Tiger (2 page)

“Troops have gathered outside our walls,” Grandmaster said. “You are to remain hidden here until I return.”

“Troops?” Hok said. “You mean soldiers? Cangzhen is a
secret
temple. How do they know about us?”

“I fear they are led by your lost brother, Ying,” Grandmaster replied.

“Ying!” Fu growled. “He's no longer my brother! Where is he? I'll tear him to shreds!”

“No, you won't,” Malao said, giggling. “Ying's eagle kung fu is much too powerful for you. Remember the time he broke your arm because you woke him up?”

“Watch it, Malao,” Fu replied.

Malao skipped forward, still giggling. “And remember the time he tied you to that tree with his chain whip? Right beneath that big hornet's nest!”

“Stop it,” Fu said, pivoting toward Malao. “I'm warning you—”

Malao giggled louder. “Oh! And remember the time he—”

“That's enough, you two,” Long whispered as he positioned his muscular body between Fu and Malao. Malao stopped giggling.

“Us
two?”
Fu said, irritated. “I didn't even—”

“I said,
enough!”
Long hissed. Fu glared at Long but kept his mouth shut. Long turned toward Grandmaster. “Pardon me for asking, Grandmaster, but you think Ying is leading the troops? How can this be? He is only sixteen years old.”

“Never underestimate anyone,” Grandmaster said. “Especially Ying. He is very cunning. Now, of this matter I will say no more, and neither will any of you. You will remain silent.”

When they reached the far wall of the practice hall, Grandmaster motioned for them to stop while he continued off to one side. As soon as Grandmaster's footfalls grew too faint to hear, Fu whispered, “I wonder if Ying has come to steal the secret dragon scrolls. He swore he'd come back and—”

“Quiet!” whispered Long.

“Shhh!” whispered Seh.

“Fine,” whispered Fu, and he turned away from the group.

Across the room a sliver of moonlight was sneaking through a crack in one of the shutters. It shined against the far wall, illuminating the face of Fu's favorite character in his favorite mural. Of the hundreds of life-size instructional fighting scenes covering every wall inside the dark practice hall, this beam had chosen to shine on the heavyset monk
striking an opponent with a devastating tiger-claw swipe.

It must be a sign,
Fu thought. It reminded him that he and his brothers were full-fledged warrior monks—Cangzhen Temple's youngest ever. Each of them had mastered a different animal style by age eleven. It took most people twice that long.

Fu didn't know what made them so special, and he didn't really care. The only thing he wondered about occasionally was their peculiar names, which Grandmaster had given them as infants. Though they mainly spoke Mandarin Chinese—the same dialect everyone in the region used—for some reason Grandmaster had selected their names in a Chinese dialect called Cantonese. Whatever the reason, Grandmaster knew what he was doing.
Fu
meant “tiger” in Cantonese. And, like the monk in the mural, Fu was a tiger, through and through.

Fu had a large, round head, which was cleanshaven and accented by small ears and sharp, challenging eyes. His voice was deep and gravelly and, just like his animal counterpart, he was very aggressive and unusually short-tempered. Though Fu was the second youngest of the five and not exactly tall, he was by far the largest and strongest. His arms were as big as most of his brothers' legs, and his legs were as big as a man's. Fu was solid and thick from lifting stone weights and generous of width from lifting his rice bowl.

It came as no surprise, then, when Grandmaster
quietly called them over to the back corner of the practice hall and told them that Fu would be the first to climb into the terra-cotta barrel that held drinking water more often than it held boys.

Grandmaster removed the barrel's heavy lid and, groaning softly, dumped the contents onto the floor. Fu felt the water splash onto his pants and knee-length robe, then spill over his bare feet. He hated to wear wet clothes, so he took several steps back—but Grandmaster shook his head.

Grandmaster quickly stood the barrel back up and nodded in Fu's direction. Fu growled softly and stepped forward. He laid his hands on the rim of the barrel and found it to be quite stable, so he swung himself up and into it feetfirst like he was jumping into a well. And just like jumping into a well, he found water at the bottom.

“What the … ?” Fu complained. “There's still a bunch of water in here! What do you expect me to do?”

Grandmaster slapped Fu's bald head. “I expect you to stop talking and lie down! Hurry! Curl into a tight ball and lie on your side.”

Fu grudgingly did as he was told but found that much of his head would be under water if he followed Grandmaster's directions exactly. Instead, Fu twisted his head to one side and rested his cheek on the inside wall of the barrel.

“I can't believe this,” Fu mumbled. “Whoever gets on top of me better—”

“Hush!” Grandmaster said. He looked anxiously at Fu's four brothers standing around the barrel in the gloom. Three of them avoided Grandmaster's gaze. Malao, however, flashed a devilish grin and leaped high into the air. Grandmaster frowned but did nothing to stop the eleven-year-old “monkey.”

Malao's bare, dark-skinned feet landed directly on Fu's head, and he began to giggle as he flopped down on top of Fu. Malao was the smallest of the group and didn't weigh very much, but Fu complained anyway. Grandmaster sighed and looked at Seh.

Without a word, Seh, the serious twelve-year-old “snake,” stretched his long, sinewy arms straight up into the air and slid his lanky body over the barrel's rim. Malao stopped giggling after Seh entered the barrel. Fu, however, complained even more when he felt the added weight of his tallest brother pressing down on him.

Hok, the quiet twelve-year-old “crane,” followed Seh without being prompted. His body was of average size, but he was incredibly light. He hopped directly onto the rim of the barrel. Perfectly balanced on the balls of both feet, he leaned forward and stretched his delicate neck to peer inside. After studying the pile a few moments, he gently lowered his pale body into the barrel.

Long, the wise thirteen-year-old “dragon,” went last. He wasn't as strong as Fu, as nimble as Malao, as smooth as Seh, or as gentle as Hok, but he was very, very close in each regard. He placed his large hands on
the rim of the barrel like Fu and swung his powerful legs high into the air. But instead of rushing in heavy-footed like Malao, Long quickly checked the positions of the others like Hok had done. While still in midair, Long's muscular, rock-solid body became fluid like a snake, and he wriggled himself down gently into what little space was left at the top of the pile.

Grandmaster finished the job by replacing the barrel's heavy lid. Only then did Fu stop complaining.

But Fu was ready to start complaining all over again. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse inside the barrel, they did. His brothers were beginning to smell. They were all wearing their cold-weather robes and pants, which made them sweat profusely inside the cramped space. Even their bald heads and bare feet were sweating.

On top of Fu, Malao shifted one of his slimy feet. A dirty toenail poked Fu in the eye. Fu growled and Malao's foot returned to its original position.

Fu wondered what he had done in a former life to deserve this. He was wet and uncomfortable at the bottom of the barrel, and half his body had fallen asleep under the weight of the others. Worst of all, he was being forced to listen to a battle being waged in his own backyard while he lay there, doing nothing.

Fu grumbled to himself. If he hadn't been half-asleep, he would never have agreed to this. Especially with Ying involved.

If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the
problem,
Fu thought. Ying, of all people, had told him that.

I've got to get out of this stupid barrel!
Fu decided.

Fu began to shake as he struggled to restrain himself. Expressing his thoughts like a civilized person hadn't gotten him anywhere, so he decided to take a different approach. He would muscle his way out. All he needed was a little leverage. Maybe if he were to shift his left shoulder back a little …
errr…
And then push his right arm forward a little …
arrr …
And then turn his head a little to the …
SLAM!

Fu's head was unexpectedly pinned to the bottom of the barrel by Malao's foot. Fu couldn't believe the little monkey would be so bold! He opened his mouth to give Malao a piece of his mind, but instead of sound coming out, a flood of water rushed in.

“
M
ajor Ying, be careful!” shouted an armor-clad soldier. He sprinted toward Cangzhen Temple's practice hall, leaping over lifeless bodies and fallen horses.

Ying stopped short of the practice hall's huge wooden doors and turned toward the running soldier. A flurry of flaming arrows suddenly filled the night sky and rained down onto the green tiles covering the stone building's elaborate wooden roof. The soldier dove behind a dead horse as arrows bounced off the tiles and went careening into the surrounding courtyard. They sliced into anything—alive or dead—that wasn't wearing armor.

Ying, who never wore armor, didn't budge.

“Please step away from the hall, sir!” the soldier pleaded from behind the horse. “Arrows will continue to fly from the compound's perimeter, and you're unprotected.”

Ying stood firm, his blood-streaked silk robe clinging to tight, sinewy muscles as he folded his arms. A burning arrow flashed overhead and took root above him in one of the roof's ornate, up-curved corners. The flickering flames illuminated his face.

The soldier shuddered.

“Come over here,” Ying said in a steady voice. “Now!”

The soldier hesitated, then ran up to Ying and dropped to his knees. He removed his helmet and kowtowed three times to show his respect, knocking his forehead against the dusty ground with each bow.

“Rise,” said Ying, glaring at the man. “I see this building is the last to be burned. Has it been fully searched?”

“It has, sir,” the soldier said as he stood. His eyes remained glued to the ground. “I searched it myself. The only thing inside is an empty water barrel.”

“How do you know the barrel is empty?” Ying asked.

“Because I saw water on the floor, sir.”

“Was the barrel laying on its side?”

“No, sir. But…” The soldier's voice trailed off.

“But what?” asked Ying in a low voice.

The soldier squeezed his eyes shut and began to tremble.

“I think I see your point, sir,” the soldier replied. “There could be someone hiding inside the barrel.”

“That's right,” said Ying, popping his knuckles one at a time. “In fact, there could be
several
someones hiding inside it. Warrior monks are quite flexible, you know.”

“A—a thousand pardons, Major Ying,” the soldier stammered, his eyes still clamped shut. “I have failed you. I will not fail you again. Please be generous and give me one more chance to prove myself worthy of your esteemed command.”

“What do you suggest?” Ying asked.

The soldier turned away from Ying and opened his eyes. He stared at the practice hall as a second wave of flaming arrows arched overhead. Two of the arrows sank into the upper reaches of one of the giant doors, setting it aflame. The soldier swallowed hard and cast his eyes down once more.

“I will reenter this practice hall and investigate, sir,” the soldier said. “Though I am certain there is no one left to flush out.”

Ying leaned in close to the soldier, popping his last knuckle. “What makes you so certain?”

“Because the reports indicate that all one hundred monks have been killed, sir.”

“Must I also include mathematics in our military training programs, you half-wit!” Ying shrieked. Like an angry beast, he bared his teeth and his face contorted. “Look at me when I'm talking to you!”

With lightning speed, Ying snapped his hand back
and formed a perfect eagle claw by bringing his extended fingers together and curling them down while rotating his thumb down and curling it up. He thrust the open claw into the soldier's lowered face, latching on forcefully with four fingertips above the soldier's eyebrows and his thumb below the soldier's chin. Ying flicked his wrist powerfully upward, forcing the soldier's face up as well. His long fingernails pierced the soldier's skin, and he ripped his hand away with a brutal, flesh-stripping twist.

“Now think!” Ying said, leaning into the soldier's face. “I've informed everyone in our camp several times that one hundred monks call this their home—
along with their Grandmaster and five boys.”

“I see, sir,” squeaked the soldier, blinking furiously as four streams of blood ran down his forehead, into his eyes. “There should be one hundred six bodies. Thank you very much for the lesson, Major Ying. I've heard no reports of a Grandmaster or boys, so perhaps this is their hiding place. I will take my
qiang
with me into that hall. I think I have a plan.”

“Excellent,” said Ying, leaning back. “Now, I must warn you—if you are not out in the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, I am coming in. Do you understand what
that
means, half-wit?”