by Jeremy Han
At the base of the hill, the lady who took on the guards waited. She stood there looking at him with a look that was so calm that it was disturbing. What alarmed Zhao most was not her demeanour, but the scimitar in her hand. The slim, curved blade gleamed in the setting sun. He continued walking toward her, trying to ignore her, but his senses were fully alerted. She remained silent and watched him even though he avoided eye-contact. When he got within ear-shot, she called him,
“Commander Zhao Qi.” It was a statement, not a question.
When Zhao’s eyes moved involuntarily in response, he saw a glint of sunlight flash as her curved, thin blade flew towards him. How did she know my name?
Zhao Qi ducked the steel blade wielded by this mysterious lady. He retreated with a series of light steps. He thought it was case of mistaken identity. She can’t be from the Eastern Depot. They hunted in pairs, and ladies were not found in their ranks. But before he could speak, she attacked again. Zhao knew that he could not withdraw further; he prepared to retaliate but on her own, she took a step back. One step: that was all. She stood silent like a statue guarding the bridge and then slowly moved backward until Zhao could proceed again. She was not trying to contain him; she was allowing him space to fight her.
Zhao circled his assailant with a pace that resembled a tiger; slow, deliberate, light, ready to spring. He had no chance to draw his carefully hidden sabre, so he knew he had to fight this armed attacker with his bare hands. It was obvious that she knew how to use the weapon in her hand. Zhao studied her. Then without warning, she attacked with a series of slashes that forced Zhao backward to avoid the dangerous angles her curved weapon flew by. Then Zhao moved. He blocked her sword hand by suddenly moving in then attacked with the other hand with fingers curved like a tiger’s claw. He aimed for her, face but she dodged the crushing blow in time by tilting her head. Zhao’s hand strike was a diversion for his real attack. He had no intention of hurting her; he merely wanted to disarm and immobilize her to demand an answer for her attack. He lashed his leg out low, landing behind her front leg and he hooked it, hoping it will drag her off-balance. Instead of losing her equilibrium, she sat downward, adding her centre of gravity to the leg so she could not be moved. They were so close that she could not slash at him. Zhao used a double fist attack, one fist high and the other low. She blocked the lower blow with her open palm while she dodged his other fist. Being shorter, she could use her legs but he could not. She broke the deadlock by jumping backward and executing a spinning kicking at the same time. Zhao’s left hand came up automatically and blocked the blow, protecting his head. Her leg thudded against his arm loudly as he absorbed the blow like a thousand year-old tree. His horse stance stolidly grounded, so that his body remained at the ready position he wanted it to be, unmoved by the vicious kick. The very second she landed on her feet, Zhao counter-attacked. His right claw smashed into her ribs. Just as his right hand made contact, the flash of light signifying deadly intent flitted by again as her deadly sword arm brought the weapon down. He withdrew his claw in time to avoid being slashed by the wicked blade. He withdrew before he could put pressure into his crushing blow but knew it hurt badly enough. If Zhao had not retreated, he would have been hurt badly too; the front of his tunic was slashed open. It was too close. Who was this deadly lady? With his sabre, he could win, but his lacked of a weapon gave her an advantaged. Still, it was rare for woman to fight him to a draw. Zhao was a top-rate martial artist, but he had not revealed his true strength yet, not until he knew what this was all about. Her face showed no emotions or indication of her intentions. They continued their circling again. Zhao called out,
“Who are you? Why are you fighting me? I have not offended you in anyway, have I?”
But his mind raced to analyze the situation. Her strokes were wide and fast. She could slash at odd angles. Light hands, heavy legs. His lower leg attack would trip most fighters but she knew exactly how to counter that. She did not resist or kick back because it would result in a severe leg clash, but she knew his intention was to unbalance her, so she sat downward to make it difficult to trip. Then it suddenly came to him. She was no Han. Memories of a distant life in the Ming military came back in clear patches, spurred on by adrenaline. She was a Mongol. Only warriors who fight predominantly on horseback develop techniques that use wide slashing attacks. When used correctly, the cuts were deep and damaging. Also, Mongols wrestle more than Hans. They know how to throw a man or to stop themselves from being thrown.
Why would a Mongol woman attack me here?
He realised that the only way to make this woman with the cold face speak was to subdue her. No more pussy-footing. He attacked in a fluid movement with a powerful side- kick leading the way forward. Anticipating her to dodge, Zhao closed in with an elbow attack. He was a blur, but she had sensed his movement so her palm took the elbow’s trust close to her chest. Even though she intercepted the blow, she grunted at the impact. She kneed him but he turned his body so the blow missed. She side-stepped to create space for her scimitar but Zhao had calculated the move and struck again with his deadly tiger claws; one claw struck her underarm so that she could not bring her scimitar down while the other went for her throat. His fingers found the acu-points at her underarm and she felt a jolt of lightning, followed by numbness. She could not dodge the other blow so she lowered her jaw to block the vulnerable neck. He clasped her jaw in an iron grip and she gasped. Zhao’s intention was to subdue this tigress so he only used half of his strength. If he had delivered a full blow, he would have crushed her jaw. He pushed her head backwards, causing her body to bend backward into an awkward position. Just when he thought he had gotten her, her leg came up unexpectedly and kicked his face hard from an angle that males could not execute because of anatomical design. Another miscalculation; he really should fight females more. With enough distance now, she brought her sword hand up again, ready to attack, her cold face not revealing the extreme pain she was in.
“Stop Yula! Enough Commander!”
A familiar voice cried out. Zhao looked in surprise to see his former comrade Long Wu. The man appeared from the dense forest that lay ahead of the bridge. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Commander”.
“What the hell?” Zhao said bewilderedly to Long. Turning his head to both of them, unsure of what was happening.
“What do you think, Commander, of her skill?”
“You were using me to test her skill?”
“No. I wanted you to be convinced.”
“Convinced of what?”
“That she is worthy to join us in our quest.”
“Our quest? Didn’t you walk out of the meeting two days ago?”
“I did, but she wanted to join. I know that I could not talk you into accepting a woman because you’ll think she’s a liability, so I wanted to prove it to you first. Let her skill do the talking.”
“I see.” Zhao nodded at his cleverness. Was he so prejudiced against women?
Zhao turned back and looked towards Yula, who was rubbing her jaw. It must hurt. He also knew that her ribs would have finger-marked bruises by tonight. He had a few close shaves as well. He subconsciously fingered the tear in his tunic caused by her blade. She did not complain or show any signs of discomfort. She was tough, no doubt. The three of them started walking together. Zhao was curious, “Explain what happened.”
They walked down toward the riverbed to fill their water bottles, clean-up after the fight and rest by the rushing water. They sat by the water where it was shallow. Behind and ahead of them, the river meandered endlessly into the setting sun. The water reflected the orange glow. Limestone mountains framed their surroundings, rising up to the clouds. The riverbank was covered with smooth, round pebbles. Clear, cold water flowed over the pebble beach and fishes darted about among the stones and other debris of nature like logs and plants. They took off their boots and soaked their feet in the refreshing flow. Long spoke after some hesitation, “It’s true I did not want to have a part in
the rescue because Wen did not want to tell us the escape plan. I thought it was unfair for us to take such a big risk without any assurance of success. But when I spoke to Yula, she wanted to take the risk. She said to get away, any risk is worth it.”
“Does she know what the dangers are? We are going against the Eastern Depot.” After a pause, “How did you meet her and what’s her background?”
“Commander, she’s my colleague as a convoy guard.” Long said it with a little embarrassment, for Han Chinese women did not usually travel long distances in the company of strange men.
“Where did she learn how to fight like a she-bear and how did she end up as a convoy guard? That’s not a traditional women’s occupation.”
“In the north, there’s a saying, ‘Mongol men fight like wolves but the women fight like bears.’ After the destruction of the Yuan, the remaining Mongol tribes who returned to the steppes fought against each other. On one hand, they were pursued as Zhu Di chased them out of the empire. On the other, they fought among themselves to unite under one banner again. Men go to war across great distance, old men and women are left to protect the family against beast and other clans. The girls learn how to ride, shoot, fight, wrestle together with the boys. After the fall, life was hell on the plains. Yula’s tribe was destroyed in the inter-clan feud. Her whole family was wiped out. She fought her way out of encirclement and became a wanderer, her weapon the only guarantee against rape.”
Under the Great Chinggis Khan, the Yassa or law decreed by the supreme leader that women shall no longer be bought and sold. But after the fall of the empire, tribes were at war again, and the old ways crept back into the Steppes. Sheep, cattle, horses and women were traded after raids. It was a complete breakdown of order without a ruler strong enough to govern the Mongols.
“And how did you find her?”
“You really want to know?” Long Wu asked hesitantly.
“Spill the beans! Damn you. When have you turned into such an old woman?” He punched Long in the arm.
“Crickets.” The man replied with his cheeks turning red.
ELEVEN
The men were hunched over a cricket fight. At a desert town in the middle of nowhere, entertainment was rare. The wind was howling outside, so everyone huddled in the poorly lit inn, the only one in this small settlement. This place existed for nights when storms raged across the already inhospitable desert. Everyone had to take shelter. This small town, or village, or whatever it was called consisted of only six to seven buildings. It was more of an outpost for travellers and convoys to stop over for a night to water their beasts and men before they continued their journey. It was the only place where clean water, hot food and maybe a warm body could be found amidst the cold, unforgiving sand. It had a small garrison with a tired looking Ming flag fluttering in the wind. The rest of the buildings were purely utilitarian. There was an inn, a stable, a general goods store, an apocatherapy and the unmistakable brothel with garish colours. Together, they made up the community of this desert outpost. All the buildings surrounded the only well there. Here, soldiers and crooks came together.
Tonight a big fight was taking place. The two opposing critters faced off each other with soft cree-cree sounds. The brownish green insects tested each other’s defence before engaging to the cheers of the rough looking men arrayed around the table where the grand slam event was taking place. Equally rough-looking women cheered and clapped with their boyfriends-for-the- evening. Cricket fighting was an age-old game in the Middle Kingdom. Starting from as early as the Tang dynasty, it became popular during the Southern Song period, where even the emperor was obsessed with it, writing a manual on how to breed, maintain and fight crickets. The best insects were captured in the north eastern province of Shandong, where the crickets were strong and sturdy. Good fighters fetched a high price, and entire businesses were created from the breeding, nurturing and training of good fighters. Entire fortunes could be made or lost on the backs of these insects.
Long Wu clapped his forehead and swore as loudly as any soldier worth his salt. His cricket jumped out of the bowl-sized arena, chickening out of the fight. His colleagues burst out laughing. “Damn it! What is wrong with you?” He cussed at the insect as it skipped away. Crickets were an investment. They needed proper food and care to fight. It all added up to money. The rest laughed and money changed hands. He shook his head as he stood aside to allow the next best challenger take on the ‘Champion of the Desert’, a yellowish specimen the size of a middle finger. Their attention was brokened by the opening of the door. The harsh sound of the wind caught everyone’s attention, and they looked who would be so crazy to brave the sand storm. A cloak draped over the person and a scarf covered the face. Judging from the physique, it was a woman. She found a table and sat down. Long Wu’s eyes were accustomed to sizing everyone up to see if they presented a threat; it was a fugitive’s sixth sense. He took in the form, picking out the bulge at the hip - a sword, something on the back as well. No one paid her any attention after that; the crickets were more exciting than a fully-wrapped woman. As long as she wasn’t a desert jinn, she could do what she liked. She signalled the waiter and ordered some food. No one cared what she ate because the fight with the reigning champion had started. People only started to care when she walked over to the betting table and produced a little box.
“I want to challenge the winner.”
She said in an accented voice. No one really noticed accents because desert outposts attracted all kinds of people passing through. But they noticed the cricket, a solid grey-brown specimen, and her handful of coins.
They looked up. The champion’s handler shrugged and pointed at the bowl. Folks made way for her as she took up position and dropped her challenger into the arena. Nobody cared who she was or where she came from except for how good the cricket was. The cheering began as coins were tossed onto the table. The cree-cree increased in tempo and then the fight began. The crickets pushed each other and engaged. The cheering went up a few notches. Laughter, cheers and curses; everyone was kept on the edge by two insects smaller than their fingers. Finally the winner emerged. The reigning champion fled, and the owner had to catch it in his hands to toss it. There was a belief that crickets that lost would not fight again unless tossed in the air. There were more curses as the realisation that money was going to be lost. The mysterious lady opened her palm, and smiled to indicate that her payment for winning was due. Long looked at her. Her face was flat and angular, a sign of a hard life. Her eyes were not almond-round like Han and her forehead was higher. He had seen such features before on the battlefield. She’s Mongol.
The former champion’s owner glared at her. The man was a prize fighter and also a bodyguard for another convoy. He crossed this desert frequently and was known by the inhabitants and guards at this place so he felt confident, confident enough to deny payment to the winner. There was no way he would pay a woman.
“Go to Hell!” He spat. He tipped his chin at her to indicate ‘So what are you going to do about it?” Then he turned his head to a side and ignored her. The air turned colder inside the room than outside in the desert night as the two faced each other. Her smile disappeared, and her narrow eyes slanted, but she did not withdraw her extended hand. She was not intimidated and expected to be paid what was fair to her. When he noticed that her hand was still thrust out at his face, he suddenly got up with a roar, slapping her hand away and overturning the table. People screamed and ducked away. She calmly dodged the table coming her way and then she moved forward like lightning. As the fat man stood, her hand moved so quickly under her cloak and re-appeared with a scimitar commonly used by Mongol cavalry. The man reached for his own sabre, but stopped when he felt the cold steel pressed against his neck with enough pressure to tell him she was serious. The chill of the metal hinted how cold her heart was. Her other hand reached forward and pulled his pouch of coins off his waist. He cursed at her, she looked at him coldly and shook her head. By then his comrades had st
ood and drawn their swords, but as long as she had the good sense not to kill him, they made no move. Then somebody shouted,
“Stop the fighting!”
It was the local guard commander. He passed for whatever looked like the governing authority here. One minute he was cheering and joining in the fun and the next he was the serious policeman. “Game’s over. Get out everyone. No fighting in my territory. Go back to the room. The inn’s closed. Scram!”
Everyone went back to their rooms. Long Wu took notice which room she went to and decided to stay for awhile, drinking, watching. Danger was coming. He was right. A couple of hours later, after all lights were doused and the inn keeper had gone to sleep, he heard movement. The fat man was surprisingly light on his feet, as he crept up the stairs leading to the lady’s room. Three of his comrades followed. He did not need to guess what they planned to do. It would not be as simple as merely getting their money back. He gripped his own sabre and watched.