Verge of Darkness

  *******

   

   Pagan pulled the gelding to a halt and glanced up. The sky was a cloudless bright blue, and the sun was hot on his head. The horse lifted its head, nostrils quivering.

  “You can smell water, eh boy?” he queried.

  Glancing to his left, there was a stream beyond a stand of trees and some bushes. He had stopped there often after previous visits to the ruins. The gelding walked up to it and dipped its head to drink.

  Pagan dismounted, and knelt by the horse as Ripper came running up. Splashing water on his head and face, he climbed to his feet and grabbed a small sack from his saddlebag. Sitting down, he extracted two strips of dried meat and bit into one, savouring the taste as he chewed the tough fibres.

  Ripper lay in front of Pagan, huge head resting on his paws and eyes fixed pleadingly on him. Pagan chuckled. “Yes, mallet-head, I haven’t forgotten you,” he told the greedy hound. Reaching forward, he offered the other piece to the dog. Perhaps remembering earlier admonitions not to snatch, Ripper took it gently from his fingers and wolfed it down.

  Finishing his strip, Pagan stretched out on the grassy bank. Ripper ambled up and nuzzled him, then his tongue darted out, slobbering all over Pagan’s face. He pushed the dog away onto its back and tickled its belly. Ripper growled, reached up and grabbed Pagan’s arm in his jaws. As man and dog rolled about in mock-fight, the gelding looked down, snorted in derision, and looked away.

  Sometime later, with Ripper lying quietly next to him, Pagan’s mind wandered back to Liang and his time at the Jade Castle.

  Xiang Tse hadn’t exaggerated. Liang was special. Devastatingly quick and clever, she had an almost intuitive grasp of combat.

  He had sat open-mouthed in astonishment the first time he watched Xiang Tse and Liang practice with swords. It was like watching an intricate dance to the screeching music of the blades. The swordplay was dazzling, the balance and footwork superb, so neither, at any point was unbalanced or out of position. Their speed was extraordinary as their swords came together time and again in a bewildering series of cuts, blocks, ripostes and parries.

  Surely it was a matter of time before one or the other was cut. He feared particularly for Xiang Tse, as Liang’s twin swords weaved a deadly pattern that threatened to penetrate the older man’s defences. Her left-hand sword darted out like a viper’s tongue at Xiang Tse’s throat. A slight shift of Xiang Tse’s body, saw the sword tip miss by a hair’s breadth. Her right-hand sword slashed at his groin, but he pirouetted away before countering with a diagonal cut.

  Pagan gasped. He expected to see Liang cut open from collar bone to groin, but the girl almost nonchalantly blocked the cut on her crossed swords, her left leg snaking out in a front kick to Xiang Tse’s lower belly.

  Xiang Tse danced out of range, slid back in, and slashed at his niece’s legs. Liang leapt high in the air as the sword whistled beneath her, and slashed down at Xiang Tse’s head with her right-hand sword. The swords screeched and blue sparks sprang in the air as the teacher blocked the cut. He rolled his wrist, his blade slithered against Liang's sword and sent it flying out of her hand.

  Xiang Tse stepped back and pointed his sword downward to indicate the practice duel was over. Both bowed to each other, and Xiang Tse called Pagan over.

  Xiang Tse sheathed his sword, sat cross-legged on the floor, placed the sheathed weapon next to him, and gestured to his two students to sit in front of him.

  Looking at Pagan he spoke. “You should never draw your sword lightly, for when you do, it is in the knowledge you are prepared to take life. One thing is certain in swordplay; you will get cut. That is why we practice with naked blades – to get used to the kiss of the blade on our flesh. A swordsman or woman who fears getting cut will not live long.”

  Students generally wore heavy padded clothing or used blunted swords when practising. Pagan had believed himself to be a pretty good swordsman, but after watching Xiang Tse and Liang, he knew he was a mere pup.

  Xiang Tse was truly a master, and Liang simply dazzling. He had never seen anyone use two swords before, and such was her dexterity, she was equally adept with either arm.

  He knew he had a lot to learn, but doubted he would ever be as good as either of them.

  His first practice with Xiang Tse had been a painful experience. As they stood ready, Xiang Tse looked at him with cold, hard eyes, told him not to hold back, and to protect himself as best he could. Then he launched a series of fast cuts and thrusts, their swords clanging as Pagan blocked and parried. Blocking a cut at his neck, he tried a riposte, which Xiang Tse deflected. A quick roll of the wrist and his blade licked out, cutting Pagan high on the chest.

  He was oblivious of the wound until he felt the pain and blood trickling down his chest. His anger rose and he launched a furious counter attack. Xiang Tse calmly blocked the wild slashes then flicked his blade across the top of Pagan’s right shoulder, drawing more blood. Undeterred, Pagan pressed his attack but as their blades slid together, Xiang Tse flicked his wrist and sent his student’s blade flying out of his hand.

  He walked over to a shelf and tossed Pagan a jar of honey. “Slap some of that on your wounds. It will keep them from going bad, and help swift healing.”

  Pagan did as bid, and sat on the floor facing his master. Xiang Tse fixed him with a stern gaze.

  “Your temper will be the death of you if you don’t learn to curb it. There is no room for anger in combat. It makes you lose shenxin – relaxed focus, awareness, balance and control – and open to attacks. Clever opponents will goad you, seeking to make you angry. You must keep your emotions in check.”

  Xiang Tse often had him practice with Liang while he looked on. He had great difficulty coping with her speed and twin swords, but fortunately she had extraordinary control and judgement of distance. Time and again, her blades came within a hair’s breadth of his skin, but never drew blood.

  She disarmed him a few times. Anger and embarrassment had surged in him the first couple of times, but he managed to maintain shenxin.

  It took him three years to come anywhere near her skill.

  But a distance remained between them. She was always courteous and polite, but rebuffed his best efforts at fostering anything more than a working relationship.

  All that changed one day.

  In his spare time, he occasionally exercised in Xiang Tse’s private gardens. Exercising in the open-air gave him a feeling of tranquillity and made him think of his homeland.

  One late afternoon, as he entered the garden, he saw Liang sitting at the far end with her back to him. He felt a flash of irritation for he had been looking forward to the solitude of the tranquil setting.

  As he neared, he saw she was sitting before a wooden frame on which rested a large square of parchment. At her side was a shallow tray with several small depressions containing various coloured paints, and a jar holding several small brushes.

  He watched as she dipped the brushes in the paint and applied them to the parchment in short even strokes and dabs.

  The image she was giving life to, was breath-taking, the colours vivid. Snow-capped mountains reaching up to a deep blue sky with a few wispy clouds. Below the mountains, lay deep green woods and a rushing river flinging spray in the air as it flowed over partially submerged rocks. In the water were several shaggy brown bears catching fish and feeding, as white birds wheeled and dipped in the air.

  He stood there quietly, admiring her skill before she became aware of his presence. When she turned around, her gaze was cold and unwelcoming.

  The intensity of her glare almost scorched him. He took an involuntary step backward, then bowed. “My apologies for disturbing you, Liang,” he said, his voice soft. “…that is… beautiful.”

  She remained silent, staring at him, then her gaze softened. “Do you really think so?

  “Yes,” Pagan replied. He breathed deeply as he searched for the right words. “I think it’s… extraordinary.”

  She l
ooked up at him as if seeing him for the first time, and smiled as she held his gaze.

  “Thank you. You are the first person to see any of my paintings. I didn’t think they were very good. Painting helps me relax. It helps balance my spirit.”

  He was dumbstruck. Scorched by the ice-cold of her earlier look, her smile had seared him with a heat that seemed to suffuse his entire body.

  His tongue clove to his palate. Unable to find words, he bowed again, and walked to the other end of the garden, uncomfortably aware her eyes were following him.

  Standing with his feet roughly shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and his arms hanging loosely by his side, he performed deep breathing exercises– his stomach distending and hollowing with each breath – to centre himself.

  Then he performed the White Crane exercise – a series of dance-like movements designed to improve balance and muscular control.

  As he flowed seamlessly into the Slumbering Dragon, Liang joined him, and in almost perfect synchrony, they went through the slow rhythmic movements of deceptive power.

  Next came the fast, explosive movements of the Tiger, comprising high kicks and hooking strikes with clawed fingers.

  Finishing the pre-determined moves of the Tiger, they started shadow-fighting. Kicks and strikes came a hand’s-breadth from impacting upon flesh, but such was their skill, both were spared the pain of actual contact. The object of the exercise was control and anticipation.

  On and on they went, their movements becoming a blur.

  Caught in the exhilaration of the moment, Pagan lost focus. Liang’s foot caught him high on the head. The world spun, and he hit the ground hard.

  Mortified, Liang knelt beside him. “I am sorry Pagan,” she said, concern in her voice. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

  Pagan lay unmoving, then peered out of one eye to behold Liang’s exquisite face close to his, concern radiating from her eyes.

  The look of concern flashed to one of anger. “You…you…heathen,” she protested, as she rose to her feet. “I thought I’d hurt you!”

  “You did hurt me,” Pagan responded, sitting up with a groan. “My head is cracked open!”

  Liang turned as if to walk away, then paused, glanced back at the groaning Pagan and started laughing.

  Her laughter was infectious.

  As their laughter rang out, Xiang Tse, watching from a window high above the gardens, shook his head in amusement, smiled and turned away.

  Something had changed between Liang and Pagan. As their relationship blossomed, they became inseparable. They were not lovers, though Pagan longed to take her in his arms, but a deep bond grew between them.

  The years passed. Pagan’s skills grew, he became a match for Liang, Xiang Tse predicting he would eventually exceed her. Pagan doubted it, but was nonetheless pleased with the praise.

  Pagan was content. It appeared he had found his place in life, inexplicably thousands of miles away from the land of his birth.  He dreamed about a life with Liang, helping Xiang Tse run the Jade Castle.

  Xiang Tse subscribed to the theories of the long-dead great Chenghuan sage, Lao Tzu, who believed that mere chance didn’t exist. Lao Tzu postulated that whatever situation one was in – good or bad, or whomever one encountered, was a consequence of one’s actions or inaction, words or thoughts. These could have taken place in a previous lifetime or a present one.

  Pagan spent many a day poring over his writings. Initially, he had difficulty with the concept of reincarnation – that one lived more than one lifetime – but as he continued his studies, and reflected on the experiences of his admittedly short life to date, he began to find some logic in the idea.

  He often pondered what events in previous lifetimes could have led to the extraordinary happenings that had brought him to this point.

  But once again he was reminded that life rarely unfolded as one would hope.

   

  Zhaojin

   

   

  The origins of the Zhaojin was shrouded in mystery and myth.

  Some said they were once warrior-monks who succumbed to earthly pleasures and joys of the flesh. Over time, their jaded tastes led to assassinations and acts of murder to help fill their coffers.

  Others said they were warriors from the underworld trapped on the earthly plane. Loath to, and unsuited to other work, they sold their unearthly skills to the highest bidder. Their price was high. Ten thousand golden taels and a five-year-old boy-child from a high-born family for each assignment. None knew the fate of the unfortunate children, some speculated they were sacrificed to a dark god, while others believed they were trained as future Zhaojin.

  As was the norm with such matters, tales of their prowess were greatly exaggerated. Some said the Zhaojin had powers of invisibility that enabled them to strike with devastating swiftness. They could infiltrate the most impregnable fortress, fulfil their deadly assignment, and disappear without trace. Only three things were certain: They had never failed to fulfil an assignment, they uttered no screams of pain in combat, and none had ever been captured alive. They carried a deadly poison secreted in a hollow tooth. If capture was imminent, a flip of the tongue and bite down, brought instant death.

  Chan Pao-Lin licked his lips nervously as he looked at the man sitting in front of him.

  The room was dimly lit, the wavering candles casting shadows that didn't help his already edgy disposition.

  The man who induced such dread in the Emperor's advisor had dark almond-shaped eyes, the lower half of his face covered by a black silk scarf.

  “The Emperor must die,” Chan Pao-Lin said. “His tolerance of the gwai-loh has brought disgrace upon the Emerald throne. This has gone on for too long, and allowing a black-skinned devil to live amongst us is the final indignity. Our ancestors are weeping tears of shame in the heavens.”

  The emissary of the Zhaojin stared at Chan Pao-Lin with unblinking eyes. “We care not for your sensibilities, but the price for such an... eminent... target, is high. One-hundred thousand gold taels and three high-born boy-children.”

  The assassin's voice was odd – high pitched with a lisp. Such would normally cause mockery and amusement, but its sibilant quality deepened Chan Pao-Lin's fear, reminding him of a coiled serpent ready to strike.

  He gasped at the enormity of the cost, but those black almond eyes brooked no room for negotiation. “It will be as you say,” he acquiesced. “My son, who was so disgraced by the black devil, bringing great shame to my family, will open the doors to the traitor Xiang Tse's dwelling, and ensure all is quiet at the anointed time.”

  The emissary fixed the courtier with a bleak look. “Do what you must, but we need no help to do what we have to do.”