Jeff Stone_Five Ancestors 05

by Eagle

  Fu wrestled the qiang from the fourth guard's hands, and Malao put both guards to sleep with his monkey stick.

  Ying unwrapped his chain whip from the end of the third guard's qiang and put the whip back around his waist. He pointed to the remaining unfired qiang Fu was holding and said, “Give that to me.”

  Fu growled and took a step back.

  Hok gave Fu a cold glance. “Do it, Fu,” she said.

  Fu handed the qiang over.

  Ying slung one of the qiangs over his shoulder and pulled the second one tight across his chest.

  “Follow me,” Ying hissed. “No matter what happens, do not stop walking.”

  “What are we going to—” Malao began.

  “No questions!” Ying snapped. He turned and walked away. Behind him, he heard the others scramble and follow.

  When Ying reached the bend where he'd first heard the guards, he turned the corner without breaking stride. The smoke was quite thick now, still flowing toward the exit door. Perfect. The exit door was still open. He would no longer need the keys.

  Ying stopped and laid the key ring down, then quickly looked over the qiangs. The pans were full of powder, and the flints were locked firmly in place at the ends of the hammers. He could only hope that each had a lead ball rammed down its barrel.

  Ying slung one of the qiangs across his back, raised the other to his shoulder, and headed for the exit door.

  Ying strode through the tunnel exit door with all the confidence of a seasoned general, smoke wafting around him in the hot night air. Three guards stood in a cluster fifteen paces from him in a narrow alley behind the burning fight club.

  The men stopped in mid-conversation and stared for several moments through the darkness before one of them had the sense to try to raise his qiang.

  “Put that down!” Ying barked, swinging his own qiang toward the man. “All of you, lay your weapons on the ground!” Ying fanned his qiang back and forth between the guards. The first guard lowered his weapon. The others followed suit.

  Ying continued forward, making eye contact with each of the men. They were young, not much older than him, and probably unseasoned. He bared his pointed teeth and flicked out his forked tongue in the dim firelight. All three men flinched.

  Definitely unseasoned, Ying thought. He knew that any two of them could have raised their qiangs and fired, and he would certainly have fallen. However, one of them would most certainly have fallen, too. None of them was willing to take that chance.

  “Lie down!” Ying spat.

  The guards looked tentatively at one another. One of them glanced toward the exit doorway. “Look!” he said. “It's the girl from the pit arena—”

  “Quiet!” Ying hissed, his finger on his qiang's trigger.

  The man closed his mouth. Ying nodded at the cobblestones, and the guard dropped to the ground. Ying fanned his qiang across the other guards again, and they dropped to the ground, too.

  “Fu! Malao!” Ying snapped. “Pick up the qiangs.”

  Malao scampered through the doorway and grabbed a qiang that was longer than he was tall. Fu grabbed the other two.

  “Let's go,” Ying said. “Hok, lead the way.”

  Hok stepped around Ying, holding Seh's hand. Seh's arm brushed against Ying's elbow, and Ying felt something move beneath Seh's sleeve. A snake?

  Ying smacked his lips. He could use some fresh snake blood. But not right now.

  “Count to one hundred before you even think about getting up,” Ying said to the guards.

  The guards began to count quietly, “Yi … er … san … ”

  Ying backed away quickly staying close to the others. As they neared the point where the alley met the main road, Hok asked, “Which way?”

  “Left,” Ying replied. “Then we will make a quick right and another right. We aren't going far.”

  They stepped out of the alley into pure pandemonium. People were racing back and forth along a wide street that skirted the burning fight club. Everyone was carrying armloads of items out of the surrounding buildings in case the fire spread.

  Ying knew they would be safe in this melee. He lowered his qiang and let Hok continue to lead as he kept watch across their flank. He spotted no one suspicious, and no one took notice of them. As far as anyone was concerned, they, too, were simply fleeing the flames with valuables.

  They soon reached the spot Ying had in mind. It was a narrow alleyway slick with slime and reeking of open sewer. It was approximately forty paces long and five paces wide, with a three-story building surrounding it on three sides. Stained windowsills dotted the buildings from top to bottom. All the windows were closed tight to ward off the stench of human waste and other filth that was regularly tossed out of them.

  “What is this place?” Hok asked.

  “Home,” Ying replied.

  “You live here?” Malao said, plugging his nose. He lifted one of his bare feet and wiggled his toes. “This place makes my feet smell as sweet as water lilies! Yuck! Why would anybody live here?”

  “Exactly,” Ying said. “Now, lean the qiangs against a wall and leave.”

  Malao gave Hok a questioning look.

  “Do as he says,” Hok said. “We need to be on our way. We still have much work to do.”

  “Work?” Malao asked, leaning his qiang against a wall.

  “We have to find someone,” Hok replied. “His name is Charles.”

  Fu leaned his qiangs next to Malao's and growled, “Not the round eye?”

  Hok nodded. “Yes, the Dutch boy.”

  “Why would you help a foreigner?” Ying asked as he gathered up the three qiangs plus the two he carried and headed for a back corner of the alley. He placed the qiangs beneath a large flea-ridden blanket.

  “Charles is my friend,” Hok said matter-of-factly “Friends help each other.”

  Ying scoffed. “A foreigner as a friend? They are nothing but trouble.”

  “You wouldn't understand anything about friendship,” Fu said. “We all know what you did to your only friend, Luk—”

  Ying spat and turned toward Fu. “How dare you say that?”

  Fu shrugged.

  “Do not disrespect me, Pussycat,” Ying said, walking toward Fu. “Do not disrespect Luk's memory, either.”

  Seh stepped in front of Fu, his blind eyes seeking Fu's face. Ying saw the snake beneath Seh's robe begin to quiver.

  “That's enough, Fu,” Seh said. “We will leave now.”

  “Yes,” Hok added, stepping forward and placing her hands on Fu's shoulders. “We all know what happened to Luk was an accident. Let us leave.”

  “It was not an accident,” Fu growled.

  Ying felt his heart rate begin to rise. “Are you looking for a fight, Pussycat?” Ying asked. “If so, you've come to the right place.”

  Seh turned toward Ying and put his hands up as if to ward him off. Ying walked straight into them, pressing his chest against Seh's palms. “Would you like to dance with me, too, Seh?”

  “I'm not afraid of you,” Seh replied. “But I'm not looking for a fight, if that is what you mean.”

  Ying glanced at the snake outlined beneath Seh's sleeve. It was moving toward Seh's wrist. It had been a long time since Ying had savored fresh snake blood. He smacked his lips and reached for Seh's arm.

  A slender blue and black head lashed out from Seh's sleeve. Ying stepped backward, pulling his right hand out of the way while swinging his left hand forward in an eagle-claw fist. He had caught many snakes this way.

  Seh must have sensed Ying's movements because he twisted around, jerking his arm and the snake out of Ying's reach. Ying's left hand continued forward, connecting with the small of Seh's back.

  Seh lunged away from Ying, but Ying grabbed hold of Seh's sash. The sash came loose, and something tumbled to the ground from beneath Seh's robe. Ying glanced down and his eyes widened. It was a scroll.

  Ying dove toward the scroll like a bird of prey after a garden snake, but a tiny hand got th
ere first.

  Malao let out a screech and leaped at one of the walls, out of Ying's reach, the scroll in one hand. Ying watched Malao grip a stained windowsill with his free hand and hoist himself up, then spring from windowsill to windowsill, higher and higher, until he was on the roof of the building.

  Malao looked down at Ying and giggled, waving the scroll over his head. Blood trickled from the wound in his shoulder, but he didn't seem to notice.

  Hok stared coldly at Ying. “Do not try that again. If you attempt another attack, you will face all of us.”

  Ying hissed. He pointed up at Malao. “Is that a dragon scroll?”

  Fu took a step toward Ying. “What if it is?”

  “Then it belongs to me,” Ying replied. “Hand it over.”

  “Why don't you fly up there and get it yourself?” Fu challenged. “Or did somebody clip your wings recently? That attack was pitiful.”

  Ying snarled, and Hok stepped between him and Fu. Ying locked eyes with Hok. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Keeping peace,” Hok said. She glanced up at Malao, then back at Ying. “I have a proposition. You know as well as I do that you'll never catch Malao, even if he is injured. I might be willing to show you that scroll, though, if you agree to help us find my friend Charles.”

  “Show it to me?” Ying said. He shook his head. “You will give it to me.”

  “I can't do that,” Hok replied. “It's not mine to give. However, a few moments with the scroll will be enough to satisfy you. I know how intensely you've trained in the ways of memory enhancement.”

  “I am good,” Ying said. “But not that good. No one is. The one dragon scroll I do have took days to commit to memory.”

  “This one is different,” Hok said. “It's much simpler.”

  “How simple?”

  “It is a map.”

  Ying blinked. “A map?”

  “Why are you telling him this?” Seh asked.

  “Because we need his help,” Hok replied.

  “We don't need it that bad,” Seh said.

  “I believe we do,” Hok said.

  Ying stared at both of them, then at Fu, and finally up at Malao. It was clear that none of them had any idea where the map led. If they did, they would never have told another soul. Least of all, him.

  Hok looked at Ying. “I can tell by your reaction that you are interested. Do we have a deal?”

  Ying paused and a drop of water fell onto his nose. He glanced up into the night sky and several more pelted his carved face. It was beginning to rain.

  Seh cleared his throat. “We need to take cover. I sense this rain will be heavy.”

  Ying looked over at Malao again, a tiny figure fidg eting on the rooftop. Hok was right. He would never catch Malao, especially in his own weakened state.

  Ying nodded to Hok. “We have a deal.”

  Hok wiped rain from her brow. “Then it is agreed. I propose we meet at the wharf in two days’ time. There is a small, well-cared-for skiff docked alongside the large seafaring vessels in the central section of docks. It is clearly visible from the main street. I will meet you there just after sunset. I will wear a disguise.”

  “Show me the map first,” Ying said.

  “No. We can finalize the details when we next meet.”

  Ying was about to argue when he heard Malao scurrying about the rooftop. Malao called down in a whisper, “Soldiers are coming!”

  Ying frowned at Hok. “Get out. I'll see you in two days. Turn right out of this alley and follow the street for several It. It leads to the river.”

  Hok nodded and signaled to Malao to follow her from above. She disappeared into the gloom with Seh on her arm and Fu at her side.

  Ying hurried over to the corner where he'd placed the qiangs and sank down, taking a deep breath of stagnant, sewer-fumed air. He stifled a cough and pulled the wet, tattered blanket over himself and the qiangs, then closed his eyes.

  Ying was confident that he wouldn't be found in this dismal location. He was even more confident that he would not get what he needed most—sleep. Between the talk of memorizing a map and the mention of Luk, Ying knew sleep would be impossible.

  It seemed sleepless nights were the price he would forever pay for mastering the one thing that only he and Grandmaster had ever managed to master: memory intensification. It was a powerful skill, but with it came a great burden.

  The trouble with remembering everything was that you never forgot anything. Even if you wanted to.

  Ying was fourteen years old when his best friend, Luk, died. Killed by a qiang as Ying stood and watched. Ying seemed doomed to replay the scene over and over in his mind, trying to determine if he might have done something differently. The memories were especially vivid after smelling the smoke from a freshly fired qiang, or after someone had mentioned Luk's name. Tonight, Ying had experienced both. He knew he would never be able to dam the flood of images, so he let them flow.

  The mission was supposed to be simple. Sneak into a house while the owner was away and retrieve some documents. Simple enough for fourteen-year-old Ying and his fifteen-year-old best friend, Luk, to handle while a group of warrior monks waited more than a li away.

  Ying had memorized the home's floor plan. He knew exactly where to go. Luk was there to kick down locked doors with his mighty back-kick, perfected by a lifetime of deer-style kung fu training.

  Simple.

  However, Grandmaster's information had been flawed. The house wasn't empty.

  Ying had never seen anything like the object the home's owner was holding when Luk kicked down the first door. It was a long metal tube partially wrapped in wood, braced tightly against the man's shoulder. He would never forget the terrific BANG! accompanied by a burst of flame and a huge cloud of smoke. Luk falling to the ground with a large hole in his side.

  Grandmaster should have warned them about the qiangs. He should have warned them about a lot of things. But he never did, because this was his way.

  Ying still completed the mission, personally handing the documents to the Emperor. The Emperor asked what had happened to Luk, and Ying found he could do little more than shrug. When the Emperor asked what had happened to the homeowner, Ying showed the Emperor the bits of flesh wedged beneath his finger nails and the bloodstains on his robe. No further explanation was needed. The Emperor patted Ying on the back and told him if he ever wanted to leave Cangzhen and make a name for himself, Ying should contact one of his palaces. Ying said he just might.

  When Ying returned to Cangzhen, everyone acted as if nothing had happened. Luk was no longer with them in the dining hall or the practice hall or the sleeping quarters, but life continued as usual. Ying could hardly control his rage. The only person he cared about, the only person he trusted, was gone.

  No one understood Ying's friendship with Luk, the aggressive eagle and the timid deer. But it made perfect sense to Ying. They were yin and yang. Opposites that balanced one another out. Luk had helped Ying calm down whenever he became angry, while Ying had taught Luk to stand up for himself. Even so, Luk had never actually hurt anybody. Not even a mosquito. Luk should never have been part of the mission in the first place.

  Ying complained to the senior monks, but they didn't listen. The more questions he asked, the more they turned their backs to him.

  Ying realized that he was nothing more than a tool. Just another weapon in Grandmaster's growing arsenal. The more he thought about it, the more Ying realized that he and the other Cangzhen monks were simply muscle to be flexed at Grandmaster's whim. Grandmaster had been making Ying's life miserable as far back as he could remember, and for what? To make Ying a better person? No. Grandmaster had been doing it to serve his own interests.

  Grandmaster had been responsible for sending Luk to his death. Grandmaster had also killed Ying's father in front of him when he was just a toddler and had driven his mother away. Grandmaster had taken Ying to Cangzhen, changed his name, and raised him to be something he wasn't, all in a
n effort to make Cangzhen stronger.

  Ying's rage intensified. Grandmaster had stripped him of his identity. He'd taken away the few people Ying had ever been close to. Grandmaster had ruined Ying's life, leaving him with nothing. Not even a sense of who he was, or who he was supposed to be. Ying would never forget Luk's final words, “Goodbye, Sau-long. I hope you find yourself. I hope you learn to trust another.”

  Ying knew he would never trust another soul, but he was determined to find himself, even if it meant looking under the body of every man in China.

  Ying went to see the Emperor.

  The Emperor sent Ying to the fight clubs, where Ying thrived. Ying had felt invisible at Cangzhen, but in the fight clubs he quickly made a name for himself. Still, it wasn't enough. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be feared.

  In a city called Xuzhou, there was a foreign fighter from a faraway island. The man had deep grooves carved into his cheeks, nose, and forehead, and the grooves were tinted a deep green. He looked menacing, and his looks earned him instant respect. Ying decided he wanted the same thing. He asked the foreigner to carve his face, but the foreigner laughed at him. He told Ying that the facial carving was for true warriors only.

  Ying attacked the man on the spot, breaking both the foreigner's hands in quick succession. Needless to say, the man didn't fight again for quite some time. Once his hands healed, he did as Ying asked.

  The foreigner told Ying that the lines he would carve would be dictated by Ying's inner spirit, and that no one could predict how it would turn out. After two days of excruciating carving and pigmenting—and a month of healing—the final result surprised the foreigner, but not Ying. Ying had been transformed into the dragon he always knew he was. He took his new identity a step further, sharpening his teeth and forking and elongating his tongue. For the first time, people saw his true self. And they ran. Ying loved it.

  Ying went on to win the Fight Club Championship and was appointed a major within the Emperor's ranks. His face was a powerful tool, striking fear into the hearts of the men he fought in the arenas and into the souls of the young men he commanded. Ying would simply curl back his lips, and his soldiers would jump over the moon if he told them to. They even took his direction on a suicide mission against Cangzhen Temple, where two thousand of his men went in and only two hundred came out. Several weeks later, he sent his remaining men on another suicide mission against the stronghold of the region's most powerful bandits. All he had had to do was scowl, and they had obeyed.