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

by Jeremy Han

  “As part of our training, we learn how to skin a person alive,” Meng said with obvious pride. “We also learn how to administer the death-by-a-thousand-cuts. We were given a live prisoner and we had to kill him slowly. Those who killed him before three days were punished. We had to keep him in pain, but still alive for as long as three days before we were allowed to finish him off. That is why we Dong Chang are so good at torture. No one, I repeat, no one, has ever kept their secrets by the time we finished with them.”

  “No....” Baldy’s voice trailed off as he slumped down. He could not take the sight of his men being tortured so cruelly.

  Zhao and Li turned away from the sight as well. Somehow by simply being there they already felt contaminated. Zhao could not believe he had actually formed an alliance with the devil. He knew all Eastern Depot agents had a propensity for violence, but the genial Meng actually seemed to enjoy tormenting others and suddenly Zhao had an urge to kill Meng Da. He felt sick, tasting bitter bile in his mouth and wondered why Han people called the Mongols barbarians. The tribesmen had not been the ones who invented this cruel form of execution.

  There was another scream. Meng threw the piece of bloody, wet flesh at Baldy and screamed at the prince, “Tell me where Zhu Wenkui is!”

  Zhao decided to intervene. “Where is the man with the birth mark on his shoulder?” he asked Baldy.

  Meng turned and looked at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. “Who? Are you hiding something from me, Commander?” Usually Meng spoke to Zhao with some degree of respect, but the blood lust seemed to have transformed him. He took a menacing step toward Zhao Qi and Zhao sensed the Acrobat, who was behind him, rising to his feet.

  “On the night of the attack on the empress dowager I fought a huge man,” he said calmly, trying to defuse the situation. “I ripped his shirt and he had a birthmark. He was highly skilled and I thought he was your prince.” Zhao looked at Meng. “I thought that man was the leader because of his abilities.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” the tayji said as he turned his head away from his interrogators. He refused to betray Yang.

  “Fine,” Meng said as he smiled again. “Let me make you a deal. Speak and I will end this quickly. I will give you all a fast ending.” Baldy remained silent and Meng shook his head in regret as he walked over to the whimpering man. He was like a living carcass at the butchers, just waiting to be sliced bit by bit. This time Meng carved a chunk off his chest, exposing the ribs.

  “TAYJI!” his men implored. “Tell him so that we may die as men not like animals!”

  The burden fell onto Baldy and his shoulders sagged with the weight. He had never thought that his life would end like this. He has always pictured a future battlefield where he would die honourably. He had held no illusions that all of them would live. The Han hated the Mongols and hunted them like rats.

  He took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll let us die with the dignity of warriors,” he rasped.

  “You have my word,” Meng replied firmly as he folded his arms.

  “The man with the birthmark,” he started as he took another breath, “is Yang.”

  “Where is he?” Zhao queried anxiously.

  “He left us before the raid.”

  “Why?” Meng pressed.

  “He was on his way to raid a convoy carrying explosives last night,” he explained.

  Meng looked to the troop commander, and the man shook his head. “There were no convoys carrying weapons to us last night,” he told the Mongol.

  “What?” Baldy asked as a kernel of doubt surfaced. “Could there be a mistake?”

  “You are sure?” Meng asked the troop commander.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Meng turned to his prisoner. “So you are lying again,” he accused.

  “No I am not!” Baldy insisted. “He took five men with him. Said that he was getting more flying fire crows for us.”

  Something clicked. Meng looked at Zhao and Li as suddenly it all became clear. Meng turned back and look at the Mongol, who returned the look with pensiveness.

  “What?” he said.

  Meng said almost gently, although there was nothing soft in what he was going to do, “You know how we found out about your attack?”

  “How?” Baldy asked, his face paling. He knew the truth would not be pleasant.

  “Because we found a fire crow stand in the woods, pointing at the fort.”

  Baldy felt a stabbing pain in his heart, as images of his men drinking with Yang, planning their raids, feasting after every successful battle. He had won their trust and had become one of them but in the end Yang had betrayed them all. Didn’t he say he hated the Ming for castrating him? Damn! DAMN IT!

  The Mongol prince was broken. His head hung and slowly he told them everything about the assassin. Nothing crushed a man more than betrayal. From Yong Ju’s murder, to Yang’s participation in the raids, the fire crows – everything. Baldy could take torture, but a brother’s treachery was too much and he lifted his head to look into Meng’s merciless eyes. Somehow he remembered how Yong Ju had looked at him just before the Mongols killed him, and now it was their turn to die. Such was the way of war.

  “You gave us your word,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes strained upward, pleading.

  Meng nodded solemnly like a businessman undertaking a serious deal. He walked over to Baldy and pulled his head back, exposing his throat and with one expert slash, he ended the prince’s life. He then proceeded to put the rest of the Mongols out of their misery.

  After the men were dead Meng walked over to Zhao and Li. “So none of us got what we wanted eh?” he asked. He was smiling again, as though they were betting on horses and had all made the wrong judgement.

  Zhao did not reply for sometime. He was staring into Meng’s mirthless eyes. “No,” he said at length, “we did not.”

  “So we need not fight over Zhu Wenkui.”

  “For now,” Zhao reminded him, his eyes hard. After what he had witnessed he had no doubts what Meng would do if Yang was indeed Zhu Wenkui.

  “For now,” Meng replied, still smiling. “For now. And then we’ll see. And I won’t forget that you withheld information from me.”

  “Ji Gang promised us Zhu Wenkui,” Zhao asserted. “Our mission is to take him with us alive. Remember that.”

  Meng stopped smiling as his body tensed. Zhao did not budge while behind him the Acrobat took a step forward, slightly to Zhao’s left. Meng knew what that meant. If he attacked Zhao, the Acrobat would flank him. Against either Meng could probably hold his ground. Facing both however, he would die. Very quickly.

  He replied coldly and slowly to both men, as though he was explaining something to an errant child. “There are some things that even Lord Ji would not be able to decide.”

  66

  The winter night was deathly silent. The crickets and other insects that usually inhabited the dark forest had been silenced by the cold that had befallen the land. There was no moon, but even if there was the thick vegetation would have blocked out its light.

  Something stirred in the inky blackness, and there was a movement like a piece of white linen floating down the narrow dirt path as Yin appeared like a ghost along the trail, walking as quietly as a phantom. The assassin’s movements were so smooth he looked as though he were floating. He walked on expressionlessly. The silent darkness had no effect on him. In fact, he preferred to travel at night, feeling more comfortable with the absence of light.

  A few days before the eunuch assassin had received an anonymous letter telling him to head to a nearby town along the Grand Canal. He must get there before sunrise, where a boat would be waiting to take him north.

  He had held the letter for a long time upon its arrival, reading it again and again. He had known it would come, and his heart beat faster with excitement that the climax of his mission had come. Kong had recalled them for only one possible reason, and Yin knew what it was supposed to be. The picture of his target
loomed in his mind, and strangely it resembled that of his stepfather.

  After memorising the details of the letter he had burnt it, watching the smoke curl up like a snake reaching for its prey. Then he had stepped out of his hiding place and started his journey. He expected to walk throughout the night, find somewhere to hole-up during the day, and then continue again when night fell. It would take another day or so before he arrived at his destination.

  The path started to slope downhill and he shifted his weight unconsciously to balance and keep himself from falling. The night moisture made the ground slippery, but the agile and skilled fighter navigated the slope confidently. Just when he had reached level ground again he heard a scream that ripped the silence of the night like a blade tearing through silk.

  All his senses came alert at the scream, and immediately the assassin turned in the direction of the sound. He peered in the darkness, trying to see but when another scream came he was clear it was the cry of a child. Yin bolted towards it, adjusting the leather bag over his shoulder as he ran, no longer caring about stealth. There was something in the shriek that tightened his gut and propelled him forward. He knew Kong’s orders were to make all haste and avoid detection but something stirred him to investigate.

  He ran, weaving between clumps of vegetation that blocked the trail as the slim killer deftly avoided all obstacles. The undulating terrain did not deter him as he skilfully shifted his weight between his legs. He leapt over some rocks as he honed in on the sound that remained etched in his memory. A third bawl told him he was on track and something familiar about the cry had raptly caught his attention. He dashed through a clump of leaves and stood before an old, dilapidated house. Yin stood stone still for a while as he stared at the building. He felt a tremor as emotions boiled within him.

  A child in trouble….

  Slowly he clenched his fist and took a step towards the door.

  The door slammed open at his touch; it had not even been locked. Yin dashed in with a yell that came out of him like lava out of a raging volcano. The sound of a child in pain triggered something horrible in him and he wanted to kill. He wanted to rip the poor child’s oppressor to pieces.

  But the single room in the old, unused hut was empty.

  What!?

  Yin looked left and right, but there was nobody. He was sure that the shrill cry had emanated from here. He explored the place just to be sure, but in a single glance the entire room was laid bare before him. There were some rotting wooden furniture, a darkened stove and nothing else. There were no wicked, brutal adult tormenting a child, beating and abusing the weak and defenceless.

  What did I hear just now?

  The assassin gripped his head in agony.

  “AGGGHHHHHH!”

  The sounds came back. It was as if someone shouting in his brain, the vibrations sharp and piercing. The screech of the child came back again and again, hitting his senses like a hammer. He realised as he wrestled with the pain why the cries had attracted him like a moth to a flame.

  They were his own. He had run to this place hoping to release a child from abuse, but the child had been him. Something dark inside of him had been revived by Kong’s letter. Something had crept out of the shadows.

  It was his past. It was the very thing that made him kill again and again. It was the defenceless child who had no choice but to kill.

  Slowly he lifted his head. His eyes were filled with murderous hatred and his fists shook. He blinked, and he was transported back in time. He was in his stepfather’s house again and the familiar oppression came as an image of the man filled his mind’s eye. A low growl rattled slowly in his throat, growing into a mighty scream that seemed impossible for such a lithe being as he started to strike the rotting wood around him, tearing the hut to pieces with great viciousness.

  67

  The boat, tied to the quay, rocked gently against the wooden frame, producing a soft thudding sound. There was no moon that night, and Yang sat in the dark, brooding over what happened. He leaned his massive frame forward, resting his chin on his hands. He sighed, and a large cloud of vapour appeared like a cloud. He guessed sadly that by now Baldy was dead. He silently wished that his friend had died in battle. To die otherwise, in the hands of the Dong Chang, would be terrible. He also wondered if the prince knew he had been betrayed.

  Guilt and sorrow overwhelmed him like an unexpected tidal wave on a calm day. He knew the day to sell the Mongol out would come, and yet the camaraderie of combat and shared hardship forged ties that were not easily cut. He cracked his knuckles and leaned back to rest.

  The night was eerily quiet. This section of the city was empty when night fell and nobody lingered, thus it was the perfect place for him to rendezvous with his contact. Kong Wei had ordered him to embark onto a discreet boat controlled by the eunuchs that would take him to the capital through the Grand Canal. He had arrived early, but the boatman told him there was someone else to wait for. Yang had shrugged his shoulders as though he did not care and took his seat. However, he chose the place on the boat where he could see the different approaches to the quay to make sure that he had not been followed. Nobody had trailed him though, and it was only after sometime that he actually relaxed and started to reflect.

  Kong’s orders were simple: destroy everything and head north. The grand eunuch stressed the importance of haste thought, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had never questioned or wondered what his role was in the eunuch’s grand plan. He had followed everything blindly.

  Kong was the one who had raised him after his mother had died, and the man was like a father to him. He had always said Yang was destined for greater things, but he must bear his share of hardship for pain was the greatest teacher. For years, he had borne it. Years of hard training, seasons of living in the forests and hills fermenting rebellion, and now treachery and killing friends. He was not new to bloodshed, but he never had expected to form bonds with the men he was supposed to deceive.

  Nobody had told him that human ties could be so warm, especially when a band of brothers lived, suffered, fought, won, and died together. He had never expected the Mongols to warm up to him, and yet they had respected him. It was something he never received before. Left behind alone after his mother died he had craved friendship and belonging. He vaguely remembered his younger brother, but they had been too young to form close bonds. He reflected sadly that the men he had betrayed really were the closest people he had had in a long time.

  What did I betray them for?

  He could not answer the question, and slowly bitterness rose in his spirit. He needed to know what all these were about. He was deciding that he would ask Kong as his instincts sounded an alarm. His eyes flicked left and right. Something was out there, and he stared at the shadows, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to gloom so that he could detect movement.

  He gripped the handle of the heavy sabre. The weapon was wrapped in coarse cloth so that it would not be obvious, but anytime Yang needed it he could draw it. Something seemed to move in the darkness and he thought he heard the slightest shuffle of foot against ground. His breathing slowed as he relaxed his body and his mind went blank. A mind and body empty of tension was the quickest weapon.

  A shadow formed at the edge of one of the warehouses. Then it materialised into flesh as Yin rounded the corner and approached the boat as a figure in white appearing out of the shadows.

  Yang relaxed his grip on the weapon at the sight. Anyone who was not familiar with Yin would have thought a ghost had appeared. Yin wore a white, flowing robe that hid his sexless body. The coarse white linen fell over his lean frame, down to his feet so that he looked like a shapeless white object with long, flowing black hair walking on the jetty. A leather bag hung from his shoulder.

  So it’s him we are waiting for!

  Yang smiled at his fellow trainee but the pale-skinned assassin did not reciprocate. He merely nodded at Yang, and with an agile leap off the quay landed almost noiselessly on the
boat. The craft did not even rock. Yang was impressed at his skill and wondered briefly who would win if they fought: his brutal strength and animal speed, or Yin’s stealth and agility. But Yin was not his enemy, and as the silent killer disappeared into the bowels of the vessel Yang could feel the boatman working the oars. Another sailor untied the ropes from the pier and the boat moved. A silent man steered the rudders and the bow started to cut across the still, inky waters.

  Darkness swallowed the boat as it headed north.

  68

  Kong Wei waited for the imperial entourage to arrive at the Temple of Heaven. There was only one road in, as designed by the architects to reflect the divinity of the place – the one way into heaven. Teams of servants had cleared the snow away from the road for the emperor.

  The road led south where the main building, the Hall of Great Harvest, was. The hall was built in the south as only the emperor could enter it where the rituals culminated. The hall had been built at the south of the complex as to represent the forces of Yang. In Chinese divinity, Yang represented the elements that made up the throne: masculinity, brightness, strength.

  The grand eunuch stood at the entrance to the temple complex, where the annual rituals started, and watched the imperial flags fluttering at the head of the approaching column. They clattered through the avenue lined by snow-capped cypress and pines. Horsemen led the way followed by the yellow carriages of the royal family. The armoured riders carried flags with the word Ming and Zhu, reflecting the status of the House of Zhu as rulers of the Ming. Kong noted that the escorts wore blood-red uniforms under their armour, and black riding boots that reached almost to their knees.

  Members of the Jinyi Wei, the Imperial Bodyguard.

  Their presence never failed to impress. Every one of them rode straight-backed with their long sabres by their side, and Kong smiled as he looked at them. He was glad that he was not taking these elite warriors on in direct combat. As always he prided himself as a strategist, a man who defeated more powerful foes by planning rather than by force. He had patiently deflected the attention of the Eastern Depot, his most dangerous foe, away from himself. Through skilful plotting he had manoeuvred all the chess pieces into place for the checkmate, and the last piece, he believed, would soon be engaged.