A Strategist's Flight Part II

[madimpossibledreamer]

Sacrifices in the name of art.  Lovely.  I'm sick, now, because I don't really have that much time to write so have to do it late.  But you guys didn't come here to listen to me complain.  You guys came here to listen to me tell a story, and in the end I think it was worth it.
The messing up of the r/l thing was a Japanese pun.  Or something like that, since it involves alternate readings of things, and in Japanese, r and l are synonymous characters.
I did some research, but it was late, so I never did figure out what they'd use for carrying wine on long journeys and ended up using the generic 'vessel'.  If anyone knows, please let me know.
Just a reminder, style names:
Kongming = Sleeping Dragon = Zhuge Liang
Guangyuan = Shi Tao
Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, the Tiger of Jiangdong is Sun Jian.  Not a style name, but still important.

Main Points:
Zhuge Liang fanfic, probably Red Cliff/Chibi movie based.
Summary: Zhuge Liang must implement his first strategy.
Word Count: 1779
Rating: T, some violence but mostly threats of such.

 

He has but a little while to set the scene.  He is lucky that he is wearing one of his lightly colored robes, and the near-white has picked up much of the dust of the road.  To be sure, though, he rolls around in the dust as if he’s a child again, playing.  And in a sense, he is but a child, playing at strategy, with the knowledge but no experience in the application.

He abandons pack and hat behind the trees.  Nothing can show him to be more than he seems.  He spares a thought for writings and other possessions, but they are as much a trade for his life, and well worth the price.  Unfortunately, he has neither the supplies nor the time to replace the drink in his vessel with wine, and hopes that none of the rebels have an inclination to share in a drunk traveler’s drink of choice.  The only thing he keeps that is at odds with his appearance is the sword, and that, too, is part of the trap.

He begins heading in the direction of the farm, stumbling a little with a silly smile plastered on his face.  It’s not long before he runs into a few of the rebels.  As he suspected, they are not many in number, but with weapons and surprise on their side there’s no way he can take them on directly.  Instantly, they jeer and poke at him with spears and swords.  They’re of poor quality, which is no less than the Sleeping Dragon expects.  “Careful, old man!  You don’t want to go that way!”

At least his plan was partially successful.  He’s not considered a threat, despite the sword at his side, tucked into the sash improperly.  The ‘old man’ is, no doubt, a stab at his behavior, since his facial hair has only begun to grow, but such words do not bother him.  “But it looks warm, and it gets cold at night,” he slurs, stumbling and spilling a little of the supposed ‘wine’ on the ground.  Hopefully they’re not looking too close, but it seems they’re seeing what he wants them to see for the moment.

“Oh, the fire up at that old farm would keep you warm for days,” one laughs.

It’s all he can do to keep the anger off his face, but somehow he manages a ridiculous smile instead, which has them laughing further.  “That would…would be welcome.”  He stumbles over his words and over the air, falling with a jolt.  Still, he manages to lessen the impact of his fall because it was all an act.  Just like the listening in on his foes and friends all those nights.

“Of course, you’ll have no food.  What a shame.”  One of the spears pokes at his side near where the sword was.  It nicks some skin, and he manages, somehow, not to make a pained sound.  “We could give you some in trade for that weapon.  Such a venerable old man wouldn’t need such a thing, would he?”

“Obviously such things only hurt one such as I.  A nice meal would be…”  He fails, purposefully, to get up, only to more hilarity.  It’s his entertainment that keeps him alive at the moment, he knows.  “…but on the other hand, I’m very tired…”

“…We could help you sleep.  The best sleep you’ll ever have.”  The men are still laughing, but he realizes exactly what it is—a threat.  Time to drop in the bait.

“That sounds nice,” he smiles guilelessly, before letting a faint light of realization cross his face.  “You must be merchants.  What else do you have to trade?  More than one meal would be…”  He trails off, lets them think he’s forgotten what he’s talking about, tries and fails to drink more and ends up spilling all over himself.

“You?” The snort of derision is nonetheless intrigued.  “You have only the one sword to trade, and it’s a poor example at that.”  A lie, obviously.  The greed in the man’s eyes states that much.  They’ve noticed the craftsmanship, think perhaps that they can cheat him out of a good deal if they keep him alive at all.

“It’s not the only one.”  He allows pride to sneak into his tone, and now is an appropriate time to sneak a sly glance at the warriors.  Most are only armed with swords and spears.  The first couple seconds will be crucial, but after that point, the real danger will be the two with bows.  “Not that I can carry them.  My arms are, well…”  He flexes, dropping more of the liquid, to continued amusement.

“You mean, you found somewhere the Imperial Army was storing weapons?”  The Yellow Turban’s skills at acting, Zhuge Liang notes with internal amusement, are less impressive than his own.

“I’ll show you, if you pay me.  Food, drink, coin, I don’t particularly care, but I’m inter—intelle...smart.  You won’t cheat me!”  He points a threatening finger, squinting, at what is turning out to be their leader.  It wavers, as does he.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the intrigued rebel answers in mock hurt, grinning the smile of a tiger.  “Lead on, honorable uncle.”

And thus begins the second part of the Sleeping Dragon’s first strategy.  He drunkenly leads them across the landscape, noting the slight wind picking up, heading first that way then this.  At any point the Yellow Turbans start losing their patience, he heads a little more straight and begins muttering to himself about the coin he’s likely to get and the number of weapons he found there.  At some point, he guesses that they’ll know he’s exaggerating, but even if there are only a few weapons of the same quality as the sword, he can keep their greed alive.  It helps that he knows this terrain as well as he knows the sight of his own eyelids.

Eventually, lightning flashes in the sky, and the leader orders, “Hurry it up, simple one.”  The lack of amusing nickname suggests that he’s drawn them as far as he can hope to do so, but the fact remains that phase two of his plan is nearly successfully complete.

“It’s around here somewhere, I’m sure of it…” he mutters, leaning toward the ravine he’d been making for all along.  Another flash lights the sky, and the rain falls all at once, an army falling upon an undefended city.  And with the flash, he suddenly abandons his drinking vessel, drawing the sword at his side, losing the drunken posture.  In the dark following the lightning strike, he strikes, slashing at those closest to distract, not to kill, and diving into the crevice, relying on it to shield him.  He’s skidded down it as a boy, and it’s a different proposition now that he’s a man, if a young one.  A rock strikes his arm and there’s a flash of agony, but he’s alive.

He can barely hear yelling, but can’t make out what they’re saying.  They’ll have a difficult time following him, hopefully.  They don’t know the land as he does, and with this knowledge of the trees and rocks he can use them as soldiers of his own, protecting himself from the enemy.  He just needs to get out of bowshot and eyesight and his plan will have worked perfectly.

He hears the screech and knows, in that instant, that it has not worked out as he planned.  He scrabbles with his feet against the rocks to slow his descent, if only for a moment, and turns back the way he came.

The arrow had been heading for his heart.  Instead, it was lodged in that of his loyal hawk.  Aloof itself, not his own, to be named or owned, but a faithful companion nonetheless.  Perhaps it’s madness, but he scoops the body up before he gets too far away to do so and runs.

It’s a pity he doesn’t have a precise strategy in place for step three of the plan.  The running and hiding as the lightning strikes the landscape and the thunder roars and the lightning soaks him through, with the yells of enemies who will kill him in a second should they find him, cradling a dead bird and hoping he does not end up the same way, might have been a nightmare if he’d allowed fear to rule.  Eventually, they give up, returning to their main force.  It’s to be hoped that they don’t stop on the way to burn any more farms or kill any others, but the matter is out of the Sleeping Dragon’s hands and he knows that.  He’s just lucky to be alive.

All but Shi Tao are shocked when he rejoins them, exhausted but in one piece.  They stare at him as if he is a ghost, and perhaps he is, as he solemnly hands the sword back to Jin.  The place at his side where the spear poked is but a slight wound, yet it would be a shame if it were to be infected.  His arm also aches, and the chunk of flesh missing is more prominent.  Kongming turns his not inconsiderable talents to treating the wounds next, and manages to find an herb that helps such an aim.

They manage to secure a place at another farm, but it is much smaller than the previous, filled with the progeny of the family who owns it, however generous, and it will probably not be long before Chen must also marry.  Jun hears of a volunteer force fighting the Yellow Turban and heads off to serve under a man named Liu Bei.  Jin receives an offer of service under the much better known Tiger of Jiangdong.  Shi Tao and his sister, the only survivors of that family, seek their fortune elsewhere.

Liang settles on the mountain and seems determined to become a hermit, remaining neutral and out of the conflict.  Before he does so, though, he seeks out a fan-maker in the city and receives instruction to make his beloved hawk’s wing into a fan.  It’s not the sentiment it seems, for it serves as a constant reminder of the fragility of his own situation, the futility of remaining untouched by the conflict, and his first victory, however hollow.  Chen is constantly bothering him to quit wasting his talents as such.  She knows her brother is not destined to be a farmer, for no matter how intelligent or innovative, a farm life cannot possibly challenge his talents.  What she does not realize, however, is that her brother Dragon is merely sleeping, waiting for a worthy man to wake him and put his talents to good use.