by Jeff Stone
As the soldier's straight sword met the hook swords, Fu twisted both wrists outward and pulled his arms apart, locking the hooks around the soldier's straight blade. Fu dropped to the ground and rolled 360 degrees on his side, ripping the straight sword from the soldier's grasp. As Fu flipped up onto his feet, he arched his back and released the pressure on the hooks slightly. The soldier's sword sailed onto the roof of the burning bathhouse.
The soldier stood before Fu, weaponless. He smiled again and adjusted his long braid.
“I've never seen that particular maneuver, monk. Very dangerous for you, yet most effective.”
“It's an original,” Fu growled.
“Excellent. Though you appear to be very young, you're already quite skilled. I'm impressed. It's a good thing I've come prepared.”
The soldier pulled a dagger from his sash and something fell to the ground. Fu realized that it was one of the dragon scrolls. The soldier saw the spark of recognition in Fu's eyes and nodded his head.
“If this document were not of the utmost importance, I might have considered giving it to you in exchange for an education in your unorthodox hook sword attacks. As it is, I cannot. My apologies.”
When the soldier bent over to retrieve the scroll, Fu attacked for the third time. The soldier leaped back with the scroll in one hand, his dagger in the other. Fu took a basic swing with one hook sword to test the man's reaction with the short knife. The soldier leaped backward again, this time landing awkwardly on the helmet Fu had removed from the dead soldier. Fu sprang forward, hitting his off-balance opponent square in the chest with a flying side kick. The soldier hit the ground flat on his back and Fu pounced, landing heavily on the man's chest. Fu's knees pinned the soldier's arms to the ground.
The soldier's dark eyes widened.
Fu swung both hook swords straight down in front of himself. The hooked ends of each blade dug deep into the earth on either side of the soldier's head, the hand-guard daggers stopping a hair's width above the soldier's throat. The soldier swallowed hard and his Adam's apple brushed against the very tip of one of the crescent-shaped daggers. A tiny stream of blood trickled down his neck.
The soldier looked Fu in the eye and said, “I admit defeat. Please, warrior monk—take the scrolls and leave me with my life. I will then owe you a life. On my honor, I will never forget the debt.”
Fu growled and thought how easy it would be to lean down upon the handles and release the man's spirit. But taking a life was far more difficult than he had imagined. The soldier offered not only what Fu sought but also a favor for the future. It seemed Fu would gain more by letting this man live than by destroying him.
“Close your eyes!” Fu snarled.
The soldier did as he was told.
As soon as the man's eyelids met, Fu gripped both hook-sword handles with his left hand and released his right. He bent his right arm sharply and leaned forward, swinging his elbow across his body, over the crisscrossed swords. The point of his elbow struck the soldier in the left temple, knocking the man out cold.
Fu took a deep breath and stood. He leaned the handles of the hook swords onto the man's chest, leaving the crescent daggers dangerously close to the man's neck. Then he yanked the man's thick braid out of his sash and removed three dragon scrolls. Fu took the fourth scroll from the soldier's limp hand.
Fu concealed the scrolls securely within the folds of his own robe and looked down at Sing's tiger hook swords still lying over the soldier's throat. Those hook swords were fine weapons, but they were very difficult to transport. Fu decided to leave them in their current position to help remind the soldier of his promise.
His mission accomplished, Fu ran for the main gate—and into the worst surprise of the entire night.
Fu stopped running just short of the main gate. Something didn't feel right. He stared through the smoky moonlight—up, down, forward, back, left, right.
Nothing.
Feeling like he had no time to waste, Fu took several steps backward, then shot forward. After six long strides, he was at top speed. On his seventh, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. By then, it was too late.
Someone dove out from behind one of the gates and smashed headlong into him. Together they tumbled into the grass, and Fu managed to break loose of the fierce grip on his robe only by biting his opponent's arm. Fu sprang to his feet, and his opponent did the same. It was Ying.
Ying's carved face grimaced as he slipped his hand up one of his oversize sleeves and rubbed his arm.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, Pussycat?” he asked.
“As far away from you as possible,” Fu replied, spitting out the words along with the horrible taste in his mouth.
Ying smiled. “Why spend your life running? Join me. I could use someone as feisty and fierce as you.”
“Never.”
Ying leaned forward and his black eyes sparkled. “Come on, Fu. Join me, and your rice bowl will always be overflowing. You'll never have to sweep another floor again, or wash somebody else's dirty socks. In my world, warriors are at the top of the food chain, not the bottom. What else are you going to do? Especially now that Grandmaster is gone.”
Fu glared at Ying.
“That's right,” Ying said. “Grandmaster is dead. I released his soul just a few moments ago.”
Fu's eyes narrowed. “You're lying.”
“Do you honestly think I would be standing here if he were still breathing?”
Fu shuddered like a cat thrown in an icy river. Ying is probably telling the truth, he thought. Ying never left anything unfinished.
Ying continued to rub his arm under his sleeve. “I'm not kidding, Fu. Grandmaster is dead. And it's a good thing, too. He wasn't the holy man everyone thought he was. I did you and everyone else a favor by killing him.”
“Fu! Run!” someone shouted through the smoke. Fu looked up and saw Grandmaster limping toward them. He was dragging one leg, and one arm hung uselessly at his side.
“Stay back, you silver-tongued demon!” Ying shrieked at Grandmaster.
“Fu! Leap!” Grandmaster shouted.
Fu leaped backward as Ying suddenly whipped around and snapped his wrist outward in a blur. Fu saw a glint of metal and felt something brush against his right cheek. That side of his face immediately felt like it had caught fire. Blood poured across his jaw, down the side of his neck. It was Ying's chain whip! Fu remembered that Ying had designed the long, rigid, interlocking segments to be concealed in an oversize sleeve.
Fu turned in time to see Ying swing the metal whip at Grandmaster. Grandmaster dropped his head to avoid the sharp, weighted end, and Ying released the whip from his hand in mid-swing while thrusting his other hand straight out toward Grandmaster. There was a terrific BOOM! and Grandmaster stumbled backward as a hole opened in his chest. He slumped to the ground, dead.
Fu roared. Pain shot from the right corner of his mouth all the way up to his ear as the slice in his cheek opened wider.
Ying dropped the smoking qiang he had hidden up his sleeve and turned toward Fu. He bared his razor-sharp teeth and flicked out his forked tongue.
Above the crackling roar of the burning compound came a desperate cry.
“Major Ying! Come quickly! It concerns the scrolls!”
Ying turned his head toward the shouts, and Fu followed his gaze through the smoke. In the distance, the soldier Fu had fought with earlier—the one with the extraordinarily long ponytail—stood on the roof of the burning bathhouse.
The soldier called out to Ying again, and Fu took advantage of the distraction. He bolted through the open gate.
Ying's number one soldier stood on the roof of the bathhouse, waiting for Ying. His name was Tonglong, which meant “praying mantis” in his native Cantonese dialect. Like the mantis, he was known for both his patience and speed. And like the mantis, he was sophisticated and complex. So was his fighting style.
Tonglong was twenty-nine years old and the undisputed second-in-comm
and of Ying's troops. His long, thick ponytail stood out among men. By the time Ying reached the bathhouse, nearly one hundred and fifty soldiers stood in a dark, smoke-filled courtyard, staring up at Tonglong.
“What is going on here?” Ying demanded as the crowd parted before him.
Tonglong bent over to lift his sword off the red roof tiles. Shrouded in flickering flames, he looked down at Ying.
“A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls,” Tonglong said calmly, adjusting his long braid forward over his shoulder.
“What?” Ying shouted. “Say that again!”
“A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls, sir. I am sorry. I am completely at fault.”
“How could you be so incompetent?” Ying asked, staring up at Tonglong. “What happened?”
“I retrieved the scrolls from the library as you ordered,” Tonglong said, ignoring the flames around him. “But then I encountered a rather stout young monk. He attacked me with a pair of tiger hook swords and tricked me with a very cunning maneuver. He managed to hurl my sword onto this rooftop and knock me unconscious. I suppose that is when he took the scrolls from my sash. I climbed up here to retrieve my sword and saw you in the distance. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.”
Ying scanned the ground and spotted Sing's tiger hook swords. He grabbed them and waved them high over his head.
“Are these the hook swords the young monk used?”
“Yes,” Tonglong replied. “The very same.”
Ying snarled and ran straight at the outer wall of the bathhouse. His body remained perpendicular to the ground as he made two long strides right up the side of the brick building, his legs working like he was climbing a set of stairs. Warrior monks usually completed this maneuver by executing a backflip. Not Ying. The balls of his bare feet and his long toenails pushed off subtle irregularities in the brick, and he shot straight into the air. He stretched both arms up as high as he could with a hook sword extended in each hand and caught the outermost edge of the roof's lip with both hooks. Then he swung himself up onto the roof, taking the hook swords with him. He approached Tonglong atop the burning building, his leathery feet treading lightly on the hot roof tiles.
“Fool!” Ying screamed in Tonglong's face, spit flying off his forked tongue. “You hope you didn't interrupt anything?‘What's wrong with you? I had that same fat little monk in my grasp, and I let him go! Why? So that I could come over here and help you! I would have had the boy and the scrolls if not for you! ARRRRRGH!”
Ying lunged furiously at Tonglong, whirling both hook swords. Tonglong expertly avoided Ying's attack by dodging and weaving and scrambling up and down the slick curved tiles covering the steep pitch. Flames leaped skyward through growing holes in the roof, and Tonglong used the flames to his advantage. By using them as a shield, he managed to keep space between himself and the hook swords. He did not counterattack.
Ying stopped his assault for a moment, and Tonglong slid down to the very edge of the roof, directly in front of the soldiers. A flickering wall of flame separated him and Ying as he kneeled down on the blistering hot tiles. The tip of his long braid brushed the rooftop.
“Sir, I ask your forgiveness,” Tonglong said.
Breathing heavily, Ying let the hook swords drop to his sides. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to keep his bare feet from burning.
Tonglong lowered his eyes. “I am truly sorry, sir. The boy was incredibly skilled. Had I known he was no ordinary young monk, I would have reacted differently. My guard was down because—”
“Don't EVER let your guard down!” Ying shouted, raising the hook swords once more. “Not on my command!”
“I will never make this same mistake again, sir!” Tonglong said, looking up. “Please forgive my incompetence.”
“ARRRRRGH!”
Ying threw the tiger hook swords far across the compound and leaped down from the high roof in a perfectly executed double flip.
“Everyone, follow me!” Ying shouted. “Now!”
Tonglong waited for Ying and the others to travel some distance before he tucked his thick braid into his sash and leaped down in a perfect triple flip.
Ying led the group to the main gate and instructed them to form a circle around Grandmaster's limp body. He strode to the center of the moonlit ring of soldiers.
“Men, we set out to destroy Cangzhen Temple and all its monks,” Ying announced. “I am afraid we have only partially succeeded. At least one young monk has escaped, and there may be more. A group of you will collect every dead monk, and I will personally review each and every body. Another group will count all our fallen soldiers. I fear we have lost more than two thousand men to just one hundred monks. This is inexcusable, and my response will be additional intensive training for those of you who are still breathing. I refuse to continue with such incompetence.”
The soldiers cast their eyes to the ground and shuffled their feet.
“Look at me when I'm talking!” Ying commanded. “All of you!”
The men looked up at Ying's contorted, raging face.
“Tonglong, bring me your sword!”
Tonglong hesitated.
“Prove your loyalty to me, Tonglong,” Ying said. “Trust that I will do what is best for the group and for the Emperor. Bring me your sword.”
Tonglong hesitated for another moment, then slipped his sheathed sword from his sash. He formally handed the heirloom over, bowing low. Ying ripped the scabbard from the sword and cast it disrespectfully aside onto the dusty ground. He raised the sword high over his head with both hands.
In one long, sweeping motion, Ying brought the sword down in a powerful arc. The sword breezed over Tonglong's bowed head as Ying twisted around. When the arc was complete, the sword dug deep into the earth, and Grandmaster's head rolled away from his lifeless body.
Ying released the sword from the ground with a rough jerk and cast it aside irreverently. Then he grabbed Grandmaster's bald head by one ear and threw it at Tonglong. Tonglong caught the spinning object with outstretched arms, ignoring the blood that pelted him from head to toe. Tonglong respectfully placed his catch on the ground beside him and wiped his bloody hands across the front of his green silk robe.
“I promised to take that to the Emperor,” Ying said to Tonglong. “You will take it to him for me at once. You will also give him the unfortunate news that my mission is not yet complete, and I would not dream of accepting the title of General until I have fulfilled my end of our agreement. Understood?”
“Completely, sir,” Tonglong said.
“Good.”
Ying turned to his number-two-in-command, Commander Woo. The powerful, stocky man stood at attention. He adjusted his armor.
“Commander Woo, you and half the men will remain here to sort and count bodies. Then you will strip the armor from our fallen comrades. You will work through the night.”
“Yes, sir!” Commander Woo replied.
Ying turned to Captain Yue, his number-three-in-command. Captain Yue sighed and fidgeted with his large silk hat.
“Captain Yue!” Ying said. “Pay attention! You will break the remaining men into groups and spread out to inform every village within one hundred li that I am searching for anyone resembling a young monk. Five monks between the ages of eleven and thirteen may be out there, and one of them has a set of scrolls that I want back. You are to inform one and all that it will mean instant death for them, their entire family, and all their neighbors if they are found to be harboring one or more of these monks or the scrolls. Anyone coming in contact with one of these monks or the scrolls is to notify me without delay. Tell everyone along the way the name and location of this ‘secret' temple, as I will be waiting here for updates. Is that clear?”
Captain Yue nodded and plucked at his spotless silk robe. Ying scowled and leaned forward, slowly turning within the circle of soldiers. His black eyes connected with every man in the group.
“Keep in mind that those of you who r
emain here will have no easy task,” Ying said, “for you must keep your eyes and ears open whether asleep or awake. I am confident at least one sentimental young monk will return. Now form your groups and get moving! You can find me here at this wretched place until further notice.”
Fu raced on. The earth felt the pounding of his feet as he leaped over boulders and darted between enormous, ancient trees. His eyes fed off the occasional moonbeam with feline proficiency, his bare feet cunningly avoiding the numerous snarled roots hiding in the deep shadows. Fu's heart pounded, forcing bursts of hot, sticky blood out of the slice in his cheek. He kept his head tilted to one side so that the blood would run down his neck and onto the collar of his robe instead of dripping onto the ground, leaving a telltale trail for Ying and his men to follow.
All alone, Fu's mind raced even faster than his feet. How could Ying do this?
Fu often grew angry over things that happened to him at Cangzhen. But he would never have retaliated by killing someone. That was crazy. He had never even dreamed of killing Ying, who had picked on him constantly. One of Fu's older brothers once suggested killing Ying as retaliation for Ying's publicly blaming the death of his only friend on Grandmaster—but the older brother was just joking. Everyone knew Ying's comments were made out of sadness and denial. Many of the monks even felt sorry for Ying because they were certain that if anyone was to blame for the death, it was Ying himself. So instead of punishing Ying for his comments, the senior monks had been satisfied when Ying announced he was leaving the temple forever to wander the surrounding forests. They knew how painfully alone he would be, and they agreed that perpetual loneliness was punishment enough for his actions.
Fu originally disagreed and thought that Ying should receive at least forty whacks with a bamboo rod. However, now that he was running solo into the unknown himself, Fu was beginning to think perhaps the monks had been right. Perhaps loneliness hit harder than bamboo.