The Pirate Empress

by Deborah Cannon

  The Chinese soldiers were on the very cusp of chaos. Defection and rebellion were rampant among the rank and file, while the fate of their officers was a nightmare. Failure to defend the wall from breaches was punishable by execution. Stories circulated that Zheng Min, the Emperor’s top man, punished traitors for deeds that were no more relevant than a goat feeding on yesterday’s slop. If the rumours were true that the great Brigade General Chi Quan had been executed, then the path was truly clear to the throne.

  On his march to the gates of the garrison, he had passed the heads of several top generals perched on pikes. What acts of treason had they committed? Other than allowing Manchu forces to massacre forty-five thousand Ming troops in one campaign. The message was clear. The Emperor cared nothing for the welfare of those who formed his armies. And Zi Shicheng would use their discontent and disillusionment to his favour.

  “Think of it, Watchman, sweetbreads, plump fish and fresh fruit. And clean spring water.” He stared boldly up at the tower, and then furrowed his brow as he realized that this watchman was no watchman at all. His uniform, though torn and tattered, showed the decoration of an officer. So that was how bad it was.

  “All right, fine,” the watchman said, voice heavy with reluctance. “You may pass.”

  Zi Shicheng sneered. “Naturally, I may pass. And you may live—if you join my ranks. We are headed for the Juyong pass and the capital. Are you with us?”

  The officer-turned-watchman nodded.

  As the rebel army entered the gates of the dilapidated garrison, the smell of death greeted them. Their leader counted bodies; so many piled up one on top of the other. Small fires burned and the smoke sent up odours of sweet barbecued pork. But there were no pigs left in the garrison, no livestock at all. Zi Shicheng surveyed the scene, and frowned: so many dead, but so few bodies in comparison to the numbers reported. The stench of cooking and the stench of dying were noxious. “How many survivors, Captain?” he asked.

  The watchman glanced down at his frightful uniform. “You called me captain. You know? Through all this misery and filth, you can see my rank?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “But captain of what? Look at what we have come to!”

  “It was not necessary for you to come to this if you had only joined us when we approached you eighty-two days ago.”

  “You counted the days?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  The captain nodded and indicated a wooden post outside his quarters where notches were cut into the pine. “Today is the eighty-second day.” He took out his knife and slashed a mark across the line that was already there and looked up at Zi Shicheng. “I have no authority to surrender the fortress to you. I, myself, am willing to join you because I see no point in remaining here to be fodder for my general. He, however, will never surrender. He is the reason we are still here and in this state of abject misery.”

  “No longer your problem, Captain. I absolve you of all responsibility concerning the welfare or condition of this garrison. I will speak to the general and obtain his official surrender, and if he refuses, he will be granted the honourable execution of his choice. Now, show me where he is. I will speak to him myself.”

  The captain escorted the rebel leader to a stone dwelling in the most sheltered part of the tiny town. As they strolled side by side, the captain talked. Out of an original thirty thousand soldiers, nearly twenty thousand were dead. Starvation and its inevitable consequence—cannibalism—had taken its gruesome toll. Eighty-two days without fresh supplies was too long. Zi Shicheng knew that, which was why he had chosen this tactic. It had worked, but the damage was devastating. The first to go were the workmen, then the merchants, followed by the weakest of the soldiers. At the very end, the officers began to butcher the dead among the rank and file to sustain their own lives.

  They stopped at the door of the general’s house. The captain knocked.

  “What is it?” a gruff voice answered.

  “I have brought someone to see you,” the captain said.

  “It is Zi Shicheng, of the Manchu army,” the rebel leader interjected. “I have come to take Dalinghe and to ask you to join us. What is your answer, General?”

  The door flew open, and a stout but dirty middle-aged man in a tattered general’s uniform scowled at him. “I will never surrender.” He turned from the rebel leader to the emaciated captain. “Look at what the Chinese defector has brought us to. And you want to join him?” He thrust a finger at the death and putrefaction surrounding them. Bodies that had not been consumed when fresh were rotting. Those individuals, who had survived the culling and were starving, looked as green and shrivelled as those that were already dead.

  “I don’t see that we have any choice,” the captain said. “It is clear to me that the Emperor has forgotten us. Either we join Zi Shicheng and his Manchu allies or we join those piles of putrefying, green bodies against the wall.”

  There was no convincing the loyal general to take the easy way out and opt for self-preservation. “Then I will die,” he said.

  The rebel leader granted the general a dignified execution. He was shot in the heart with a graceful arrow by one of the Manchu’s crack marksmen outside the fortress on a grassy knoll on a beautiful, sunny day. Only a few white clouds marked the blue sky. It was his hope that his loyalty would be rewarded and that Heaven’s doors were open to him. When the general’s body fell heavily to the ground, Zi Shicheng ordered his men to carry the dead body back to the fortress for cremation. But he had underestimated how desperate were the remaining survivors of the siege. The moment they saw the fresh meat, they leaped on it and tore it to shreds with butchering knives to cook on their own fires.

  %%%

  At night Esen flew low and tethered the bird behind the tents, then crept about listening at door cracks. He dared not openly return to the Mongol encampment without the boy, but hunger and thirst were taking its toll. What could they do to him anyway? He was my hostage! Esen clenched the Chinese Phoenix, squeezing a handful of azure and gold feathers. He was running out of fresh berries and the necklet of dried fruit was beginning to lose its effect. I must not lose this magic. It is the only thing I have left. He swooped below grey-tinged, pink-bellied clouds. The sky was deep blue, but the colour in the cloud told him to expect a change in the weather. The bird bucked and squawked, trying to shake him off its back. If he lost his grip, he was doomed.

  He must win back his men, but how? They scorned him for his obsession with Lotus Lily, for leading them on a futile chase. How stupid was he? He had the boy in his grasp and instead of killing him, he had kept him hostage. It was that military governor’s fault. Zheng Min refused to allow him to reveal Wu’s lineage. Had he enlightened the Emperor, His Majesty might have showered him with riches and an army to defeat his own brother. Zheng Min promised him unimaginable wealth and a fine contingent of soldiers. But if the man were telling the truth, why not divulge Wu’s true identity? That was the real question. What was the scoundrel up to?

  Returning to his brother’s army was no better. The men laughed at him, called him a giant peacock-riding fool. There was more to Fenghuang than a flying mount! There had to be. At sunset, he would enter the encampment again and learn what strategic attacks his brother was planning. He tugged on the neck feathers of the phoenix and it rose higher into the air. Out there from the west, racing over the plain in a cloud of dust, something approached. Was it a horseman? It was no steppe rider of the Mongols; he rode like the wind with the speed of a dragonfly, and almost as lightly, too. Grey robes flying behind him, lopsided topknot at his crown with long strings of silvery hair whipping out past his shoulders. Was it the warlock? That trickster of a geomancer had stolen Wu. How Esen wanted to get his hands on him. But now that he saw the warlock coming, he was stumped. Returning to camp without the boy was unthinkable. Could he capture the warlock? The warlock had the boy. A lantern suddenly struck light in his head. Why, the devil of a Chinese sorcerer had the girl, too! When Esen had taunted Master
Yun’s small caravan in the desert, he had noticed a little girl in their midst. She sat astride a horse on the lap of the warrior-monk they called He Zhu.

  The day was growing old. Esen hid in the shadows of the deepening clouds. The horseman did not look up. Horse and rider were headed straight for the Forbidden City. Did he know his trajectory would steer him squarely onto enemy turf? The Mongol armies were stationed a day’s ride outside of Juyongguan, the last pass before the capital.

  Esen dived to the opposite side of the camp, and ordered the phoenix to disappear while he went in search of his brother. The Khan was seated on the ground, stripped to the waist outside his tent, sharpening his blade. His muscles rippled with his every motion.

  “Where the hell have you been,” Altan shouted when he saw him. “Where is the boy? I told you never to leave him alone.”

  When had Altan grown that hard jaw and those abs and biceps of steel? How had he gained on his older brother in height and girth, and honed that commanding voice? No wonder they called him Khan.

  “You have two minutes to gird your armour and come with me,” Esen ordered. “There is a prize outside your door that you will not want to miss.”

  Altan frowned, but Esen paid no attention, snatched up his brother’s tunic from where it lay on the ground at his feet and tossed it to him before signalling for all the men in sight to follow to the camp’s outskirts. Altan raised a hand to belay the order, but then changed his mind. He followed, grumbling.

  Master Yun was waiting for them. He alighted from his horse and walked slowly toward the ten thousand armed men who approached. “Which one of you is Altan?” he asked.

  Esen’s brother raised his arm, which was encased in a leather falconer’s glove, and his hawk floated down from the sky to grip his wrist with thick, spidery claws. “Who is asking?”

  “Master Yun, the Emperor’s warlock.”

  The chief of the warlords laughed. “The last time the Emperor had a warlock, he was replaced by a fox faerie.”

  “Quite true,” Master Yun said. “I take it you’re Altan?” He turned to Esen and although the grim set of his mouth remained unchanged, the warlock’s eyes smirked. He shoved a finger into Esen’s chest. “This one I already know.”

  Esen slapped the hand away, face reddening. “The warlock has taken Peng,” he said, struggling to maintain his dignity and the respect of the Mongol warriors. “I saw them in the Red Desert when I was transporting Wu to the home camp near Jiayuguan.”

  “Quan’s boy is there?” Altan demanded of his brother.

  Esen hesitated, not wishing to reveal the story of how he was tricked out of his hostage. “No. The warlock has him and he also has Peng.”

  Exasperation blasted out of Altan’s mouth like cannon fire. “You gave up our bartering piece? You fool. I can’t trust you with anything. You are a useless idiotic excuse for a Mongol. You should have stayed among the pirates. Then, you could have at least stolen silver. That would have been useful.”

  “Tut tut,” Master Yun said. “Don’t blame your brother, Altan. His time has passed. Yours has only just begun. Have no worry. The children are safe.”

  The metallic zing of multiple swords from the front row of Mongol soldiers cut the air like fingernails on pottery. “I want my daughter back!” Altan roared, raising his dagger.

  Something about the way the warlock’s eyes deepened made Esen suspicious. What did he know that he didn’t want Altan to know?

  “You cannot kill me, Warlord of the Ordos. If you could, I would already be dead.”

  The Mongol dagger slashed at the warlock, but Master Yun leaped over it like a child’s skipping toy. A hundred armed warriors rushed him and he leaped all of their blades, and landed ten paces away. He warned them, his eyes not veering from his enemy’s. “You do not want to kill me or you will never know where Peng is hidden.”

  “No?” Altan whipped his dagger in a fanciful gesture like one of the Emperor’s chefs. “Well, I can torture you. I can cut you finger by finger and toe by toe until you scream the answer I want to hear.”

  “I doubt you will do that. I think you are more troubled by the fact that Jasmine allowed young Peng to fall into our hands. What’s that all about, eh?” He smirked.

  Altan’s scowl grew fiercer. “Jasmine would never allow you to take my daughter.”

  “Exactly my point. She would not allow it. She has the power to prevent it.” Master Yun paused for effect. “So why did she do it? Why did she allow me to take your daughter?”

  The cogs were wheeling now. The warlock had planted the seed of suspicion.

  “Well? Something strange is happening here, is it not?”

  “Where is Jasmine?” Altan ordered.

  “That is what I would like to know. I would like very much to meet with her again. If you see her, please let her know how anxious I am for us to speak. Meanwhile, I am needed elsewhere.” The warlock glanced up into a sky that had darkened considerably. The first stars were flickering in the deepening dusk. The largest and brightest always appeared first. Something seemed off. Like there was a blank space where a constellation should be. But Esen was no astronomer.

  Master Yun clucked his tongue for his horse, and the magnificent Xingbar trotted up to his rider. “Find Jasmine, Altan of the Mongols. And learn the truth.”

  Esen felt a creep of laughter in his throat as Master Yun whirled Xingbar toward the distant Juyong pass and its heavily guarded gate. What was going on here between his brother and the warlock? And how long did the Ming think that paltry gate would hold?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Manchu at Anding Gate

  “Military Governor, you must take an army to Changping and hold them.”

  “There’s no point,” Zheng Min told the Emperor. “They will take that garrison as they have taken all the others.” Mere miles north of the Forbidden City, if the fortress fell the Juyong pass would fail too and there would be nothing to stop the invaders from descending upon the capital. “We have already lost Datong and Xuanfu. It is only a matter of days before they breech the pass and make for the capital.”

  “I will not surrender to barbarians!” the Emperor screamed.

  Zheng Min paced, his boots hammering on the marble floor of the throne room. “Then surrender to the rebel. At least, he is Chinese.”

  “Never.”

  “We haven’t much choice here, Majesty. Nor time.”

  “You are asking me to give up my throne. Where will that leave me? The usurpers will not be kind. They will chain me in my own dungeon and torture me with bamboo.” He scowled, threw his arms disdainfully in the air, flapping the wide bell sleeves of his Imperial robe like a wounded flamingo. “Where are my advisors? Where is Jasmine? Where is Chi Quan? How did you get me into this!” He swung on Zheng Min with a harsh cry, but the military governor snorted. The Emperor had spent most of his reign useless and soft in his pleasure gardens, rather than training and rallying his men. His muscles were as mushy as day old congee.

  “You ordered Chi Quan to be exiled to the desert without horse, food or water. He’s probably dead now,” Zheng Min said.

  “The stupidest move I ever made, thanks to you. I should have sent you to the desert instead.”

  The military governor fell silent. Although his power had grown in the palace and there were men (Lu Dao for example) who would like nothing better than to see the old king in his coffin, some were still fiercely loyal, like Captain Huang.

  “Leave me,” the Emperor ordered.

  Zheng Min bowed and backed away from the throne.

  %%%

  Outside, Chi Quan waited in the royal courtyard. He had managed to make his way to Master Yun’s Koi Temple where he had refreshed himself with the fountain’s healing water. After combing his hair and restyling it into a topknot worthy of his rank, he had brushed off the dirt and grime of his journey, and made his uniform as presentable as possible: torn and tattered perhaps, but somewhat cleaner than it was. Avoiding his
shadow, he tucked himself behind a green pillar. Zheng Min’s coarse, unmistakable voice carried through the doorway as the military governor took leave of the Emperor. Quan was taking no chances with a random encounter, knowing that the lout would whistle for his toadies the instant he was sighted. He would be back in the dungeon with a bamboo shoot up his ass before he could say ‘traitor.’

  From what Quan had seen on his wearying trek home, the news was evil. The Mongols and the Manchus had taken over the most strategic garrisons along the Dragon Wall. Some had begun to camp on the Chinese side of the border. Quan had to convince His Majesty to pardon him and to grant him an army—if there were any armies left to be granted. Word on the road was that most of the troops had defected to collect their families and hide, until the outcome of the war was determined. They said His Majesty was ready to give up. He hoped not.

  The military governor left the palace without seeing him, and was just as blustering and vainglorious as usual: a cock on the walk with no hens to lead. Quan wanted to stick out his boot and trip him flat on his face, but what would that accomplish, except to provide him further excuse for torture? Zheng Min’s back disappeared through a stone archway at the far end of the white courtyard, and Quan emerged from his hiding place only to have his shoulder seized. He swung about, ready to lop off the attacker’s head, but stopped when he saw it was the loyal Huang.

  “Brigade General,” the captain’s voice lit up with joy. “I have never been so pleased to see anyone in my life!”