A Game of Kings and Paupers 1 Read online

  A Game Of Kings And Paupers

  Volume I

  Young Song

  Copyright © 2020 Young Song

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: D. M. Song

  To D. M. Song

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Books By This Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the middle of a small desert stood the Royal City. Its walls gleamed white, towering above the land. On the city’s four cardinal points were tall metal doors, thick enough to withstand attacks of every conceivable kind. Feather adorned helmets bobbed above stone, marking the soldiers’ patrol.

  In the Northern Station, tasked with guarding the Northern Door, sat Sergeant Jing-Sheng. He narrowed his eyes. His hands, trained for battle, shook. The shaking increased. Then, in one fell swoop, his fingers curled open. His hand slammed down.

  His lips pressed together, forming a tense line that cut across his face. With a grunt and a nod, he raised his hand, lifting the wooden cup from the table. And there, clustered before him, were the die.

  “Oh. Two ones. How unfortunate,” he said, pushing two out of the six die to the center of the table.

  The soldiers seated around the table did not react. Not one mouth twitched, not one eye twinkled. Sergeant Jing-Sheng, however, knew their hearts. He knew their inmost thoughts.

  You light firecrackers of victory. You dance and gloat over my defeat. But you will not experience the pleasure of seeing me squirm, he thought as he stroked his beard.

  “Your turn, Guo-Zhi,” the Sergeant said.

  His voice was calm, pleasant even, betraying no hint of his mind or heart. It was a skill he learned during his long years warring against the other kingdoms.

  The soldier next to him bowed. Guo-Zhi’s lips moved in silent prayer as he picked up the cup in front of him, raised it in the air, and shook. Die clacked against one another. With a sharp inhale, he slammed the cup down. But before he could lift it, revealing whatever numbers his destiny afforded him, a voice down the hall cried out.

  “Sergeant.”

  Footsteps followed the voice.

  “Sergeant Jing-Sheng.”

  The footsteps grew louder.

  “Sergeant Jing-Sheng. Sergeant Jing-Sheng.”

  The Sergeant rose to greet the running soldier.

  “What is it, Watchman Wu-Kong?”

  Between each of his heaving breaths, Watchman Wu-Kong said, “The door… knocking… a man…”

  “A man? Knocking on the door to the Royal City?” Sergeant Jing-Sheng asked.

  “Yes… Sergeant…”

  “Interesting,” he said, caressing his chest-length beard in contemplation.

  He glanced at his sword, leaning against the far wall. A layer of ash and dust coated it. As he raised it above his head, a cloud of fine particles billowed in the air, reflecting the light that streamed in from the metal-barred windows like stars twinkling in daylight. With a sharp pull, he unsheathed it, revealing the blade for all the soldiers to see.

  “Still sharp. Still deadly. Still ready to cut and kill,” Sergeant Jing-Sheng said, contemplating his reflection on the blade.

  He quickly sheathed it, hoping that no one spied the small splotches of rust that speckled the sword. If any had, they kept their revelation to themselves. For all Sergeant Jing-Sheng saw were the faces of those eager for action, all he heard were the grunts of those who would guard the Northern Door with zeal.

  “Rally the men and prepare the defenses,” the Sergeant cried out. “We will… we will…”

  His speech, long unspoken, eluded his memory.

  “We will…”

  His eyes roamed around the room, searching for any hint that would enable him to recite the words that established his destiny as the Sergeant of the Northern Door. In mercy, one of the soldiers coughed, catching his attention. With subtle movements, the soldier pointed to his own face.

  “Ah. Yes. Face,” Sergeant Jing-Sheng said loudly. “We will face whatever danger awaits us outside the Northern Door. Outside our Door. We will defend the Royal City. We will protect the Emperor. For we are the Soldiers of the Northern Door.”

  The soldiers raised their fists and voices in an unabashed hurrah.

  Raising his sheathed sword to the door, the Sergeant ordered, “To the Northern Door. To our destiny.”

  With firm steps, he strode forward. The ground shook beneath him. And with a sharp turn, he promptly sat upon the litter that lay next to the door. The soldiers surrounded him. Their hands grasped the wooden poles. As one, they huffed and grunted and lifted the litter upon their shoulders.

  Raising his sword again, the Sergeant shouted, “To the Northern Door. To our destiny.”

  ✽✽✽

  Li-Jun hid in shadows. It’s not that he avoided the light. Far from it. In his former destiny, he basked in the light. He was light. But now, debased and without title, he found the shadows to be of more use.

  However, even the darkest depths could not cloak the tans and greens and reds of his clothing. The silk fabric of his robe glistened, causing many to turn their heads, glancing at him as he ducked and weaved from corner to corner, scurrying into and out of the shadows. And just as quickly as the people glanced at him, they glanced away and continued with their day.

  Li-Jun knew this. He felt it.

  It mattered little. These people with their poor destinies mattered little.

  The only thing that mattered was the Northern Door and all the activities surrounding it.

  There should be no reason for it to open. Not today. Unless I am mistaken. Of which I rarely am, he thought as he climbed a ladder and perched on top of a house.

  A door opened. A man cried out in complaint. Seeing who it was, though, he sighed, shook his head, and returned inside.

  Li-Jun paid the noise no mind, treating it as one would the chattering of hens or the braying of donkeys. No, his attention was fixed on the sheaf of par
chments. They were filled with poems, each one consisting of three lines of text written in the sharp curves and lines of a master calligrapher.

  Master-Poet Liu-Jiao, Li-Jun thought as he read a few poems. Yours are the only words that bring me comfort these past few years. Dark years, and yet, your poems are illumination.

  He scanned the sketches surrounding each poem. They were illustrations, valiant attempts in capturing the depth of meaning but a failure to capture the true essence of the words. It was to these drawings, drawings that Li-Jun himself had created, that he focused.

  Cyphers.

  Information hidden.

  Secrets woven into the sketches… secrets that only he could decipher.

  Yes. It is as I have recorded. The Northern Door should have remained shut this day. He lifted his gaze for a moment, studying the soldiers by the door. There are no scheduled deliveries, no reason for all of this activity.

  Climbing down the ladder, Li-Jun slunk into a shadow, ignoring the shouts of the people he pushed past. He made his way closer to the Northern Door and waited behind a bush. Soon, he heard the clop of heavy boots on the stone path. He saw the heavy-laden litter pass by.

  Sergeant Jing-Sheng? Surprising. This must mean that whatever lies behind that door must pose some risk to the Royal City. Perhaps even to Bataar, that accursed Altian.

  Li-Jun chuckled to himself. It was loud enough to draw the attention of the people passing by. But like before, they saw who it was and hurried away.

  ✽✽✽

  The soldiers hut-hutted as they marched the Sergeant out of the Northern Station and to the thick rope that hung out of the wall next to the Northern Door. It always seemed to him like an ancient serpent, slumbering deep, awaiting the moment that it would be awakened, for its strength to be summoned.

  “Sergeant Jing-Sheng,” said the Northern Door Attendant as he extended a hand to help the Sergeant off the litter.

  “Your report.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. This morning, as I tended to the Northern Door, the soldiers of the Northern Wall gave notice that a man stood outside the Northern Door. The man knocked thrice. He was alone and remains as such.”

  Sergeant Jing-Sheng raised his vision to the soldiers who manned the Northern Wall. They were brothers in destiny, worthy to salute. Which he did.

  “Continue your report,” he said.

  “The itinerary for this morning was clear. No merchants. No imports. No returning scouts. As per protocol, I once again asked the soldiers of the Northern Wall if they spied an army, hidden in the surrounding area. They reported that there were none.”

  The Sergeant stroked his beard. “Intriguing. I see why you have called me. You did well.” He raised his sword to all the soldiers of the Northern Door. “You have all done well. We shall reveal to this intruder…” Whispering out of the side of his mouth, he asked, “Which one is this now?”

  The Northern Door Attendant flipped through the parchments in his hand. “Number Three, Sergeant Jing-Sheng.”

  Without missing a beat, the Sergeant said, “Number Three. We shall reveal to Intruder Number Three the might of the soldiers of the Northern Door. Arm yourselves. Prepare your spirits,” Pointing to the Northern Door Attendants, he shouted, “Open the Northern Door.”

  The Northern Door Attendants barked their ‘yes sirs.’ The muscles of their sweat glistened backs rolled likes waves in the sea as their leather-like hands grasped the thick rough rope. With measured grunts, they pulled in rhythm to some unheard drum beat.

  Machinery roared. The ground shook. Metal clinked and groaned. Then, slowly at first, the door cracked open. It ground against dirt and sand, pushing it into a line that rose as it moved inward. And then, with a loud clang, it stopped. And standing there, at the head of the trail of flattened earth, was the Intruder. Intruder Three.

  A wide-brimmed hat covered his face. A small satchel hung from his shoulder. Once dark but now sun bleached clothes hung from his thin frame. He swayed in the wind, like ghoul searching for a soul to consume.

  “Sergeant?” Watchman Wu-Kong whispered. “Shall you… shall you lead the charge?”

  Sergeant Jing-Sheng cleared his throat.

  He is just a man. There is nothing for me to fear, he thought. But then, why is he alone? Why is he unarmed? Only a fool would do this. No. Not even a fool. Maybe a madman. Or… or a warrior the likes I have only heard of in whispers.

  “Sergeant?”

  The soldiers of both the Northern Door and of the Northern Wall stared, waiting for his command. With a cough, he tightened his belt above the curve of his stomach. Then, pulling his sword from its sheath, he raised it for all to see.

  “To me, my soldiers. We shall attend to this matter as one,” he said.

  The soldiers unsheathed their weapons. They marched, in unison, to the door. To the man who stood there, waiting for them. As they neared him, they slowed to a crawl, inching their way forward with all the tentativeness of a caterpillar.

  “Sergeant Jing-Sheng, your destiny awaits you,” one of the soldiers whispered.

  “Yes. Right.”

  His fingers tapped nervously on the hilt of his sword as he stepped way from his soldiers. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed that they all had taken a step back.

  I have fought in countless battles. I have faced death. I am Sergeant Jing-Sheng. I should not be afraid of this man, he thought as he took another step.

  The man convulsed, causing the Sergeant to jump in shock. Behind him, armor and weapons rattled.

  “State your name and title,” the Sergeant said.

  The man’s convulsing turned to swaying.

  “State your name and title,” the Sergeant said once more as he took another step.

  The swaying increased as tremors ran up and down the man’s body.

  “I gave you a command, Intruder Number Three,” he said sharply, shuffling forward.

  He paused when the wide-brimmed hat raised, revealing the man’s glassy eyes and pallid skin. Dry, blistered lips parted. And a voice, hollow and gravelly said, “I am… I… am…”

  One final tremor surged throughout the man’s body.

  “Hrgh,” the man cried out.

  That was all Sergeant Jing-Sheng heard before a torrent of vomit spewed forth, covering him from head to toe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Who is he that stands before the might of the soldiers of the Northern Door. Alone. Unbowed, Li-Jun wondered. Whoever he is, he must be a formidable, one worth my attention. I must—

  A shadow loomed over him.

  “You are far from the Royal Residences, Li-Jun.”

  Without looking at who spoke, Li-Jun knew that it was one of the soldiers of the Northern Door. Could tell by the stench of sweat and leather and arrogance.

  “I am where I need to be,” he said softly, his eyes still fixed on the man who stood outside the Northern Door.

  “If you need to be here, then you wouldn’t mind waiting as I send word to the administrators of your… sanctioned… activities.”

  With a growl, Li-Jun pulled away from the bush. He wrapped his robe around his thin body.

  “I will take my leave,” he said, storming away.

  As he did, he heard the sound of one vomiting, but he was too far to see who it was and too indignant to turn around and find out.

  He pushed it out of his mind. By the time his long steps carried him back to the Royal Residences, he paid it no mind. Instead, he concentrated on inscribing another of Master-Poet Liu-Jiao’s onto a fresh parchment and sketching drawings around the words, a report and a reminder of all he had observed at the Northern Door.

  And as he finished, he leaned back and stretched his arms.

  I must see him. And if he is here to challenge Bataar, I must see that he is victorious. I must lend my support and see him victorious.

  ✽✽✽

  Oh no. This is no good, Hyun-Ki thought.

  “I am so sorry,” he said to the soldier who stood there,
sword on the floor, arms held away from him, frozen in disgust.

  Removing his wide-brimmed hat, Hyun-Ki used it to wipe the vomit away. He only succeeded in smearing it, driving the chunks and liquid deeper into the crevices of the soldier’s armor, into the fabric of the soldier’s clothes.

  “I swear, I tried to hold it in. But the heat and the waiting and the—”

  “Enough,” the soldier snapped.

  Hyun-Ki dropped the vomit soaked hat and stepped back.

  “Again, I am—”

  “I said enough.” The soldier’s red-rimmed eyes vibrated in rage. He picked up his sword and raised it to Hyun-Ki’s throat. “For this… this vileness… I will have your head.”

  However, before he could strike, another soldier stepped forward.

  “What, Watchman Wu-Kong?” the soldier shouted.

  “My apologies, Sergeant Jing-Sheng. I merely remind you to consider the destiny designated to the Intruders.”

  Watchman Wu-Kong stepped back.

  “Destiny?” the Sergeant shouted. He huffed, staring at the soldiers that surrounded him and those who observed him from the wall. “Very well. Destiny,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Search Intruder Number Three.”

  The soldiers bowed.

  “Wait,” Hyun-Ki said. “Stop. I only want to—”

  A burst of pain in his stomach silenced him, causing him to double over from the force of Sergeant Jing-Sheng’s punch. As he held himself, another soldier kicked him to the ground. He landed on his hip, hard. Air was knocked from his lungs. He coughed and writhed as the soldiers stripped him of his satchel and his clothes.

  “Sergeant, Intruder Number Three bears no weapons,” one of the soldiers said.

  Watchman Wu-Kong presented a square wooden board etched with shapes and lines. In his other hand was a pouch filled with crudely carved wooden figurines.

  “The satchel’s only content is a child’s toy, Sergeant Jing-Sheng.”

  With short breaths, the Sergeant turned his sword to Hyun-Ki and interrogated him.

  “Why are you here? What is your purpose in approaching the Royal City?”