Weaves of Ink and Song

Another Path (Part 1)

Lose the battle. Win the war.

Mengzhang clenched his right fist. A sharp pain bolted through his arm, jolting him wide awake. His sabre was gone; his palm felt empty without a weapon. Sunlight scorched his curved back, burning torn skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the shaking ground beneath him; emerald grass trampled into submission by a sea of hooves. The Ba'yen captors had stripped him of his armour and bound his hands and feet, then thrown him across the back of a horse, transporting him like a sack of grain as they marched to their next destination.

An ambush. They had ten thousand troops.

Last night he had chased the Ba'yen invaders deep into the steppes, certain he had the upper hand in an attack led by Ariq'khan himself. A deadly mistake. With his troops decimated, the Ba'yen coalition's way to the Eastern Pass was now clear.

Why didn't they kill me?

The sun was too hot. His right arm was burning up, his entire being steamed, every movement sent a path of fire through his battered bones. He gritted his teeth, closing his fist again and again, trying to stay awake.

❆❆❆

"The House of Liao was born for battle. War is our only path." His father had made this clear to all his sons, from the moment of their birth to the time they entered the army.

"Yes, Father," Mengzhang said. He had stowed away his books and music away on the night of his fifteenth birthday, ready to embrace his future as a soldier. His mother had wept as he left for camp, all her sons sacrificed to the call of duty at the tender age of fifteen. But such was the life of all born to the Crimson General. Liao Mengzhang had been preparing for this moment ever since he was born. So had his mother.

"Mengzhang, remember this," his father said, accompanying him to his first guard duty atop the thick walls of the Eastern Pass. Father and son surveyed the never-ending stretch of land that extended far into the horizon. Faint sparks flickered in the distance, indicating that their enemies had made camp as well. "Winning and losing is a fact of constant warfare. You can lose a battle. But we must win the war."

Border skirmishes were common in Dong'liao, territory lost and regained like a never-ending dance. But as long as the Ba'yens kept thirsting for expansion, the Crimson Guard was there, a tide of soldiers cutting off their advance, pushing them back into the grasslands where they belonged.

Lose the battle. Win the war.

Mengzhang tossed and turned, his father's words throbbing like a drumbeat in his mind. His father was Liao Dancheng, the Crimson General, Protector of the North, the military genius who had reconquered the northern capital of Tian'ping after years of Ba'yen occupation. He had sworn to guard the northern border for as long as the House of Liao existed.

I'm the second son of the Crimson General.

He was eighteen, already a general, fast climbing up the ranks of the Crimson Guard. This was his greatest defeat.

But I'm not dead. I can still be an asset.

"What have we here?" A low murmur cut through his disordered dreams. Someone tugged at his arm, sending a flare of pain crackling through his bones. His eyes flew open.

"Who!" Mengzhang sat up, inhaling sharply as pain screamed through him. He blinked several times, getting used to the dim surroundings. He was in a small yurt, unfurnished except for the threadbare rug he was now lying on. A low fire burned in the central hearth, sending tendrils of smoke escaping through the circular skylight in the middle of the roof. Despite the fire, his forehead dripped with cold sweat.

"Easy there." The voice condensed into a man's face. Light brown eyes set upon a gaunt face examined him closely, black irises expanding as their gaze travelled from his broken hand to the rest of his battle-bruised body. Cool dry fingers probed his injuries, their touch smooth except for the occasional flash of roughness from callused fingertips.

"Stop." Mengzhang croaked. He was parched, his captors had not given him water since he had been captured. "Who are you?" He glared at the stranger, vision flickering between sight and oblivion.

"Someone who's trying to help. Lie back so I can treat your wounds." A valley of worry surfaced as thick straight brows drew together, sympathy seeping through a physician's studied calm. "Your right wrist is broken. That's your sword hand?"

Mengzhang grunted. "Will it heal?" He needed his hands intact to fight.

"If I get my way." The stranger placed his a cool palm upon Mengzhang's broken wrist, sending a faint tide of warmth up his arm.

He brought a bowl of water to Mengzhang's lips. "Drink up."

Cracked lips parted, imbibing the liquid hungrily.

"Good lad." The stranger set the empty bowl aside. He pushed Mengzhang gently back, resting him flat upon the rug.

"I-" Mengzhang struggled to stay awake, but a comfortable warmth was now spreading within him, a silent melody coursing through his meridians, numbing his pain, lowering his defences.

"Shhh." The stranger's voice was silk wrapped around cold iron. "We can talk later. Now rest."

❆❆❆

Mengzhang tried to move his right hand. It was now caged within a wooden splint, severely limiting his range of movement. A swathe of bandages wrapped his muscular back, where he had been cut down several times in battle. He felt sore all over, though the intense pain had faded, leaving only a soul-damping ache in its place. Sunlight streamed through the yurt's circular skylight, casting orange beams upon the fizzling hearth.

He was alone. Mengzhang got up slowly, trying not to move his right arm. He kicked at the blanket wrapped around his legs, slipped, twisted urgently before crashing backwards, instinctively raising his right arm to break his fall.

"Pangu's ashes," he hissed, as pain lit up his entire body.

"I would stay still if I were you."

The flaps covering the entrance parted, letting in a square of light. The gaunt physician entered, dressed in simple Liaotian attire, a long cream robe over loose trousers. Wide sleeves fluttered as he stepped into the lit square; his long brown hair dyed bronze in the fall of light. He raised a hand, shielding hooded eyes briefly from the glare, pausing for a beat before continuing to Mengzhang's side.

"So, we meet again. I'm Junmo."

"You're a doctor?"

"Not really. But I was the only one available last night." Junmo smiled.

"Where am I?"

"In a refugee settlement, twenty miles from the Ba'yen secondary encampment. You were half dead when the Ba'yen troops brought you in. I told them they could either leave you here alive, or bring your dead body back to Ariq'khan. They left you here." Junmo shot a glance at the entrance. "They also left a regiment behind to guard you. Two soldiers are outside right now."

"Why didn't they-"

"Why didn't they kill you?" Junmo's eyes flashed with regret. "The Crimson General captured Nurbolat, Ariq'khan's favourite son when they marched upon the Eastern Pass. He's now demanding a permanent peace treaty while Nurbolat remains in Tian'ping as a political hostage."

"Ariq'khan wants to exchange me for his son's return."

Junmo sighed. "General Liao, now that the Ba'yens hold you hostage, this peace negotiation might not go as smoothly as your father anticipated."

Mengzhang laughed. Pain shot up his ribs, but he could not stop laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Father has three sons," Mengzhang murmured. "He never plays favourites."

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