Chapter 128: The Rear Mountain

"Faster — those in front, move faster, faster!"

"Be quick about it, all of you! We're almost at the top. Put your backs into it — dawdling like that, do you not want the credit?"

On the steep, craggy wooded slope behind the rear mountain of Yutai Temple, two hundred Qing soldiers were laboriously climbing upward.

In the lead were one hundred and fifty Green Standard troops with blades clenched in their teeth; close behind them came fifty Han Banners soldiers with matchlocks strapped to their backs. The jagged rocks were truly hard to climb.

Though there was faintly something like a path, picking one's way up it in the dark was still far too dangerous, and several times Qing soldiers lost their footing and nearly slid down the mountain.

One bannerman was even more unlucky: he stepped squarely onto a black snake coiled there, and had his companion beside him not seen something was wrong and struck at it with his blade in time, the man would likely have lost his life on the spot.

Even so, the bannerman was badly frightened, and afterward his back was cold with sweat.

Commanding these Qing soldiers was Su Xianting, company captain of the Bordered Blue Han Banner. He was a trusted booi whom the Prince of Pingnan, Shang Kexi, had brought from Liaodong, and had been left in Xinhui by Shang Kexi's order to command the garrison bannermen.

When Wu Jinzhong selected commanders for the surprise attack, Su Xianting volunteered himself.

Wu Jinzhong knew he wanted to win merit, but figured that with a monk to lead the way, a deep-night surprise attack, and the chosen bannermen and camp soldiers all being fierce, death-defying men, there was no reason it could fail — so he approved it.

This small path behind Yutai Temple's rear mountain had been built at the end of the Yuan dynasty by the temple's monks to escape the ravages of war. More than two hundred years had passed, and few monks still knew of it; the nearby mountain folk knew nothing of it at all.

The old monk Qilin had likewise only learned from the previous abbot that such a path down the mountain existed behind the temple. He had never imagined that this path, which he had once paid no mind to, would now prove useful.

The young monk who delivered the letter for Qilin was called Yuji. He had been brought into the temple by the monks as a child and knew neither his native place nor who his parents were.

Because he was fine-featured and quick-witted, Qilin had taken him under his wing and taught him personally, and this time he had been given the important role of rescuing his master, the old man, from the sea of suffering.

"General, once we pass those two great boulders ahead, we'll be at the mountaintop!"

Yuji was young after all. Coming down the mountain earlier he had felt nothing, but this time, leading the way up, he was so tired he was panting heavily. Still, when he saw the two huge rocks a dozen or so feet ahead, he let out a long breath of relief.

Hearing the little monk say they were almost at the top, Su Xianting was overjoyed. After climbing for more than two hours, he too was utterly exhausted, but at the thought of the great merit soon to be his, all the hardship and weariness was worth it.

In his wild delight, he told Yuji to stay where he was and not come up, lest when the fighting with the bandit soldiers began, swords and spears with no eyes should harm this clever little monk.

"General, you must save my master, the old man — you must save him..." Yuji could not stop imploring Su Xianting to be sure to rescue his master.

"Rest easy, little monk. This general will surely reunite you master and disciple."

The little monk's deep devotion to his master moved Su Xianting. With a light laugh he agreed, then paid Yuji no more attention. He barked a low order to his men, and then, hand on his blade, climbed upward, soon vanishing from Yuji's sight.

"Buddha protect us, Buddha protect us... Namo Amitabha!..."

Yuji softly intoned the Buddha's name and stood there, gazing expectantly at the mountaintop.

The rear mountain was where Yutai Temple's forest of steles lay. Apart from a single sutra tower, there were no other buildings there.

The open ground had all been planted with vegetables, but by now the vegetable plots had been stripped bare by the old folk and children of the Taiping Army's rear camp. The sutra tower was packed with sleeping people, and many tents had been pitched over by the stele forest.

At this late hour of night, everyone was deep in dreams, and no one imagined the Qing army could creep up the rear mountain, which had no path at all — for previously some security corps members had been ordered to scout behind the mountain, and had concluded that the rear mountain simply could not be traversed.

Because of this, Song Xianggong and Zhao Sihai had concentrated all combat-capable troops on the front mountain, leaving only a few camp elders in charge of the rear.

The first few Green Standard soldiers to creep up the mountain lay there and peered around in every direction, so tense they hardly dared breathe. Once they discovered that the rear mountain truly was unguarded, the camp soldiers were overjoyed.

They exchanged glances, and without a word drew their blades and charged forward to kill.

"Brothers, kill the rebels!"

"Who goes there?"

An old man nearing sixty, with his grandson beside him, had not yet understood what was happening when a blade struck him. Before he could even cry out, his grandson's severed arm fell before his eyes.

"Kill!"

More and more camp soldiers climbed up the mountain. Seeing their comrades ahead already striking, they were not to be outdone, and one after another followed close behind, slaughtering freely.

How could unarmed old folk, women, and children be any match for those vicious Green Standard soldiers? How could they possibly organize resistance?

In moments, screams and shrieks rang out in a single din. The shrill, piercing screams tore through the night sky and startled everyone on the mountain.

"What's going on? What's happened — have the Qing soldiers attacked?"

Song Xianggong's first reaction upon being startled awake was to rush out of the building and run to the square in front of the hall. Over a thousand people were bedded down in the square, and now all of them had been woken by the screams from the rear mountain.

The crowd was terrified and uneasy; the camp folk were all trembling with dread as they stared toward the rear mountain.

Several dozen security corps members and depot soldiers who were off duty tonight and resting, though equally frightened and uneasy, had not forgotten to grip their weapons. Seeing Song Xianggong approach, they hurriedly gathered around him.

"Chief Administrator, the sound is coming from the rear mountain!"

The rear mountain?

This is bad!

Song Xianggong turned his head and looked toward the back of the mountain. One glance was enough to change his expression. There was no need to say it — the Qing army had surely crept up the rear mountain.

"Call up every able-bodied man and follow me!"

"Send someone to tell Company Commander Zhao not to worry about the rear mountain — he must hold the front, and absolutely must not let the Qing soldiers break through, or we are all finished!"

Gritting his teeth, Song Xianggong led these security corps members and depot soldiers hurrying toward the rear mountain. Along the way, over a hundred more men bearing all manner of weapons fell in behind them.

In the Great Hero Hall, the old folk, women, and children sleeping soundly had also been woken by the commotion on the rear mountain. Not knowing what was happening there, everyone was guessing wildly, and though the place was in an uproar, no one could say anything for certain.

But as the sounds from the rear mountain grew clearer and clearer, everyone began to tremble — they could make it out now: those sounds were unmistakably the death-cries of the dying!

Just as the people in the hall were stricken with terror, a middle-aged monk quietly squeezed over beside the old monk Qilin. After glancing around, he said in a low voice, "Abbot, could the commotion on the rear mountain be from below the mountain?"

"Hm?"

The old monk Qilin was perfectly composed, his bearing radiating an air of utter unflappability. He cast a meaningful look at the middle-aged monk, then said lightly, "It cannot be spoken of, cannot be spoken of."

Cannot be spoken of?

The middle-aged monk was taken aback, then seemed to realize something. His expression relaxed, and without a word he shifted back to where he had been before, imitating the abbot by closing his eyes and falling silent.