The Heavenly Sword & the Dragon Sabre – Chapter 26: A Fair Face Willingly Marred

That afternoon the party of three riders and one cart travelled due north, and within a few days reached the Yuan dynasty's capital at Dadu.[^dadu] The Mongol horsemen's conquests had stretched across tens of thousands of li.[^li] In the breadth of their dominion, no empire in history could rival them. Dadu was the city later known as Beijing. Here, in the seat of emperors, envoys, tribute-bearers, and merchants from every petty kingdom and tribal confederation gathered in uncountable numbers. Some had come from the uttermost west, and were known collectively as the *Semu*,[^semu] the coloured-eye people. The moment Zhang Wuji and the others passed through the city gate, they saw thronging the streets no few yellow-haired, green-eyed strangers.

The four of them found lodging in an inn in the western quarter of the city. Yang Xiao, with the lavish air of a wealthy merchant-prince, engaged three fine rooms. The inn-servant bustled to and fro, attentive and obsequious. Yang Xiao asked about the famous sights and ancient monuments of Dadu, and after some desultory chat, remarked as if by afterthought, Are there any old temples or monasteries worth visiting?

The inn-servant’s first answer was the Wan’an Temple¹ in the western district, “That Wan’an Temple is a truly vast monastic complex. The three great bronze Buddhas within it, you could search the whole world and not find a fourth to match them. Well worth a visit, that. But you gentlemen have come at an unlucky time. For the past half-year, Tibetan Buddhist lamas have been lodging in the temple, and ordinary folk don’t dare go near it now.”

Yang Xiao said, “Even with foreign lamas in residence, surely it’s no harm to take a look?”

The inn-servant stuck out his tongue, glanced cautiously in all directions, and lowered his voice, “Forgive my speaking out of turn, but gentlemen being new to the capital, you’ll want to mind your words. Those Tibetan lamas, they strike people on a whim and kill on a whim. If they see a comely woman, they drag her straight into the temple. This is the Emperor’s own decree, sanctioned by the Golden Mouth.² Who would be fool enough to slap a tiger on the head and go provoking the Tibetan lamas?”

The western lamas, bolstered by Mongol power, had long been known to ride roughshod over the law and oppress the Han people, but Yang Xiao and the rest had not imagined they would act with such brazen licence in the capital itself. They said no more to the inn-servant.

After the evening meal they each closed their eyes and rested. When the second watch sounded, Zhang Wuji, Yang Xiao, and Wei Yixiao slipped from the window and set off westward.

The Wan’an Temple rose four storeys high, and behind it a thirteen-tiered pagoda was visible from a great distance. The three men unleashed their qinggong³ and reached the temple in moments. Circling to the left, they sought to climb the pagoda and survey the monastery from above, but not yet two hundred feet from the tower, they made out shadows moving upon it. On every storey, figures paced back and forth on patrol, and at the base some twenty or thirty guards stood watch.

At the sight, they were equal parts startled and elated. So tight a guard meant the captive masters of Shaolin, Wudang, and the other orders were very likely imprisoned within, sparing them a tiresome search. But with the enemy’s defences so formidable, a rescue would be anything but easy. What was more, Kongwen, Kongzhi, Song Yuanqiao, Yu Lianzhou, Zhang Songxi, and the rest were each martial artists of the highest calibre, yet every one had been taken. The number and prowess of the foe needed no further demonstration. The three had already agreed before setting out that rash action must be avoided, and so they withdrew silently.

Suddenly, torchlight flared on the sixth storey of the pagoda. Eight or nine men bearing torches moved slowly downward, the flames passing from the sixth level to the fifth, from the fifth to the fourth, descending storey by storey until they emerged from the pagoda’s main gate and made their way into the temple. Zhang Wuji waved a hand, and the three crept sideways toward the building. The rear courtyard of the Wan’an Temple was planted with ancient trees whose branches touched the sky. Using the great trunks as cover, they darted forward a few dozen feet each time the wind stirred the leaves. Skilled as their qinggong was, they dared not move except under cover of the rustling boughs, lest their footsteps be detected.

Having advanced some two hundred feet, they could now make out the party clearly: a dozen or more men in yellow robes, weapons in hand, escorting an old man in wide-sleeved, flowing robes. The prisoner happened to turn his head, and Zhang Wuji recognised him at once. It was He Taichong,⁴ the Gentleman of the Lute and master of the Kunlun School. His heart clenched: So even Mister He is here.

They watched the group enter the rear gate of the Wan’an Temple. After waiting a moment to be certain no one remained, the three slipped through the gate themselves. The temple’s buildings were numerous and its scale rivaled even that of the Shaolin Monastery. In the central great hall, lantern-light glowed through the long windows. Judging by its position, He Taichong had been taken there. They darted forward. Zhang Wuji lay flat on the ground and peered through the narrow gap beneath the long window into the hall, while Yang Xiao and Wei Yixiao took station on either flank as lookouts. Skilled and bold as they were, their hearts could not help but beat faster, deep in the dragon’s pool and the tiger’s den.

The gap between the window-panes was narrow, so Zhang Wuji could see only He Taichong from the waist down, and whether anyone else stood in the hall he could not tell. He Taichong was speaking in furious tones, “I have fallen into your vile trap and landed in your hands. Kill me or carve me up. A single word decides it. But you wish to force me into a lackey of the court? That I will never do. You may talk for three years or five. My answer will not change.”

Zhang Wuji nodded silently, thinking, This Mister He is no paragon of virtue, yet at the critical moment he holds firm. He does not lack the bearing of a zhangmen.

A man’s voice, cold as ice, replied, “Since you are stubborn and will not see reason, our master will not press you. You know the rules here.”

He Taichong said, “I would sooner cut off all ten fingers than surrender.”

The man said, “Very well. I shall say it once more. If you can defeat three of our men, you walk out of here this instant. If you lose, one finger is cut off, you are returned to the pagoda for a month, and we ask you again whether you will submit.”

He Taichong said, “I have already lost two fingers. What is one more? Bring me a jian!”

The man laughed coldly. “After all ten fingers are gone and you come crawling to surrender, we shall have no use for you either. Give him a jian! Mohe, Bas, you two will spar with him.” A thick, burly voice answered, “Yes, sir!”

Zhang Wuji channelled his divine skill to his fingertips and carefully widened the gap beneath the window a fraction. Inside, he saw He Taichong holding a wooden jian, its tip bound in cloth, soft, blunt, unable to wound. Opposite him stood a towering Tibetan monk wielding a gleaming blue-steel monastic dao.⁵ The mismatch between their weapons was so stark that victory or defeat seemed written at first glance. Yet He Taichong did not flinch. He raised his wooden jian with a light shake and said, “Have at me!” The blade slashed forward with fierce momentum. The Kunlun swordsmanship indeed held secrets of its own.

The monk Mohe Bas was broad-shouldered but quick of movement. His dao carved through the air, every strike aimed at He Taichong’s vital points. Zhang Wuji had watched only a few exchanges before a chill of alarm ran through him: Why are Mister He’s footsteps so unsteady, his breath so uneven? It is as though his neili has vanished entirely.

He Taichong’s swordsmanship was exquisite, but without neili behind it, his techniques could not unleash their lethal power. Fortunately, the monk’s own skill fell two grades short, and despite repeated fierce assaults, He Taichong’s subtle and marvellous deflections again and again seized the initiative. After some fifty exchanges, He Taichong cried, “Hit!”. His jian slashed east, wheeled west, and darted back on a slanting line. A soft tock sounded as the wooden tip struck the monk beneath the armpit. Had he held a real blade, or had his neili not deserted him, the point would have pierced through flesh and bone.

The cold voice spoke again, “Mohe Bas, withdraw! Wen Wo’er, step forward!”

Zhang Wuji looked toward the voice and saw the speaker’s face as though veiled in black smoke, with a thin, straggly grey beard. It was one of the Twin Xuanming Elders.⁶ He stood with hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-open, half-closed, as though the contest before him held not the slightest interest.

Looking further, Zhang Wuji saw a pair of feet resting upon a brocade-draped low table. On the feet were a pair of goose-yellow women’s satin shoes, each toe adorned with a luminous pearl. The soles were slender and delicate, the ankles smoothly rounded. Zhang Wuji’s imagination supplied the owner at once. These were the very feet he had once held in his hands at the Green Willow Manor, Zhao Min’s feet. He had met her again on Wudang Mountain, and there treated her solely as an enemy. But now, seeing those dainty feet upon the brocade cushion, remembering the feel of them in his palms that day, he could not help but flush crimson, his heart pounding.

Zhao Min’s right foot tapped lightly. She was, he realised, wholly absorbed in watching the bout between He Taichong and Wen Wo’er. After the space of about a cup of tea, He Taichong cried “Hit!” and Zhao Min’s foot pressed down on the brocade stool. Wen Wo’er had fallen. The dark-faced Xuanming elder said, “Wen Wo’er, withdraw. Hei Linbofu, step forward.”

Zhang Wuji could hear that He Taichong’s breathing had grown heavy. After two consecutive bouts, he was plainly hard-pressed. In moments the clash resumed. Hei Linbofu was a burly giant wielding a long, heavy iron staff. When he swung it, wind filled the hall, and the red candles on the right side guttered and flared, their shadows drifting across Zhao Min’s feet like clouds across the sky. Then, of a sudden, darkness fell. Several red candles on the right had been blown out by the gale of the iron staff. Crack! The wooden jian snapped. He Taichong gave a long, bitter sigh and flung the broken blade to the ground. The contest was lost.

The Xuanming elder said, “Gentleman of the Lute, will you submit?”

He Taichong answered proudly, “I will neither submit nor acquiesce. Had I my neili, how could this barbarian monk have been my match?”

The Xuanming elder said coldly, “Cut off the ring finger of his left hand. Send him back to the pagoda.”

Zhang Wuji turned his head. Yang Xiao shook his hand, a clear warning: Rushing in now to rescue them would ruin the greater plan. From within the hall came the sounds of finger-severing, wound-dressing, and staunching of blood. He Taichong was hard as iron: he did not utter a single groan. The yellow-robed guards bore him away under torchlight back to the pagoda. Huddled behind a corner of the wall, the three spies saw He Taichong’s face white as paper, his teeth clenched, his expression one of smouldering fury.

After the party had passed and the courtyard was still, a soft, clear voice rang out from within the hall, “Master Deer-Antler, the Kunlun swordsmanship is truly remarkable. That thrust which struck Mohe Bas, first a slash from the left, then a turn from the right…”

Zhang Wuji pressed his eye to the gap again and saw the speaker was Zhao Min herself. She walked to the centre of the hall holding a yellow boxwood jian, and began to replicate He Taichong’s techniques. The monk Mohe Bas brandished twin dao and fed her the moves.

Footnotes

1. 万安寺 – Wàn’ān Sì. Buddhist temple in Dadu, the Yuan capital on the site of present-day Beijing, where the masters of the six great factions were held captive. ↩

2. 金口 – jīnkǒu. Literally golden mouth. Emperor’s own utterance, which carries the force of law and can never be taken back. ↩

3. 轻功 – qīnggōng. Literally qinggong. Ability to move with superhuman agility, and weightlessness through qi redistribution to leap over trees and roofs, and skip over water. See Wikipedia. ↩

4. 何太冲 – Hé Tàichōng. Master of the Kunlun School, known as the “Gentleman of the Lute”, 铁琴先生. A skilled swordsman but a morally ambiguous character. ↩

5. 戒刀 – jièdāo. Literally precept dao. Short-bladed weapon carried by Buddhist monks, originally intended for cutting grass and bamboo to avoid killing living creatures. ↩

6. 玄冥神掌 – Xuánmíng Shén Zhǎng. Xuanming Divine Palm. Xuanming is the ancient deity of winter and the dark waters; the palm inflicts a deadly, penetrating cold. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩