Red Cliff: Red Moon Rising
Jul. 25th, 2011 06:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: Red Moon Rising
Series: Red Cliff
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Wikipedia tells me Zhuge Liang is popularly credited with the invention of the floating lanterns seen in the film, yet somehow that invetion did not make it into canon.
Summary: Zhuge Liang walks into difficulties searching for a cure to the epidemic, and then out again.
Despite Sun Shangxiang’s warning, no one is ready for the typhoid outbreak brought across the river by the corpses of the Wei soldiers. Red Cliff has limited stores of medicines, and most of them have already been severely eaten into by the unprecedented presence of tens of thousands of allied troops. When the first men begin to fall ill, Zhou Yu does not have to consult with the camp’s pharmacist to know that they have very little capacity to treat the deadly plague. But equally, he does not have to consult with Liu Bei’s strategist to know the man will have a little knowledge of the matter.
“It very much depends on what is locally available,” is Zhuge Liang’s answer, when Sun Quan asks if a cure is possible. Liu Bei and his generals are just as unsurprised as Zhou Yu by the strategist’s knowledge of yet another subject, and continue their quiet strategising around the map. “There are cures, as well as more temporary reprieves. I have no doubt your pharmacist has already begun to prepare what draughts he can. I will go out to see what may be found.” His glance at the gates of the camp suggest he is about to leave now, as he is. In dusty clothes with only a feathered fan to protect himself. Zhou Yu does not allow himself to sigh. Zhuge Liang is no fool; he has nothing of the unworldly academic who walks into battles completely unaware of the danger. He just seems to be completely unconcerned by it. And, by extension, by the possibly fatal blow which would be struck against his lord and allies, were he to lose his life.
“I will accompany you,” says Zhou Yu, when none of Liu Bei’s camp suggests it. Only Zhao Yun looks up. The general gives him a friendly, if knowing, smile – the kind of smile a man gives a gambler he knows is sure to lose.
Zhuge Liang waves his fan vaguely. “That is hardly necessary. Besides, your presence is required here to quell the panic.”
Both these statements are true. Their scouts monitor the uneven grasslands behind the Cliff for miles, and since the defeat of Cao Cao’s cavalry there has been no attempt made to bring an attack from that quarter. And any camp about to be beset by a fatal epidemic needs above all else the calm but firm presence of its generals to maintain order. Zhou Yu nods, but does not concede.
“Then I will send a regiment with you,” he says.
“That too is an unnecessary use of your excellent troops. But with Zhang Fei’s approval, I will take some men to carry back what supplies we find.” It’s both a minor concession and a blatant enough message: I am not your possession. For all his apparent loyalty to Liu Bei, Zhou Yu can’t help but wonder whether the strategist considers himself to belong to his lord, or simply consents to serve under him. It is not a question that could ever be asked.
Zhang Fei gives a booming but absentminded acceptance of whatever it is the chief strategist wants of his men, and Zhuge Liang gives Zhou Yu a slight bow.
“Many thanks for your thoughtfulness. I will go now.”
Zhou Yu watches from the high platform and, as expected, sees the strategist ride out at the head of a company of ten some minutes later, unarmed and dressed in just his white robes. Zhou Yu shakes his head, and turns to answer a question from his lord.
***
Zhuge Liang is familiar with the plants and trees that grow in this region and climate, but he has never been to Red Cliff before, and the fact that a plant grows in the south is no guarantee that it is growing close enough to the camp to be of use.
He leads the small group over long stretches of browning grass, and down and up tiny gullies just large enough to hide a water buffalo from sight. It’s not easy terrain even for horses, and after a couple of hours of trotting through the deserted land his mount is sweating hard beneath him. Zhuge Liang calls a halt and slips off the back of the drenched mare to examine the bark of the nearby cassia trees. There are precious few of them, and even they are less a remedy than a short-term relief. He produces a small dagger from a sleeve and motions one of the men to come over with a basket. The trees that grow here on the unprotected plains are small and wizened, their bark baked hard by the oven of the Cliff. Zhuge Liang slices long and deep into the bark before he is able to pull off a strip. Holding it to his nose, he smells the strong, green scent of the bark and feels the wetness of the lighter underside. It is young and fresh enough.
“Strip the bark from these trees, thick enough that the underside is white.” He holds up the piece he took to show the soldiers, who are already drawing their knives.
While they set to work taking the lives from the trees to save those of their comrades, Zhuge Liang ties his horse’s reins to a branch in the thickest shadow available, and then begins walking away from the cassia grove. The dusty red stone that makes up the Cliff curls around the edge of the plain, the long, hard spine of the land. He walks towards its imposing height, hoping to find some rarer plants lodged in the shelter of its walls. In the summer they turn the sun’s rays back on the land to kill all but the toughest plants, but they also provide cool shadows and protection from the brutal winds and violent autumn monsoons. Here, almost directly behind the encampment, he may find the means to save it.
Zhuge Liang strides carefully down into ditches and climbs cautiously over hillocks, fan tucked safely in his sash and hands free to catch him if he falters, eyes turned all the while to the ground searching meticulously for herbs hidden in the long grass. He is concentrating so hard it is only the sound of a horse snorting ahead of him that signals something may be wrong. He looks up in time to see two rows of Wei soldiers sprinting past him armed with spears, their armour piecemeal and bloody. Before he can cry out to warn his own escort, a sword is swung forward to rest flush against his throat.
“Welcome, Zhuge Liang,” says General Xiahou Jun, with the smile of a cat which has caught a whole family of mice.
***
Like the rest of the generals, Zhou Yu spends the day making the rounds of his healthy soldiers, and inspecting the ill. Already a battalion has been detailed to build a proper infirmary to protect the wounded from the bright winter sun and the chilling night breezes that blow in from the water. The air by the river is rank with the smell of the dead, awaiting the nightly cremation ritual begun only last night – Guan Yu is organizing a temporary morgue farther from the waters, to avoid sullying the source of the encampment’s drinking water.
It isn’t until nightfall is nearing that Zhou Yu visits the pharmacist, boiling herbs and pounding minerals in his tent, and is surprised to find his table nearly empty and no sign of Liu Bei’s strategist. He intends to ask the man how his supplies are lasting, but the old pharmacist doesn’t give him the chance. As soon as he sees Zhou Yu he hurries forward and, in a shocking lack of respect, grabs his sleeve with a shaky hand.
“Viceroy, when are the medicines you ordered arriving? There has been no sign of the honoured strategist, and we ran out of supplies hours ago.” The old man’s voice is high and quaking, awash with desperation.
“What is this?” asks Zhou Yu, gesturing to the table of pots and mortars, to buy a moment in which to cover his surprise. He hasn’t known Zhuge Liang for many days, but already he is certain the strategist is not a man who fails in his appointed tasks.
“This?” asks the pharmacist, disgusted. “Just cooking herbs and chalk. I tell them it will make them better – they need something to believe. But this isn’t –”
“You have done well,” interjects Zhou Yu. The pharmacist, not daring to take the initiative again, pulls back looking deflated. “I will see that more supplies are brought to you as soon as they are available. Zhuge Liang will assist you when he returns – he is learned with medicines.”
“Yes, Viceroy,” says the pharmacist in quiet despair, staring at the ground.
“Continue your work, then.”
The old man bows and turns back to his pots of useless herbs, shoulders bent and head bowed. Zhou Yu strides out of the infirmary, and heads for the barracks.
***
“General Xiahou Jun,” greets Zhuge Liang in an even tone, without looking at the sword pressed against his throat. “I request that you allow my men to surrender – they are not equipped for battle, and will lay down their arms at my command.”
Behind him comes the first of the screams. Zhuge Liang closes his eyes as it is joined by a cacophony of others. The general speaks over them, unaffected.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. We are not such a big force ourselves, to be able to take many prisoners. But we welcome your presence, strategist. Prime Minister Cao Cao will be eager to meet you. I do not believe you have had that pleasure?” The general removes the sword and sheathes it with a metallic ringing.
“Sadly not,” replies Zhuge Liang, eyes open once more and holding Xiahou Jun’s grinning face steadily in their gaze. “But I would prefer to remain with my comrades. As I see you have not attempted to return to yours, perhaps it would be more convenient for you to leave me here.”
“We will risk a little trouble for the honour of your presence. And I think, with you accompanying us, our return will be much simpler than we had expected. This way, please. We will wait until sundown.”
Zhuge Liang follows the general and two of his soldiers into a wide fissure in the wall of the mountainous red stone. It breaks off into a number of smaller alcoves before coming to a rounded end – a perfect hidden camp, with only one means of entrance or egress. In several of the smaller alcoves, wounded soldiers sit or lie, their wounds wrapped with saturated scraps of cloth. Clearly the tiny remains of Cao Cao’s vanguard have been camping here since their defeat on the open plains, their reduced force unable to pass the scouts and return to the other side of the river.
Xiahou Jun directs the strategist to a small, empty alcove. “If you would wait there until we are ready to set off?”
“How kind,” murmurs Zhuge Liang, and steps into the makeshift cell which affords a surprising measure of privacy. They have no need of a guard beside him – Xiahou Jun has been careful to show him the single well-guarded exit. He sits down and, absently freeing his fan from its place in his sash, begins to sweep cold air across his face. It’s hardly necessary – the narrow fissure in the rock face is already funnelling a whistling breeze over him, catching at the light edges of his robes and pulling them upwards.
After a while, he produces a piece of charcoal wrapped in a scrap of parchment from his other sleeve, and considers it. A still-longer while later, he sheds his long outer robe and spreads it across his knees to provide an even surface. The charcoal scrapes easily across it, leaving long, dark lines behind.
It grows dark in the deep alcoves in the cliff face before the sun sets out on the planes, the rays unable to penetrate the twisting corridors. Xiahou Jun’s men light small fires of twigs and brush – judging from those he has heard or seen walk by, there can be no more than forty of them. Zhuge Liang stands and, walking to the entrance of the alcove, requests the wood and supplies for a fire.
***
It is past dark when the first of the sentries return to Red Cliff, and to the generals waiting for them. Sun Quan, Liu Bei and Zhang Fei are elsewhere, but Zhao Yun and Guan Yu stand beside Zhou Yu to hear their report. The ten horsemen were to split up and relay with the other sentries already posted across the potentially vulnerable plains, already targeted once by Cao Cao.
“There have been no reported sightings of Zhuge Liang!” reports the senior soldier, bowing with arms outstretched. “We could not identify signs of his party’s passing. There have been many paths beaten into the grasses.”
Zhou Yu nods and dismisses them, chest twisting painfully. The loss of Liu Bei’s chief strategist would be a disaster for them all, especially now that the plague is upon them. The silence and dark faces of Liu Bei’s two generals is enough to show they are equally aware of the potential magnitude of this situation. Guan Yu nods to them both and stalks off towards the barracks, perhaps to interrogate the men from whose company Zhuge Liang drew his guard.
“Do you have any insights on Zhuge Liang’s behaviour?” he asks of Zhao Yun. Of all of Liu Bei’s party, his relationship with the white-cloaked general is the least complex – simple respect and friendship.
“The chief strategist would never betray Liu Bei – his loyalty is unquestionable,” answers Zhao Yun immediately, picking out the unspoken question. That said, he continues more thoughtfully. “While I believe he might at other times act as he sees fit, even if it meant temporarily delaying fulfilling an order, I do not think he would tarry today. Not with so many lives resting on his return. I do not believe his absence is his own doing.”
“An ambush?”
“Our scouts would surely see any force entering these lands. The riders met all of them, so we can be sure none have been murdered to maintain their silence. Are there any perils in this land?”
Zhou Yu shakes his head. “None dangerous enough to wipe out eleven armed riders.”
“Then what?”
Zhou Yu opens his mouth to reply, and hears the cry from the sentry tower. “A light! A light over the cliff!”
Both he and Zhao Yun crane their necks backwards to look up at the cliff that protects the back of the camp. Floating down gently as a flower petal in spring comes a single orange blossom. It resembles a lantern, except that it is floating under its own power, batted about by the wind. It is spinning slowly in the mix of air currents at the top of the cliff, the winds from the plains meeting the river breeze.
“Shoot it down,” commands Zhou Yu, pointing at a pair of archers on the gate. They both take aim, and let their arrows fly nearly simultaneously. There is no sound of them striking the target, but the orange glow spins abruptly to the side and then collapses to fall to earth. Zhao Yun is already running; Zhou Yu follows him.
The archers have shot the thing down in the tiny garden behind the wooden palace. Zhou Yu hurries through the ground floor of the palace, and out into the poorly-lit space behind. By the flickering torch-light he can see something lying on the dark ground. Zhao Yun brings a torch closer, showing it to be a pile of cloth. Zhou Yu picks it up, and finds that it is in fact a long coarse robe with the sleeves cut off and knotted and a wooden frame built inside of twigs tied together with strips of fabric.
More accurately, it is Zhuge Liang’s outer robe. And, scrawled across the back in the strategist’s accomplished calligraphy, is a message.
Captured alone directly behind Red Cliff, 40 men, returning to Cao Cao tonight.
There is no signature to the message. But then, there is no need of one. Zhou Yu bundles the robe under his arm, and heads back to the mustering ground.
***
They travel in darkness, Zhuge Liang in the centre of the group with the General’s sword at his throat. The general apologizes for the necessity of this savagery with the same smirking tone as he apologized for the deaths of the ten soldiers; Zhuge Liang doesn’t comment. The moon is bright tonight, and it catches on his cleaner under-robes like silver, so bright Xiahou Jun tries to wrap his own blood-stained cloak around the strategist’s shoulders. Zhuge Liang pushes it away firmly; perhaps it is the complete lack of fear he shows of the blade at his neck, or simply his absolute failure to be cowed by the entire situation, that convinces the general to give up.
“The moon is bright tonight,” says Zhuge Liang. “Wispy clouds in the morning often bring such beauty. But perhaps you knew that.”
“No,” answers the general shortly, pushing the strategist onwards towards the small fishing village some miles up the coast where boats are moored by the shore. His men are hurrying alongside, desperate to reach the safety of the river.
“There are wise men who read many things in the stars, General. The heavens have all manner of secrets to impart to us.”
“Fascinating.”
“Of course, sometimes it is easier to bypass those routes. Especially as they don’t often allow tailored messages.”
“Really,” grunts the man, as they stagger down a gully and up the other side. All around them, the soldiers and panting and cursing as they scramble over the uneven ground.
“Yes. And fortunately, I believe I will have the opportunity to prove it to you.” Up ahead, a pigeon coos in the darkness, apparently disturbed in its sleep.
“What do you –”
They climb down into another gully, but as they come back up again Zhuge Liang’s footing seems to slip and he falls back down into the trench, his white figure disappearing.
An instant later, the night is filled with the hissing of arrows.
“I’m afraid, General,” he says, very quietly, “that you would have done better to go without me.” From the distance comes the sound of pounding feet, and he sighs and stands. Turning towards the approaching men, he brushes the dust from his robes. “Ah, Viceroy. I see you got my message.”
Zhou Yu appears out of the darkness, unshrouding a lantern as he comes; the orange light glints off the naked steel at his side. “Are you alright?”
“Quite well. And I have found some supplies that will be of use to us. We will have to circle back and fetch them.”
“And this?” Zhou Yu gestures at the men lying about them, the last survivors meeting hasty ends at spear-point.
“Unfortunately, the supplies weren’t the only thing I found.” He pauses almost imperceptibly while the final spears descend. And then, before Zhou Yu can say anything, “Let’s go; I’m sure the men will have need of the medicine.” He steps up out of the gully, heading towards the little army of lanterns being lit. Zhao Yun comes forward at the head of a second division, smiling.
“Glad to see you’re well, chief strategist. That was a novel messenger you sent.”
Zhuge Liang nods, glancing up at the bright moon overhead. “We shall have to remember it.”
END
Series: Red Cliff
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Wikipedia tells me Zhuge Liang is popularly credited with the invention of the floating lanterns seen in the film, yet somehow that invetion did not make it into canon.
Summary: Zhuge Liang walks into difficulties searching for a cure to the epidemic, and then out again.
Despite Sun Shangxiang’s warning, no one is ready for the typhoid outbreak brought across the river by the corpses of the Wei soldiers. Red Cliff has limited stores of medicines, and most of them have already been severely eaten into by the unprecedented presence of tens of thousands of allied troops. When the first men begin to fall ill, Zhou Yu does not have to consult with the camp’s pharmacist to know that they have very little capacity to treat the deadly plague. But equally, he does not have to consult with Liu Bei’s strategist to know the man will have a little knowledge of the matter.
“It very much depends on what is locally available,” is Zhuge Liang’s answer, when Sun Quan asks if a cure is possible. Liu Bei and his generals are just as unsurprised as Zhou Yu by the strategist’s knowledge of yet another subject, and continue their quiet strategising around the map. “There are cures, as well as more temporary reprieves. I have no doubt your pharmacist has already begun to prepare what draughts he can. I will go out to see what may be found.” His glance at the gates of the camp suggest he is about to leave now, as he is. In dusty clothes with only a feathered fan to protect himself. Zhou Yu does not allow himself to sigh. Zhuge Liang is no fool; he has nothing of the unworldly academic who walks into battles completely unaware of the danger. He just seems to be completely unconcerned by it. And, by extension, by the possibly fatal blow which would be struck against his lord and allies, were he to lose his life.
“I will accompany you,” says Zhou Yu, when none of Liu Bei’s camp suggests it. Only Zhao Yun looks up. The general gives him a friendly, if knowing, smile – the kind of smile a man gives a gambler he knows is sure to lose.
Zhuge Liang waves his fan vaguely. “That is hardly necessary. Besides, your presence is required here to quell the panic.”
Both these statements are true. Their scouts monitor the uneven grasslands behind the Cliff for miles, and since the defeat of Cao Cao’s cavalry there has been no attempt made to bring an attack from that quarter. And any camp about to be beset by a fatal epidemic needs above all else the calm but firm presence of its generals to maintain order. Zhou Yu nods, but does not concede.
“Then I will send a regiment with you,” he says.
“That too is an unnecessary use of your excellent troops. But with Zhang Fei’s approval, I will take some men to carry back what supplies we find.” It’s both a minor concession and a blatant enough message: I am not your possession. For all his apparent loyalty to Liu Bei, Zhou Yu can’t help but wonder whether the strategist considers himself to belong to his lord, or simply consents to serve under him. It is not a question that could ever be asked.
Zhang Fei gives a booming but absentminded acceptance of whatever it is the chief strategist wants of his men, and Zhuge Liang gives Zhou Yu a slight bow.
“Many thanks for your thoughtfulness. I will go now.”
Zhou Yu watches from the high platform and, as expected, sees the strategist ride out at the head of a company of ten some minutes later, unarmed and dressed in just his white robes. Zhou Yu shakes his head, and turns to answer a question from his lord.
Zhuge Liang is familiar with the plants and trees that grow in this region and climate, but he has never been to Red Cliff before, and the fact that a plant grows in the south is no guarantee that it is growing close enough to the camp to be of use.
He leads the small group over long stretches of browning grass, and down and up tiny gullies just large enough to hide a water buffalo from sight. It’s not easy terrain even for horses, and after a couple of hours of trotting through the deserted land his mount is sweating hard beneath him. Zhuge Liang calls a halt and slips off the back of the drenched mare to examine the bark of the nearby cassia trees. There are precious few of them, and even they are less a remedy than a short-term relief. He produces a small dagger from a sleeve and motions one of the men to come over with a basket. The trees that grow here on the unprotected plains are small and wizened, their bark baked hard by the oven of the Cliff. Zhuge Liang slices long and deep into the bark before he is able to pull off a strip. Holding it to his nose, he smells the strong, green scent of the bark and feels the wetness of the lighter underside. It is young and fresh enough.
“Strip the bark from these trees, thick enough that the underside is white.” He holds up the piece he took to show the soldiers, who are already drawing their knives.
While they set to work taking the lives from the trees to save those of their comrades, Zhuge Liang ties his horse’s reins to a branch in the thickest shadow available, and then begins walking away from the cassia grove. The dusty red stone that makes up the Cliff curls around the edge of the plain, the long, hard spine of the land. He walks towards its imposing height, hoping to find some rarer plants lodged in the shelter of its walls. In the summer they turn the sun’s rays back on the land to kill all but the toughest plants, but they also provide cool shadows and protection from the brutal winds and violent autumn monsoons. Here, almost directly behind the encampment, he may find the means to save it.
Zhuge Liang strides carefully down into ditches and climbs cautiously over hillocks, fan tucked safely in his sash and hands free to catch him if he falters, eyes turned all the while to the ground searching meticulously for herbs hidden in the long grass. He is concentrating so hard it is only the sound of a horse snorting ahead of him that signals something may be wrong. He looks up in time to see two rows of Wei soldiers sprinting past him armed with spears, their armour piecemeal and bloody. Before he can cry out to warn his own escort, a sword is swung forward to rest flush against his throat.
“Welcome, Zhuge Liang,” says General Xiahou Jun, with the smile of a cat which has caught a whole family of mice.
Like the rest of the generals, Zhou Yu spends the day making the rounds of his healthy soldiers, and inspecting the ill. Already a battalion has been detailed to build a proper infirmary to protect the wounded from the bright winter sun and the chilling night breezes that blow in from the water. The air by the river is rank with the smell of the dead, awaiting the nightly cremation ritual begun only last night – Guan Yu is organizing a temporary morgue farther from the waters, to avoid sullying the source of the encampment’s drinking water.
It isn’t until nightfall is nearing that Zhou Yu visits the pharmacist, boiling herbs and pounding minerals in his tent, and is surprised to find his table nearly empty and no sign of Liu Bei’s strategist. He intends to ask the man how his supplies are lasting, but the old pharmacist doesn’t give him the chance. As soon as he sees Zhou Yu he hurries forward and, in a shocking lack of respect, grabs his sleeve with a shaky hand.
“Viceroy, when are the medicines you ordered arriving? There has been no sign of the honoured strategist, and we ran out of supplies hours ago.” The old man’s voice is high and quaking, awash with desperation.
“What is this?” asks Zhou Yu, gesturing to the table of pots and mortars, to buy a moment in which to cover his surprise. He hasn’t known Zhuge Liang for many days, but already he is certain the strategist is not a man who fails in his appointed tasks.
“This?” asks the pharmacist, disgusted. “Just cooking herbs and chalk. I tell them it will make them better – they need something to believe. But this isn’t –”
“You have done well,” interjects Zhou Yu. The pharmacist, not daring to take the initiative again, pulls back looking deflated. “I will see that more supplies are brought to you as soon as they are available. Zhuge Liang will assist you when he returns – he is learned with medicines.”
“Yes, Viceroy,” says the pharmacist in quiet despair, staring at the ground.
“Continue your work, then.”
The old man bows and turns back to his pots of useless herbs, shoulders bent and head bowed. Zhou Yu strides out of the infirmary, and heads for the barracks.
“General Xiahou Jun,” greets Zhuge Liang in an even tone, without looking at the sword pressed against his throat. “I request that you allow my men to surrender – they are not equipped for battle, and will lay down their arms at my command.”
Behind him comes the first of the screams. Zhuge Liang closes his eyes as it is joined by a cacophony of others. The general speaks over them, unaffected.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. We are not such a big force ourselves, to be able to take many prisoners. But we welcome your presence, strategist. Prime Minister Cao Cao will be eager to meet you. I do not believe you have had that pleasure?” The general removes the sword and sheathes it with a metallic ringing.
“Sadly not,” replies Zhuge Liang, eyes open once more and holding Xiahou Jun’s grinning face steadily in their gaze. “But I would prefer to remain with my comrades. As I see you have not attempted to return to yours, perhaps it would be more convenient for you to leave me here.”
“We will risk a little trouble for the honour of your presence. And I think, with you accompanying us, our return will be much simpler than we had expected. This way, please. We will wait until sundown.”
Zhuge Liang follows the general and two of his soldiers into a wide fissure in the wall of the mountainous red stone. It breaks off into a number of smaller alcoves before coming to a rounded end – a perfect hidden camp, with only one means of entrance or egress. In several of the smaller alcoves, wounded soldiers sit or lie, their wounds wrapped with saturated scraps of cloth. Clearly the tiny remains of Cao Cao’s vanguard have been camping here since their defeat on the open plains, their reduced force unable to pass the scouts and return to the other side of the river.
Xiahou Jun directs the strategist to a small, empty alcove. “If you would wait there until we are ready to set off?”
“How kind,” murmurs Zhuge Liang, and steps into the makeshift cell which affords a surprising measure of privacy. They have no need of a guard beside him – Xiahou Jun has been careful to show him the single well-guarded exit. He sits down and, absently freeing his fan from its place in his sash, begins to sweep cold air across his face. It’s hardly necessary – the narrow fissure in the rock face is already funnelling a whistling breeze over him, catching at the light edges of his robes and pulling them upwards.
After a while, he produces a piece of charcoal wrapped in a scrap of parchment from his other sleeve, and considers it. A still-longer while later, he sheds his long outer robe and spreads it across his knees to provide an even surface. The charcoal scrapes easily across it, leaving long, dark lines behind.
It grows dark in the deep alcoves in the cliff face before the sun sets out on the planes, the rays unable to penetrate the twisting corridors. Xiahou Jun’s men light small fires of twigs and brush – judging from those he has heard or seen walk by, there can be no more than forty of them. Zhuge Liang stands and, walking to the entrance of the alcove, requests the wood and supplies for a fire.
It is past dark when the first of the sentries return to Red Cliff, and to the generals waiting for them. Sun Quan, Liu Bei and Zhang Fei are elsewhere, but Zhao Yun and Guan Yu stand beside Zhou Yu to hear their report. The ten horsemen were to split up and relay with the other sentries already posted across the potentially vulnerable plains, already targeted once by Cao Cao.
“There have been no reported sightings of Zhuge Liang!” reports the senior soldier, bowing with arms outstretched. “We could not identify signs of his party’s passing. There have been many paths beaten into the grasses.”
Zhou Yu nods and dismisses them, chest twisting painfully. The loss of Liu Bei’s chief strategist would be a disaster for them all, especially now that the plague is upon them. The silence and dark faces of Liu Bei’s two generals is enough to show they are equally aware of the potential magnitude of this situation. Guan Yu nods to them both and stalks off towards the barracks, perhaps to interrogate the men from whose company Zhuge Liang drew his guard.
“Do you have any insights on Zhuge Liang’s behaviour?” he asks of Zhao Yun. Of all of Liu Bei’s party, his relationship with the white-cloaked general is the least complex – simple respect and friendship.
“The chief strategist would never betray Liu Bei – his loyalty is unquestionable,” answers Zhao Yun immediately, picking out the unspoken question. That said, he continues more thoughtfully. “While I believe he might at other times act as he sees fit, even if it meant temporarily delaying fulfilling an order, I do not think he would tarry today. Not with so many lives resting on his return. I do not believe his absence is his own doing.”
“An ambush?”
“Our scouts would surely see any force entering these lands. The riders met all of them, so we can be sure none have been murdered to maintain their silence. Are there any perils in this land?”
Zhou Yu shakes his head. “None dangerous enough to wipe out eleven armed riders.”
“Then what?”
Zhou Yu opens his mouth to reply, and hears the cry from the sentry tower. “A light! A light over the cliff!”
Both he and Zhao Yun crane their necks backwards to look up at the cliff that protects the back of the camp. Floating down gently as a flower petal in spring comes a single orange blossom. It resembles a lantern, except that it is floating under its own power, batted about by the wind. It is spinning slowly in the mix of air currents at the top of the cliff, the winds from the plains meeting the river breeze.
“Shoot it down,” commands Zhou Yu, pointing at a pair of archers on the gate. They both take aim, and let their arrows fly nearly simultaneously. There is no sound of them striking the target, but the orange glow spins abruptly to the side and then collapses to fall to earth. Zhao Yun is already running; Zhou Yu follows him.
The archers have shot the thing down in the tiny garden behind the wooden palace. Zhou Yu hurries through the ground floor of the palace, and out into the poorly-lit space behind. By the flickering torch-light he can see something lying on the dark ground. Zhao Yun brings a torch closer, showing it to be a pile of cloth. Zhou Yu picks it up, and finds that it is in fact a long coarse robe with the sleeves cut off and knotted and a wooden frame built inside of twigs tied together with strips of fabric.
More accurately, it is Zhuge Liang’s outer robe. And, scrawled across the back in the strategist’s accomplished calligraphy, is a message.
Captured alone directly behind Red Cliff, 40 men, returning to Cao Cao tonight.
There is no signature to the message. But then, there is no need of one. Zhou Yu bundles the robe under his arm, and heads back to the mustering ground.
They travel in darkness, Zhuge Liang in the centre of the group with the General’s sword at his throat. The general apologizes for the necessity of this savagery with the same smirking tone as he apologized for the deaths of the ten soldiers; Zhuge Liang doesn’t comment. The moon is bright tonight, and it catches on his cleaner under-robes like silver, so bright Xiahou Jun tries to wrap his own blood-stained cloak around the strategist’s shoulders. Zhuge Liang pushes it away firmly; perhaps it is the complete lack of fear he shows of the blade at his neck, or simply his absolute failure to be cowed by the entire situation, that convinces the general to give up.
“The moon is bright tonight,” says Zhuge Liang. “Wispy clouds in the morning often bring such beauty. But perhaps you knew that.”
“No,” answers the general shortly, pushing the strategist onwards towards the small fishing village some miles up the coast where boats are moored by the shore. His men are hurrying alongside, desperate to reach the safety of the river.
“There are wise men who read many things in the stars, General. The heavens have all manner of secrets to impart to us.”
“Fascinating.”
“Of course, sometimes it is easier to bypass those routes. Especially as they don’t often allow tailored messages.”
“Really,” grunts the man, as they stagger down a gully and up the other side. All around them, the soldiers and panting and cursing as they scramble over the uneven ground.
“Yes. And fortunately, I believe I will have the opportunity to prove it to you.” Up ahead, a pigeon coos in the darkness, apparently disturbed in its sleep.
“What do you –”
They climb down into another gully, but as they come back up again Zhuge Liang’s footing seems to slip and he falls back down into the trench, his white figure disappearing.
An instant later, the night is filled with the hissing of arrows.
“I’m afraid, General,” he says, very quietly, “that you would have done better to go without me.” From the distance comes the sound of pounding feet, and he sighs and stands. Turning towards the approaching men, he brushes the dust from his robes. “Ah, Viceroy. I see you got my message.”
Zhou Yu appears out of the darkness, unshrouding a lantern as he comes; the orange light glints off the naked steel at his side. “Are you alright?”
“Quite well. And I have found some supplies that will be of use to us. We will have to circle back and fetch them.”
“And this?” Zhou Yu gestures at the men lying about them, the last survivors meeting hasty ends at spear-point.
“Unfortunately, the supplies weren’t the only thing I found.” He pauses almost imperceptibly while the final spears descend. And then, before Zhou Yu can say anything, “Let’s go; I’m sure the men will have need of the medicine.” He steps up out of the gully, heading towards the little army of lanterns being lit. Zhao Yun comes forward at the head of a second division, smiling.
“Glad to see you’re well, chief strategist. That was a novel messenger you sent.”
Zhuge Liang nods, glancing up at the bright moon overhead. “We shall have to remember it.”
END
