The Eleventh Tiger

by David A. McIntee

  Qin reached a hand back and grabbed her wrist. Then he stepped through the hole, pulling her with him.

  3

  Beggar Soh and Vicki had described their journey back to Guangzhou in great detail. It was simple enough for Fei-Hung to follow it in reverse. He had taken a small sailing dinghy, leaving a few coins on the jetty at the docks where it had been moored. The tide was coming in and had given the boat a much-needed boost upstream. He had beached the dinghy as soon as he saw the tops of the junk’s masts in the distance and gone the rest of the way on foot.

  The town was deserted. He had expected at least some of the guards the abbot had lured from the Black Flag still to be around, or maybe some prisoners, but there was no-one. The town was completely empty.

  Next, Fei-Hung slipped down to the lone jetty. The junk was still afloat. A couple of guards patrolled the deck, so he felt confident that the town wasn’t permanently abandoned.

  The junk was being kept ready for use.

  Fei-Hung slipped quietly aboard and put both guards down with rapid punches and kicks to the head. He tied them up quickly so that he could search the junk in peace. It was empty. No-one was aboard except for the guards, and Fei-hung left them bound and gagged when he left. They would be able to talk to his father and the others when they arrived.

  The old monastery was his ultimate destination. This was where Vicki had said she and Barbara were held prisoner.

  Fei-Hung’s confidence about finding Barbara was fading. He had found the place easily enough, but the absence of people suggested she might already have been killed or removed. He began to hope that he would find nothing, and therefore that she had been taken away somewhere else. He didn’t want to find her body lying alone in the abandoned building.

  The main doors of the monastery were ajar, and Fei-Hung didn’t touch them as he squeezed past in case they squeaked and alerted anyone within. A short corridor led him to the main hall. There was a dais and a few stools, but no statue of the Buddha, no incense burners, no religious paraphernalia of any kind. Fei-Hung didn’t like it at all. Whoever had removed all this had turned a sacred space into just a space.

  He looked for a door that would lead deeper into the monastery. It would probably be behind the dais, he thought.

  He spotted it quickly and pulled it open.

  Two men blocked his path. One was lean and carried a staff. He matched the description of the one Ian had seen, called Gao. The other, whom Vicki had called Zhao, was like an ox standing on its hind legs. On any other day Fei-Hung might have been afraid as well as wary, but not today. Today he was simply relieved, because they were indeed men and not whatever that thing near the temple had been.

  Gao lunged forward with the staff while Zhao circled round to stop Fei-Hung from getting away. Fei-Hung was happy enough with that; if the pair were wrong about what he wanted to do, their tactics might also be wrong.

  He dodged back from the whirling staff, pretending not to notice Zhao closing in behind him. When the muscular general was close enough, and about to attack, Fei-Hung hit him in the gut with a tiger-tail kick, without looking round.

  Zhao doubled over and toppled, but Gao redoubled his attack. Fei-Hung blocked as best he could, careful to block against the man’s forearms rather than the wood itself. If he could stay in close enough, Gao wouldn’t be able to swing the staff well enough to use it with enough momentum to do real damage.

  Then Gao unexpectedly swung the staff down, sweeping Fei-Hung off his feet. Fei-Hung rolled immediately, narrowly getting out from under the edge of Zhao’s foot as it slashed towards his neck.

  He sprang back to his feet to engage the unarmed Zhao again, keeping the man-mountain between himself and Gao.

  Fei-Hung was faster with his kicks and punches, but Zhao’s muscles were like iron. All Fei-Hung’s punches rebounded from Zhao’s forearms, all his kicks from the outsides of Zhao’s calves. Suddenly the tip of Gao’s staff was jabbing past either side of Zhao’s head, and Fei-Hung had to dart his head aside like a pigeon to avoid it.

  He needed a breathing space to assess his strategy and acquire a useful weapon. He stunned Zhao with one of his father’s speciality no-shadow kicks, then push-kicked him back into Gao. Both men tumbled in a heap crushing the black wooden throne.

  Fei-Hung used the rebound from the kick to flip backwards, and snatched an umbrella from a stand near the door. He would have preferred a proper sabre or broadsword, but the main shaft of the umbrella felt as solid in his hand as any staff would.

  His breath burnt his lungs, but he was excited by this rather than pained. He felt he had the measure of the two generals and, while he respected their skill and refused to feel comfortable enough to underestimate them, he was satisfied they did not outclass him. All that mattered was that he did his best. Live or die, he would be doing his best for his friends, his country and his beliefs.

  Zhao and Gao were back on their feet and advancing on him from either side. Gao twirled his staff ominously, while Zhao held a leg from the broken throne in each hand in a double guarding block.

  Fei-Hung didn’t smile, but he relaxed and let his expression clear. Let the enemy wonder whether he was angry or afraid, excited or overconfident. Let them not know who their enemy was.

  He was Wong Fei-Hung: healer, teacher and defender of the people he cared about, whether he knew them or not, and whether they were Han or not. Zhao and Gao were warriors who sought to elevate one man above all others. It didn’t matter whether they were crazy men or possessed by ghosts, because either way they were servants of oppression who valued force over thought. That was all they were, and it was all he needed to know.

  Fei-Hung rolled the umbrella shaft around his wrist, testing its weight and balance. It didn’t move the same way a sword would, but he knew he could adjust for that. He twisted the shaft in his hand, resting it on his left arm which was outstretched behind him. With his right hand, he smoothed down the front of his rumpled tunic and beckoned his opponents towards him.

  They rushed him together. Fei-Hung bounded forward a couple of steps and leapt into the air between them. One foot hit the middle of Gao’s staff as if it was a ladder rung, and prevented him from swinging the weapon. The other caught Zhao’s shoulder, making him stagger aside.

  Then Fei-Hung was on the balls of his feet, blocking and parrying Gao’s staff with the umbrella. The umbrella jarred painfully against the heel of his hand with each block, but it didn’t break.

  Then Zhao was upon him as well, and Fei-Hung found himself blocking the staff with side kicks to Gao’s hands and fencing against the two impromptu batons Zhao was trying to drum on his head with. The trio danced around the room like this for a moment, each seeking an advantage, until Fei-Hung managed to hook the staff with the umbrella shaft and slam it into Zhao’s fists.

  Before either general could recover, Fei-Hung stabbed backwards for Gao’s groin with the point of the umbrella and snapped a no-shadow kick at Zhao’s face. Both generals staggered back, allowing Fei-Hung to slip a toe under the fallen staff and flick it up into his hand.

  He twirled the staff, thrusting it forward and back, aiming for the chests, groins and faces of both opponents. Their arms swung and shifted rapidly, blocking the attempted blows. Zhao managed to catch the end of the staff in a cross block, then lashed out with a foot and snapped it in half in the middle. He immediately lunged forward with the half he now held, fencing with Fei-Hung who still held the other half.

  Fei-Hung circled desperately, trying to keep Zhao between himself and Gao so that the leaner man couldn’t flank him and attack. Finally, he saw an opportunity as Zhao lunged with his half of the staff at his stomach. A strong enough impact could rupture the younger man’s spleen and kill him.

  At the last second Fei-Hung switched the piece of staff to his left hand, turned it behind the arm and launched his right foot on a roundhouse kick towards the inside of Zhao’s elbow.

  Zhao’s right arm snapped and crumpled inwards, the
piece of staff falling to the floor with a clatter. Not yet certain that Zhao was quite out of the fight, Fei-Hung let the momentum of his movement carry him round into a spin, and hit him on the side of the head with another tiger-tail kick from his left foot.

  Zhao toppled sideways revealing the other man, who looked from Fei-Hung to the fallen man. ‘Brother!’ Gao cried.

  Something in his tone told Fei-Hung he meant the word in its literal sense. Fei-Hung almost gave up then, because he knew that if it was a matter of family honour a brother would always seek to avenge a brother. Defeating one would merely redouble the efforts of the other.

  Gao didn’t return to the attack. Instead a startling, almost blinding, light blazed from his eyes and he thrust out his left hand. Fei-Hung didn’t know what this meant, but he knew it was bad for him so he dived and rolled, just in time to avoid a bolt of lightning that shattered the air and ignited a small wooden stool against the wall.

  Fei-Hung snatched the stool up by the end of one leg and threw it at Gao before he could do whatever it was again. Fei-Hung didn’t understand what had just happened, and knew this meant it was time to get out if he could. His father had taught him that there was no shame in knowing when to withdraw.

  Zhao was blocking the door, the same light beaming out from his eyes and from his grin, his left hand rising. Fei-Hung turned, too terrified to think, and found Gao advancing on him. Gao held a sword in one hand and was using the other to pat out a flame on his shoulder.

  The hairs on Fei-Hung’s arms and neck prickled and he dropped, sliding feet-first to kick out at Gao’s kneecaps. Gao fell forward and, in the instant that he was separated from Fei-Hung by only a few inches of air, took Zhao ‘s lightning bolt in the face.

  Instead of landing atop Fei-Hung, Gao was blasted clear across the room, where he slammed into the wall with enough force to splinter the boards. Fei-Hung had never heard a scream like his in his life before, and fervently hoped he never would again. It was a sound he knew he would hear in his sleep every night for the rest of his life, if he had one.

  Fei-Hung instinctively grabbed the sword Gao had dropped, but realised that the steel would only attract the lightning if there was another bolt. Zhao had moved out of position, so Fei-Hung made a dash for the door. He burst into the fresh air just as there was a snapping bang behind him.

  Zhao followed him out and another lightning bolt hit the ground under Fei-Hung. The blast knocked the running youth off his feet. Fei-Hung wasn’t injured, and he rolled and even managed to keep hold of the sword. He got on to his knees as Zhao paused by a small tree.

  Zhao stretched out his hand again and Fei-Hung hurled the sword with all his might. It took Zhao through the palm, pinning him to the tree at the instant the lightning snapped into being around his fingers. His fingers and thumb simply burst. Jagged light ripped out from his body, emerging like sweat from a condemned prisoner. His scream put Gao’s out of Fei-Hung’s mind for ever more.

  Then the blinding serpents of light slithered away into the ground and under the rocks where such wriggling things belonged - and Zhao crumpled, leaving half his hand pinned to the tree.

  Fei-Hung caught his breath and all his desire to keep standing fled from his body. He slumped to his knees, too exhausted to keep in the sobs that his pounding heart and head were letting out. He didn’t feel scared or sad, but he had to let his sobs out like steam from a train’s engine. If he didn’t, he thought he’d explode just like an overheated boiler.

  Fei-Hung couldn’t believe his eyes. Through the still-open door, he saw Gao rising to his feet, quivering and shaking with either trauma or rage. Fei-Hung couldn’t tell which, and didn’t care because the mere fact of his being upright was horrible enough.

  Gao’s hair was smouldering, his lips torn to bloody flaps by shards of exploded teeth and his nose was all but gone. All this was bad enough, but it was his eyes that struck Fei-Hung the most.

  They were gone. They had burst and their contents had boiled away in a literal flash. Through the blasted sockets Fei Hung could see the incandescent sun that was contained by Gao’s skull.

  Gao turned away and slashed his hand through the air. A rent opened up, edged in lightning. To Fei-Hung’s astonishment he could see another place through the tear. A hill with tents and buildings clustered around it. Then Gao stepped through the hole and it closed up with a bang.

  4

  The Doctor and his friends, and Kei-Ying, Three-Legged Tham, Beggar Soh and Iron Bridge Three arrived some hours later. The Tigers had brought men from the militia’s Fifth Regiment to restore order to the deserted town.

  Fei-Hung had managed to drag Zhao into the monastery, and had laid him on the dais in the main hall.

  The muscular man was pale and covered in a layer of damp sweat. He was shaking and the sounds that made a tortuous escape from his throat could have been either tears, laughter or some bizarre, bastard offspring of the two.

  ‘He’s gone into shock,’ Kei-Ying said, as the Doctor and Fei-Hung wrapped blankets around Zhao.

  At the sound of his voice Zhao’s eyes opened wide. They darted around searching for something. ‘What happened?’ he asked in a quivering voice. ‘Did the bandits get away from the cave?’

  The Doctor, Ian, Vicki, Kei-Ying and Fei-Hung exchanged glances.

  ‘Bandits?’ Fei-Hung echoed.

  ‘What cave?’ Vicki asked.

  ‘Now, now,’ the Doctor said thoughtfully, ‘this poor devil has been through rather a lot lately, and we shouldn’t rush him.’

  ‘Devil is right,’ Fei-Hung said. ‘He shot fire from his hand, and -’

  ‘Undoubtedly some kind of advanced weapon,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Just because something relies on the projection of energy rather than pieces of metal -’

  ‘There was no weapon, Doctor,’ Fei-Hung insisted. ‘He held out his hand like this...,’ he mimed the action, ‘...and lightning struck from it.’

  The Doctor’s expression darkened and his eyes narrowed, seeing explanations that no-one else in the room could see. ‘I see, yes.’ He turned back to the injured man. ‘And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the defeated general answered through teeth that were gritted against obvious pain. ‘I was in a cave.

  We had chased some bandits who robbed a caravan. They went into a cave, and we followed. We fought them, and then...’ His expression went blank. ‘Then I woke up here, and my hand is gone.’ He swallowed, looking at the bandaged stump of his arm as if he could will his hand back. ‘Did one of the bandits do this?’

  ‘No, they did not, General Zhao,’ Fei-Hung said. ‘I did that.’

  ‘General?’ the man said, wonderingly. ‘I am no general, I am a monk. My name is Yeung.’

  Everyone in the room started to talk at once, but the Doctor raised a hand to quieten them. ‘Hush now! A monk, you say, hmm? Tell me,’ he continued slowly, ‘did anything strange happen in this cave? Anything unusual?’

  ‘There was a sort of light,’ Brother Yeung admitted. ‘Like the reflection of the sun on water if you throw a stone into a pool.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘I woke up here.’

  ‘Yes... I’m afraid I, eh, rather thought that might be the case.’ The Doctor stood up. ‘I wonder, would this monastery have an infirmary of some kind?’

  ‘They usually do,’ Kei-Ying said. He lifted a large bag, not unlike a carpetbag. ‘And I have some useful ingredients here.’

  He started pulling out jars and bottles, arranging them on the dais.

  Fei-Hung walked around the dais as if looking for a clue to the monk’s state of mind. ‘He can’t remember anything. I’m not really surprised - if he was possessed, the mind controlling his body would not be his own. Any memories would have been drained away with it.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the Doctor said. He steepled his fingers and regarded the wounded monk. ‘This unfortunate man might sti
ll have some secondary memories of who - or rather, I should say, what - his strange handler may have been. Or what its aims and objectives were. The trick, I think, will be to find a way to get at and access them.’

  ‘Secondary memories?’ Ian echoed.

  ‘Well, if you read a book you remember the story, even when the book is taken away from you.’

  Ian nodded, understanding at once. ‘You mean he won’t remember being that person, but he might remember hearing it think or something.’

  ‘Yes, dear boy, I should think there’s a rather good chance of something like that.’

  The Doctor stepped over to Kei-Ying’s vast array of herbs and ointments that nestled like pigeons in little square nests.

  ‘But if he doesn’t know himself, at least consciously -’

  The Doctor silenced Ian with a hawkish gaze. ‘Then we shall just have to inquire of his subconscious, shan’t we?

  Hmm?’

  He started to lift jars and bottles from the dais, and examine their dusty labels. A couple he put down on a plinth and the rest he put back, his hands darting in and out of the growing field of vials like birds hunting for that early worm.

  ‘Yes,’ he chuckled to himself, ‘the subconscious indeed.’

  Kei-Ying looked at the jars and bottles the Doctor was collecting. He frowned for an instant but the frown cleared -

  Ian was impressed by how quickly - and he nodded with both understanding and approval. He didn’t say what it was he understood, so Ian was left none the wiser. Instead Kei-Ying simply began measuring out tiny amounts of the contents of the vials and mixing them.

  Ian was fascinated by how carefully he did this; the slowness and care with which he worked seemed as ritualistic and reverent as it was methodical.

  Kei-Ying looked at him and Ian got the uncomfortable feeling that the Chinese doctor knew exactly what he was thinking.

  ‘If a man paints a picture,’ Kei-Ying said conversationally,