The Orchid Farmer's Sacrifice

by Fred Yu

  He shook his head clear. He was thinking about her too much instead of focusing on what he should do next and where he could hide.

  Mount Oleander was already visible in the distance. It was both a mountain and a valley, bold and tall in every way but supported by two larger mountains soaring to the heavens. The larger peaks, one on each side in perfect symmetry, stood behind Oleander like back rests. They could not rival Oleander in presence and grandeur.

  Numerous structures were built against the face of the Venom Sect’s lair—watchtowers visible at the foot and large buildings near the peak that, even from a distance, emanated wealth and power. There was a higher vantage point immediately before the main road heading into the mountain. He could have a close look at Oleander from there.

  Feng scaled the hill, certain that within minutes he would be high enough to see each building across from him. He was careful to stay out of plain view lest the Venom Sect guards spotted his clumsy motions and warned of an intruder.

  Feng wondered at how strangely lifeless the structures on Mount Oleander appeared in the middle of a mutiny. He thought there would be full-scale battles on every road and fires around every building, and the fiancé’s men would be patrolling every corner.

  Something a great distance away to his right side caught Feng’s attention. He was confused by the sight until he recognized the clouds of dust agitated by thousands of men moving in unison, approaching Mount Oleander.

  Armies!

  Cavalrymen in full armor emerged from the dust, carrying a row of banners held high in the air. The first group of soldiers, pike men in light armor, marched behind the banners in clusters of ten, the red strips of fabric on their helmets bouncing with each step. Feng had seen these helmets before—the red strip characteristic of a Tiger General.

  There was no doubt the army was heading for Mount Oleander. A military invasion, normally reserved for foreign enemies, was being prepared for the Venom Sect.

  Then he saw it, and for a moment Feng could not decide whether he was being confronted by good fortune or ill. The flag of Zeng Xi appeared before the first set of banners. He didn’t notice it at first, being so engrossed in the size and might of the oncoming army that he failed to recognize the flag of his enemy.

  It was Zeng Xi, the man who ordered his sister’s abduction, who sent hundreds of bandits to kill his friends. Feng clenched his fists at the thought, his teeth clamped with such pressure that he could not move his face. Kill him! he thought. Find a way to kill him!

  He took a deep breath, then another, forcing his face to stop trembling, commanding his fingers to release themselves from their frozen fists. He had no way of killing Zeng Xi, even if he were alone and unarmed, and much less now when an army protected General Lo’s prodigy. Zeng Xi would walk past him like a pile of horse droppings.

  Why were they invading the Venom Sect?

  Ming! He had to warn Ming!

  Feng spun around and tore across the hill he had climbed. He reached the main road and headed straight for the forest. The messenger bird should still be there. He could use it to warn Ming.

  In a moment he was back to the little clearing where Zhu’s body lay in a pool of blood. The messenger bird was hobbling around the body, waiting for its owner to tie a new message to its feet. It appeared stunned, but the wings were unharmed.

  The bird would deliver its message to Ming’s fiancé. If Ming was not with her fiancé, how could he warn her?

  He would have to go up Mount Oleander, find her, and tell her in person. Judging by the speed of Zeng Xi’s approaching army, he could be too late.

  He needed Zhu’s clothes, or he would never get past the watchtowers at the foot of the mountain. The thought of changing into the filthy, bloody clothes of a Venom Sect running dog made him want to vomit. The drying bloodstains were hardened around Zhu’s collar and chest.

  Ming needed him. Feng held his breath with a grimace and changed into Zhu’s clothes. This was the most disgusting thing he had ever done, even worse than wearing the clothing of a peasant. The stench of blood—or was it urine—approached him in waves. He wanted to change his mind, but if he had any chance of going up Mount Oleander, he would need to look like a Venom Sect member.

  The brush and ink stone were still there, and the smoke bombs were in his inner pockets. Once fully changed, he gathered up the brush and ink stone and broke into a mad dash for Mount Oleander. The stench of Zhu’s bloodied clothing nauseated him.

  He stopped when he neared the watchtower and pulled out Zhu’s ink stone and brush, wrote help on a small shred of paper, tied it to the bird’s foot, and tossed it into the air. The messenger bird took off in a straight line and headed for the peak.

  The largest structure on the mountain directly below the summit was an elegant mansion surrounded by a red wall, its round opening standing guard above a wide set of stone stairs. The bird circled once above the red mansion and swooped inside. So, the fiancé was in the red mansion.

  There was little time left. Whoever received the single word “help” would start a lengthy discussion around the vague message, and then a response would be sent back to Zhu. When the bird returned without delivering the message, the ruse would be over. Feng needed to reach the red mansion before the bird’s next roundtrip.

  But first, Feng would have to get past the watchtower.

  Judging from the size of this watchtower, at least four guards (if not more) could be stationed inside. Feng drew the modified crossbow bolt from his pockets, held it high, and ran. There was little time left.

  “Zhuge Nu!” he shouted. “Zhuge Nu archers!”

  There was no response from the watchtower. Feng grimaced. There was no way back now. He shouted again. “Thousands of them! Thousands of archers coming this way!”

  In a moment he was already at the foot of the watchtower. He glanced once at the main path leading up the mountain, and a chill crept up his back. Not a stir on Mount Oleander.

  He circled to the back of the watchtower and placed his hand on the ladder. If no one came out to stop him, he should hurry up the mountain. Ming could be in grave danger.

  He had to know. How could the watchtower be empty, even amid a mutiny?

  Feng tucked the bolt back into his pockets and charged up the ladder, leaping two steps at a time without pause until he was six steps below the opening. Still invisible to anyone inside, Feng drew his dagger, flattened his body, and inched upward.

  There were at least ten guards in there, all of them motionless on the floor. White foam still trickled from their mouths. Feng pulled himself up and stepped inside.

  Did they die of poison?

  They were murdered by a more powerful poison than they could defend against.

  Feng moved to the window to observe the status of the invasion. The army was still far away. They would stop to reposition when they reached the foot of the mountain. There was still time.

  A cold hand touched his ankle, and he jumped. One of the guards was still alive. Feng dropped to his knees and hovered over the man.

  “There’s an invasion,” Feng said. “Tell me how to warn everyone on the mountain.”

  “Two . . .” the guard said, his voice barely audible, drawing each breath as if it were his last. “Two short bursts, then one long one.”

  “Bursts?” Feng asked. “Through horns?”

  The guard nodded.

  “Where are the horns?”

  “They took them . . . so we can’t warn the master . . .”

  Feng spun around and bolted out the watchtower. The fiancé must have the horns, Feng thought. And he was in the red mansion. Zeng Xi’s army was closing in and there was little time to get to Ming. Perhaps if he could steal the horns, he could warn Ming and the entire mountain.

  He would be trapped on Mount Oleander. If he ascended the mountain to notify Ming, he would have no means of escape.

  Zeng Xi was invading the Venom Sect, and somehow Ming was related to the man who killed his sis
ter.

  Feng shook the thoughts from his head and charged up the winding paths. Mount Oleander was steep. Dangerous, even. Layer upon layer of vertical cliffs formed the face of the mountain with small patches of vegetation dotting the few flat surfaces. Footholds were chiseled into the ground where the elevation became sharp. Rocky shelves, each the height of two men, were made accessible by narrow steps carved into each stone wall. Running straight up the mountain was close to impossible, but Feng never paused for breath. He strained for air. The climb was harder than he was prepared for, but he could not stop. The path to the red mansion was long and treacherous, and Ming was running out of time.

  At mid-mountain when the trail wrapped around the side of Oleander, Feng stopped to survey the invasion once more. This would be his last opportunity to observe their preparations before the trail returned to the face of the mountain, where the gathering troops would no longer be in plain view.

  They had already begun organizing, moving their pike men into the vanguard and their saber infantry to the flanks. Long siege ladders were carried behind the pike men with no signs of bombarding equipment. Feng leaned forward in disbelief. He was certain Zeng Xi would prepare his assault with the mark of a military genius, using formations, timing, and rhythms so impossible to fathom that the enemy could only bow in awe. Yet, the assault resembled something a first-year commander who barely studied his military classics would have designed.

  Perhaps Zeng Xi had the luxury of assembling a sloppy invasion. He didn’t bring bombarding equipment, despite attacking an enemy on higher elevation. He showed no signs of using fire against a dry mountain, and some of his men, already in plain view, stood out in the open. Perhaps Zeng Xi didn’t need the element of surprise.

  A cold chill creeped up his neck. The mutiny! The uprising was not a coincidence but a diversion for Zeng Xi’s invasion.

  Feng broke into a run, the cold sweat on his brow dripping. This meant Ming’s fiancé also worked for the Judge.

  He relaxed a little once the middle of the mountain was well below him. If Zeng Xi was underestimating the Venom Sect, Ming had a chance. They only needed an escape route, one that would not run into the troops below.

  Feng turned around a sharp bend, bringing him to the eastern side of the mountain. There was a large waterfall on the back of the mountain, dropping into a deep ravine. The words Immortal Falls were carved into a large boulder beside it. The rushing water struck the bottom, tumbled into a winding ravine wrapped around the sister peak on the right, and descended into wide, rocky rapids that were impossible to cross. The ravine separated the front of the mountain, where Zeng Xi’s army gathered from the back and rugged valleys and passageways snaked into the distance. The terrain was complicated and dangerous with layer upon layer of cliffs hovering over a network of narrow paths. No one would lead an army in there without maps and local guides. If Ming could lower herself into those valleys, she should be able to escape.

  There were two small paths and one main path leading up the mountain. The terrain was steep—it wouldn’t be practical to scale the rocks. A wooden bridge crossed in front of the smaller waterfall, connecting the trail Feng was on to an even smaller trail leading to the peak. That bridge could be destroyed to hold off the enemy, but Zeng Xi came with siege ladders, which could be used as crossing platforms.

  The red mansion was not far above Feng. He charged up the stairs, aware that no one was guarding the entrance. Through the round opening was a large courtyard paved with fine stone. No one patrolled the grounds. Feng stayed close to the red walls wrapped around the main mansion. He rushed toward the side of the structure, careful not to step on anything that would announce his presence. He decided to go to a side window for a closer look.

  There were voices inside, angry voices. He recognized Ming’s and perhaps Iron Spider’s, but the majority of the shouting came from a group of men. They were speaking in a foreign tongue, and he didn’t understand a word of what they said.

  Ming shouted something, followed by the sound of a man shrieking in agony. She killed someone in there. Feng secretly hoped it was the fiancé. He broke into a run toward a side window, arriving right before the screams of the man died down.

  Feng drew his dagger and punctured the waxed parchment. He pried through the paper with a finger and pressed his eye against the opening to peer in.

  There were many people inside, more than he could count—almost all of them men. Ming stood in the middle of the floor with Iron Spider behind her, and armed warriors surrounded them, each with their weapons drawn but none of them with the courage to attack the leader of the Venom Sect. Ming’s hands were on her hips, her silver whip still curled and dangling from her belt.

  A row of old men were seated against the wall, their eyes closed. They leaned against the backs of their chairs, immobilized, perhaps already dead. They were dressed in fine robes, and their faces were deathly pale. These must be the elders who were somehow captured and incapacitated.

  Ming was shouting at someone in front of her, a young man of good looks and tall stature dressed in blue robes made of precious fabric. A sword with a jeweled handle hung from his side. He, too, was foreign. The fiancé. Feng’s mind wandered to the blood-stained clothes on his own body, and he wanted to withdraw from the window lest Ming saw him outside. Her fiancé was so much prettier than he was. At least his forehead wasn’t so big compared to Feng’s.

  There was a pile of wood on the floor, not far from where Ming stood. The horns! He could not believe his luck. The fiancé had confiscated the horns from the watchtower and dumped them on the floor like rubbish, leaving them in plain view and well within reach.

  Feng searched for something to use as a distraction so he could slip in unnoticed, aware that the room was full of great martial artists far superior to his own skills. He needed a ruse, a good one that would cause mass confusion and hysteria.

  He almost broke into laughter when he thought of what he would do. When seeking a means to deceive, the key is to tell the truth. Perhaps one day a scribe would write this into the military classics.

  Feng drew a smoke bomb from his inner pockets. He moved away from the window, ran as hard as he could toward the front of the building, and shouted, “I have the Red Crest! I have the Red Crest!”

  He stood at a slight angle outside the main doors and waited. The doors flew open. Feng threw the smoke bomb into the room, and without a moment to spare he ran for the other side of the building toward a window close to the horns.

  Feng smashed through the wooden frame of the window and leaped in. The men inside were shouting to each other, some rushing to guard the opened doors, the rest holding their weapons poised and forming a tighter circle around Ming.

  Feng grabbed a horn by the wall. Ming was watching him, despite the threat around her, despite the gleaming weapons moving closer and closer to her. Feng’s legs felt weak, and hundreds of little knives jabbed his stomach. She was happy to see him. Her eyes told him everything.

  He could not indulge in the luxury of her longing gaze. Before anyone else knew a stranger had entered the room, Feng lifted the instrument to his lips and emitted two short blasts followed by a long one.

  Ming spun around and glared at the tall man in blue robes.

  Her fiancé shouted something in their language, and his men rushed to seal the doors. Ming’s face darkened. She lifted a tense finger and pointed at him.

  Feng lifted the horn and repeated his signal—two short blasts followed by a long one—and instantly human voices swept across the mountain in response to his warning.

  The fiancé turned to Feng like a coiled snake pressed into a corner about to spring on its enemy.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Feng ignored him. He was about to die here, the great Tiger General’s son sacrificing his life for a snake-worshipping cult. How much more shameful could it be?

  He lifted the horn and emitted another short blast, then another. He should have died with
his friends; perhaps his sister would still be alive.

  Ming’s fiancé screamed, drew the long sword from his side, and shot across the room in two massive steps, closing the distance at such speed that Feng could not hope to react. He lowered the horn, glared at his assailant, and waited for the sword to rip into his body.

  Then, without warning a dark blade protruded from the fiancé’s chest. He gasped in anger and shock, fresh blood spewing from his mouth. The muscles on his face clenched together in a horrible expression, a ghastly manifestation of hate and disappointment reflected in his bulging eyes.

  Ming had fired her silver whip into his back so hard the blade at the end of the whip pierced all the way through his torso and reemerged at the front. His lung was shredded open.

  Just as quickly his men closed in on Ming.

  “Why?” Ming asked, yanking the blade out of his body. Her fiancé dropped to his knees.

  The leader of the Venom Sect spun around to kill. Her metal whip drew back, coiling under her arm while her left hand produced a three-pronged spike also blackened with poison. Her nimble steps were heavy and rooted.

  Ming’s enemies approached her from all sides at once. The blackened head of her whip shot out, slashing her enemies with the ease of a butterfly dancing in a field of daffodils while she closed the distance between herself and her foes, reaching grappling range at incredible speed and piercing the men with the three-pronged spike. Those grazed by her poisoned weapons lost all appetite for battle and stumbled back, clutching their throats and straining for air.

  Feng dropped to the floor and lay on his side, lifted the horn to his lips, and emitted yet another signal of the invasion. The shouts outside became louder.

  Iron Spider attacked the mutiny from a safe distance like a true elder of the Venom Sect, launching poison needles, floor spikes, and smoke from afar. No one except the elders and the master was immune to poison. In a moment the men were stumbling against each other, dazed, intoxicated, and hallucinating. Ming swept her metal whip across their throats in short, hungry strokes, and they fell with gruesome wounds.