Tiger - Jeff Stone [15]
The soldier called out to Ying again, and Fu took advantage of the distraction. He bolted through the open gate.
Ying's number one soldier stood on the roof of the bathhouse, waiting for Ying. His name was Tonglong, which meant “praying mantis” in his native Cantonese dialect. Like the mantis, he was known for both his patience and speed. And like the mantis, he was sophisticated and complex. So was his fighting style.
Tonglong was twenty-nine years old and the undisputed second-in-command of Ying's troops. His long, thick ponytail stood out among men. By the time Ying reached the bathhouse, nearly one hundred and fifty soldiers stood in a dark, smoke-filled courtyard, staring up at Tonglong.
“What is going on here?” Ying demanded as the crowd parted before him.
Tonglong bent over to lift his sword off the red roof tiles. Shrouded in flickering flames, he looked down at Ying.
“A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls,” Tonglong said calmly, adjusting his long braid forward over his shoulder.
“What?” Ying shouted. “Say that again!”
“A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls, sir. I am sorry. I am completely at fault.”
“How could you be so incompetent?” Ying asked, staring up at Tonglong. “What happened?”
“I retrieved the scrolls from the library as you ordered,” Tonglong said, ignoring the flames around him. “But then I encountered a rather stout young monk. He attacked me with a pair of tiger hook swords and tricked me with a very cunning maneuver. He managed to hurl my sword onto this rooftop and knock me unconscious. I suppose that is when he took the scrolls from my sash. I climbed up here to retrieve my sword and saw you in the distance. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.”
Ying scanned the ground and spotted Sing's tiger hook swords. He grabbed them and waved them high over his head.
“Are these the hook swords the young monk used?”
“Yes,” Tonglong replied. “The very same.”
Ying snarled and ran straight at the outer wall of the bathhouse. His body remained perpendicular to the ground as he made two long strides right up the side of the brick building, his legs working like he was climbing a set of stairs. Warrior monks usually completed this maneuver by executing a backflip. Not Ying. The balls of his bare feet and his long toenails pushed off subtle irregularities in the brick, and he shot straight into the air. He stretched both arms up as high as he could with a hook sword extended in each hand and caught the outermost edge of the roof's lip with both hooks. Then he swung himself up onto the roof, taking the hook swords with him. He approached Tonglong atop the burning building, his leathery feet treading lightly on the hot roof tiles.
“Fool!” Ying screamed in Tonglong's face, spit flying off his forked tongue. “You hope you didn't interrupt anything?‘What's wrong with you? I had that same fat little monk in my grasp, and I let him go! Why? So that I could come over here and help you! I would have had the boy and the scrolls if not for you! ARRRRRGH!”
Ying lunged furiously at Tonglong, whirling both hook swords. Tonglong expertly avoided Ying's attack by dodging and weaving and scrambling up and down the slick curved tiles covering the steep pitch. Flames leaped skyward through growing holes in the roof, and Tonglong used the flames to his advantage. By using them as a shield, he managed to keep space between himself and the hook swords. He did not counterattack.
Ying stopped his assault for a moment, and Tonglong slid down to the very edge of the roof, directly in front of the soldiers. A flickering wall of flame separated him and Ying as he kneeled down on the blistering hot tiles. The tip of his long braid brushed the rooftop.
“Sir, I ask your forgiveness,” Tonglong said.
Breathing heavily, Ying let the hook swords drop to his sides. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to keep his bare feet from burning.
Tonglong lowered his eyes.