by Jeff Stone
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I believe there is,” Tonglong said. “If you flinch like that over a little spit, how will you react when blood begins to spill?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Tonglong’s eyes narrowed. “How many battles have you been a part of?”
The man looked confused. “None, sir. We have had only peace in this region for more than a hundred years.”
Tonglong gripped the hilt of his straight sword. “Then perhaps I need to help you Eastern soldiers grow accustomed to bloodshed.”
“I apologize, sir,” the soldier said. “I—”
The man’s words were cut short by the sound of Tonglong’s straight sword slicing through the air. His blade moved faster and more powerfully than ShaoShu could have imagined. It breezed clean through the soldier’s head as though it were nothing more than an overripe peach, splattering blood across the torso of the first soldier.
The second soldier dropped in a lifeless heap, and ShaoShu fought back a shriek. Tonglong’s sword had gone from sheath to killing blow in the blink of an eye.
Tonglong turned to the first soldier, and the man dropped to his knees.
“Please spare me, sir,” the soldier said in a quivering voice.
“Shut up,” Tonglong said. “On your feet.”
The soldier stood.
“Tell your Eastern comrades what you have seen here. Show them the stains on your uniform. Let none of them say that they have never seen another man’s blood.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now get out of here and find those fugitives!”
The soldier hurried away, and Tonglong knelt beside the fallen Eastern soldier. He calmly began to wipe his blade on the dead man’s robe. He worked with the emotionless precision of an insect, reminding ShaoShu of a mantis cleaning its forelegs after a kill.
ShaoShu shivered. Who could possibly stop Tonglong?
Four hundred li southwest of Shanghai, Ying sat alone beneath a mountain pine tree, his eyes closed tight, his mind open wide. Legend said that it took more than three thousand years for a dragon to grow to realize its deadliest potential. Ying guessed that he had about a month.
Tonglong would be on the move soon, and he needed to be ready for him.
With his legs folded beneath him and his hands upon his knees, Ying meditated. He focused his attention on his dan tien, the mysterious chi center in his lower abdomen, and began to breathe in a specific rhythm that his mother had taught him. In no time, he felt chi circulating through his body, rippling in waves, warming everything from the tips of his long fingernails and toenails to the pigmented scar tissue carved into his face. He had to admit, it felt good.
Ying exhaled slowly, enjoying the sensation, and found himself thinking about his mother. She was resting nearby at a friend’s house. He had come out here at her urging so that he could prepare himself for his inevitable confrontation with Tonglong. As so often was the case, her idea had been a good one. Thanks to the breathing exercises she had taught him and the powdered dragon bone he had been consuming, he now truly felt like a dragon instead of the eagle his name—Ying—implied.
Ying opened his eyes and felt his inner chi flow begin to dissipate as he eased himself out of his meditative state. Mountains filled his vision in every direction, and he grinned. He was at home. There were several different types of Chinese dragons, and they ruled everything from the seas to the rivers to the skies. Some dragons even protected treasure hordes like the one Tonglong had stolen from Ying’s family. Ying, however, was a mountain dragon through and through.
Mountain dragons, like all Chinese dragons, were impressive creatures. They were made up of the strongest elements of many different animals, which is what made them—and dragon-style kung fu—so powerful. Dragons were primarily serpentine in shape, but they possessed four legs, each ending with a set of talons. These talons came from an eagle, but the pads of the feet were those of a tiger.
Chinese dragons also had spindly whiskers like a carp, plus a long beard that was more like a mustache. The longer the mustache, the older the dragon. Some people even believed that a very thick mustache meant the dragon was extraordinarily wise. Finally, Chinese dragons possessed the antlers of a deer and, most striking of all, the eyes of a demon.
Ying fixed his eyes on the forest floor and stood. He rubbed his chilly bare hands together to get his blood flowing and set his mind to thinking about Tonglong. It was time for some physical training.
Tonglong was a master of the straight sword, and if Ying had any hopes of defeating him, he would have to fight fire with fire. Tonglong’s guards would never let anyone get within pistol or even musket range of Tonglong, but Tonglong would welcome a straight sword challenge from anyone, including Ying. He was that good.
While Ying was proficient with edged weapons, he was no match for Tonglong. Even Ying’s weapon of choice, an extra-long chain whip, likely would not get the job done. However, Ying had heard rumors back when he lived at Cangzhen Temple about a combined straight sword and chain whip sequence that was supposedly unbeatable. The practitioner used both weapons simultaneously, one in each hand. This allowed him to take advantage of the chain’s long-range capabilities, as well as the sword’s short-range precision. It also coupled the rigidity of the sword with the flexibility of the chain. It was the best of the hard and the soft, the yin and the yang.
This special two-weapon sequence was rumored to be recorded in one of the Cangzhen Temple dragon scrolls, but Ying had never seen it. He had managed to get his hands on most of the scrolls, but he had lost possession of them. He would have to try to develop a sequence himself.
Ying scanned the ground, and his eyes soon fell upon what he was seeking—a perfectly straight branch about as long as his arm and half as thick as his wrist at one end. The opposite end tapered to the width of his thumb. Perfect.
Ying lifted the branch by the fat end and measured its weight in his left hand. It would do nicely. He slipped his chain whip out of the hidden pocket in the inside of the sleeve of his robe, gripping its rigid handle with his right hand. He began to swing the multi-section steel weapon powerfully over his head, like a man attempting to catch an animal with a rope.
The sharp, weighted tip of the chain whip sliced through the air, severing pine boughs and tree limbs in every direction. He continued until he had cleared a wide circle that would allow him to swing his chain whip any way he chose without interference. Then he began to create a deadly new dance.
Between long, slashing swings of the chain whip, Ying thrust his practice branch forward again and again. The chain connected with the end of the branch more often than not, and in no time he was left with a short practice dagger as opposed to a long practice sword.
Ying tossed the stubby stick aside and looked around the forest floor once more, this time gathering an armload of branches that would serve his purpose. This was going to take time. He would give himself two weeks to practice, and another two weeks to find himself a real sword. Then he would have to locate Tonglong and face his destiny.
Long heard the voice as if in a dream. The accent was odd, but the words were definitely Chinese.
“Put on all she can wear, mateys! We can do this! The wind is in our favor!”
Long forced his eyes open and found himself lying flat on his back, the ground rolling and pitching violently beneath him. The sun was high overhead, and the crisp scent of salt water invaded his nostrils. He was in a boat.
But whose boat was it? And what day was it?
Long rolled onto his side and tried to raise himself up onto one elbow to take a look around. He’d made it halfway there when his arm slipped on the boat’s slick deck, and he flopped back down with a groan, dizzy.
“He’s awake!” a familiar voice shrieked from somewhere nearby.
Long raised his head, tilting it left and then right. Strangely, he did not see anyone. Then he gazed up. At the very top of the b
oat’s single tall mast, he saw Malao’s dark-skinned face beaming down at him.
Long grinned.
Malao raised a hand and waved, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his perch was swinging wildly back and forth through a full ninety degrees of motion as the boat rolled in the wind-driven seas. “Hello, Big Brother!” Malao shouted down to him.
Long nodded a greeting and mustered as much strength as he could, struggling again to lift himself onto his elbow. This time, he succeeded. He glanced over the side of the boat and saw that they were tearing along at an impressive rate. He’d had no idea a boat could move so fast.
“Lie down, Brother,” urged a gentle voice behind him. A moment later, his younger temple sister, Hok, appeared at his side. She took his wrist in her hand, searching for his pulse.
Long glanced at Hok’s smooth pale skin and spiky brown hair. He had learned from Grandmaster that Hok had a Chinese mother and a Dutch father. That accounted for her light skin, but he had never seen her with hair. It looked nice, but made her look as out of place as she had probably felt growing up pretending to be a boy.
“Conserve your energy,” Hok said to him. “Charles has everything under control.”
“Charles?” Long asked.
Someone began to grumble from the front of the boat. “Charles has everything under control? Hmpf.”
Long smiled as he recognized that deep, complaining voice. He glanced at the boat’s bow and saw Fu expertly rearranging a complicated series of ropes. Fu was shirtless despite the cold weather, and Long was surprised to see how much Fu had thinned out, and how much muscle mass he had gained. Fu’s chest might have been even larger than his own, which really was impressive considering Long had the build of an eighteen-year-old and Fu was only twelve.
“Hello, Fu,” Long called out in as loud a voice as he could manage.
“Ahoy,” Fu replied. “I would come over to say hello, but I’m kind of busy right now. I’m helping Charles.”
Long wondered if Fu might stalk over to wherever this Charles was standing in order to give Charles a piece of his mind, or possibly a piece of his fist. Instead, Fu did the strangest thing. He laughed. Then he shouted, “Sorry, Charles. I’m only teasing.”
Long blinked. What had happened to Fu? The Fu he knew never apologized for anything.
Things grew even stranger when Long twisted his head around toward the back of the boat. Behind the ship’s wheel stood a white teenage boy with straw-colored hair and eyes the color of the sea. Towering next to him was Xie.
Xie clapped the foreign teenager on the shoulder and said, “We are in fine hands, Long. This is Charles. Or should I say, Captain Charles?”
Charles smiled warmly and nodded to Long. “Nice to finally meet you. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” Long replied. He felt Hok release his wrist, and he turned his attention back to her.
“Please lie down,” Hok said. “You need to conserve your energy. Your pulse is very faint and you have lost a lot of blood. You are lucky to be alive. It took more than one hundred stitches to close your wounds, and I had to sew them while the boat was moving. It is not my best work. Some of them are bound to split open if you do not lie still.”
Long knew firsthand his sister’s gifts as a healer, and he obeyed without question, lying back down on the boat’s rolling deck. Her handiwork had impressed everyone at Cangzhen Temple, and she had patched him up more than once after training sessions that had gone awry. He noticed now that his right thigh and the upper section of his left arm had been expertly rebandaged. That was no doubt her doing, too. He asked, “What is going on? I cannot seem to remember much.”
“There is quite a bit going on,” Hok replied. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, first?”
“From the beginning?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” Long said, “six months ago, Ying attacked our Cangzhen Temple with the aid of the Emperor’s soldiers. They had firearms and cannons, while we had swords and spears. Only Fu, Malao, Seh, you, and I managed to survive. I thought that Grandmaster might have made it out, too, but I later learned that Ying had killed him as well.”
“Go on.”
“I fled the attack as Grandmaster had commanded, and I came up with the idea of joining the fight clubs like Ying had done, in order to get close to the Emperor. I thought I might be able to change the Emperor’s heart like Grandmaster had directed us. I did manage to get close to the Emperor and even succeeded in becoming this year’s Fight Club Grand Champion, but it was all for naught. As Xie has probably told you, Tonglong is now the Southern Warlord, and he made a move against the Emperor right after I won the championship. I believe he may have succeeded. This is all I know.”
Hok nodded. “Unfortunately, I think you are correct about Tonglong succeeding. I saw ShaoShu briefly as we were leaving the rooftop across from the fight club last night, and he pointed to a figure wrapped in some sort of blanket, held by soldiers. A section of the blanket had separated, and in the moonlight I saw a flash of gold silk.”
“So I have only been asleep one night?”
“Yes.”
“And ShaoShu is definitely back with Tonglong?”
“Yes.”
“I wish he would have come with us.”
“ShaoShu can take care of himself,” Hok said. “What more can I tell you about our situation?”
Long glanced at Charles, then back at Hok. “Tell me about this fine boat.”
“The boat belongs to Charles, of course,” Hok replied. “He is a friend of my father and my mother, and I am proud to call him my friend, too. I believe we all are.”
Fu grunted in agreement from the bow, and Malao shouted down from the mast top, “Hear, hear!”
Hok continued. “Charles has been helping us for a while now, and we have been keeping an eye on Tonglong. We were recently staying with a group of Charles’ friends on a small island to the south, but Tonglong found us and destroyed everything and nearly everyone. We were fortunate to escape. Charles was going to take us farther north so that we could meet up with Seh and a group of bandits he is staying with.”
“Bandits?” Long asked. “Are you talking about Mong?”
Hok’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. How do you know about Mong?”
“Grandmaster shared some secrets with me,” Long said, slightly embarrassed. “Do you know that there is history between Mong and Seh?”
Hok nodded. “Yes, Mong is Seh’s father.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know anything about Seh’s mother?”
“No.”
“His mother is, or I should say was, AnGangseh.”
Long shook his head. “AnGangseh was Tonglong’s mother.”
“She is mother to both of them, though from different husbands. Seh and Tonglong are half-brothers.”
“Unbelievable,” Long said.
“There is more,” Hok said. “AnGangseh blinded Seh. That is why he is not traveling with us.” She tapped the side of her ever-present herb bag. “Fortunately, I may have found a cure in the form of dragon bone. Now that you are with us, we are hurrying to Seh and the bandits. Fu’s father is with them, too, as is my mother and hopefully my little sister.”
“I feel bad for Seh,” Long said. “Did you say that you have a sister?”
“Yes. I only learned of her when I reunited with my mother. Besides my family, we have also tried to find information about Malao’s father, a man known as the Monkey King, but no one seems to have seen him in years. Fu has reunited with his father, though. His name is Sanfu—Mountain Tiger.”
“It sounds like you have been busy,” Long said, feeling light-headed. “What about Ying? I have heard rumors about him, but I do not know what is fact and what is fiction.”
Hok smiled. “You are never going to believe all that has happened with him. He is no longer the same person. We consider him an ally. He had a life-changing reunion with his mother and learned some startling things abo
ut his father, and especially his grandfather.”
Long’s eyes widened. “Ying knows about his grandfather?”
“Yes,” Hok said. “Grandmaster was Ying’s grandfather. Isn’t that tragic? Although he did not know it at the time, when Ying killed Grandmaster, he killed his only living relative besides his mother.”
Long closed his eyes, his dizziness worsening. “That is not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ying has at least one more living relative, though his health is questionable at the moment.”
“Who?
“Me.”
“What?” Fu roared from the bow of Charles’ boat. “You and Ying are related?”
Long sighed. “You have good ears, Fu. Yes, Grandmaster was also my grandfather. Ying and I are cousins.”
“Does Ying know this?” Hok asked.
“I do not believe so,” Long replied. “Grandmaster kept many secrets, especially from Ying. It seems Ying’s father and my father were brothers. I always wanted to tell Ying, but Grandmaster forbade me. One thing Ying did know, though, was that Grandmaster killed his father. Ying was very young, but he saw it happen and he never forgot. I believe this is the main reason he killed Grandmaster—revenge. Additionally, Ying was upset that Grandmaster had changed his name. Ying’s name used to be Saulong—Vengeful Dragon. Grandmaster changed his name and started teaching him eagle-style kung fu instead of dragon-style.”
“That would upset me, too,” Charles said.
Long nodded.
“Wait—” Hok said. “If Grandmaster killed Ying’s father, that would mean that Grandmaster killed his own son.”
“That’s right,” Long said, his voice faltering. “Grandmaster told me that he did it after Ying’s father killed my parents. Grandmaster said that he had two sons, a good son—my father—and a bad son, Ying’s father. Grandmaster told me that Ying’s father was an abomination and needed to be dealt with so that no more people would be hurt by him. He said that the negative traits of a dragon were somehow amplified in Ying’s father, and he feared that Ying might be the same way. That is why he raised Ying as an eagle.”
