by Jeff Stone
“This is awful,” Hok said.
“It is,” Long said. “Poor Ying. I do not know anything about his mother, who would be my aunt.”
“We have met her,” Hok said. “Her name is WanSow—Cloud Hand—and she is a wonderful person. She was injured by Tonglong, but Ying is taking care of her now.”
“It sounds like Ying really has changed,” Long said.
Hok nodded.
“I hope to see him again,” Long said. “My aunt WanSow, too. If you happen to see him without me, please tell him all that I have shared with you. He needs to know. Grandmaster kept too many secrets. Look where it has gotten us.”
Hok nodded again, and a weary grin crept across Long’s face. After all that he and his temple siblings had been through, it seemed everyone was doing all right. The only exception might be Seh.
As the heavy hands of unconsciousness began to press against Long’s mind once more, he closed his eyes and thought about his blind brother. Losing one’s sight was a fate worse than death for some people, and it would spell the end for most creatures in the wild.
Long wondered how a snake would handle it.
Twelve-year-old Seh stood before the line of bandit recruits, a razor-sharp spear in one hand, a teacup in the other. He raised the cup to his lips, swallowing the wretched contents in one gulp. He gagged briefly, but managed to keep the medicine down.
One of the recruits scoffed. “What are you going to teach us, young sifu? How to distract an opponent by puking on him?”
A few of the recruits chuckled, and Seh frowned. It was like this with every new group. This particular bunch consisted of fifteen men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. He was going to have to earn their respect, and that usually meant confrontation. His vision was far from functional, but he could now see shadows and had learned to identify individuals by the unique amounts of positive or negative energy they generated. The joker stood in the center of the line, radiating negative energy like a furnace.
One of the recruits spoke up in Seh’s defense. “Give our young instructor some respect, gentlemen. He is blind, and he drinks powdered dragon bone in an attempt to regain his sight. Have you ever tried it? It is horrible.”
“Dragon bone, eh?” the joker said. “He must be a spoiled rich kid to be able to afford such expensive medicine. I guess that is how it works when you are Mong’s son.”
Seh felt anger begin to rise within him, but he fought off the urge to be rude. He decided to give the men a short explanation to try to ease the growing tension. Then he would move on with teaching the class.
“The dragon bone was a gift from a black market dealer called HukJee—Black Pig,” Seh told the group. “HukJee learned that some friends of mine were looking for dragon bone, and a healer friend of our camp named PawPaw realized that dragon bone might be able to help me with my condition. It is true that I have lost my sight, but it has been returning more each week. Today’s lesson will be that vision isn’t everything. I can use other senses to defeat opponents.”
“Like your sense of taste?” the joker asked. “To help with your projectile vomiting?”
The same recruits laughed, and Seh wondered how men more than twice his age found these childish comments funny.
Seh turned away from the group and walked under a large tent frame that had not been covered with fabric. He could vaguely discern the outlines of several round clay pots hanging at different heights from the crossbeams. The pots were filled with sand, and dangling from the bottom of each was a square sheet of metal roughly the size of his hand.
Seh subconsciously pushed a lock of his fast-growing hair out of his mostly sightless eyes and pointed more or less in the direction of the man who had spoken up for him. It was time for a little demonstration.
“Please, come here,” Seh said.
The man came forward, and Seh nodded toward the pots. “I want you to hit each of those dangling sheets of metal, then get out of the way as quickly as you can.”
“Okay,” the man replied.
Seh heard five distinct clangs, and the moment he saw the man’s shadowy form hurry off to one side, he sprang into action. He rushed forward, swinging his iron-tipped spear in a wide swath, smashing three of the pots in dramatic fashion on the first pass. He felt the satisfying thunk as the clay vessels exploded, and registered the distinctive hiss of sand flying through the air.
He keyed in on the faint tones emitted by the two remaining metal sheets, and he went after them with all the focus of a kung fu master. He thrust the spear tip at one of the pots, shattering it. Then he pulled his spear back as though to smash the remaining pot, but instead snapped his right foot forward, shouting, “Ki-ya!”
It was a direct hit. The ball of his foot connected with the final pot, and the pot erupted, sending a shower of hardened clay fragments and sand in every direction as the metal sheet dropped to the ground.
Seh landed on his knees for show, his spear held high over his head. He jumped to his feet, bowed quickly to the line of men, and began to dust himself off.
Several of the recruits murmured their approval. The joker scoffed. “I’ll be sure to remember this lesson if I’m ever blindfolded and attacked by a troop of killer flowerpots.”
“Is there something you would like to discuss?” Seh asked the joker.
“Yeah,” the joker replied. “I want to know why you are wasting our time. Breaking pots serves no purpose.”
“That is not true,” Seh said. “Those pots are the same diameter as a human head, and they are hung at different levels to represent opponents of different heights. The force required to shatter one when it is filled with sand is the same amount of force necessary to crack a human skull. It is important practice.”
The joker laughed. “Pots don’t fight back, young man. People do. People also move around. A person would simply get out of your way.”
Seh clenched his teeth. “Would you like to try it?”
“Attack some harmless flowerpots?”
“No. Attempt to get out of my way.”
The joker’s tone grew serious. “Are you saying that you want to fight me, boy?”
“I prefer the term sparring,” Seh said. “Unless you are afraid, old man.”
“Old man!” the joker roared. “I’ll show you!”
Seh heard the man’s heavy boots begin to pound across the ground in his direction. It did not surprise him that the joker acted so spontaneously. In fact, he had been counting on it. Embarrassing this man here and now would earn Seh the respect of the entire group.
Seh sank into a deep Horse Stance and gripped his spear with two hands, holding the wooden shaft parallel to the ground with the metal tip facing forward. He held the shaft’s center balance point tight in his left hand at waist level and positioned his right hand near the blunt back end.
He had no idea whether the joker had a weapon, but was certain that he would prevail as long as his opponent did not carry pistols. Seh heard metal unsheathed, and from the sound determined that the man possessed a broadsword of moderate length. No problem.
The joker continued his charge, and when Seh could hear the man’s intense breathing, he knew that his opponent was close enough.
Seh struck. He kept his left hand locked and thrust his right hand downward in a large half-circle. This caused the tip of the spear to rise up in an opposing half-circle, heading directly for the joker’s face. The joker chopped down at the spear tip with his broadsword, just as Seh expected he would, and the broadsword made contact with the spear tip, redirecting the spear tip down toward the ground.
As the spear tip continued its downward motion, Seh thrust it forward, accurately visualizing the spear passing between the man’s legs. Seh clamped the spear shaft in his armpit and rolled to one side, yanking the spear sideways. The spear shaft tangled the man’s legs, and he tripped hard and fell to the ground, face-first.
Seh dropped the spear and was about to slither onto the joker’s back for a ch
oke hold when someone shouted, “Enough!”
Seh froze. He felt the air behind him begin to pulse with restrained aggression. He did not have to turn around to know that his father was approaching.
“Did you hurt him?” Mong asked as he stopped next to Seh.
Seh fixed his gaze in the general direction of his downed opponent. “How should I know?”
“Good point,” Mong said, slapping Seh on the shoulder. “Nice move, by the way.” Seh felt the aggression within his father begin to dissipate.
Seh nodded, and he heard the joker groan.
“He looks like he is going to be fine,” Mong said. “Listen, I realize that sometimes you need to make an example of someone, but next time please try to pick a younger man. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, and older individuals, like myself, take longer to heal. I fear we are going to need all the extra hands we can get very soon.”
“I will remember,” Seh said. “Have you received some news?”
“Yes. It is all speculation at this point, but we believe that Tonglong may attempt to amass an army.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you are going to have to train more men,” Mong said. “A lot more.”
ShaoShu sat obediently inside the door of Tonglong’s central command office on the outskirts of Shanghai. He was sitting absolutely still, trying not to be noticed. Across the room, Tonglong was in a furious mood, and it looked like things were about to get worse.
“Sign and seal it!” Tonglong ordered.
The Emperor folded his arms. “No.”
Tonglong slammed his fist against the heavy oak desk, scattering a series of scrolls. A bowl of ink tumbled over, and ShaoShu watched the black liquid seep into a large crack formed in the desktop by Tonglong’s powerful blow. That impact would have easily cracked bone.
“Sign it,” Tonglong said again, his voice as tight as an archer’s bow.
“I will not,” the Emperor replied indignantly. “You are asking me to grant you the freedom to forcibly recruit every male in the entire country between the ages of eight and fifty into your army. I cannot allow this. We are not at war.”
“You can, and you will,” Tonglong said. “Emperors have been conscripting people into military service for thousands of years, and not just for war. Do you not remember how the Great Wall was built?”
“In this case it is not justified.”
“The only justification you need is that I say it shall be so,” Tonglong said. “I will say this only one more time. Sign it.”
“I repeat: I will not. What can you do?”
Tonglong reached out with amazing speed and grabbed the Emperor’s left thumb. With a powerful yank, he wrenched the thumb in a complete circle. ShaoShu shuddered as the sound of crunching bone mixed with the Emperor’s startled scream.
Tonglong released his grip and growled, “There are at least two hundred more bones in your body. Would you like to pick the next one? Or should I?”
The Emperor struggled to regain his composure, tucking his mangled hand into his lap. In a shaky voice, he said, “I will sign it.”
“That’s a good puppet,” Tonglong said, dipping a writing brush into the spilled ink. He spread out one of the scattered scrolls, and the Emperor signed it.
“Now seal it,” Tonglong said.
The Emperor reached into the folds of the rough robe that he now wore in place of his fine silk garments, and he pulled out a small clay pendant hanging from a cord around his neck.
“I wondered what that was,” Tonglong said. “I assumed it was a simple dragon pendant. I should have known better.”
The Emperor did not reply. Instead, he held the small rectangular object before him in his good hand and awkwardly untied a knot that had been positioned very close to one edge. The pendant separated into two halves. The back half was plain and smooth on all of its surfaces. The front half, however, was different. A simple dragon had been carved on the outside to make it look like a standard pendant, but an elaborate dragon had been painstakingly carved on the inside portion.
Tonglong snatched the seal from the Emperor’s hand and dipped the special dragon into the spilled ink. Then he pressed the seal against the decree, below the Emperor’s signature.
ShaoShu watched Tonglong apply a steady, even pressure in order to make the seal stand out clearly, and something unexpected happened. The seal crumbled to dust between Tonglong’s fingers.
Tonglong hissed and reached across his desk with one hand, grabbing the Emperor by the throat. “How dare you play games with me!”
“No games,” the Emperor somehow managed to say. “It may still have worked. Look closely.”
ShaoShu looked at the paper from across the room, but all he saw was a blob of black ink and clay powder.
Tonglong took the paper in his free hand and tilted it sideways, shaking it. The powder drifted from the decree, and ShaoShu saw that the seal was somewhat smeared but still identifiable, even from a distance. He did not know a thing about official documents, but this one looked authentic to him.
Tonglong released the Emperor’s throat. “It was designed to disintegrate like that, wasn’t it?”
The Emperor nodded and coughed. “It is a safeguard against unauthorized use. It is meant to break and destroy the seal’s mark as well. You must have an extraordinarily soft touch.”
“We will see how soft my touch is when I start breaking more of your fingers. Where are the real seals?”
“That seal was real.”
“I mean, where are the ones you use on a regular basis? I doubt you use those clay versions.”
“The royal set is back at the Forbidden City, in Peking.”
“Do you have more clay seals?”
“No.”
Tonglong stood and pounded his fist on the desk again. He glared at the Emperor. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“It means that you will have to keep me alive longer than you expected. You will never be able to execute another initiative like this conscription without the seals, and you will not be allowed inside the Forbidden City without me.”
“Plenty of new emperors have entered the Forbidden City with the old Emperor’s head on a spike.”
“But not you,” the Emperor challenged. “At least, not yet. You still have the substantial Western army to contend with. From what I have overheard among your men, Xie is alive and well. If he makes it back to his homeland, he will take the role his father held as Western Warlord, and his people will crush you. They are a powerful, merciless lot. And they have horses. There are also the imperial forces under my direct supervision within the walls of the Forbidden City.”
“Your Forbidden City forces are more susceptible than you think,” Tonglong jeered. “A little bit of treasure and the promise of power have gone a long way right beneath your nose.”
“My men are loyal to the death.”
Tonglong laughed. “Why? Because you pay them well? I will pay them more. In fact, I already have. I have one key individual who has made me confident that I will win the rest over soon enough. He will convince the others to join—or kill them. With your own imperial forces turned against you, combined with my current Southern and Eastern armies and the men I will recruit, even the mighty Western army will not stand a chance.”
“Do not forget about the bandits and their Resistance,” the Emperor said. “They will declare all-out war against someone like you. They have been a thorn in my side for years.”
“Let them try. I crushed them once and took their stronghold, and I will gladly do it again. Their life span is coming to an end. As for your life span, you are correct. You will walk this earth at least a little longer. Signatures are easy enough to forge, but that seal is far too complicated to reproduce without an original to copy. If you cooperate, I may let you live once we reach the Forbidden City.”
Tonglong picked up the decree and stared at the seal, shaking his head. He carried the document to the fa
r side of the room and placed it on top of a long table, then glanced at the mess he had made on the desk and the scrolls he had knocked to the floor. “ShaoShu, tidy up this place. I am taking the Emperor back to his private pigsty now.”
ShaoShu swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Tonglong headed for the door, and ShaoShu hurriedly unlocked it, holding it open. Tonglong passed through it with the Emperor in tow, and ShaoShu risked giving the Emperor a quick wink. The Emperor nodded slightly, as though he understood that he and ShaoShu were on the same side, and ShaoShu locked the door again.
ShaoShu hurried over to the desk area, scooping up a handful of scrolls from the floor. He tried to open the desk’s topmost drawer, but it was locked. He tried a second drawer, and this one slid smoothly open. It was empty, and he managed to carefully place half of the scrolls into it before it was full. He found another empty drawer and set the remaining scrolls in it. He had begun to walk away to find some rags to wipe up the spilled ink and powder when curiosity got the better of him.
He walked back to the desk and checked the remaining drawers. All were unlocked, and most were empty. Those that were not empty contained things you would expect to find in a desk—blank scrolls, ink, writing brushes, writing quills.
ShaoShu tugged at the desk’s only locked drawer again, wondering what might be hidden inside. Maybe it was something that could help Long and the others? Having lived alone on the streets most of his life, ShaoShu had developed skills to help him survive. One of those skills was picking locks.
He reopened a drawer containing writing quills and selected the largest, most rigid one. The end had already been sharpened to a thin point, and he stuck the point into the desk drawer’s lock. After a few careful pokes and a turn of his wrist, ShaoShu gave the quill a gentle push and the lock disengaged.
He pulled the drawer open to find more scrolls. Two of them looked very old and battered, and he couldn’t help taking a peek. While he could not read, he recognized immediately what they were. Alongside the words he saw detailed sketches of people standing in complex body positions combined with different movement sequences. All of the people had their hands held out in front of them like dragon claws. One of the scrolls even included a series with weapons. It depicted a figure with a sword in one hand and a chain whip in the other.