The Orchid Farmer's Sacrifice

by Fred Yu

  “He saw through the ruse,” Feng said. “Ready?”

  Ming nodded.

  “Remember, they have to believe you were discovered from your hiding spot.”

  “Are you sure they will charge into our ambush?”

  “They’ll be blinded by bats. They’ll have to.”

  Ming nodded again, slowly withdrawing herself from the dense shrubs they were hidden behind.

  Zeng Xi’s men gathered into large units of forty, clustering into lines of five wide and eight deep. They marched forward in slow, rhythmic strides to the beat of a single drum.

  The scout produced three fingers to signal three hundred had climbed. Feng nodded and waved a hand signal. The scout understood and hurried down to inform Iron Spider that Feng wanted the bat cages in position.

  Ming reemerged and stood with her back against a giant oak tree. She looked in Feng’s direction with a smile, the silver whip with its blackened blade already clutched in her fist. Feng motioned once to the nine poison users across the road. Each brought a large canvas bag to the forefront. Feng held up his hand and signaled for them to hold.

  The troops inched forward, approaching the giant oak tree. Ming waited for them to step closer, then launched herself from behind the tree and swept her whip in a horizontal arc. Two men fell at once with deep gashes in their throats. A three-pronged spike appeared in her left hand, and she shot into the pike men, their long weapons barely leveled. She stabbed a soldier in the face while her whip circled around. She withdrew with equal speed, the silver whip sweeping in from underneath and killing yet another soldier while she retreated.

  “Red Cobra!” someone shouted. No one had time to respond to the lightning-fast attack. She was already ten steps away. The soldiers lifted their pikes and charged.

  Ming laughed and shot forward again.

  “No, Ming!” Feng whispered in alarm. There was nothing he could do to stop her. She wanted to kill.

  Ming moved diagonally across the front of the pike men, straying from her original path of retreat. Her bright red figure swept across the uneven terrain. Her silver whip sometimes danced in front of her and sometimes swung like a wheel above her head, each final stroke both precise and deadly. Five more fell, and then a second unit closed in to flank her.

  Ming slipped back, this time retreating in earnest.

  Feng exhaled, angry that she placed her life at risk. “Wait,” he whispered, just loud enough for the nine poison users to hear.

  The two units of pike men charged after her. There were shouts from lower on the mountain, perhaps Zeng Xi ordering his men to halt. But it was too late. Ming ran into the mouth of the narrow path, and they followed.

  “Now!” Feng shouted. He didn’t care if the soldiers heard him. They would not live to explain what they saw.

  The poison users ripped open their canvas bags and threw their contents over Ming’s running figure.

  “Snakes!” someone shouted. The pike men in front halted. The lines of soldiers behind them slammed into their backs, knocking them forward and into the narrow path now covered by poisonous snakes. The snakes coiled, reared, and snapped at them from all sides.

  The pike men screamed. Amid the chaos some tried to attack the snakes with their pikes and accidentally stabbed the fallen soldiers.

  “Now!” Feng shouted.

  The poison users stood up from the bush they were hiding behind and launched their throwing weapons. Showers of poisoned spikes, needles, and knives rained on the soldiers. The soldiers screamed, no longer sure where the assault was striking from. Most stumbled back and shielded their faces, their spears still pointed at the snakes.

  Ming crouched beside Feng once again. He reached over and took her hand, so relieved she had survived. She leaned closer to him.

  A double beat of the war drums sounded. “He’s flanking the ambush,” Feng said. “Let’s go.”

  He drew back, pulling on Ming’s hand. She did not resist. When they lowered themselves behind the large boulder, she pointed to the nine poison users. “We won’t see them again.”

  Feng gripped her hand and pulled her toward the back of the mountain. “Hold the path,” he shouted to the nine men. “Force them to flank you and hit you from behind!”

  Someone acknowledged. One man jumped out, hurling a shower of needles while leaping to the other side. He drew a handful of floor spikes and tossed them onto the path.

  Feng pulled on Ming’s hand. “Let’s go. Even more will die so the Venom Sect may live.”

  Ming turned back to him and followed him down the mountain. Halfway to the cliff, multiple tributaries from other peaks converged before Immortal Falls. Here the men were hidden behind small bushes with the bat cages readied in front of them.

  The shouts and footsteps of an entire army emerged from the front of Oleander. Feng turned back to look. Saber users standing in lines as wide as the cliff itself appeared on the top of the mountain. Zeng Xi must have sent a thousand men around the ambush.

  Perhaps none of the soldiers spotted them yet. Feng signaled to the men behind the bat cages, telling them to hold, and motioned for Iron Spider to prepare the fire.

  They were not going to use torches initially for fear of exposure. Rather, they would only light small firebrands when Zeng Xi’s army descended the back of the mountain. Feng counted on the soldiers running horizontally across the back of Oleander, circling behind the nine poison users, and overlooking the assault from the edge of the cliff.

  Ming and Feng continued to run, charging directly into the bat cages.

  “Over there!” someone shouted. One soldier was pointing at them. The entire army turned. They had been spotted.

  Feng grabbed Ming’s hand and charged down the back of Mount Oleander. Behind him, the sudden roar of a thousand men descending the mountain reached him at once.

  “Bats!” Feng shouted.

  Ming gasped. He pulled on her hand, and they fell into a rapid slide. The men responded and opened the bat cages. Two hundred bats shrieked as they flew into the air, climbing the terrain and heading directly into the charging saber men.

  Ming and Feng slipped below the rushing bats, crashed through one of the cages, and continued to roll down the hill. Feng’s shoulder slammed into something hard, and a cry of pain escaped his lips. Ming reached behind his waist, steadied her own footing, and lifted him to his feet. They had already reached Iron Spider.

  Behind them, the two hundred bats soared into the air and descended upon the enemy. Livid cries filled the back of Mount Oleander. The saber men, who had never trained to face an onrush of poison bats, swung their weapons with eyes closed and faces covered. Some swung into each other, killing the man in front, while others dropped their weapons and clawed at the winged creatures on their faces.

  There was a shout from behind, followed by another two beats of the drum. “Forward!” one of the commanders shouted. “Charge forward!”

  In response to their orders, the men picked themselves up and rushed down the slope.

  Feng stood beside Ming and Iron Spider, mostly concealed by a rocky ledge, and observed the assault. The soldiers were coming dangerously close, but in the confusion the commanders behind them never noticed the dry hay and twigs scattered across patches of yellowed grass and lifeless shrubs.

  Feng lifted his arm and shouted, “Alcohol!”

  Large brown caskets, gourds, porcelain bottles containing aged liquor, and clay urns holding alcohol for soaking herbs were all thrown into the air at once. The contents landed in front of the soldiers and among them, splashing liquid deep within their lines.

  “Fire!” Feng shouted.

  The torches, already ignited and held at each person’s foot, were hurled into the air. They landed within the rushing enemy, grazing wet clothing and falling on dried hay already soaked in alcohol. A powerful inferno erupted on the back of Mount Oleander. The flames soared into the heavens, covering the trapped soldiers and giving rise to haunting cries of pain and agony.
The shrieks of men burning alive echoed across the valleys.

  “Oil!” Feng shouted.

  Smaller porcelain urns were flung into the air above the massive flames and closer to the top of the mountain to create a deeper, stronger barrier. The oil vessels soared over half the enemy lines and landed well beyond the initial burst. The flames had already begun to die as the alcohol disappeared in a single angry roar, leaving the hay and twigs barely ignited. A moment later the oil caught fire. Zeng Xi’s soldiers scrambled away as the flames clawed and groped their way to the top. Those in the front lines, severely scarred by the initial burst, fell writhing and crying as the flames on their clothing continued to burn them alive.

  Huge plumes of black smoke engulfed the top of Mount Oleander. Zeng Xi’s men continued to cover their faces and retreat. Feng turned to the scout, now standing by the edge of the cliff, who indicated that three hundred and forty had descended.

  “Do you need a weapon?” Iron Spider asked.

  “A sword. Give me a sword.”

  The old woman laughed. “You don’t know how to use a sword. Here. Take this.”

  Feng took a step back in horror. “I don’t want it.”

  Iron Spider grabbed his hand and placed the porcelain bottle firmly in his grasp.

  Feng shook his head and opened his mouth to say something when two more beats of the war drums reverberated from the peak.

  “They’re moving across,” he said. “They’re coming around to the rocky surface. Ready?”

  Ming grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the edge of the cliff. “Your turn to climb, Feng.”

  Feng took her hand, gazing into her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  She shook her head, breaking free from him before turning away. “They can’t hold the rock without me.” She ran off to the edge of the sloping rock.

  The surface was smooth and slanted, dangerous to cross even without the oil Iron Spider had splashed on it.

  There was only so much oil among the four hundred members of the Venom Sect, despite the yearlong need to soak poisonous ingredients, and most of the flammable liquids had already been used to burn the mountain. The rocky surface was not well covered.

  Through the haze of black smoke, Feng watched the soldiers crossing the top of the peak pass the row of flames separating them from the remaining fifty members of the Venom Sect. Ming said something to her men, then to Iron Spider. The older woman nodded, bowed deeply, and ran to the edge. “Climb!” she shouted at Feng. “The master is holding them for you!”

  Feng froze. Could that be true?

  Iron Spider descended, and five others followed, then six more. Feng stood alone on the far end of the cliff, staring at the seventh rope. How could he leave Ming to die by herself on this cliff? The men standing beside her, loyal to the very end, would be vanquished in minutes. Zeng Xi’s army was circling around, and the ropes would be severed soon. Ming would fight until her people, already scattering into the valleys, could not be pursued. There was no way he could convince her otherwise.

  Then he noticed it. A short drop from the edge of the cliff, perhaps the height of two men, was a small platform extending close to Immortal Falls. He thought he saw another ledge behind it. If he and Ming could leap onto the first platform and then jump onto that ledge, they would appear to have plunged into the falls.

  Feng had one last play, and if he failed, he would die with Ming on Mount Oleander. He climbed the shelf he had been hiding behind and onto the smoking soil. The dried grass and scattered hay had already burnt to cinders. The ground stung his feet, the stitched cloth soles useless against hot cinder. But he didn’t care. He heard the soldiers lining up on the other side of the slanted rock, preparing to charge. Ming shouted orders to the few left behind. She was ready to sever the ropes, but she hadn’t done it yet. Maybe she really was waiting for him to climb.

  The idea brought a tingling sweetness to his lips. He felt his heart skip a beat, and then he shook the thought away. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

  Zeng Xi’s men charged to the first beat of the drum. Feng moved faster, climbing the hill and passing the lower areas where the flaming alcohol first burned the soldiers. The bodies were charred and useless to him.

  “Sand!” someone shouted.

  Feng was running out of time. The army was neutralizing the slippery surface with sand, and they would reach Ming and her men in minutes. Feng peered through the smoke and saw the men cutting the ropes. It could only mean that everyone on the ropes had descended, including Iron Spider. Feng exhaled in relief.

  He continued to climb and finally saw one: a corpse with clothing intact, killed by a neck wound—perhaps from a poison bat. His blood was seeping through the uniform with the stain still enlarging around the collar.

  The sounds of battle emerged from the slanted rock. Steel colliding in a chaotic frenzy, shouts of bravado and ferocity, and the screams of men in pain and fear swept the mountain in one convoluted reverberation. Feng frantically unbuckled his own clothing while listening, trying to focus on the vague movements of battle. He was glad to be rid of Zhu’s disgusting clothes, though the blood-stained uniform he was about to change into was no better.

  Feng bit his lips at every sound of men being slaughtered, of hard steel puncturing soft flesh, of naked blades cutting through muscle and tendon. Yet, when he did not hear a woman’s voice among the cries of agony, he managed to exhale.

  He turned to the corpse, and the thought made him want to vomit. He needed the uniform, disgusting or not. He reached down, still flinching, and stripped the body. He dressed himself, cringing at the smell of filth and blood, and wasted no time strapping the armor around his chest. He proceeded to rip the undergarments off the dead soldier.

  “Fire!” It was Ming’s voice, weak and trembling. She was already injured.

  Two torches landed on the oiled rock. A much smaller fire, subdued by the sand under the soldiers’ boots, ignited with a half-hearted burst. The soldiers screamed in panic, hurling themselves back to escape the flames. Many slid off the slanted surface and dropped off the edge of the cliff, screaming all the way to the bottom.

  Feng tore the last piece of clothing from the body, grabbed a glowing stick of firewood from the ground, and burned a deep line into the corpse’s buttocks. He vaguely remembered what his birthmark, now known as the Red Crest, looked like.

  No one else really knew what it resembled either.

  The burnt flesh, unable to swell, formed a deep, pink outline of the symbol.

  Feng grabbed the body and threw it over his shoulder, his knees buckling under the weight. He couldn’t breathe from the smoke around him. He could barely see, but somehow he knew where Ming was, and he ran toward her.

  Moments later, standing above the sloping rock, he watched the bright red figure of Red Cobra fly into the enemy, cutting left and right and stabbing with her three-pronged spike, her silver whip swirling around her in frantic swipes. She was no longer an image of finesse and power. Large beads of sweat dripped from her brows. Her red robes were stained with multiple blotches of blood—perhaps her own blood. She was everywhere at once, trying to guard the entire width of the rock all by herself. She rushed into enemy spears and stabbed them with her spikes when the spears were thin, then retreated in long, backward jumps when the enemy spears were dense. She showed fatigue; her sudden changes of direction were no longer agile, her large sweeps of the whip no longer precise. The few warriors around her, no more than ten, held together and moved back and forth in unison. They were also slowing and one by one falling to the endless onslaught of multiple spear thrusts. Blood was spilled everywhere, pooled against the uneven rock, trickling down the slope, and smeared by the advancing soldiers. Ming was rapidly yielding ground.

  Feng charged down the hill, screaming at the top of his lungs. “The Red Crest! I found the Red Crest!”

  No one heard him. He ran harder, his heart pounding with dread, his jaws clenched in uncontrollable fear. Ming
was stabbed in the side. She fought off a surge of charging saber men, barely killing one when another slashed her. She collapsed.

  Feng screamed. “Stop! I have the Red Crest!”

  He ran as hard as he could, straining for air, holding his breath as he bore through a wave of stinging black smoke. For a moment he could not see, but he forced his eyes open, blinking away the tears and sweat to locate Ming in the battle.

  A short distance below him, Ming was on the ground, barely rolling away from multiple spear thrusts. The men around her were all dead. She was badly injured, no longer able to stand or launch another weapon. Her whip was nowhere to be seen.

  In a state of panic, Feng lifted the corpse over his head, using strength he never knew he had, and tossed the dead soldier onto the sloping rock. “The Red Crest!” he shouted.

  Suddenly, the invading army stood still, staring at the naked body thrown in front of them. The soldiers murmured, pointing at the pink symbol on the body’s buttocks. Some shouted for their commander.

  Feng rushed down, veering to his right so he could move closer to Ming while still pretending to be one of them. No one paid attention to him.

  The soldiers surrounding Ming stopped attacking her, though their spears were poised, chambered, and ready to thrust into her lifeless body with a single word from their leader. Feng didn’t know who commanded the assault across the sloping rock—perhaps Zeng Xi himself—but no one was barking orders. Perhaps the secondary commander was distracted by the Red Crest and lacked the courage to step back from the ultimate prize.

  Feng slipped behind the soldiers and moved closer to Ming, almost within striking distance. Relief washed over him as he realized Zeng Xi’s men were not so well trained after all. Most of them were staring at the commotion instead of watching the Venom Sect leader they were responsible for. A few of them, perhaps aware she was unconscious, had already pointed their weapons away.