The Shong Wars: Declaration

By George P Lung

Zhang Ma is a young prince of the Shong, warriors with extraordinary powers who serve for the Mongol horde’s elite troops. The Shong practice a stark code of brutality, killing everyone who stands in their way and ignoring those who don’t. King Yun, leader of the Shong clan and Zhang’s adoptive father, has set his eyes on a girl named Hua, whom the Mongols believe is the key to world domination. Tasked with abducting Hua and proving his worth to his father, Zhang comes to realize that he must risk everything for her, or the world will fall into eternal darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George P Lung
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781945316074

George P Lung

George P. Lung, author of The Shong Wars, is a writer, artist, poet, calligrapher, and an avid lover of Asian antiquities and its classical traditions. He is fluent in Mandarin, a devout practitioner of the martial art of Yiquan, and enjoys playing classical stringed instruments such as the erhu, niujinqin, and pipa during his spare time.

Book preview

Guo

For as long as Zhang could remember, he had always called Guo home. Guo … the heart of the Middle Kingdom, described by its people as the center of the universe, the birthplace and deathbed of all things. Many believed Guo to harbor celestial forces, that whoever controlled this land would also have a hand in the destiny of humanity itself.

Guo was a tropical myriad of life, lush with vegetation, crawling and buzzing with oversized insects, and stalked by creatures of the rarest and most dangerous kind. The summers were hot and humid; sweat would spring from your brow after only a few steps. A place of breathtaking beauty, Guo boasted towering waterfalls that roared from the mountaintops and down into the abysses below. Colorful birds of every color and pattern serenaded as you walked the jungle floor. Far-off mountain peaks brimmed with snow that gusted in huge blinding swirls; blizzards were the norm there, where only beasts with the thickest coats survived.

Zhang’s story intertwined with Guo’s. Others thought he belonged there, but he knew that he did not. He feared that one day his secret would reveal itself and destroy everything he had come to know—including his family, and he owed everything to them. They gave him life in a place where death had become common.

Though tall with a lean, muscular build, inadequacy clouded Zhang’s mind. He didn’t fit his own image of what a warrior should be. In Guo, violence was an everyday occurrence, and the common people revered their warriors. From a young age, Zhang had yearned to become a great fighter, but he was the first to admit that he remained far from skilled in the art.

Zhang had two brothers: the younger Shui and the older Guang. Zhang considered Shui a good person, but a bit lazy, unmotivated, and hedonistic. Guang, as the eldest, strove to dominate Zhang in every way—at least during those rare moments when he paid any attention to Zhang at all. Their father doted on both Guang and Shui in his brusque way, but he treated Zhang with an unpredictable mix of indifference and hostility. In those moments when he watched his brothers experience the love he was always denied, Zhang never felt less empty—or more reminded that it would take all his efforts to win the approval of his adoptive father.

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On one particularly hot afternoon not long before Zhang’s twentieth birthday, Guang charged out of the underbrush, spinning his younger brother in a circle as he charged past him.

Whoa, brother! Zhang said. What’s wrong?

Guang turned back, his chest was heaving. They found yet another of our brothers slaughtered, he said, gasping for air. "Aiguo, from the village of Chu. This is unthinkable! We Shong are strong—stronger than lions. We are kings, closer to the gods than any other beings of this world."

Zhang scratched his neck and smiled. Now, brother, those are strong words coming from a strong man. But maybe you shouldn’t be so boastful. People might look at us with disdain, more so than they already do.

Guang narrowed his eyes at Zhang. I will find out who is killing the Shong—and believe me, I’ll make whoever’s responsible for this wish he had slit his own throat!

Zhang nodded. We’ll find him. He did admire the conviction showing on Guang’s face, which always exuded a belligerent confidence. But secretly Zhang was not so sure that even his brother could unravel the mystery of their time. Ever since they had been children, they’d heard of unexplainable Shong deaths. Their father had called in Shong from all over the world, yet the murders had remained unsolved.

Zhang shook himself from his mental wanderings—an almost addictive habit of his, much to the chagrin of his father and brothers. He was surprised to see Guang’s glowering face break into a wide smile.

You still feel it? Guang asked.

Uh … feel what? Zhang asked as he felt dread forming in his stomach. He sensed that his brother was going to humiliate him yet again.

Getting your butt handed to you the last time we played Cheau, that’s what! Couldn’t even move by game’s end, could ya? Ha! I had to drag you home. Guang coughed up a ball of yellow phlegm and spat it at Zhang’s feet.

You were lucky, Zhang muttered. Perhaps luck will be on my side this time. His left hand began to tremble, a nervous tic that had plagued him since childhood—and another idiosyncrasy that didn’t exactly endear Zhang to his father.

Guang snorted. If luck had anything to do with it, you would have won at least once by now.

Cheau was a favorite game of the Shong. It consisted of two opposing teams, each made up of seven men—six runners, usually prisoners from neighboring lands, and one captain, usually a Shong clansman. The object of the game was to carry a leather ball—a goat bladder filled with air—past the goal line. Whichever team scored first won, the winners remaining to live another day. As for the losers, a swift death was usually the best they could hope for.

As the elite shock troops for the vast Mongol khanate, the Shong frequently did battle against the nations surrounding Guo. The prisoners that they bothered to keep alive would eventually find their way into playing a game of Cheau, which the Shong used to sharpen their leadership skills—and as a plain excuse for brutality.

As the Snake shichen prepared to give way to the Horse, (About 11:00 a.m.—The Shong divided their day into twelve two-hour shichens, the Snake shichen lasting from 9:00 to 11:00 a.m.) Zhang and his older brother stood on the other side of their village, each with six men gathered around him. They had divided the unlucky prisoners into two teams, and now it was time for their last-second instructions—although most of the prisoners knew about Cheau from whispered rumors that had circulated throughout their homelands.

Zhang looked at one of the prisoners, a gaunt man with nervous eyes as big as saucers. In Zhang’s experience, you could expect about half of the runners to have resigned themselves to their fate, while the other three either wet themselves, cried for their mothers, or mumbled and twitched like their minds were about to break.

Pao, right? Zhang asked the wretch.

Uh … Yeah—Yes, he whispered, unable to even look at Zhang.

Listen, your life depends on this, as well as everyone else’s on our team. Zhang looked around at the other prisoners, happy to see that only one other man seemed to be scared out of his mind. I’m not going to lie: most of you will probably die, but if we are able to score the goal, some of you might get a chance to live. As your captain, I am here to lead you toward life. I know these lands, so stay close. The inhabitants will prey on you, the weak. Make no mistake, you are nothing but prey to them.

And what … what if I don’t want to … to play in this st-stupid game? Pao asked.

Zhang shook his head. My friend, you do not have that choice, he said, making sure that his tone masked the pity he felt for these doomed men. This was the way of the land, and the game had to be carried out now that Guang had issued the challenge.

Guang clapped his hands and signaled the start of the game. Zhang’s heart started to beat harder, and the tremor in his left hand returned. He swallowed down what little spit he could muster, then looked at his team again.

This land we are passing through is Grimalk country, and they will try to hunt us down. They don’t like foreigners trespassing on their soil.

As Pao whimpered, Zhang turned and nodded at his older brother. Guang nodded back and tossed a coin into the air.

Heads! Zhang called out.

The coin landed. Guang shook his head and smiled. Maybe next time, he said as Zhang’s stomach dropped. Guang took the ball to his side and threw it to a runner on his team.

Now run, and don’t stop! Guang yelled. Then he whirled around and elbowed one of Zhang’s runners in his forehead with a sickening crunch. The wretched man crumbled to the ground as if he were loose dirt in a landslide.

Let them go, Zhang said. He held out a hand to his fallen runner and pulled him up. If we’re lucky, the Grimalks will attack them first.

Eh—excuse me, sir, one of his runners said, what exactly are … the Grimalks?

Chue, right?

Y-Yes.

I’m not quite sure, only that they’re some sort of mix of half-wolf, half-man. Few have laid eyes on them and survived. We know them mostly by the mangled corpses they leave behind.

He let that sink in as he watched Guang’s team disappear into the forest. A moment later, Zhang took off after them, looking back and waving his team forward.

Don’t think to run away! Zhang called. A group of my fellow clansmen are following us, and they’ll kill any runaways or laggards on the spot.

The faces on his runners turned pale, and they launched themselves forward to take chase.

Only minutes later, Zhang’s team passed Guang’s slowest runner, who was hobbling on a sprained ankle.

Leave him, Zhang said. We’re after the one with the ball. He looked back over his shoulder and saw a trailing Shong impale the injured man with a spear.

Pursing his lips, Zhang pushed the image aside in his mind and focused on his task. As he ran, he soon heard the thick jungle leaves and branches bending and snapping just ahead of him. He looked back at his six prisoners and motioned for them to hurry. Sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. He swiped at his forehead and choked as he tried to swallow.

As the shrubs and ferns of the understory blurred green in front of him, Zhang thought back to his early childhood. Yet again, he winced in memory of all the times his current clansmen had reminded him that he was adopted and not pure Shong. Zhang knew without a doubt that his increasingly frequent mental flashbacks were simply an escape from the fact that he had never fit in with this new family—and always yearned for his old one. But it would be several minutes before they would catch Guang’s team, so he let his mind go down the trail of memories of his true father …

His father’s hand guided young Zhang’s fingers as they strung a knot in the string around the scrawny neck of Ming—his dad’s black cormorant that he loved like a friend.

You see, son, Zhang’s father said, the string stops him from swallowing the fish that he catches for us.

But then what will he eat? Zhang asked.

His father nodded and smiled. A good question. We will feed Ming after he catches what we need him to catch.

Zhang smiled back, swelling with pride at how smart his father was.

They climbed into the long rickety rowboat, and Zhang cried, worried they were about to capsize.

Good rowboats feel tippy when you first get into them, his father said, but don’t worry—they are the hardest to swamp and sink. Trust in the rocky boat, son; it will right itself shortly.

But … I’m scared, Zhang said.

His dad squeezed Zhang’s shoulder. Don’t be frightened. I will always be here with you. Would you like to row awhile?

Zhang did, always eager to help his dad by pulling on the oars.

It responds well to you, which makes for a very stable rowboat.

When they reached the center of the lake, Zhang’s father released the cormorant. Ming sliced into the water and came back up with a silver Wuchang fish in his beak. Dad held out a long stick, which Ming hopped onto, allowing himself to be brought back to the boat, where he coughed up his catch.

When Ming is happy, we bring a lot of fish home to eat, his dad said.

Ming spread his wings wide, drying them in the sun.

The string will need readjusting now that it is wet, his dad said.

Let me try this time, Zhang said when Ming dropped his wings.

Zhang tied the string around

Reviews for The Shong Wars

[John · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's a good and entertaining read. Lots of action. It depicts the brutality of war to reclaim peace.