Tiger - Jeff Stone [12]
Fu reached the bathhouse undetected and cautiously approached a fallen soldier he'd noticed when he'd run by with his brothers earlier. The soldier was heavyset and about the same size he was. Fu's hand quivered as he reached down to take the man's helmet. He had never been this close to a dead person before. Fu looked away as he laid his hands on the helmet and caught a glimpse of his fallen brother Sing. Sing was an older brother and had taught Fu how to use edged weapons. He was the kindest teacher Fu had ever had.
The dead soldier would have to wait. Fu stood up and headed for Sing.
Sing lay with his favorite pair of tiger hook swords still in his hands. Fu felt tears of hatred and grief well up in his eyes, but he did not let them fall. Instead of crying, he would do something. In life, those tiger hook swords had meant everything to Sing. They were an extension of his body as well as his soul. Fu would honor Sing's spirit by keeping the spirit of his weapons alive. He took the paired swords from his brother's cold hands.
Fu inspected the weapons quickly as he walked back to the dead soldier. Except for some fresh bloodstains on the silk handle wraps, the tiger hook swords were in perfect shape. Both sides of the long, straight, double-edged swords were razor-sharp, and the large hook on the end of each sword resembling a tiger's claw showed no signs of fatigue. The crescent-shaped hand-guard daggers were also still sharp, as were the single daggers that protruded from the bottom of each sword's handle. Sing's tiger hook swords were perfectly weighted and felt powerful in Fu's hands. Fu laid the swords next to the soldier and got to work.
Fu removed the soldier's helmet, then his heavy, flexible armor. Fu was slipping off the man's boots when someone suddenly spoke behind him.
“What are you doing?”
Fu spun around and saw an average-size man. The man looked to be nearly thirty years old and had an extraordinarily long ponytail tied in a thick braid. He appeared to be wearing the uniform of the new Emperor, but Fu couldn't be sure in the smoky blackness. The soldier, however, saw that Fu was wearing an orange robe.
“Where have you been hiding, young monk?” the soldier asked in a calm, deep voice.
Fu responded by picking up the tiger hook swords.
“Put the weapons down, boy,” the soldier said. “I have no interest in killing a child. I'll only take you prisoner. I'll ask you again, where were you hiding?”
Fu snarled and leaped at the soldier.
The soldier jumped backward gracefully and pulled a straight sword from a sheath slung at his side. Fu stopped and took notice. That jump was impressive, and only the most elite fighters carried a straight sword.
“Stand down, young monk,” said the soldier as he draped his long braid forward over his shoulder and tucked it into his wide red sash. “You are no match for me.”
Fu's mind began to race. Swordplay was his strong suit, but he knew nothing about this stranger's skill. And what he knew about the stranger's weapon worried him. While broadswords took one thousand hours to master, straight swords, like this soldier's, took more than ten thousand. The soldier had unsheathed it perfectly and held it in one hand instead of two—one hand to swing the long, rigid double-edged blade, and the other to counterbalance and fight. This man knew what he was doing.
Despite the night's coolness, Fu began to sweat. The tiger hooks he held were specifically designed to counter weapons like the straight sword, but he had never fought with Sing's pair. He had only fought with his own tiger hook swords, and every weapon had a spirit of its own. Fu put his faith in the spirits within Sing's hook swords and rushed forward.
The soldier took a defensive posture as Fu swung one hook sword high and one low, attempting to confuse