Tiger (7 page)

F
u raced on. The earth felt the pounding of his feet as he leaped over boulders and darted between enormous, ancient trees. His eyes fed off the occasional moonbeam with feline proficiency, his bare feet cunningly avoiding the numerous snarled roots hiding in the deep shadows. Fu's heart pounded, forcing bursts of hot, sticky blood out of the slice in his cheek. He kept his head tilted to one side so that the blood would run down his neck and onto the collar of his robe instead of dripping onto the ground, leaving a telltale trail for Ying and his men to follow.

All alone, Fu's mind raced even faster than his feet.
How could Ying do this?

Fu often grew angry over things that happened to
him at Cangzhen. But he would never have retaliated by killing someone. That was crazy. He had never even dreamed of killing Ying, who had picked on him constantly. One of Fu's older brothers once suggested killing Ying as retaliation for Ying's publicly blaming the death of his only friend on Grandmaster—but the older brother was just joking. Everyone knew Ying's comments were made out of sadness and denial. Many of the monks even felt sorry for Ying because they were certain that if anyone was to blame for the death, it was Ying himself. So instead of punishing Ying for his comments, the senior monks had been satisfied when Ying announced he was leaving the temple forever to wander the surrounding forests. They knew how painfully alone he would be, and they agreed that perpetual loneliness was punishment enough for his actions.

Fu originally disagreed and thought that Ying should receive at least forty whacks with a bamboo rod. However, now that he was running solo into the unknown himself, Fu was beginning to think perhaps the monks had been right. Perhaps loneliness hit harder than bamboo.

Fu began to ache deep down. He realized that he had never really been alone before. He had always worked, practiced, studied, ate, and even slept with at least one of his four brothers around. He used to complain about never being alone, and Grandmaster had always told him that you should be careful about what you wish for. Fu began to think no truer words
had ever been spoken. His brothers could be annoying, but at least he had always had someone to argue with.

Fu did realize that he and his brothers occasionally got along. One thing they had in common was their negative feelings about their daily schedules. They all followed the rigid plans Grandmaster laid out for them hour by hour, and they were never given any free time. Fu had felt the strongest about wanting time alone, which is why he was surprised to discover that now that he seemed to have all the time in the world, he wasn't sure what he should do with it.

Fu's mind continued to race further and further away from the task at hand—which was to run as fast as possible through the dark forest without getting injured—until a thick tree root reached up and grabbed his foot. He went down hard.

Fu lay on a bed of dead leaves, catching his breath. He scolded himself for thinking too much and lifted his head as a salty drop of water fell from his right eye, sinking deep into the slice across his cheek. He successfully fought off the urge to cry out and squeezed both eyes shut, cutting off the flow of liquid. Then he stood. None of his bones seemed to be broken, and none of his joints felt twisted. He stuck his right foot into a small pool of moonlight and saw that the top was beginning to bruise. His foot hurt a lot, but not as much as his cheek, which hurt only half as much as the pain growing deep inside his heart.

The wind picked up for a moment, and Fu noticed that the night seemed chillier. It must be the altitude.
He had intentionally run toward the closest low-lying mountain, knowing that if he traveled high enough he should be able to find something that would help keep his bad situation from getting worse: bloodmoss.

Like self-defense, herbal medicine was a matter of survival, so it was studied by all warrior monks. Fu ran his index finger across the slice in his cheek. Facial cuts always bled profusely, and his was exceptionally long and deep. If he lost too much blood, he would pass out, and who knew what might happen to him then? Bloodmoss would stop the bleeding. It didn't work for everyone—not even any of his brothers— but it worked wonders for him. It would be difficult to find in the dark, but he couldn't wait for the sun to rise. Fu noticed more moonlight striking the ground in the distance, which meant the canopy was beginning to thin. That was a good sign. He started walking.

Soon Fu found what he was looking for—a clump of bloodmoss poking out from under a fallen log. Once he had a fistful, he located a smooth, palm-size rock to use as a pounding tool, and a large flat rock to serve as a makeshift tabletop. After brushing most of the dirt and bits of rotten log off the moss, Fu began to pound it to a pulp. He worked quickly, making as little noise as possible. Things weren't coming together quite the way he expected until he remembered that he was missing one key ingredient: water. To get the appropriate paste-like consistency necessary
to plug a wound, you needed to add a little bit of liquid. Fu had to improvise. He spit on the pulverized mass.

After a little more pounding and mashing, Fu scooped up the paste with one hand and applied it with the other. Almost immediately, the blood stopped flowing. The sharp stinging sensation he felt from the breeze blowing into the wound also stopped. However, the wind managed to irritate him in other ways. It chilled his robes, which were still wet from lying in the barrel, and blew the fabric up against his body, where it clung tightly. Fu shivered. He needed shelter. Fortunately, one thing the mountainous forest did not lack was rocks. Rocks of all sizes. He located an outcropping with an opening opposite the wind and curled up inside.

Fu could not recall ever feeling so drained. His training at Cangzhen had been tough, but he had never pushed this hard for this long and never before had so much adrenaline pumped through his system. Fu gave in to his exhaustion. But even as his body relaxed and his breathing slowed, his mind continued to race.

Where are my brothers?
he wondered.
Why didn't they stay and try to do something? And now that they are gone and I'm alone with the scrolls, what should I do with them?

Fu was perplexed. He was driven by instinct, not reason. It was not his nature to think so much.

Exhausted, cold, and alone, he closed his eyes.

“
H
ow much longer do you think he'll be down there?” the soldier asked.

“I have no idea,” Commander Woo replied. “It's only been a few hours, but as far as I'm concerned, Major Ying can stay down there forever.”

“What do you think he's doing?”

“I don't even want to know. Just stop your yapping and keep digging. If he sees us before we're finished, he may finish
us.
I never asked permission to do this.”

Ying lay asleep on the cool earth inside the Cangzhen escape tunnel, oblivious to what his men were doing above ground. Soon after he'd inspected the dead monks and confirmed that Fu and the other four boys
had escaped, he'd gone below ground. Ying was solitary by nature and often needed time alone.

Alone time was very important to Ying when he lived at Cangzhen, too—and he used to steal some whenever he had the chance. For years, the escape tunnel had been his preferred hideout. It was a place where he could be by himself. A place where he could be himself. Though the world saw him as an eagle, in his heart he knew he was an all-powerful dragon. Over the years, the tunnel had become Ying's own private lair. No one else ever bothered to go down there because of the concealed traps. No one, that is, except Fu.

Occasionally, Ying would drift off to sleep in the tunnel. When he failed to show up for a meal or training session, someone would have to go down there and wake him. Ying hated to be woken and would lash out immediately at whoever disturbed him. So none of the monks liked to go near him when he slept. None of the monks, that is, except Fu, who seemed to derive a special pleasure from irritating Ying. Fu would eagerly volunteer every time Ying needed to be woken, especially down in the dark tunnel, where no one was watching. Fu would use his eerily efficient low-light vision to stalk Ying slowly— silently—before waking him with a powerful punch or kick.

And so a special relationship had formed between Ying and Fu. Ying would torment Fu during the day, and Fu would strike back while Ying slept. Ying's
feelings toward Fu were a big part of the reason he needed to have some alone time right now. He was upset that the scrolls had been taken, but he was especially upset that Fu had been the one to do it. As he lay there, Ying dreamed he was out on the trail, searching for Fu. Ying loved the thrill of the hunt, and it pained him that he could hunt no more. It was now his responsibility to direct the efforts of others. All he could do was sit back and watch.

Ying felt something brush against his nose and woke instantly, lashing out. But there was no one there. Small rocks and bits of dirt were raining down on his head, a steady stream that quickly turned into a rushing river. Ying managed to roll off to one side and curl into a ball as the river became a tidal wave of debris, and the sky opened above him.

Commander Woo leaned his squat, powerful body over and stared down into the huge hole. The soldier who had been helping him dig lay on the floor of the escape tunnel, atop a mound of earth. The soldier pushed aside his broken shovel and stared up at Commander Woo framed in the early-morning light.

“Are you all right down there?” Commander Woo asked the soldier.

“Yeah, yeah,” the man replied, groaning. “I
told
you we shouldn't have dug in this spot! I had a feeling the tunnel was—”

“Shhh!” Commander Woo urged in a harsh whisper. “Not so loud! Major Ying is probably still
down there somewhere. I don't want him to hear us.”

“Relax,” the soldier said. “If Major Ying was—”

A section of the mound next to the soldier's head suddenly exploded, giving way to a perfectly formed eagle-claw fist. The fist clamped down on the man's throat. Four long fingernails sank deep along one side of his larynx. A razor-sharp thumbnail sank in on the opposite side. The fist squeezed until sound no longer came from the soldier's mouth. Then the claw abruptly released. The soldier scrambled off the mound, trying desperately to cry out for help. He was unsuccessful.

The entire mound shifted, and Major Ying rose from the rubble like a dirty phoenix. He leaped onto the highest point of the mound, then leaped again and soared up through the hole, his arms spread wide. He landed in front of Commander Woo, who took several steps back.

“What do you think you are doing?” Ying asked, shaking his head violently. Dirt flew in every direction.

Commander Woo cleared his throat. “Digging a hole, sir.”

“I can see that, you imbecile.
Why
are you digging?”

“We need to bury the dead, sir.”

“Bury the dead?” Ying said, leaning toward Commander Woo.

“Yes, sir,” Commander Woo replied. “We should bury our fallen soldiers. We should bury the monks, too. We need to respect the dead.”

“And when do you think you will have time for this?” Ying asked.

“We have already begun, sir.”

“I can see that! It will take you and the men days to dig enough holes.”

“We know, sir,” Commander Woo said hesitantly. “But the men think it's worth it. They are willing to put in the extra effort required. They are afraid.”

Ying scowled and the creases in his face deepened. “Afraid of what?”

“We discovered something earlier. Something very disturbing.”

“Like what?” Ying asked.

“One of the bodies is missing,” Commander Woo said nervously. “One of the fallen monks. Actually, not just any monk—the Cangzhen Grandmaster.”

“WHAT?” Ying shouted.

“I know, sir,” Commander Woo replied. “It is hard to believe, but it's true. The men believe the body went in search of its head.”

“That's ridiculous,” Ying scoffed. “Headless corpses don't just get up and walk away.”

“That's exactly what I told the men! If you ask me, I think some other ghosts came along and took it.”

“WHAT?” Ying shouted again. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Sir, there is no other possible explanation,” Commander Woo said. “We have had at least two sentries at every gate since before you went down into the tunnel. Tonglong positioned the sentries himself
before he left. No living creature could have possibly gotten in and then back out again without us noticing. It had to be spirits. Without a proper burial, the souls of
all
these men will become hungry ghosts here in our world instead of moving on to the next life. We must be respectful. Who knows what they might do?”

Ying shoved Commander Woo to the ground and stepped over him, straddling Woo's thick, stumpy body. Commander Woo normally feared no man, but he slammed his eyes closed when he saw Ying curl back his lips and stick out his forked tongue.

“Listen to me,” Ying hissed. “The men should fear
me
far more than any ghost. Tell them to stop digging immediately. They will ALL spend their time stripping the armor off the dead soldiers like I ordered. Then you and the men will build carts to transport it. It will take you a very long time to complete this task. You will bury no one.”