The destroyed ruins of his former monastery hovered high and silent on the distant mountaintop, but its essence lived on within his soul. Day by day he methodically prepared spirit, mind, and body, for a challenge he sensed inevitably drawing closer.
The oldest scrolls were painted more than a thousand years before, from the time of the First Emperor. One particular passage veiled in the prophetic tradition held his attention, and he meditated daily upon its words. He soared with wings of wisdom to places of light and darkness and ascended toward the serenity of understanding, duty, and acceptance.
“From setting sun a man doth come, beaten by the rain,
Drawing sword from stone, he will rise through blood and pain.
From slave to king, to free the beast, that lies beneath the hill,
Eternity the last embrace and Death must drink its fill.”
Mah Lin listened to the raven’s call, and within the echoes of its fading cry, the priest heard much more.
The day that she had finished making her father his richly colored full silk robes marked the creation of a new weaving, a cloth long ago finished and only now begun. “Selah,” he said, “a man soon arrives. Since the beginning of time we three were woven together. Make ready the cart, and give the raven an extra tasty morsel. We must leave to collect him.” Selah was surprised by the news, but obeyed without question.
She set to her tasks with a smile, intrigued by her father’s enigmatic tone and amused that he had noticed she had taken to feeding the bird that had long claimed them as its own.
Slaughter And Steel
By the glow of moonlight, the battalion quietly snaked its way up the temple mountain like a great mythical beast. Some of the old veterans felt that the young general’s rise up through the ranks had been far too rapid. He was not well seasoned in battle, and the few he had fought had been little more than skirmish.
Although competent, to those that knew well the temper of war, disturbing traits had surfaced. This handsome general chose his opposition carefully. These lesser adversaries were dispatched cruelly. By taking as few risks as possible he had moved up in the military machine, for as the old ones often joked, “Ambition and avarice are easier to quietly promote than to loudly rectify.”
The emperor had learned that this monastery held the secret of the world’s finest blades. He had watched his young general test one recently acquired. The spring steel swords that were the standard issue of his troops snapped like twigs under its onslaught. Before an army of these, nothing could stand. He had given these monks the honor and opportunity of gifting their country, but citing religion, they had politely refused. Strong principle coupled with superior arms is a dangerous combination, and not one that could be allowed to survive.
The general’s past had secured his first large assignment. He knew the layout of the temple grounds. Karma—this direction had not been the intended one, yet it brought him back to this place. He knew that these monks were not a simple collection of spiritual misfits. He knew that they practiced martial arts but that their way was one of peace.
His rejection by the soft weak abbot, and the smell of the dirty boy returned vividly to his mind and vengeance ruled his judgment. He hated this place and the monks within its walls. Their piety, wisdom, and peace had long ceased to hold a place within his world. They had been given the option of life but instead chose death, and now they would taste the bitterness that faith and devotion bring.
By dawn the general and his entire battalion had taken up their position on the mountaintop. The armor of horse and rider greedily drank in the new morning rays and reflected nothing. Not a single bird sang out as five hundred heavily armed and battle seasoned soldiers waited for the order. Surprise would not be necessary for they held the overwhelming strength of number. Although a mundane operation, it would not be joyless.
The general carefully reviewed his mission one last time. He alone knew what would be done. All the monks must die, and the great library would be carried back and handed triumphantly to the emperor; extermination and presentation. With his first gesture the heavy oak wood of the temple gate was set ablaze. He smiled as the fires were lit against doors that had once been closed in his face. The smoke from the wood stacked upon them curled frantically skyward, from black to white and whiter still, until angry flames burst forth to do their work. Within the hour the protective gateway was weakened and breeched, the soldiers poured in and the slaughter began.
Not even the most battle hardened expected the resistance they met. In an instant what the general thought their strength had become their weakness. They fell by the score, cut down by monk steel like wheat in a summer’s field. They stepped and slipped on their fallen comrades pushed forward by the weight of their sheer numbers. The void left by absent birdsong was filled that morning by the nightmarish screams of the dying soldiers. Inevitably the gore robed monks began to fall, and of them, not one cried out.
He sat upon his horse and for most of the conflict stayed well back and out of harm’s way. For him appearance was everything. In the eyes of his men he must seem to be strong when he knew he was weak, he must seem to be brave when he knew he was fearful, and must seem to be clear when all thought was confusion. The steed beneath him jostled without direction as, with sword in hand, the general shouted meaningless orders to his falling soldiers.
He wore his bravado like a loud and boastful cape; a cape that he hoped hid from his men the sum of all of his fears. He was prepared for softness, but instead faced hard warriors. These men did not die like lambs, but fought with a skill that the general had never been allowed to know. Victory had become a battle of attrition.
All the monks that fell that fateful morning fought and died like true warriors, but even in the company of these heroes one monk stood above the rest. With strength, skill, and courage, this singular monk inspired his brothers throughout the battle. He held his ground on a growing pile of bodies, while the remnants of his monastic order fell one by one. Eventually, only this one still lived, and the storm of battle raged solely around him. He was the last of his order.
His silver blade flashed through flesh and sunlight, its razor edge the border of life and death.
Revenge
Recognition struck like a thunder clap. He knew this monk. His features had changed little—he could still smell the dirty little boy.
Even from horseback the general had to look up at the sole survivor. The monk fought like a wild animal high upon the hill of those who had fallen under his blade. Steel moved too fast around the monk to be seen, but on the slower moving hilt of the young monk’s sword, the general glimpsed a pentagram within a circle.
The face of the monk was almost completely covered by the blood of those that had tried to take his life. The vivid colors, the smell of dying, the sounds of agony; these were memories seared into the mind of the general. But it was the eyes of the monk, eyes that spoke of true power that branded the general’s very soul.
Amid the chaos of war and destruction the general saw a man at peace. In the chilling heart of combat he witnessed monks inspired and emboldened by this man’s true courage. He saw men follow without question. No amount of blood could obscure the terrible truth: this monk was everything that he was not, and everything that he had wanted, all his life, to be.
Like a jackal he waited until the monk was fighting with the strongest and largest soldier in his command. With the monk engaged face to face with the massive soldier, horse and rider moved in quietly from behind. For the task at hand, timing was everything.
The monk continued to fight with a strength that verged on legendary. The general paused while his archers took their positions, and then he shouted the order to fire. Horse and general charged forward and upward to take the head. He moved quickly now to silence the voice of inner demons as he charged toward glory.
To the eye all three things happened at the same time. Ten arrows hit their mark, the last sweep of the falling monk’s blade cut t
hrough the huge soldier’s weapon and found the heart, and the blade of the general was launched upon its deadly journey to an unprotected neck. But at the edge of life and death, time slows and events that seem simultaneous unfold in separate clarity.
Mah Lin did not see the severed tip of the giant’s saber flying past his shoulder for the arrows landed and his body dropped. He did not sense the impending blow to his neck, nor hear the aspiring assassin behind him scream and fall backwards as that forged steel tip sliced through his face, cleaving bone from sinew. He did not feel the hulking weight of adversary crush out his last breath, whispering through arrow holes as it crashed down and buried him.
The lower jaw clung precariously by shredded flesh to its place upon the general’s features. It tried to form the order to find and remove the library, but it could not. Through the pain and the fog of seething hatred, the general looked back to where the last monk had stood. The giant lay dead and fallen, and the monk as if by magic had vanished into the thin morning air.
The general surrendered to the darkness.
In The Eyes Of An Emperor
In the aftermath of battle the monk was nowhere to be found. This ruined monastery was now a place of fear and phantom. In great haste what remained of the battalion left the mountaintop. The dead, even their own, were left where they had fallen, and the living were gone before the sun had set. They tied their wounded general securely to his horse, and for the next three days and nights he slipped fitfully in and out of consciousness. The image of the fearless monk never left his mind. It haunted him in his delirium—the specter of his own inadequacy.
While this young general lay recovering from his open wound, the emperor’s own men had reported that the scrolls had not been found. There may have once been a library, but a pile of bodies and barren shelves were all that remained. The empty structure was carefully combed from floor to ceiling for any clue, but the timeless collection of sacred knowledge had vanished as though it had never been. The black feather of a nameless bird went unnoticed by the men who searched unsuccessfully for scroll, silk, and parchment.
The vision of the Son of Heaven does not compare to the sight of an ordinary man. For the sake of a people, it must be clear from western desert to eastern ocean and from icebound northland to wild and humid southern jungles. The emperor stared through the wounded soldier that lay before him. He assessed the condition of the butchered general, and with his mind’s acumen he surveyed the success and failure of the mission.
The monks were dead. The threat of their great metal was now removed. The method of its making destroyed beyond any skill of resurrection. The loss of this art was a regrettable casualty of war, but the security that it afforded balanced well against the deficit. The mind of the emperor did not stop there. It browsed within the missing library, and it hungered.
Throughout the ages its secrets had been guarded by the cloistered hands that held it, its reputation grown freely in rumor. This was not just the usual collection of monastic sutras and scripture. It was so much more. In reverent tones it was said to hold the wisdom of the ages, from both this land and places far away. Its fading pages were thought to have descended from the time of the First Emperor. It was whispered that among its yellowed parchments, the arts of war rested peacefully beside the way of enlightenment, and that even the enigma of immortality was recorded on its pages. Like the methods of their metal this treasure, too, was gone, but this loss could never find a balance.
The general moaned, fighting his way to consciousness only to feel the sting of his emperor’s words. “You are an efficient killing machine, but much was trampled in the fray.” The swollen eyes of the general blinked slowly as the emperor continued. “You are now the Supreme Commander, but do not dare think this a promotion for a job well done. It is not. Consider it merely a gift from the times. The people need heroes, and luckily your face destroyed in the service of your emperor has made you one.”
It was officially recorded as a successful completion of mission, but it had taken one hundred and seventy three lives to do it. More accurate but unrecorded was the truth that under the direction of an ambitious and untested leader, the strength of the enemy had been grossly underestimated, and that the value of what had not been recovered far outweighed the measure of anything that had been gained.
The pain of the emperor’s harsh rebuke and the emptiness of his movement up the ranks did not fade with the healing of his wounds. The commander, however, embraced the power of his title despite its dubious origin. When the wounded leader had healed enough to slur an order, a permanent sentry was posted at the site, but no order for search or salvage was ever issued.
The presence of a guard assured the new commander that the cinders of truth would never again be stirred, and he hoped that by taking no plunder he might seal up the ghosts of his past. For the next twelve years, the commander’s man on the mountain had nothing of any consequence to report.
Old Wounds Reopen
The commander had changed much in the twelve years since the slaughter. His oily black hair sat in a topknot, and he had grown a beard to try and hide his ruined face. The armor that he now wore at all times was ornate and polished. His memory of that day had not faded or softened. The dead monks upon the mountaintop were silent and forgotten by most, but the figure of the last spectral monk still haunted the general. Hatred had taken root in the darkness of his soul and grown like a twisted leafless tree.
The sentry entered the hall of the commander and dropped in servitude like a stone. He moved forward on hand and knee, face to ground, grateful at least not to look at the grotesquely slashed features of the commander’s face. He made his factual report of all that he had seen from his hiding place seven days before. He spoke of monk, woman, and wagon, the collecting of bones and the building of their resting place. He spoke of the prayers for the dead. Still prone, he finished his monotone and waited to be dismissed.
He did not hear the sound of the Supreme Commander’s sword being drawn or the sound of his own severed head hitting the cold stone floor. He heard only the thud of a fated rock, dropped on the ashes of a distant and dying night fire many miles away.
The execution was justified by sighting cowardice, lack of initiative, and for not knowing the exact direction of travel. In truth, however, the commander was undone. To hear the monk still lived, and was indeed a mortal man, exhumed the buried demons of his past, and hatred had driven him. He felt the pain again as if his wounds were fresh. His right hand squeezed the razor sharp sword tip that hung like a jewel from a chain around his neck. He stared back into the darkness of events long past, oblivious to the blood dripping from hand to floor and joining the dark pool forming around the sentry’s headless body.
For every two eyes there is one mouth, and three full seasons would pass before a tale found its way to the ears of the commander. He listened intently to the story of a monk of great stature and a fair young woman far to the west claiming and transporting the human refuse of war’s far-flung campaign. This thieving monk from first meeting had come away the victor. He had stolen his place as aspiring novice, robbed him of his greatest victory, and now purloined the spoils of war. The commander sat, a hollow disfigured leader in a command that he had not earned by deed or merit.
He waited impatiently over the next season for more information, but none came. Here the trail would grow cold, not a whisper not a rumor, as if the earth itself had swallowed them up. The commander found this silence deafening. He knew by instinct that where this monk rested the scrolls of the lost library would be found, and that his redemption in the eyes of his emperor lay in their recovery.
First Blood
Amid the rugged beauty of the highlands, forge and stable were sheltered under one thatched roof. While most of the men were raiding, the orphaned child stayed with the smith and worked as best he could for a meal and a sleeping place within the straw. Not family as most would know it, but these were all he had.
Some
were kind most were not, his survival hinged on mistrust. At night the boy moved well among the men, filling cups when most were too drunk to walk or pour. He had his niche, slicing gracefully through the darkness serving wine and listening to the rambling stories of the warriors. At an early age he knew well to be useful, but not visible. He could tell by tone when to attend and when to escape, for mood in camp could change with a swallow. The boy learned well how to seize opportunity, for in the company of brigands and mercenaries mead loosened purse strings as well as tongues.
The men had fought that day, a bloody skirmish if the talk was to be believed. When coupled with a full moon, the boy knew well to be vigilant. By firelight he felt the eyes of a tattooed warrior upon him and responded cautiously to the signal for more drink. The small boy did not like the way this one looked at him or the way that he smiled when his cup had been filled. He dodged the arm reaching drunkenly through the darkness and moved with haste to serve in the comfort of others.
The night concluded without event. The boy had done his work well and was the last to find sleep, for the men now lay snoring around the fading fire. He found a private place away from the group. Standing before the small tree, he felt the soft touch of its wet leaves on his face and shivered as he released his water. Tired from his long day, he looked forward to the quiet warmth of his nest.
From the blackness the man pounced.
The cry that would have issued was silenced as all wind was crushed from his delicate body by the weight of his foe. He could smell the man. Alcohol and sweat mingled with the stench of bad intentions. A tattooed hand gripped the top of his trousers and roughly tried to pull them down. The boy knew what was upon him, what pushed his face into the night mud drowning him silently beneath the mire. He knew what rape was.
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