by Jeremy Han
“Moreover,” Zhao added, “the surrounding hills limit the access to the camp. Once attacked it will be hard for reinforcements to reach it.”
“The attacks are no longer sporadic. There is a clear strategic intent to them now,” Meng emphasised. “Our foe is getting more and more sophisticated and confident.”
Li smirked. “If you dare attack the emperor, what is a mountain garrison?” he asked, and Meng glared at him with irritation.
“What kind of signs?” Zhao addressed them both, pulling them back to the matter at hand.
“Trampled vegetation, foot marks and a wooden frame that looks like a launching platform for the flying crow were found,” Meng replied.
“Did the men touch anything?” Li added.
“No. They left everything as it was. We do not want them to know that we know,” Meng replied as he looked at Zhao, and then Li.
“Good. So what is your plan?” Zhao asked Meng Da.
“The current garrison is small. We will find ways to secretly increase their numbers, and also get ourselves inside.”
“Is it wise to have all of us inside the camp? Shouldn’t we have a reserve unit somewhere that will close the trap?”
Meng acknowledged Zhao’s point with a thoughtful noise. “Right. We will do that.” They huddled together and discussed their plan, and when they were almost done Zhao spoke again. “One more thing... what happens if we capture Zhu Wenkui?” he asked the Eastern Depot agent pointedly. He had waited until they had finished planning the tactical details before bringing up the sensitive issue of the crown prince.
Meng took a deep breath before answering. He was on thin ice with his answer. “His fate…will be decided by Lord Ji. We will hold him jointly until the commander speaks on this matter,” he said carefully, keeping his tone non-provocative and at the same time, not conceding anything.
“Give me your word that you will not have him sent to the court until Ji Gang knows about it. Ji has an agreement with us,” he reminded the younger man.
Meng knew that there was no point in further debating the matter. This was a decision that was beyond him. “We will meet at the rendezvous point,” he said, as he walked out of the room.
62
The guards at the fort had taken a while to respond to the man holding the imperial seal. They had never seen someone who wielded so much authority before. The sentries had stopped the well-dressed man and challenged him, asking him what his business was for coming to the camp. The man, dressed in civilian clothing, merely flashed a gold seal. It was enough to ensure complete compliance and no further questions.
The garrison was out of the way, and the highest ranking official that ever come there had been the junior inspector from the provincial capital, thus they were stunned into inaction until one of them ran to the command post to inform the commander he had a very rare, but powerful guest. The two words on the seal were etched in his mind forever.
Dong Chang!
Meng Da strode through the camp purposefully as his eyes took in all the details. The men looked out-of-shaped, unwashed, and unshaven. Some looked too young to be soldiers, others too old. The men in turned stared at their visitor with dull eyes, wondering who he was, and Meng observed that even their uniforms looked faded and worn. He did not want to think of the state of their weapons.
A third-rate garrison indeed! Their swords must be as dull as their looks.
But it fulfilled his purposes. The worst the troops were the better it was for him. He was not looking for fighters, but for bait.
Bait can’t be too vicious. If it is then the fish won’t come, he mused philosophically to himself.
He had made this trip alone to set up the ambush for the Mongols as he did not want Zhao and Li to come because he suspected they would object to his methods. As a member of the Eastern Depot he was as ruthless as a bird-of-prey, and the ends always justified the means. His erect, disciplined bearing, his neatly pressed clothing made him look like a lily upright among weeds. He rehearsed his plan as he was ushered into the command post. He knew that there would be resistance, that the commander would balk at what he was going to say, but he would get his way. It would be unpleasant though , and he steadied himself for it.
The sentry bowed, as he spoke to Meng, saying, “Sir, please wait for his Excellency, Captain Lian.”
“Hmmmp.” Meng did not even look at the retreating man.
Meanwhile a soldier ran to the fields behind the camp, hastily approaching a portly man who was holding a basket full of grain. With one hand he held the basket and with the other he was scattering grain to some chickens that pecked greedily after him, their little heads bobbing as they clucked.
“Captain! Captain!”
“What is it?” he said, frowning at the soldier. He did not like to be disturbed while he fed his birds.
“Someone is looking for you.”
“Have him wait at the hall,” the officer replied testily as he turned and continued to toss grain onto the ground.
“This visitor cannot be made to wait, Sir.”
“Why? Is he the emperor?” the captain replied sarcastically without looking at the soldier.
No one of note comes here anyway! he mused.
“Almost, Sir.”
“What rubbish are you spouting? Even if it is Yanluo Wang ‘King of Hell’ himself, he will have to wait. Give him some tea and ignore him.”
“He is worse than that, Sir. He is from the Eastern Depot!”
The officer dropped his basket to the great delight of the chickens and a few minutes later the plump man strode into his office with forced bravado. With his subordinate’s warning as to who this visitor was he had steeled himself. This was his fort, his command post, so he must muster whatever was left of his pride and deal with this man on his terms.
Meng almost laughed as he observed the officer trying to puff himself up like a peacock. He looked more like an overweight pigeon bobbing around. He turned and smiled good-naturedly at the overweight captain whose belt was below his belly. Though he smiled, his eyes were hard as marbles. Nothing could erase the seriousness of his mission.
“You must be Captain Lian.”
“Yes. Please present your seal again. One must not be complacent with the identity of visitors,” he replied as he puffed his chest.
Meng handed it to him. “Satisfied?”
The captain studied his guest as he looked over the seal. He looked very fit, and standing ramrod straight with his hands behind his back the imperial agent radiated authority. He was handsome, with nicely formed cheekbones, clean-shaven unlike his men and, he thought sadly, himself. Yet there was something very dangerous about the secret agent. Internally, he cringed as though a cold hand had squeezed his gut. Meng’s smile was gone as he returned the seal.
“Yes. What is your business, Lord Meng?” he asked the man.
His eyebrows dipped in seriousness. “Tomorrow morning, your garrison will be attacked.”
“What? How do you know?” The captain’s face was a mixture of surprise and doubt, and Meng looked at him like a parent disciplining a child.
“You do not have to know what my sources of information are. You just have to take orders from me from this moment on.”
Something akin to wounded pride filled the officer’ face but Meng did not care.
“Are you deaf?” he pressed loudly.
The captain’s mouth formed an ‘O’ to protest but no words came out. One simply did not argue with the imperial secret service.
“Yes, Sir,” he answered, glad that none of his men were there to watch his humiliation. He bit his tongue to stop another question on why these bandits would warrant the attention of the Eastern Depot from coming forth. Obviously they were more than marauders. State security must be involved somehow.
“Good. Tomorrow at dawn bandits will attack your camp. Tonight I will lead my men here to prepare an ambush. This is what I need your men to do.”
When had Meng fini
shed, the captain was seething with uncontrollable rage that shook his tightly clenched fists. A sense of helplessness enveloped him as well, and as much as he objected to the cruel plan Meng had outlined, he had no say in the matter.
Still, he protested, “You can’t do this! You are throwing my men’s lives away!”
Meng looked coldly at him, his voice equally icy as he replied, “They are soldiers. Their job is to die for the emperor.”
“You can’t just stroll in here and condemn them to death!”
Meng’s voice was cold steel. “This is an imperial order.”
In his mind, he thought that soldiers like those found in this garrison were more fodder than warriors, and it was only fitting they be used for this purpose. Meng had no sympathy for those condemned to die. If they could not be used for fighting then they could be used as a lure.
The captain clenched his fist. “I must speak to my superiors.”
Meng turned and shouted at him suddenly. The transformation from frost to raging fire was instantaneous as he threw the seal on the table.
“Look at that again! LOOK AT THAT! Anyone who disobeys the Dong Chang defies the emperor! Do you know what the penalty for that is?”
The captain was shocked by the forceful outburst and he took a step backward. Everyone knew the Eastern Depot was the accuser, judge, and executioner all rolled into one.
He trembled as he stamered out, “Y- yes.”
“Now go and get ready. Pick your men according to what I specified. Be grateful I still have some use for you. If not, I will have you lead those selected to die and appoint your second-in-command to take your place.”
“Yes, Lord Meng,” the captain replied meekly.
63
In the dark the hooded men looked like ghosts. Their overcoats kept them warm against the cold, damp, winter night.
Sometimes it was not only the low temperature, but also the moisture that made the climate in the south eastern region of the Ming unbearable, and unlike the dry extremes in the north, the winter here were wet. The Chinese believed if one was not careful, the chill would penetrate their very bones, leading to rheumatism in old age. Unfrotunatly, several of the men gathered that night would not live to ever find out if the myth was true.
The Mongols were assembling for their raid, some checking their equipment while others were waiting for the orders to move out. Metal clinked softly as men attached their weapons. These tough, hardened men who grew up in the cold, desolate northlands did not allow the discomfort to dilute their focus on battle. Someone passed a skin of fermented mare’s milk around to combat the chill and while several took swigs, none spoke or bantered. They looked like bandits but they possessed the discipline of crack troops. They were no longer just out for plunder and rape.
These were men on their way to war.
The familiar, hulking figure of Yang approached the Mongol prince like a wraith. “Tayji,” he greeted as he clapped Baldy on the back. The Mongol broke into a smile. He enjoyed going on raids with the castrated assassin. Somehow their fortunes had reversed with him around.
“Ready to kill some Ming dogs?” Baldy asked. His eyes shone with the excitement of the hunt.
Yang looked at him seriously before speaking. “I can’t go.”
“What? Don’t start joking now,” Baldy replied apprehensively.
Some of the men nearby heard the exchange and gathered with inquisitive looks on their faces. They waited for an explanation from the man they now regarded as one of their own.
“There is a bigger fish I must catch tonight,” Yang explained as he smiled conspiratorially.
“Explain,” Baldy demanded as he folded his arms. He respected Yang, even treated him like a brother, but he was still the commander of this band.
“Word just reached me that a convoy of firearms is coming. I intend to take it.”
Baldy raised his eyebrows with interest. “Firearms? You mean black powder?”
“Yes,” Yang said excitedly. “My sources told me that the bingzhangju ‘armaments bureau’ in Beijing is finally taking us seriously. They are sending advanced weapons like the ‘crow’ and other explosives. I intend to strike when they do not expect it.”
It was not unrealistic for Yang to have access to its secrets, but Baldy frowned. He needed everyone for the attack. If they could defeat the garrison at Turtle Mountain, so named because its ridge was shaped like a turtle raising its head, then it was almost as good as carving out an area that they could call their own. The terrain would make it difficult for the Ming to re-take it. But then again, with more ‘fire crows’ he could defend it better when the Ming eventually did try to re-capture the fort.
Better to have crows with us than pointing at us.
“How many men do you need?” Baldy asked.
“Just five.”
“That’s all?” Baldy’s voice went a pitch higher. He expected the convoy to be heavily guarded.
Yang smiled. He had anticipated this reaction. “I have a plan,” he assured his friend, “trust me. Sometimes having more men is not the solution.” He tapped his forefinger at his temple, indicating he had thought it through.
Baldy reciprocated with a wolfish grin. “That’s right, brother. I am sure you have a plan. You always do.” He clasped Yang’s arm tightly. “Bring me those crows. When the Ming counter-attacks one day, as we know they surely will, we will give them a warm welcome.”
Turning now to one of his sub-commanders he bellowed, ,“Orak! Take four of your men and follow Yang.”
Orak was a huge man, as strong as Yang And although he was not as smart as the assassin Baldy trusted him, as he was one of his most loyal followers. He was also of the same blood as the tayji, and by sending Orak the Mongol prince could either be honouring Yang or telling him he was watching him closely.
Orak slapped his hand across his chest, acknowledging the command. He barked orders to his men, and they followed the hooded giant, who was already disappearing into the dark, misty night. Baldy watched them as they were swallowed by the murky forest before he shouted a command and his own war party took off in the direction of Turtle Mountain. If nothing went wrong, they would be ready to launch a dawn attack. His own men vanished under the cover of darkness, silent as ghosts and as deadly as demons looking for souls to send to hell.
The six hooded figures came to a crossroad after their long trek. Yang estimated it had already been a few hours since they left the prince. The men had not complained about the hectic pace he had set. These Mongols were tough, he knew that, but eventually they had to stop, and here was as good a place as any other. He raised a hand, and the rest halted.
Orak approached him, asking “Why are we stopping? Is the ambush to take place here?” Orak looked left and right, there was nothing to conceal them. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, and there was a disturbance as bats flew through leaves. These were nocturnal sounds to be expected, but otherwise it was deathly silent.
“No, brother,” Yang said as he looked around him, as though he was trying to find something. “This is where you all die.”
Without warning his heavy sabre flashed out of his coat. Orak gave a shout, both in shock as well as to warn the rest before his head was cleanly taken off by Yang’s slashing blade. The lifeless body fell slowly to the ground, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings. The head landed next to the body, and the man looked like a broken toy.
“AHHHHHHH!” Yang screamed in attack. The next Mongol almost had his blade out before the assassin swung his own and opened the helpless man’s chest in a spray of dark blood. The dull moon reflected off the rising blade, indicating its position briefly before it came down on the third Mongol. The man blocked it with his blade, but Yang was too powerful, his sabre too sturdy and the Mongol’s blade shattered. The downward slashing weapon struck deeply into the neck of the victim, and he too went down in a spray of blood.
The two remaining men charged. Friend or brother, they no longer cared, their
experience in combat overrode their disbelief and they reacted to Yang according to what they saw him to be – a threat.
They attacked, and Yang blocked a sabre slash that came hard and fast as sparks flew. Then he dodged as the other Mongol attacked from behind.
Orak’s men know their business! Yang thought as he realised that they were coordinated. He seized the initiative again by attacking, but it was a feint. He darted to the man on the left then spun on his heels, bending low at the same time so that the man on the right’s incoming weapon missed his head. He thrust the sabre low and fast, catching him unaware and gutting him, and the man screamed in pain as Yang’s blade penetrated his abdomen.
With a kick he pushed the man off his blade, and parried the next attack to his back. Letting the momentum of the blade carry him backward he allowed the attacker to come forward before he kicked powerfully into the stumbling man’s knee.
CRACK!
The man howled in pain as he fell, looking up into the giant’s eyes as Yang approached. His eyes squinted to focus on the man-killer as he approached him slowly, almost hesitatingly. He could see no joy on his killer’s face, thinking that there must be a compelling reason for his actions, and he knew it was futile to beg for mercy. There would be none. Blinking rapidly to focus despite the pain, he gasped for air.
“Why…brother?” he whispered as his fingers tensed on the wet ground. Death loomed over him in the form of Yang’s shadow.
“I’m sorry, Comrade. I truly am,” Yang replied softly, and the heavy blade came down with a sickening crunch.
Yang surveyed his handiwork.
The last man’s finger still twitched – once, twice, and then slowly it stopped. It was done. The air was heavy with the stench of copper. He did not feel good about what he had done, but he had no choice. What had been done could not be reversed.
He pulled the hood over his head and went on his way. At least he did not have to kill Baldy with his own hands. He recalled the day he put a launching frame for the fire crow at a spot he knew the patrols would find it. By now, they must have picked it up and reported it to the Eastern Depot, who would surely be waiting for the Mongols thinking that it would be Zhu Wenkui, the rebel crown prince who would come.