridge of the princeling’s nose.

  watience, I hear Father’s voice. Concentration.

  I must focus on the larger goal of survival. I want to be in a safe place as I serve out my time in the army, don’t I? I will not find a safer place than in the princeling’s service. And if that will require a lot of patience, a lot of holding myself back from slugging him? Well, as Father says, patience is a good virtue to develop.

  I bow as I salute. “It would be the fortune of three lifetimes, Your Highness.”

  The princeling turns to the commander, who has by now also dismounted. “Commander Dugu, my apologies for poaching this young hero from your encampment. But I have cause to believe that he will better serve the country by my side.”

  That’s a deft turn of phrase. Or maybe he actually believes that I will better serve the country by keeping him safe.