The Prisoners of Fate: Sequel to The Emperor's Prey

by Jeremy Han

  The imperial agents would be able to put it all together. He had hoped that the Dong Chang would do the dirty deed for him as he; really did not want the tayji’s blood to be on his hands.

  Goodbye Brother. We will all meet again - in hell, I am sure.

  64

  Dawn was coming. Across the dew-soaked field the Mongol band hid amidst the thick vegetation and observed their target. In the weak light a layer of white moisture floated over the green grass like a piece of linen suspended in mid-air. The sun was not fully out yet, but the sliver of purple lining the horizon told them that it would be soon. Turtle Mountain loomed in the distance, dark and imposing, its peak rounded like a shell.

  Baldy scanned the area surrounding his target. Everything was still. Even the birds had not come out to sing this frigid morning, and his men waited in disciplined silence for the command to attack. They had marched the whole night, yet noone looked tired. They were so still that they could have been mistaken for statues if not for the gentle puffs of vapour from their breathing. Someone coughed, another swore softly. The tayji and his men waited patiently for the camp gates to open for the day’s business.

  They heard a muted command shouted from a distance and slowly, finally, the massive gates opened like the maw of a beast. By now the sun had risen, the mud walls of the fort bathed in a soft yellow glow. They were crumbling, poorly maintained due to the complacency of the commander who had thought that they were too far from the Imperial Inspectorate to warrant regular checks. Still, walls were walls, and it would be easier to attack when the gates were up.

  Baldy smiled as he watched the unhurried opening of his target. As the gates widened they could see men on fatigue duties: sweepers cleaning the yard sluggishly, rows of men lining up for breakfast, cooks barking at the men to hurry, and even a work detail formed up with spades and buckets in the courtyard, ready to march out for latrine duty. Everything looked normal as Baldy squinted to count the number of sentries. There were ten, which was not unusual, and besides them there was nothing else unexpected that he saw waiting for them.

  Just behind the training hall a company of fully armed troops fell in behind Meng Da. Meng remained still, breathing slowly. Though he felt the apprehension fluttering around like butterflies in his stomach, he would never admit to being nervous. No matter how many times he had been in combat he always felt the same, but it was the waiting that he truly hated. Once the killing started he would be in his element.

  After assuming command he had given his orders. The troops in the camp would act normally in the face of the impending attack. They were the bait.

  Zhao Qi and Li Jing were somewhere outside with their own small detachment of troops. Once the Mongols were trapped they would attack. Meng would be the anvil, and their team would be the hammer.

  Zhao carried a regular infantryman’s sabre. Non-descript and easily replaced on the battlefield, the commander favoured it because it was a simple tool for killing. Li had recovered his guandao, and the heavy weapon rested by his side. The curved blade shone with dew, and felt cold to the touch. He also liked to wear an opera mask when he fought, and today he chose the red-faced god of war.

  The men they led were disciplined crack troops dispatched from Nanjing on Meng’s orders. They had assembled that night not knowing when the enemy would arrive, but when the sun rose they sensed that something had changed. The enemy was out there, and Li gripped his even tighter weapon. Despite the cold, perspiration beads formed on his forehead.

  Baldy turned and looked at his men proudly, finding strength in their steely gazes. They knew the importance of this target. Initially he had wanted to use the last fire crow in their arsenal, but Yang had argued against it. He had convinced the tayji that if they planned the timing correctly the camp would open its gates like a host at a party, and Yang had been, as usual, correct.

  The camp laid open before him, its sleepy men like sheep waiting to be slaughtered, and he felt a wave of pride for his men. Before Yang had come along he had always struggled with worry over the fate of his men. They had loyally stayed behind with him, and he had a responsibility to feed them, but they had been like scavenging dogs going from one meal to the next without certainty. But the last few months had been good to them. They had regained their pride, and with a strategist things had greatly improved.

  They were wolves again and even though he knew that someday the Ming would send a force large enough to eliminate him when he became a cause for concern, it was a day that he expected. They lived by the sword, and they would gladly die by it. But today was not that day.

  He looked at the clear blue sky and smelt the sweet freshness of the morning air, crisp and cold, a perfect day for combat. He took a deep breath, raised his hand and shouted.

  “ATTACK!”

  Xiao Liu, the youngest conscript in the camp, was only fifteen. Like many his age, he had enlisted in order to escape a life of farming. He had thought it would be better to take his chances in war than to gamble on the goodwill of the weather gods. The night before he had drawn the shortest straw, landing him the dreaded task of latrine duty. He cursed, as it had been his third time that week, and being young and green he did not know that he was the victim of sabotage. His older comrades had fixed the draw each time.

  He had shuffled out of the camp with a detail of similarly unfortunate souls to dispose of the buckets of accumulated shit and piss in a trench far away from the camp. The poor lad had no idea that this humiliating duty would be his death sentence.

  The stillness of the morning shattered like glass as with a great yell the Mongols charged. Birds made lethargic by the frigid air burst into flight, and suddenly the morning was full of frantic life.

  Xiao Liu and his comrades dropped the night’s soiled buckets and fled. He had been running when he felt something burning hot strike his body with a force hard enough to throw him to his knees. He looked with strange curiosity at the sharp tip, dripping with a sticky, red substance as it protruded from his chest, and by the time he had realised that it was his blood, he had tipped over, dying from the fatal arrow.

  All the unlucky men who had been in the latrine detail were picked off one by one. Sentries tried to shout out warnings to the men but the Mongols retained their deadly skill with the bow, soon despatching them all too in a shower of falling arrows. Blood lust overwhelmed the prince’s senses, and had not noticed that the guards did not close the gate as they should have. Instead they had run away, drawing the Mongols into the camp.

  Baldy ran into the fort, bringing his curved blade down and splitting the head of a soldier who was trying to run from him. He felt the warm blood splash onto his tunic as his voice rang out again.

  “KILL THEM ALL!”

  Meng heard the command to annihilate his countrymen loud and clear but he still held back, despite the captain’s pleas. He needed to make sure that the Mongols were too deeply committed into this fight before he unleashed the trap. He took out a smoke bomb, whose red smoke would be the signal for Zhao and Li to close the trap. His hand tightened around the device as the sound of men being slaughtered filled his ears.

  “Lord Meng, let’s attack now!” the troop commander hissed but Meng ignored him. He wanted the Mongols to be intoxicated with blood.

  What are a few lives compared to the success of a mission?

  When finally he judged it was time he dashed, calling out, “FOLLOW ME!” When he was almost facing the enemy he threw the smoke device and a plum of angry, red smoke rose to the heavens like the souls of those who had died violently that morning.

  Meng turned to take on the two Mongols who had seen him throw the smoking bomb. They charged, one of them slashing his sword at Meng’s head. He blocked it skilfully, pivoting on his heel so that he stood in front of the other man who was still coming at him. He lunged, pushing his larger blade right through the man, killing him almost instantly.

  Blood spurted out as Meng withdrew his blade, dripping from the blade as he faced
the other bandit. The man attacked, and again Meng ducked, thrusting out his leg in a side-kick that connected just when the man was trying to turn and face him. Meng slid forward gracefully, bringing his sabre down through the man’s neck and dispatching him before he turned back to the scene around him, seeing that his men were now fully engaged. The Mongols were not weak, and they fought back like demons as they realised that their plan had gone terribly awry.

  The Acrobat wielded his weapon with great skill, the long and heavy guandao catching a man across the chest as he charged, easily knocking his attacker over. Another Mongol attacked him with a spear, and Li jumped to avoid being wounded in the leg, landing and rolling to the side before swinging the heavy blade into the man’s thigh. The Mongol screamed as the blade carved into flesh and through the bone.

  Li heard a yell and looked up in time to see a screaming raider swing his sabre. In a flash, a figure leapt behind the attacker and the morning sun gleamed off his blade, the only indication of its movement as it came down faster than his eyes could see. The attacker’s features turned from one of bloodlust to one of shock as his life was taken by the surprise attack.

  “Get your sorry ass off the ground!” Zhao shouted at Li. He had saved his friend’s life.

  With a back flip the Acrobat’s feet were again firmly planted on the ground, crouching down in a fighting stance as he looked around him. His commander was already in the fray and all around him men were killing each other. A tall Mongol swung his blade at Zhao and the commander blocked with his sabre as his fist launched into the man’s face, a burst of blood erupting from his shattered nose. Then Zhao’s fingers struck his throat and ended his life.

  Baldy knew something had gone extremely wrong. He had mistaken the sluggishness of the soldiers at the fort as a lack of discipline and training where now he saw it for the clear set up that it had been all along. Whoever was in control here was ruthless. He had ordered those men to be sacrificed and now that the trap had been sprung his men were trapped.

  How did they know? Who told them we were coming?

  He dodged a spear thrust as he pondered the question, grabbing the weapon and yanking as he pulled the Ming soldier off balance. He darted in to finish him off with a vicious, deep thrust of the blade into the unfortunate man’s chest. The man screamed and the tayji yelled in triumph. He saw two Ming soldiers forcing one of his men backward, quickly dashing over and slashing deeply into the back of the first Ming soldier. The men fell as blood poured from his back and the Mongol prince turned his attention to the other man. He attacked ruthlessly, driving the blade in deep before he kicked the man down. His effort had been in vain though, and too late did he see his warrior clutching at his spilling entrails, hands crimson with blood as he mouthed the silent word prince. He died with his eyes wide open.

  “SHIT!”

  Baldy cursed. It was no use fighting anymore. They were surrounded and they would only be annihilated. This Judas goat that had been left for the wolf had turned into a tiger. He knew he had to try to save as many of his men as he could, raising his hand and screaming at the top of his voice.

  “RETREAT! RETREAT!”

  He regretted not leaving a covering force and now his men were paying for his mistake. He cursed himself, Damn! Too complacent! Those who had heard his call to retreat turned and fled. The others were surrounded and could not escape but they fought just as fiercely, taking as many Ming soldiers with them as they could before they were mercilessly slaughtered.

  Zhao Qi saw this man shouting orders to the rest, and it drew him forward like a tiger to a bleating goat.

  Baldy heard someone shout in great alarm, “TAYJI!” turning in time to see his man dive in front of him as the warrior shielded the prince from a slash with his own body. The man’s warm blood splashed onto Baldy’s face as his scream filled the prince’s ears.

  Rage filled him like a flood, and with a great cry of anguish, he attacked. Zhao’s sabre clanged loudly against Baldy’s, and he was amazed at the sheer strength of his enemy. The man’s face was contorted with rage and with a roar he pushed Zhao back.

  The commander leapt backward and landed on a solid stance. He intercepted a deep lunge with a low block to the side, protecting his abdomen before bringing his own weapon up for a downward slash, but the man was skilled enough to raise his blade up in time in for a high block. Sparks flew as the blades clashed but Zhao’s skill was beyond the Mongol’s. Without retracting his sabre he continued to press it down, snapping a kick into his enemy’s chest.

  The blow knocked the wind out of the prince and he fell backward, grunting in pain. Zhao brought his sabre in a downward cleave but the desperate Mongol rolled away just in time, and using a wrestling technique his legs trapped Zhao’s and pulled him to the ground. He climbed onto Zhao’s back and wrapped his arm around the commander’s neck, pulling hard. Zhao choked and a wave of panic swept through him. He was not a good ground fighter, but he remembered his instructor’s words said so many years ago clearly.

  Wrestlers want you to panic. By taking you to the ground or in a submission hold, they hope you lose your presence of mind. To do that means defeat. Keep your head clear and follow your training. Do not be alarmed!

  He rammed his elbow backward and it connected with a thud, hearing Baldy groan. Encouraged by the sound he struck again, and this time got the Mongol off him. Zhao pushed him the rest of the way off. Baldy leapt back to his feet, coming toward him and raising his sabre as he regained the initiative, but Zhao flipped onto his feet and attacked. Leaping forward like a tiger he used his own sabre to block the Mongol’s attack, useing his other hand to strike. His fingers, curved like the tiger’s claws, ripped into his opponent’s rib cage. His fingers lodged themselves onto the bones before tightening the crush. In the past Zhao had been known as the Emperor’s pet tiger due to his unsurpassed skill with the Tiger Fist. At the barracks where Zhao used to live there a tree whose bark had been ripped away still stood. It was where he had trained, and over the years his skill had not diminished.

  Baldy screamed in agony. He weakened and lowered his guard as Zhao lowered his stance so that he could generate power from his lower body. Twisting his torso, he punched left-right, hard into the tayji’s solar plexus. The Mongol fell and coughed blood, defeated, but alive.

  Zhao laid the cold, bloody blade onto his neck, and the prince looked on helplessly as the rest of his men were slaughtered. Slowly, the pain from the blow overwhelmed him, and he slipped from consciousness.

  At least, he thought, he no longer had to hear the anguished cries of his dying comrades.

  65

  Baldy thought he heard someone far away screaming. It sounded familiar.

  He felt as though he was under water and the person crying out was on land. He had to labour hard toward the sound, struggling his way back to the waking world, feeling some progress before suddenly he painfully opened his eyes, and the noise was as clear as crystal.

  The heart-wrenching wail brought him fully to consciousness, realizing that his surviving men were tied up on poles in front of him, where he was tied to a horizontal bar used for tying horses. One of his men was stripped naked and a man was slicing off pieces of flesh from his body while he still lived. The ground around him was stained red.

  “No...no!” the tayji protested feebly at the torture of his men.

  The torturer turned at his voice. “Finally, you are awake!” he greeted, smiling as though Baldy was a good friend who had come to visit. There was a knife dripping with blood in his hand.

  The man walked over casually and Baldy looked at him. He was tall, had good features that seemed to bring out a certain level of charm about him, but the crimson soaked blade in his hand contradicted his friendly demeanour. As he approached the Mongol could smell the coppery stink of blood and his stomach turned.

  “Death by slow slicing – a particular nasty way to die, specially reserved for bandits and imperial criminals, which you are both,” the man explain
ed as though he was doing Baldy a favour. “Some say it could take up to three days before the criminal expires from pain, shock, and blood loss. How long do you think your man would last eh?” He sounded as casual as a man making a bet on horses.

  He squatted in front of the Mongol with a smile. Meng Da looked deep into the bald man’s eyes. He could see fear and hatred, but in return Baldy saw nothing. Meng, like so many Dong Chang agents, were dead inside.

  “What do you want, you imperial dog!?” Baldy snarled.

  “I want Zhu Wenkui.”

  “Who?” the Mongol prince replied with uncertainty.

  “I want the leader of your merry little band of rebels.”

  “We are not rebels. We are Mongol warriors trapped here, and I am their prince.”

  “Tsk-tsk.” Meng wagged a finger at him as he replied, “I don’t care what you are. If you go against the throne you are rebels. One last time – where is Zhu Wenkui?”

  “I do not know such a man,” Baldy insisted.

  “If you say so,” Meng replied nonchalantly, rising as he walked to another prisoner. He looked at the man’s greyish eyes and saw great fear.

  “They say if a man is blinded first before he receives his slicing the fear is multiplied because he would not know where the pain will come from,” he said as he smiled at Baldy. “So, let’s try it.”

  “NO! YOU BASTARD!” Baldy screamed as he realised what the agent was going to do. Meng laughed, a cold, cruel sound as he plunged the blade into the man’s left eye. The bandit screamed as his entire world was plunged into darkness. The last thing he saw was the man laughing at his misery.

  “Now the fun begins! Where should I cut?” he said loudly so the victim could hear. The prisoner wailed and urine dripped off his leg. Then he screamed in pain as Meng skilfully sliced off a piece of flesh from his arm, exposing the bone.