The Prisoners of Fate: Sequel to The Emperor's Prey

by Jeremy Han

  “Good. Good. Indeed it is better. That was why I arranged it for you.” Kong nodded to stress the favour he had bestowed on the young man. He sighed - it was a signal.

  “Master, why do you sigh?” the young man asked.

  “I’m not sure if you could do something for me.”

  “What is that?” The young man fidgeted again, rubbing his hands. He had known Kong for a long time, had grown up under his tutelage. And now Kong had gotten him right at the heart of the Forbidden City, by the side of the emperor.

  “Can I trust you?” Kong asked as he slowly turned to look at the young man, eyes glaring.

  “Sure…sure you can.” He buried his hands under his tunic, hoping the older man could not see the shaking digits. Kong was, after all, an extremely important eunuch. He had taken him so far, yet he could also drop him like a stone, and the servant did not want to lose his comfortable position. It was clear now; the grand eunuch had elevated him for his own purposes. There was nothing benevolent in it, but now, Kong was calling for repayment. A meeting in the dark outside the palace violated the rules, so what the old man was up to could not be good. He broke out in cold sweat again.

  “Swear to me first you will not reveal what I say tonight.” the old man rasped as he glared at the junior eunuch. The young man hesitated before getting on to his knees. His voice quivered as he replied.

  “May I be ripped apart and not be buried with a complete body should I reveal the words spoken tonight.” He mouthed the traditional curse for traitors; their dismembered bodies prevented a smooth reincarnation.

  Kong smiled as coldly as a reptile. The young man’s palpable fear was so strong he could almost smell it. The young man sat on the chair once more and waited while his heart pounded.

  Good. I need him terrified of me.

  “I want you to tell me every time the Empress Dowager meets someone. And if possible, listen and report what the conversation is about.”

  “Lord Kong….” he pleaded, “spying on the sovereign…that is…punishable by death!” The man dropped to his knees like a supplicant before a malevolent god. He bowed until his head touched the floor, a sign that he was deeply distressed and remained there, hoping this man who almost had god-like powers over him would reconsider.

  Kong weighed his words for effect. “Nothing is free, my child, nothing is free,” he said softly, the threat implicit. He turned away from the prostrating man and sipped his tea slowly, indicating that what he asked was non-negotiable and that the conversation had ended. The junior eunuch either took it, or bore the consequences. Punishment for spying was swift, but Kong could turn his life into a living hell within the vast world of eunuch slavery, where having a patron, or an enemy, could make all the difference. Kong Wei, vice-director of the Office of Ceremonies and one of the highest ranking eunuchs in the empire, could be either.

  “Well?” Impatience clung heavily to the word.

  The young man’s adam’s apple bobbed as though he had swallowed a walnut. He stole a glance at the man who had issued him an impossible command, and saw as much mercy there as a man looking down at an ant.

  He whispered a reply, “Yes…yes, Lord.” What choice do I have?

  Kong nodded, pleased. Ever the master manipulator, he decided to move back to the soft approach, “Of course, I won’t be ungrateful. For now you do not need to know my plans, but once they bear fruit, you will share in it.”

  “Yes...yes,” Wang stammered. “Thank you, Sir,” he said automatically, and without any gratitude. His chest heaved as he took a deep breath to calm the storm in his heart, but the grand eunuch did not stop. Adopting a fatherly tone he did not feel, he continued to dispense advice.

  “We are eunuchs, Wang. Slaves. Those joys of living that money and power cannot buy have been robbed from us. Freedom, family, love, sex – all have been stolen. There is only one thing left to us to accumulate. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, Lord Kong.”

  “Power,” he whispered softly. “All that is left for us is power; the power to ensure that no one, except the emperor, could dictate your fate. And if you serve me faithfully, who knows where you will reach?” He tilted his head towards the young man to emphasise his point. The young man kept silent for awhile, and his senior allowed him to remain with his thoughts for before dismissing him,

  “You may go.” The young man scurried away like a beetle. Kong looked after the retreating figure. He did trust the boy, but not because he was the trusting kind. He had leverage. The young eunuch knew that Kong could arrange for one thousand and one things to happen to him. In his business, goodwill was never enough to generate trust, not when torture and execution were always awaiting around the corner.

  Fear is always better than trust.

  And for what he was planning, one word leaked could mean a painful death. Despite his power over the young man, Kong shuddered: even his own plans frightened him. He never considered himself brave, but there are some promises he must keep, some risks that he must take, if he was to keep his oath made thirty-three years ago. He did not consider himself an evil man, but some things could not be achieved without violence and hard-heartedness, not in this cruel, twisted world where one man was placed above the lives of millions. Slowly, he turned and gazed at the massive, red complex at the foot of the hill. The wind blew and the lanterns ringing the palace moved, causing the image to shimmer.

  The beating heart of the dragon.

  Taking on the throne, with all its might, was frightening because it was a fearsome beast.

  But what if you strike at its heart from within?

  4

  Far away from the northern capital, in a remote town along the coastal region of the Ming not too far from Hangzhou stood a lonely Yamen, ‘Magistrate’s Office’. The wooden doors were locked for the evening and two lonely, faded lanterns swayed lazily to the cool autumn breeze. A sudden gust of wind stirred the pile of fallen leaves that had been carefully swept by servants earlier into a haphazard dance, before it went away again like a faded memory. The silence of the small town accentuated the loud panting and echoes of footsteps of a lone soldier who ran to the gate and pounded at the wooden door with utmost urgency. He did not bother with the petitioner’s gong placed by the side of every Yamen for the common folk who needed justice. He was not here to appeal, but to cry for help.

  “Open up! Open now! Something bad has happened!” His pounding of the door sounded like thunder in the quiet street.

  A constable on duty opened the door, and the soldier who had been pounding on it dashed in, yelling, “Where is the Magistrate? He must see this!” The soldier looked dishevelled - his uniform was bloody and torn, looking like someone who had just survived a war.

  “Calm down! Hey…calm down!” the constable shouted at the hyperventilating visitor. The soldier was tall and broad shouldered, with a strong, well-defined jaw which seemed to quiver in fear. His round eyes revealed shock. He must be a northerner, the shorter constable observed. His uniform, his gear all looked to be genuine.

  “Look! Something bad has happened! I need to talk to the Magistrate!” The soldier spoke quickly, his eyes darting around, looking for danger. By then, two other constables had come with sabres drawn, though they relaxed when they saw it was only a fellow soldier. The soldier pointed frantically, saying, “Out there! The Magistrate needs to see this now.”

  “What? What’s so urgent?” the oldest constable asked, his moustache moving up and down.

  “Our convoy…convoy, we were delivering silver for the flood relief at the next town…we were attacked….Everyone is dead!”

  “Attacked? What? By who…?”

  “By...by a man named Zhu Wenkui,” he stammered. Even the mention of the name seemed to lower the temperature of the night air by a few degrees.

  Deep within the building, the magistrate had not yet slept. He had given his household staff some time off to prepare for the mid-autumn festival, the season of celebrating the moon
goddess’ love for her husband. It was also the festival where the founder of the Ming dynasty, Zhu Yuanzhang, launched a massive rebellion against the Mongols many years ago, using cakes baked during the festive season to send messages to fellow rebel units. Messages were inserted into the cakes and given as ‘gifts’, thus enabling a coordinated attack on the Mongol garrison. The Mongols did not celebrate the festival, but had also not suspected the Han of using it to stage an uprising, and even though they had banned gatherings, they had never realised that there was anything more sinister to the sharing of cakes than just a festive celebration.

  The constables had families too, so he had allowed as many of them to take the evening off as he could, thus the magistrate was alone except for a few duty constables who stood guard. Being that this was a peaceful place, the magistrate did not expect trouble. He knew what his wife would say about him saying late: he was married to the Yamen. The min ‘people’ were his true family and children. Used to his ways, his true family was somewhere celebrating without him.

  A conscientious man, he was reading through the reports submitted by his constables. They included observations, crime reports, mostly petty, and also details of court cases brought before him for his judgement. There were a few cases that required his attention and a verdict by the next day. Deeply absorbed in his reading, he had not heard the commotion outside.

  The constable on duty went in to report. The magestrate continued reading his documents while his man rattled on about the mysterious late night visitor. As the details were vague the official did not care much until he had heard the constable speak the name ‘Zhu Wenkui’, immediately gaining his attention.

  “What did you say?” he snapped at his subordinate.

  “Zhu Wenkui Sir. That’s the name of the bandit who ambushed the convoy.”

  “The crown prince from hell?” he muttered in disbelief.

  Everyone had thought the ghostly bandit was a figment of the imagination of some bored official in the imperial capital, one who thought the officers down south were idling and wanted to keep them busy chasing shadows. He could not believe that tonight the rumour had sought him out. It was not too long ago, the supervising inspector for this region had asked for all information on the shadowy bandit to be submitted. No one so far had been able to substantiate the rumours, so tonight he could be the first.

  “Take me to the man!” he said as he leapt to his feet.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  He rushed out, interrogated the soldier himself, and when he was satisfied something had indeed happened he grabbed his black official’s coat and his sabre, running out of the building. He ordered the soldier to take them to the place of ambush.

  “Lead the way!” the magistrate shouted as they doubled out of the Yamen. Four duty constables, armed with sabres, gathered around their boss as they ran into the night. A mist was descending over the city, and they looked like night goblins running noisily through its whiteness. Nothing could hide the urgency in their steps.

  The soldier led them through the night, backtracking the way he had come, passing through two empty intersections before running down a flight of stairs. Two of the constables leading held torches to light the way, and the group descended carefully down the stairs, taking care not to fall. The magistrate, despite his age, kept up with his men. Once they reached level ground they darted through the gate that marked the boundary of the town. Sentries guarding the gate recognised the top official of the town by the burning light of two huge braziers that were used as both illumination for the area, as well as warmth for the sentries, and allowed him passage. The moving men cast long and eerie shadows as they dashed past the flames, and soon they were running along the dirt tracks that led into the countryside and deep, complete darkness.

  “This way!” the soldier yelled as he gestured at the path, lined on both sides by thick bamboo forest. The road wound through corners.

  “Hurry!”

  The soldier did not seem winded and must be terribly fit to have run to the town and back, and the rest of the men struggled to catch up with him. The magistrate looked up and saw that the mist was swirling around him. He turned and looked back; the entire passage they had come through was now covered with a screen of the same greyish white. Are we lost? Perspiration formed on his head, but it was not just from the exertion of running in the cold, dark night.

  Something is not right!

  But the soldier continued. Somewhere in the dark, an owl hooted. A bad omen…

  Then they reached an opening in the forest. The magistrate’s eyes could make out the outline of a carriage. The wind blew and the listless Ming flag on it fluttered in a ghostly dance. There were boxes on the carriage labelled Yin ‘silver’. Strange! If Zhu Wenkui is a marauder, he would have taken the silver and disappeared!”

  “Search!” the magistrate shouted.

  His constables fanned out to inspect.

  No corpses? It was too dark to see if there was blood. Didn’t he say that Zhu Wenkui and his bandits slaughtered everyone?

  A trap!

  The magistrate turned in dread as realisation finally slapped him in the face. He saw the soldier smile maliciously at him, and raised an accusing finger at the trickster.

  “You! How dare you!” the magistrate cried at the man.

  The big soldier laughed like a forest troll in a deep, rolling way that filled the quiet night like thunder. He drew his sabre and with a powerful slash took the magistrate’s head off, unleashing a massive spray of blood. The constables drew their sabres and attacked.

  One against four.

  The soldier brought his blade down hard, clashing against the first constable’s weapon as sparks flew. A mighty push forced the law officer back, just in time for the killer to block the blow by another constable. The sound of clashing steel screamed through the quiet forest surroundings. Soon, the sound of the dying would add to it. He parried the blow and forced the man’s blade out of the way, driving his own in all the way to the guards stomach, gutting the man who screamed in pain, his entrails looping out like sausages. Another law enforcer attacked. To fight a foe bigger, stronger and better, there was no need to fight clean, and the lawman kicked viciously at the rogue soldier’s groin with a frontal snap kick.

  THUD!

  It should have felled the man, but there was no effect. There was no scream of pain, no doubling over or clutching of his privates. Instead, the soldier looked at him with a slight tilt of his head as though he was asking “Why did you do that?” Perplexed at the lack of response, the constable swung his sabre downward but the tall, mysterious soldier skilfully avoided it. He was composed and calm, unlike the panting, exhausted and panicking constable. The constable thrust the weapon again, but the soldier blocked by pressing the blade down, forcing the constable toward the ground. The soldier was so strong he only used one hand to force the blade against the constable who used both.

  “Uggghhhh” The lawman grunted, the effort showing on his scrounged face. Through the strain he snuck a glance up into the other man’s face, and the monster smiled back at him. Finally, the mystery man grew tired of toying with his prey, lifting his blade and with a shout he slammed it onto the constable’s blade just below. The vibrations rattled the hapless constable’s hand and he dropped the sabre. The soldier slashed the blade downward on the now defenceless constable, opening him up from chest to stomach with a massive fountain of spraying blood, splasheing onto the soldier. It drove him into a greater maniacal frenzy, raising his hands at the sky, and laughing like a man who was enjoying himself.

  The massive soldier spun in time to face the third constable as he attacked. The laughter was gone as suddenly as it had started and his face was once again contorted with aggression. Their blades went back and forth before he shot out a powerful side thrusting kick, ramming into the man from a short distance, lifting him up and throwing him back., slamming the poor man against the broken-down wooden carriage. The constable’s head hit the wood so har
d he saw stars, and while he was still disoriented the soldier hacked his head off where he stood with one devastating blow. The severing of his neck echoed through the dark and quiet night.

  Chuuuut!

  The last constable ran away in fear, fumbling in the dark and screaming until the whitish gossamer mist engulfed him like a ghostly blanket. As he ran for his life, he could hear the deep rumbling laughter follow him, fading with the increasing distance. Thankfully, the manslayer had not followed him.

  The rogue soldier looked around him.

  Four dead men.

  He had deliberately left the last one alive to tell the tale of how Zhu Wenkui had decapitated the magistrate and three of his constables, as well as having stolen the government’s silver with great ease. The sour tang of iron fouled the clean, night air of the forest as he surveyed the carnage, wrecked by his hand. In a way, he had not lied. The carriage was really delivering silver for disaster relief, and he had killed the soldiers escorting it. He hid the bodies before the constables came simply because he thought it would be fun to see their expressions as it dawned upon the doomed men they had been tricked, recalling the magistrate’s face when he had put two and two together just before he died. He chuckled.

  Tomorrow the rest would be back. The headless corpse of the magistrate would be real enough to prove the constable’s tale. They would remember the name Zhu Wenkui – the crown prince from hell had returned. He counted on them to spread the word.

  5

  The commander of the Eastern Depot, the most feared police organisation in the Ming Empire, strode through the great halls of the Forbidden City. His footsteps echoed across the vast, empty halls, devoid of people due to the early hour. Sunlight streamed in from the east, the orange warmth caressing his rough face. He remembered a visit here many years ago, summoned by the great Yong Le Emperor who had since passed away. That night, more than thirty years ago, the emperor had sent him on his toughest mission – find his nephew, the Jian Wen Emperor, who had become a monk, and kill him. It was also the only mission Ji Gang had ever failed because of the tenacity of a man named Zhao Qi. That was so many years ago. Yong Le’s great-grandson now sat on the throne. Yong Le’s son and grandson had both died young. Both had been good emperors, but fate had not been as kind to them. Now, an eight year-old boy sat on the throne. But a child would not send for the empire’s greatest assassin and chief of secret police; he was too innocent to understand the nature of the commander’s work. In a child’s perfect world people like Ji Gang and the Eastern Deport, the Dong Chang, did not exist. So, this early in the morning, he must have been summoned by someone who did understand and urgently needed the Dong Chang’s raison d’être.