by Jeremy Han
“He is a Dong Chang agent,” Yang proudly declared, as though he was announcing a prized steed.
“An imperial agent," the shaggy haired man said with a low whistle. "Penalty for killing him won’t be nice.”
“How often do you get to kill a hated Eastern Depot man?” Yang replied like a business man offering a once-in-a-lifetime deal. “His head is my gift to you. By his blood, our deal is sealed. We can’t be deeper together than this.”
Yong Ju did not wait. He was not something to be traded for.
“GO TO HELL!”
His yell resounded in the small space and he was not afraid. He had faced worst than this. He attacked the bald man first, bringing his knee up and turning his hip with great speed as he thrust his leg forward with great power. It caught the Mongol bandit in the chest and slammed him into the wall with a loud thud. He swivelled in time to avoid the shaggy man's cleaving axe.
His own twin blades slashed, and Shaggy turned just in time to block with his axe. A loud clang echoed through the small room and sparks flew where the steel met. Yong had expertly moved out of the bald man's range so that he could fight Shaggy alone, but the two Mongols were not inexperienced. They read his game at once and changed their strategies.
The bald man attacked again, yelling a Mongol cry as his sabre slashed widely from left to right. Yong blocked it with one cutlass while he raised the other to stop the axe. He then somersaulted backwards to create distance before he attacked again. Spinning from the ball of his foot, he caught the shaggy haired man in a round house kick, and just as Baldy dashed in he swivelled so that the same leg changed direction in mid-air, his heel slamming into Shaggy’s face.
Yang howled maniacally with laughter. He was enjoying the spectacle, and the sound echoed across the small room where the men were fighting. They glanced up momentarily at the sound.
How much more exciting could this be! Mongols, the mortal enemies of the Han race engaged in a fight against a dreaded titan of the House of Zhu! Like hounds trying to take down a wolf.
Yang silently congratulated himself for his genius in creating such a scenario where those he despised were killing each other for his enjoyment.
Two dogs may not be enough, but three? What if the alpha joins the fight?
His entertainment was disrupted by a yell from the shaggy haired man.
“Get your ass down here! You are part of this too, you son of a rat!”
Yang grinned widely, as though he had been invited to a party, and with a great yell that filled the room like thunder he leapt off the second floor and landed right in the middle of the fight.
32
Yang’s sabre crashed onto his enemy’s twin blades, forming in an ‘X’ with the weight of his plunge, and Yong rolled with the force so that the mighty blow would not throw him off balance. Still, the vibration from the clash jarred the nerves in his hands, and he almost dropped his weapons. Baldy stole the opportunity to launch a kick at the fallen agent but Yong was faster, better skilled, and even on the floor he was on the offensive. He kicked out hard and caught the Mongol on his knee, and the bald man screamed an expletive in his native tongue as he withdrew in pain. He had been lucky, as if he had been another inch closer the blow would have crippled him.
Yong knew the other two were not far behind. He scuttled on his back like an overturned crab, kicking wildly at the same time until he could flip himself onto his feet, just in time to intercept the shaggy haired man's relentless attack. The Mongol looked like a wild man with his long hair sweeping back and forth. Yong heard the swish of the axe coming down and from the corner of his eye saw the massive assassin hacking downward at him.
No time to defend. Attack!
Yelling loudly to expel a great burst of energy Yong took on the bigger threat first. His twin blades slashed at Yang with a left-right motion, forcing the killer backward. He could not leave his back unguarded against the other Mongol, so he backhanded his right blade at the blurred shape of the attacking man. The cutlass ripped across Shaggy’s face, sliching through his flesh and blinding his right eye. He howled in pain, and in that split second of distractedness, Yang slammed the pommel of the sabre into Yong’s face.
Crack!
Yang had broken the agent’s jaw, and before Yong could block Yang’s other fist burrowed deep into his chest.
Thud!
The imperial agent could not breathe. It felt as though his entire chest had collapsed around the man's heavy fist. Yang enthusiastically pressed the attack, but Yong snapped out a kick in desperation, catching his attacker in the gut before he screamed as a burning pain seared through his arm like a rapidly spreading fire, all the way down to his fingers. There was a loud clang as he dropped the cutlass in his left hand, and the shaggy haired man howled triumphantly. It had been his axe that had cut deep into Yong’s shoulder.
Got to get out! Yong's mind desperately screamed, but he was trapped. He retreated into a corner as fresh red blood dripped down his useless arm, holding up his right hand with a single cutlass as his last deterrence.
“His ass is mine!” the bald man yelled at his comrades. “Back off!” His brownish teeth flashed in his joy. He was like a rat about to devour an animal it usually would not attack unless it was wounded, vulnerable.
“Come on then, you filthy Mongol!” Yong taunted through his broken jaw. There was still a lot of fight in him, and he was not about to let these men hasten him to his end. “Greet your grandpa Genghis and tell him on my behalf that you Mongols are back to living like animals again!”
Even in this state, and despite his brave words, his mind raced to make sense of the situation. How do I get out? Shit! Shit! Shit! What’s the point of luring me here? There must be a larger reason than just to kill me. What is it!?
Desperation cut off his thoughts. Something’s not right. I’m not seeing something.
Shaggy shrugged his shoulders at the bald man's claiming of their soon to be victim, backing off as the pain from his wounded eye stung. “Go get him," he taunted his friend, "and after I will have hamstrung like a useless old horse!”
The bald man attacked, and Yong’s singular blade flashed. He moved so fast that he was almost within the arc of Baldy’s slashing arm, trying hard to gut the Mongol with his shorter blade while he tried to finish the slash. Yang moved at the same time though, just as fast as Yong had, and he drove his sabre into the agent like a skewer holding a piece of meat before it was eaten. Even before Yong could scream in pain, the bald man struck. Yang’s timely thrust gave Baldy time to adjust the angle of his attack and he smashed the pommel into the agent’s face, knocking him out cold.
“Why didn’t you kill him?" Yang asked irritably. "I was holding him there for you like I promised.”
Baldy replied between pants, his chest heaving as the adrenaline of the fight dropped. “I appreciate the gift, but I would rather have him alive.”
“Imperial agents are better off dead. You’ll never know what these guys can do,” Yang asserted. He lowered his blade, his arm starting to sting with the exertion.
Shaggy came over and explained to the perplexed Yang. “You’ll see. When we are done with him, he will be quite dead.” To end the conversation, he clapped the assassin on the shoulder as a way of thanks. Then, each holding a leg, the two Mongols dragged the unconscious man away.
Yong tried to open his eyes, but they were heavy and felt leaded. Eventually, and only after a few more attempts he succeeded. His vision was terribly blurred, and his head spun like a top as he felt the sluggish, heavy feeling resulting from spilling too much blood. He coughed, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through his gut. He was not dead yet, but he was severely weakened, yet strangely, he realised that he was standing upright. In between heavy, ragged breaths he tried to recall the fight. He saw the big man jump off the railing and subsequently driving a heavy blade through his gut.
A hand grabbed his chin roughly, breaking him out of his thoughts.
“He’s alive,” the man with
the shaggy hair declared.
Yong looked around him. He was surrounded by a great host of warriors. Bonfires raged around them, illuminating their merciless faces. It looked as though they were conducting some sort of ritual, and he was their sacrifice.
“Good,” the bald man replied. He stretched out a hand, and someone handed him a bow. He knocked and shot four arrows, one at a time, in each cardinal direction. Once he had done this he intoned like a priest, “As the leader of this band, let me kill the ghosts of the earth who want us to lose this battle. This unlucky one, who represents the spirits, will take the defeat for us.”
He loosed the first arrow, and there was a zipping sound as it cut through the air before landing with a solid thud.
Yong screamed in pain as the first arrow struck him. Baldy did not shoot to kill him though. He was leaving him for the others. The point was to keep him alive for as long as possible, and the more men it took to kill the ‘ghost’, the better their fortune in combat would be. The brigands cheered, and the bald man handed the bow to his second-in-command. Shaggy, who by now had an eye-patch, took the bow, loosing another arrow into Yong who cried out in vain to the heavens. Then the next man, and the next repeated the action, and each shriek of agony brought a loud cheer.
“We Mongols must do this ritual every time before we go to war. It is called ‘Killing the ghost’. We believe that ghosts follow us, and they bring defeat, so the ghost must be killed. The ghost is represented by a prisoner who must die at the end of the ritual. Only then, could he bear the misfortune of defeat for us,” Baldy explained to Yang, adding, “Thanks for the gift.”
“I don’t care what you do as long as the agent is dead,” Yang muttered with his arms folded. His eyes gleamed as he watched the agent suffer, and his hatred for the Ming throne was momentarily salved by the imperial agent’s agony. But like a deep, dark well, there was an abundant reserve of abhorrence for those he blamed for his misery.
“Don’t worry,” the Mongol chuckled, “he will be quite dead at the end. Nobody survives the ritual to kill a ghost.”
Yong tried to look at his tormentors. Everything was ominously dark, or was his vision failing? It had gone surprisingly quiet, and though he could vaguely see the bandits killing him, he could no longer hear them. All he could hear was his own irregular breathing, and even that was getting softer. He felt weak and cold. His last thought was of the commander, and how upset he would be with Yong for failing. Ji Gang had never failed to drill into them the importance of fulfilling one’s mission, even at the cost of one’s life. He saw an image of the commander’s stern countenance, a finger lifted up like a sage, emphasising to his men how critical it was for the Eastern Depot to never fail.
I have… failed….
He lowered his head in despair, and breathed his last.
By the time they had finished the agent looked like a pin cushion. Copious amount of blood flowed from the multiple wounds, and he looked like he was wearing a dark red tunic. Yong Ju’s head lolled forward and a stream of blood dripped from his opened mouth. Baldy was right, Yang thought, no one could survive this.
He did not care about the superstition behind the act. all he wanted to ensure was the termination of this investigation into his activities, and he grinned with satisfaction at the sight of the slumped-over corpse. Once they had ascertained that their sacrifice was indeed dead the men erupted in cheer and song. Alcohol was shared, and the bandits drunk the night away in anticipation of a successful raid.
33
Ji Gang led the way down the gangway back and onto solid ground. It had been months since any of them stood on something that did not move. It felt good.
The Acrobat took a deep breath and muttered, “Ming air.”
Zhao Qi looked around, a strange sensation rising in his gut. Jia ‘home’ he thought to himself.
No matter what, the Ming lands were their home. Over the last fifteen years he had met many from the Ming who migrated voluntarily, but he was a fugitive. Given a choice he would not have left, and if given a choice he would not return, especially when his ally was the ruthless commander of the Eastern Depot. Given temporary reprieve, the fugitives were now on the side of the throne again.
Zhao looked around and saw imperial ships docked along the pier. Armed marines patrolled the area and Zhao tensed but they continued on. The patrol passed them, eyes ahead, marching smartly and ignoring the new arrivals. Ji Gang was not in any uniform, but anyone in this area must have been authorised.
“I don’t see the Treasure Ships here. Isn’t this place where Zheng He’s fleet sailed from?” he asked Ji Gang.
He referred to the famous grand admiral who brought the glory of the Ming throughout the known world. The eunuch admiral was the Yong Le's emperor confidante, but was also the man who had smuggled Jian Wen out of the empire on the Treasure Fleet during the sixth voyage.
Ji Gang paused for a while before replying, and the silence was enough to signal that something had happened to the admiral. “The Grand Admiral died two years ago at sea, on the seventh voyage.”
Zhao’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The seventh voyage?" he asked. "Just two years ago? The sixth was fifteen years ago.”
“The fleet was suspended after Yong Le died,” Ji Gang replied curtly, indicating his disapproval of what happened, and when Zhao and Li remained silently waiting, he continued. “Powerful factions in the government opposed the great exploits of the admiral, claiming it was a waste of silver. Yong Le’s oldest son, the Hong Xi emperor, banned the voyages, bowing to the pressure of the bureaucracy. It was only during the Xuan De emperor’s reign that the seventh voyage was willed by imperial decree. The fleet returned without the admiral. He had been buried at sea.”
Ji Gang had always know Zheng He had been involved in the fugitive emperor’s rescue, but he had no proof. He could not go to the emperor and accuse his confidante without hard evidence, but now that the eunuch admiral was dead, there was no more grudge to be held. Ji Gang had many enemies on the professional level but he was not a vengeful person, and he did not hold a debt if the fight was an impersonal one. There was no malice in his voice, instead he spat, muttering, “Bloody court officials.” The glob of spit hitting the ground emphasised his dislike, and without any prompting Ji Gang turned and spoke the words in his heart. Words he had kept there for fifteen years.
“I know Zheng He was your conspirator. I almost caught him. For a half-man, he was a tough nut. But you know...” he paused a moment, looking at both men, “I admired him. He was as good as you guys. We fought a clean fight at least. Two men in a battle of wits and strength. Unlike those back-stabbing bureaucrats and eunuchs.”
“What really happened?” Zhao asked as they walked. Li trailed a step behind his commander, but his ears were fully tuned into the conversation. All of them owed Zheng He their lives, and if the grand admiral had not committed that act of conscience none of them would have lived. The admiral’s fate was of utmost concern to them.
“Jealousy,” Ji Gang said simply, walking a few more steps before continuing. “Bureaucrats who could not see beyond their own position, and a eunuch who was jealous of Zheng He’s prestige. He was a contemporary of Zheng, a refugee from the south who had been castrated and brought to the court by Yong Le. However, it was only during the reign of Xuan De did he gain prominence. After Zheng He lost his patron when the Yong Le emperor returned to his ancestors, this eunuch by the name of Wang Jin petitioned for Zheng’s fleet to be mothballed and all his records destroyed to discourage others from following the footsteps of the great admiral. He could not accept a man more prominent than him.”
“But Xuan De allowed him one last voyage,” Li remarked.
“Yes, the emperor was not as stupid as his officials. He knew that an imperial power like the Ming could not keep its hold over its vassal states without an imposing presence, so he ordered the Admiral to conduct one more journey, and Zheng He died on it.” He continued with some degree of sceptic
ism, “From 'illness', they say.”
Both Zhao and Li remained silent as they reflected on what Ji Gang had said. There was nothing they could do. Their benefactor was already dead and they had another battle to fight, a conflict with no discernible form. As they exited the gate of the naval compound a carriage with no embellishments of rank or organisational flags awaited them. It was plain-looking, without status, like the secret service. The Eastern Depot was invisible like the wind. It could not be seen, but when it came it could overturn your life.
A page came forward and took their luggage, quietly and efficiently storing their weapons.
“Where are we heading to?” Zhao asked their host.
Ji Gang had to bend so that his bald head did not hit the ceiling of the carriage. “To a safe house. There, we will be briefed by my men on the status of their investigations. There is a lot to follow up on.” He added, “There, you will also get a chance to rest and eat, before we are summoned to her Majesty’s presence tonight.”
They heard a soft ‘Chuh!’ as the driver whipped the horse into action. The carriage moved off with a jerk, followed by the clack-clack-clack of the horse's shoes striking the paved road. Ji Gang had no interest in talking further, and he promptly fell asleep.
How strange, Zhao thought as he looked at the form of the sleeping man before him. Fifteen years ago he would have struck him dead where he slept. Now, he was allied to the man. But fifteen years ago, he would not have invited me to his carriage. How true the saying was that no enemy was permanent. He knew Ji Gang was ruthless and had a lot of blood on his hands, but in war, sometimes you could not choose your friends. At least the formidable commander of the Eastern Depot was not his enemy this time.
There can’t be a worst enemy than Ji Gang, or can there be?
It bothered Zhao greatly that he did not know who he was fighting against. This was a fight that went against the maxim of any war – Know your enemy.
I know shit about my enemy, he contemplated bitterly. Out of touch with the latest political intrigues, Zhao felt like a child lost in the woods.