I
would buy this book based on the cover alone! Check
out The Orchid Farmer’s Sacrifice by Fred Yu!
The
Orchid Farmer’s Sacrifice (The Red Crest Series #1)
Expected
Publication Date: October
5th, 2021
Genre: Asian
Fantasy/ Epic Fantasy
He
was born of prophecy. If he can’t embrace his destiny in time, his
country is doomed.
Ancient
China. Spoiled and overconfident, eighteen-year-old Mu Feng relishes
life as the son of an honored general. But when his sister is
abducted and his friends slaughtered, he flees home. He soon
discovers the mystical birthmark on his body has attracted an
enormous price on his head.
Pursued
across the Middle Kingdom, Feng finds allies in two fierce warriors
and a beautiful assassin. When he learns his ultimate enemy plans an
incursion with advanced weaponry, he must call on his friends and his
own budding military genius to defend his country. His plan is
desperate, and the enemy outnumbers him twenty-five to one…
Can
Feng fulfill a duty he didn’t know he had and unite the empire
against a terrifying force?
Coming
Soon!
https://vimeo.com/446954294
Chapter
One
Mu
Feng woke to the call of a rooster, unsure where he was. He was
staring into an empty flask flipped over and wedged against a stack
of plates.
He
pulled his silk robes tighter around his body. This was not his bed.
His body lay bent and twisted against the hard edge of a wooden
table, and his face was soaked from sleeping in a puddle of spilled
liquor all night. He supported himself on one elbow to stretch his
sore hip.
His
three friends were still asleep, two of them snoring on the floor and
another sprawled on a narrow bench, his arms and legs dangling.
Vague
memories of the night before brought a smile to Feng’s
lips—drinking, eating, and playing dice deep into the night. Empty
flasks were scattered everywhere. Two large buckets of water remained
half full.
Feng
flinched against the dull pain at the base of his skull. He rubbed
his oversized forehead and reached for a bowl. He hadn’t drunk
enough water, and now the headache would nag him all day.
He
sat back and gulped down the water, one bowl after another, and then
paused to take a deep breath. He remembered coming to the Rider’s
Inn with three of his best friends last night. The first floor of the
little inn was packed. There were no rooms left upstairs, and the
innkeeper was going to ask one of his customers to find somewhere
else to stay because the general’s son, Mu Feng, needed a place to
sleep.
Feng
assured the innkeeper he would be drinking all night and didn’t
need a room.
He
remembered the innkeeper bringing him the very best drink they had to
offer, a liquor made from sorghum buried in the ground for thirty
years. It was something so exquisite only a Tiger General’s son
could afford it. Feng remembered sipping the liquor and commenting
that the taste resembled an onrush of invading cavalry, the sound of
a thousand war drums approaching until it became thunder, then
breezed by to leave an exhaustive state of calm. One of his friends
laughed and told him to get drunk.
Feng
needed to hurry home. The ride back would not be long—only a trip
through a small forest. But he was to train his father’s pike unit
that morning, and it wouldn’t look good for the instructor to
arrive late.
The
front door had been left open, and a little boy, his face filthy and
his clothes in tatters, stood outside.
The
boy’s a beggar and wants something to eat, Feng thought. He
took a piece of copper from his pocket and stumbled to the door. The
boy inched back, leaning away as if preparing himself to run.
Feng
placed the coin on the table closest to the entrance. “Here, kid.
Get yourself some food.”
Ding,
facedown on a bench only a moment ago, was already on his feet.
“We
need to go,” Feng said. “I can send a servant later to pay the
innkeeper.”
“You
must have paid him four times already,” Ding said. He planted a
sharp kick into one of his friends on the floor and squatted down to
scream in his ear. “Get up, Wen!”
He
proceeded to the next drunk, curled under a table and still snoring,
and kicked him in the ribs. “Get up, Little Chu. Feng needs to go
home.”
Little
Chu groaned. He lifted his head, his eyes still closed. “I don’t
want any breakfast.”
“You’re
not getting any,” Feng said with a laugh. “But there’s plenty
of water in that bucket.”
Ding
headed for the door, his long sword dangling by his side. “I’ll
get the horses ready.” He stopped by the table near the entrance.
“Who left the coin here?”
“It’s
for the kid,” Feng said, turning and pointing outside. The boy was
no longer there. Feng walked to the door and pulled it wide open for
another look. “He was just here.”
Wen
lumbered to his feet, towering over the others. “What boy?” he
asked, his voice booming across the room. He hoisted a heavy bucket
to his lips for a gulp or two, then poured the rest of the water over
his head.
“A
young beggar,” Feng said. “So many of those little things around
here.”
Wen’s
laughter thundered across the room. “See? Even a beggar knows he
can’t take money from a dead man. You drank so much last night the
boy thought you were a hungry ghost.”
“Shut
your mouth,” Chu shouted, clapping Wen’s back with the hilt of
his sword. Wen laughed even harder.
Ding
returned, pulling the horses with one hand and carrying all four
saddles with the other.
Feng
stepped into the morning sun and took a deep breath. He reached for
the harness of a gigantic warhorse, a gift from Uncle Shu this year
for his eighteenth birthday. He stroked the nose of the charger, then
the mane, and took the saddle. The horse reminded him every day that
he was an adult, despite his boyish features and lanky arms, and he
was commander of the best pike men in the world.
Little
Chu turned back to the mess they were leaving behind—the empty
bowls, the plates, and the overturned liquor flasks. “Too bad Du
didn’t want to come last night. Since when did we ever go drinking
without him?”
“He
wanted to,” Ding said, “but he was vomiting and couldn’t get
up. Must have been something he ate at the whorehouse.”
“He
ate at a brothel?” Wen asked. “What kind of meat do they serve
there?”
Ding
turned to his friend with a smirk. “Why don’t you ever go to the
whorehouse, Feng?”
Feng
finished saddling his horse and leaped onto his charger. “Let’s
go.”
“Feng’s
father is a Tiger General,” Little Chu said. “He can get any girl
he wants.” He guided his horse toward the road and squeezed its
belly with his stirrups. The horse lurched forward.
“But
then he’ll have to marry her!” Wen shouted from behind, hurrying
after his friends. “I’d rather pay some money to amuse myself
than be stuck with a wretch in my house.”
In
a moment they were on the main road, riding at a comfortable pace.
After a while the path bent into a forest and narrowed. The four
friends merged behind one another, proceeding in single file. The
dirt trail was an easy ride, well maintained and free of overhanging
branches and intruding vegetation.
It
was still early in the morning, and the ride home would be short.
Feng relaxed a little, but not entirely. His father would be furious
if he found out his son was too drunk to come home last night and
couldn’t return in time to train his pike unit. He might even
forbid Feng from leading his men again, a position Feng had to beg
for over the years.
General
Mu, Feng’s father and one of four Tiger Generals in the empire, was
known as the General of the Uighur Border. He guarded the westernmost
fortress in the empire. The portion of the Great Wall that he
protected and the North Gate, which opened into the City of Stones,
faced the land of the Uighur. It was the final stop on the Silk Road
before entering the Middle Kingdom.
General
Mu’s city was one of few fortresses built in a valley along the
northern mountain chains. It was low enough to lose the advantage of
elevation, which so much of the Great Wall depended on, but flat
enough for travelers and barbarian traders to meet in this border
city. Over the years General Mu had imposed heavy punishments on
anyone harassing or discriminating against the foreigners, and
despite countless skirmishes at the Great Wall, the City of Stones
was never attacked in earnest. Commerce thrived at a time of
heightened tensions between the Middle Kingdom and the barbarian
nations. Chinese and Uighur, Khitans and Mongols assembled in the
same bustling marketplace in the center of town and bartered. The
city seemed oblivious to the politics of the Asian kingdoms.
The
general placed his only son, Mu Feng, in command of the pike unit,
but he was never permitted to confront the barbarians. The archers,
the cavalry, and the anti-siege personnel were all deployed during
border skirmishes with the Uighur.
Feng’s
pike units were never battle-tested, and he never understood why. In
military matters his father always sought his advice and often
adopted his strategies. For years he studied The Art of War and
every other military classic his father could access. In simulated
battle, Feng had proven again and again he was capable. Yet, his
father never trusted him in a real war.
Feng
and his friends breezed along the narrow forest trail with Ding in
front, Feng following from a short distance, and the other two in the
rear.
Moments
later, Feng noticed two rows of armed men standing in a line,
motionless, blocking the road.
“Slow,”
Feng said, loud enough only for his friends to hear. “Bandits.”
The
foliage around them was dense with thick trees and low branches
reaching into every empty space. It would be impossible to penetrate
the forest and ride around the blockade.
Ding
reined in his horse and slowed to a walk. “Small-time bandits
trying to rob the general’s son. Wait till they find out who you
are.”
Wen
sent his horse lurching forward and stopped in front of the outlaws,
so close he could have easily barreled into them. “Why are you
blocking the road?”
None
of them answered. They simply stared.
“If
you don’t step aside, we’re going to run you over!” Wen said,
his booming voice echoing through the forest.
The
armed thugs remained silent, motionless. Wen reached for his sword.
Feng held out his hand, fingers outstretched, and motioned for him to
stop.
“There’s
only ten of them,” Little Chu said in a low voice. “And they’re
on foot.”
“Get
out of my way,” Feng said to the bandits, his voice loud and firm.
“We’re military officials. We have important business in the City
of Stones.”
A
short bandit with a gray topknot broke into a smile. “Military
officials,” he said, speaking slowly as if to pronounce every
syllable. “Exactly what we’re waiting for.”
Feng
stiffened. Soldiers earned modest salaries. They were well trained
and armed, and very few of them traveled this road. For a small team
of robbers to block the road, waiting for soldiers to rob, didn’t
make any sense.
“One
of our women was raped last night,” the short one continued.
Ding
moved forward to Feng, his hand on his weapon, and whispered,
“There’s more of them in the forest on both sides. Maybe a
hundred.”
Feng
nodded and turned back to the short bandit. “You’re not
listening. Civilian crimes should be reported to the magistrate, not
the army.”
“The
criminal was a military official!” the thug shouted over Feng’s
voice.
“I
see,” Feng replied, fighting to remain calm. His heart was
pounding.
His
hand crept into his pocket to touch a bronze plate half the size of
his palm, a token he always carried with himself. He still remembered
the day so many years ago when he was afraid to climb onto a horse
for the first time. He went to bed that night feeling disgraced and
useless. His father came to his bedside and gave him this little
bronze plate embossed with an image of a fierce tiger. His father
told him if he carried it in his pocket, he would be able to do
anything he set his mind to because the tiger held the powers of the
Tiger General, powers meant for the strong and courageous. Much later
he realized it was a standard pass the Tiger Generals’ messengers
used.
He
kept this one particular plate on himself every day.
The
situation in front of him required much more than strength and
courage. A hundred bandits had gathered to surround a few soldiers
when very little money could be made.
Something
was very wrong.
“Bring
your evidence to the magistrate, and he’ll assign officers to
investigate,” Feng said. “But blocking the road and randomly
harassing any soldier is plain stupid. Harm the wrong soldier, and
you’re all going to be killed.”
Chu
pulled up behind Feng. “They’re behind us as well. We’re
surrounded.”
“The
criminal may be you!” the bandit continued, pointing the butt of
his saber at Feng. “Why don’t you come with us to the magistrate,
and we’ll talk about it in front of him?”
So,
they didn’t intend to rob. They were looking to abduct, and they
were waiting for the right moment to strike. The group of friends was
in grave danger. Feng drew his horse back, opening up the space in
front so he could see everything around him. How could this be
happening?
Feng’s
heart raced faster than he could withstand. They were on horses, and
the bandits were not. That extra speed was their only advantage. He
didn’t notice anyone on the road earlier, so they couldn’t have
installed too many traps or ambushes behind them. Turning around,
charging through the bandits in the rear, and riding the main road
back toward the Rider’s Inn seemed like the sole course of action.
“After
all, you look like a sleazy rapist to me!” the bandit shouted for
all to hear. There was a roar of laughter.
“How
dare you!” Wen shouted, drawing his sword. “Do you know who he
is?”
Feng
reached out in alarm, trying to grab Wen’s attention. He was too
far away. Wen’s loud voice pierced through the thundering laughter.
“He’s
General Mu’s son! Do you all want to die?”
The
bandits fell silent, but only for a second. With a roar the men from
both sides of the forest charged. Feng drew his sword, spun his horse
around, and shouted, “Retreat! Back to the Rider’s Inn!”
His
friends reacted, turned, and broke into a hard gallop. The bandits
swarmed in like floodwater. Feng had never encountered a real battle
before, but if they were out to kidnap for ransom, then he—not his
friends—would be the prized possession. He needed to lead the
bandits away from his friends if they were to have any chance of
escaping.
Feng
turned around and attacked the short bandit with the topknot, flying
past him and slashing him across the face, almost cutting his skull
open. The thug died instantly. Feng stabbed left and right, kicking
his horse’s belly to urge it forward, struggling to break through
the ring of hostiles.
Then
he heard Wen shouting from behind. “Feng’s stuck back there!
Feng’s stuck back there!”
“No!”
Feng screamed as loud as he could. “Back to the inn!”
He
knew they heard him, but in the distance he saw them approaching as
fast as they could.
“No!”
he shouted again. A spear flew across the air and struck Wen in the
belly. He bowled over and fell from his horse. The bandits surrounded
him and stabbed him over and over again.
Feng
stared in disbelief. “Wen!” he shouted. They weren’t out to
kidnap. They intended to murder. He kicked his warhorse and pummeled
into the dense rows of bandits, slashing and stabbing as hard as he
could, hoping to get to his other two friends before it was too late.
Chu’s
horse screamed, lurching back and dismounting its rider.
They
were attacking the horses. Without horses there would be no hope
of getting out alive. Feng leaped off his mount and sent his horse
away, wielding his sword with both hands like a battle ax and carving
a path to Little Chu.
It
was already too late. Chu was surrounded and stabbed from all
directions at once, multiple spears and swords buried in his body.
Dark blood poured from his mouth, and with his last breath, he
screamed, “Run, Feng!”
Feng
stabbed a bandit in the rib cage, pushed his sword all the way in
until the hilt slammed against his chest. With a roar he shoved the
writhing body into a crowd of enemies. He grabbed someone’s saber
and swung and thrashed behind himself, fighting off those attacking
his back while shielding his front with the dying bandit. He planted
his feet on the hard ground, sensed Ding’s location, and pushed his
way through.
Ding
had already fallen off his horse, but he was hiding behind two trees
standing very close together in front of a narrow gap only one person
could penetrate at once, allowing him to hold back his attackers.
Feng
forced his way to the two trees and dumped the dead bandit from his
own sword and into the gap to seal it. He then circled around the
smaller tree. “My horse is still alive,” he said. “Let’s go!”
He
whistled for his horse and grabbed another saber from a dead bandit,
and with a weapon in each hand, he leaped out from behind the trees
and slashed at his nearest enemy.
The
bandits were hardly skilled swordsmen. They were poorly coordinated
and clearly had never trained to fight together.
But
there were so many of them.
Feng
created an opening when his warhorse broke through from behind. The
massive charger was kicking and stomping the enemy, pressing them
back, throwing them into disarray.
Ding
stood right beside him, covered in blood—perhaps some of his own
blood. “Go!” Feng shouted. He slashed another bandit in the neck,
lodging his blade in the man’s collarbone.
“Careful!”
Ding shouted from behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Feng noticed
a spear flying toward him. Ding leaped in, crossing in front of Feng
and blocking the spear with his body. He collapsed, the warhead
plunged in his abdomen.
“No!”
Feng wrenched his weapon free, hacked down another enemy, and leaped
onto his horse. He grabbed Ding and dragged him onto the saddle,
smacking the horse with the side of his saber. The charger surged
forward. They were on a warhorse, one of the best in the army, and
the bandits originally sealing off the road were out of position.
Many were killed. Others couldn’t climb over the dead bodies
littered across the narrow path. Feng’s warhorse met little
resistance.
Ding
yanked the spear out of his belly, and with a shout he threw it into
the closest bandit. A stream of dark blood flew from Ding’s mouth.
Slowly
he leaned his full weight against Feng’s back, fading out of
consciousness. Feng threw away his saber and reached back with one
hand to clutch his friend’s belt, preventing him from falling over.
He urged the horse on, and the powerful stallion responded, charging
forward at breakneck speed. The shouts and insults from behind were
fading. In a moment, Feng found himself riding in silence.
His
back was soaked with Ding’s blood. Ding’s breathing was becoming
shorter and quicker.
“Ding!
Wake up, Ding!”
How
could this be happening? To think a few hundred untrained ruffians
would dare confront a Tiger General’s army for mere ransom was hard
to believe. Besides, they could have captured Wen and Little Chu when
they fell off their horses. But they rushed in to kill without
hesitating a step, as if taking them alive was never considered.
Feng
felt a squeezing pain in his chest at the thought of Wen and Chu.
They were gone. They were drinking and laughing and bickering only
last night, and now they were gone.
A
little side path branched off from the main road, and a small house
hid behind a row of trees. He pulled his horse’s reins toward the
house. It looked like the home of a local peasant, with coarse mud
walls and an old wooden door once painted red. Feng had never spoken
to a peasant before, much less asked one for help. He was the son of
a Tiger General, high above the rest. Normally the peasants would be
kneeling in front of his father’s mansion.
With
Ding dying behind him, it didn’t matter if he had to bow to a
beggar.
Feng
reached the front door of the hut, dismounted, and dragged his
friend’s unconscious body with him.
He
took a deep breath and pounded the door with his fist.
An
old woman with a wide gap between her oversized front teeth opened
the door. She looked at Feng from head to toe, then at Ding. “Come
on in,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t knock. He’s
bleeding to death, you know.”
Feng
was more thankful than surprised. He lifted his friend as gently as
he could and dragged him into the little hut. There was nothing
inside except for a small bed, a table, and a brick cooking stove in
the corner.
“We
were attacked by bandits. There were four of us, and—”
The
old woman sneered. “Stop barking like a neutered dog. You lost a
fight, and you want to hide here. Put him in the bed. I’ll boil
some towels to clean his wounds.”
Feng
ignored her insolence, dragged his friend to the bed, placed him on
his back, and tucked a coarse pillow under his head. Blood dripped
everywhere. He yanked open Ding’s shirt and sucked in his breath.
“No,” he whispered. “No.”
Ding
looked up with a blank, lifeless stare.
The
old woman brought a bucket of water and with one glance turned around
to leave. “You should’ve told me earlier. I wouldn’t have
brought the towels if I knew he was almost dead.”
Feng
climbed onto the bed with trembling hands, lifted his friend’s
head, and wrapped his body in his arms. “How do you feel, Ding?”
“I’m
cold.”
“I-I’ll
find you a blanket. I’ll—”
“No.
Don’t leave.”
Feng
held his friend tighter. “I’m here. I’m here.”
“What
happened, Feng?”
Feng’s
entire torso shook. His quivering lips were barely able to speak. “I
don’t know.”
“Wen
and Chu. They’re gone?”
Feng
nodded.
A
sob escaped Ding’s lips, and a trickle of tears rolled down his
face. “I’ll . . . I’ll see them soon.”
“No!”
Feng said. “Stay with me, Ding. Stay with me.”
“I’m
sorry, Feng. You and Du are left behind. It’s still better than
drinking alone. Tell him to stop eating at the whorehouse.” Ding
tried to laugh at his own joke but only managed a choked sob. “How
could there be so many bandits here?”
Feng
shook his head, unable to respond.
“I’ve
never heard of . . . of so many bandits . . .” Ding’s voice
trailed off, and then the room was silent. Even his light gasps for
air faded.
“How
did we fail the people?” Feng whispered, struggling to speak so
Ding could hear him. “Why did so many turn to crime?”
Ding
took his last breath, his cold, limp body sinking into Feng’s arms.
For a moment, the tears wouldn’t flow.
“Why
are the people discontent?” Feng’s broken voice managed to say.
He held his friend’s body closer. He felt ill and dizzy, as if he
might vomit and faint all at once. He squeezed his eyes so tightly
together that his tears couldn’t flow.
He
threw his head back to scream.
“He
had a gaping hole in his chest,” the old woman shouted from across
the room. “Did you expect him to live?”
Feng
collapsed on his friend’s body and wept. He shook with every sob,
his clenched fists pounding the bed with every convulsion.
The
door flew open so hard the old iron hinges rattled. A group of
peasants carrying thick bamboo poles charged in, all of them young
and strong. They moved in lock step with perfect discipline. They
formed an arc around the door, each facing a different direction with
their bodies poised to react. Feng recognized them.
“How
dare you break my door!” the old woman shouted. “Get out of my
house! I’ll report you to the magistrate!”
One
peasant drew a sword halfway out of his bamboo pole, and the old
woman fell silent.
A
tall man with thick eyebrows and a short beard stepped in. He
acknowledged the old woman once, then turned to Ding’s body.
“I’m
sorry.”
“Uncle
Shu,” Feng said, his voice trembling. His father’s brother was
here, a powerful man of great skill and military prowess. At least he
was safe now. “Wen, Chu, and now Ding. They’re all gone.”
Uncle
Shu came to the side of the bed.
“How
did you find me?” Feng asked. “How did you know?”
His
uncle pulled a ragged sheet over Ding’s face so the horrid look of
death would not stare back at them. The little hut was silent while
he took Feng’s hand and led him to the table on the other side of
the room. “Sit. I need you to calm down and tell me what happened.”
“I
. . . we . . .” Feng couldn’t find words. He was so relieved to
see his uncle and even more relieved to see the army’s elite,
personally trained by his uncle, gathered around him. Strange, they
were dressed in the coarse gray fabric of peasants, and their weapons
were concealed in bamboo poles. Why would his uncle need to travel
under disguise?
“You’re
safe now, Feng,” Uncle Shu said. “Tell me what happened.”
Feng’s
hands were still shaking.
Uncle
Shu motioned for one of his men. “Bring the young master some
liquor.”
Just
the night before, they were drinking the finest liquor the little inn
had to offer, laughing and playing dice late into the night. Feng
remembered debating Mongol military tactics. Little Chu’s words
echoed in his head. The Mongols may have the strongest cavalry
in the world, but horses can’t climb walls. I can drink a bucket of
liquor and still defend the country.
One
of the soldiers placed a flask of liquor in front of Feng.
“I
let my friends die,” Feng whispered. He didn’t wait for his uncle
to respond. He grabbed the flask and emptied it in his mouth,
guzzling the hard alcohol without taking a breath. He planted the
flask on the table and tried to shake his head clear as his vision
already began to blur.
“You
shouldn’t be drinking like that, young man,” he heard the old
woman say behind him. “Here, drink some water before you vomit all
over my table. Not that I don’t have to spend all day cleaning up
your friend’s blood.”
Feng
grabbed the bowl of water placed before him and drank everything in
one gulp.
“Take
her outside,” Uncle Shu said to one of his men. “Give her some
money for her troubles and ask her to leave us alone.”
Feng
felt dizzy, incredibly drunk for a single flask of liquor. Maybe that
was what his uncle wanted for him, something to numb his senses and
help him forget. “Where is my father?” he asked.
He
lowered his head onto his arms, leaned against the table, and closed
his eyes. He had slept in the same position on a similar table the
night before. His friends were alive then.
Nothing
made sense anyway. His uncle was here, and very soon he would be
taken home. His father would summon the army, they would round up all
the bandits, and soon after he would find out why his friends were
slaughtered in broad daylight, why even a Tiger General’s son could
be attacked on his own land.
But
in that moment he was dizzy and intoxicated, and he wanted to let
everything go.
Very
quickly the effects of the alcohol disappeared. He didn’t want it
to leave his head, didn’t want his escape to be over so soon. He
remained still, head in his arms, resting on the table with his eyes
squeezed shut. Maybe if he tried not to move, he would eventually
fall asleep and have sweet dreams.
“Sir,
the young master is unconscious,” one of the soldiers said.
“Bring
him to the carriage,” Uncle Shu replied.
“Do
we need to secure him? In case he wakes up before we get there?”
“No
need. He won’t wake up for another day.”
Feng’s
heart beat so hard he thought his ribs would crack. He waited. Two
men lifted him off his seat, wrapped his arms around their shoulders,
and dragged him outside. Feng was determined to find out where they
were taking him and whatever Uncle Shu wanted to do to him. He kept
his eyes closed, his arms limp, his head hanging.
They
lifted him into an enclosed carriage, settled him on his back, and
walked away. Outside, at least a hundred men and numerous horses
and carriages shuffled around. Feng heard his uncle giving orders to
depart.
“You
stay with the young master,” Uncle Shu said.
The
operation was well planned and rehearsed. No one asked a single
question after that.
Someone
climbed into the carriage with Feng. The soldier placed his sword on
the floor and shouted, “Go!”
The
driver cracked his whip. They eased forward, then pulled into a
steady speed. Feng waited. The road became smoother, and the horses
picked up the pace. The heavy pounding of warhorses shifted to the
front of the carriage, leaving only a few soldiers to protect the
rear. The attack units had moved, and it was time.
Feng
grabbed the sword lying on the floor of the carriage, drew the
weapon, and pinned the blade against the soldier’s throat before he
had time to react.
“Where
are you taking me?” Feng asked in a quiet voice.
The
soldier shook his head. “You—you were supposed to be unconscious
. . .”
Feng
pressed the tip of the sword harder into the base of his throat,
piercing the skin. Blood trickled at the tip. The soldier froze.
“Answer
me!”
“We’re
going to the City of Eternal Peace.”
Feng’s
eyebrows knit together. “General Wu’s fortress?”
The
soldier nodded. “Young master, we didn’t mean to—”
“Why
is my uncle doing this?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Why
am I being escorted to another Tiger General’s city? Where’s my
father?”
“I’m
just a soldier, young master. You know we only receive our orders.”
Feng
took a deep breath. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell
me.”
The
soldier’s face was blank, his lips pressed together.
“I’m
the general’s son. I can kill you for entertainment, and no one
would do a thing.”
“We’re
the general’s soldiers, young master. But we’re also your
soldiers.”
Feng
paused, lowering his sword. “You’re the people’s soldiers. You
fight to defend the people, not my father or me. Don’t ever
forget.”
“I
won’t, young master.”
Feng
spun his sword around and hammered the soldier’s head with the
handle. The soldier collapsed.
Feng
reached for his peasant clothing, about to strip him, and hesitated.
He had never worn the coarse fabric of a common man, much less the
filthy rags of a peasant. He could almost smell the soil stains on
the straw sandals.
His
own clothing reeked of dried blood, so changing into dirty canvas
would not be so bad.
Feng
cursed himself for worrying about the quality of his clothes at a
time like this. He stripped the soldier and dressed him in his own
bloody robes, then lifted the unconscious body with one hand and the
sword with his other and kicked the carriage door open. He threw the
soldier halfway out, facedown, and released a long, tortured cry.
“Young
master!” one of the riders in the rear called. The soldier hurried
forward, closing the distance between himself and Feng’s carriage.
Feng threw his sword out the partially opened door. The soldier
outside evaded the flying sword and was barely recovering when Feng
leaped out, slammed into him, and sent him toppling off his horse.
Feng recovered his own position on the speeding mount, grabbed the
reins, planted his feet in the stirrups, and squeezed the horse’s
belly. The other guards were charging up behind him. A side road
appeared ahead. Feng saw his opportunity and brought his horse
thundering down the little path.
The
guards followed. Feng reached for the sword hanging from the saddle,
spun around, and charged into his pursuers.
“Young
master!” one guard shouted. They recognized him and pulled back. No
one wanted to fight the general’s son.
He
tried not to think of how his friends had died that morning, how
hundreds of bandits waited for him in ambush, how Ding died in his
arms. The little beggar at the inn that morning, who watched them
from outside and didn’t bother to collect the coins Feng left for
him, must have been there to report when they began their ride home.
The ambush was prepared for them and only them.
His
uncle could have encountered the slaughter in the forest and traced
his tracks and Ding’s blood to the peasant woman’s house. There
was no way to understand why his uncle was out there looking for him,
his elite unit dressed as peasants, or why he drugged his own nephew.
Feng
kicked his horse and rode as hard as he could, heading south for
Major Pass toward the City of Stones. Major Pass, the main artery
running across the north of the empire and parallel to the Great
Wall, connected the city fortresses of all four Tiger Generals. It
used to be named something else, but the people called it Major Pass
because it was the widest, most well paved road north of the capital.
Armies and their supply wagons could efficiently move on this road.
As
far back as Feng could remember, the empire was at peace within its
borders. Aside from skirmishes with the barbarians in the
north and short wars with the island nations in the south, people
lived well in China.
He
remembered the quick briefing he received from two officers right
before he left for the Rider’s Inn. They had told him the Venom
Sect was recently active in this area, but no one knew why. Feng
recalled asking the local government to involve themselves, saying
that the military shouldn’t interfere with civilian criminals.
The
Venom Sect was a powerful group of poison users rumored to be four
hundred members strong and headed by a ruthless leader named Red
Cobra. The officers told him yesterday that Red Cobra was also
spotted in the area. Feng laughed and asked how much snake venom it
would take to poison an army.
Then
they informed him that the Silencer had killed Tiger General Lo. They
had expected this news ever since he was ordered to invade Mongolia
and capture the undefeated barbarian king known as the Silencer.
General Lo walked into Mongolia with only two hundred men in an
apparent act of suicide. As of yesterday they still hadn’t found
his body. All his men were dead, and the Silencer took no prisoners.
Some even said the Silencer was spotted killing off the Chinese
soldiers by himself. General Lo guarded the easternmost fortress in
the empire facing the Khitans. For the emperor to order him to march
away from the barbarian nation he was guarding against to attack an
undefeated Mongol king made no sense at all.
None
of these events should have had anything to do with what happened
that morning. The bandits were clearly not members of the Venom Sect.
They were thugs carrying steel weapons they didn’t know how to use,
fighting in plain view instead of killing from the shadows.
It
was almost noon by now, and Feng was rapidly approaching the City of
Stones.
Available
October 5th!
About
the Author
As
a lifelong student of martial arts, and growing up watching martial
arts flicks in the 80s and 90s, Yu decided early on that he would
write in this genre. Inspired by George RR Martin’s work, he
decided he would write a series in English in this centuries-old
Asian genre. Yu has written three previous novels, The
Legend of Snow Wolf, Haute
Tea Cuisine and Yin
Yang Blades. Yu
has a BFA
Film and Television from NYU Tisch School of Arts. He was
born in Guangzhou,
China, but presently lives in New York City.
Fred
Yu
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