Pure and innocent as a child's heart the snow fell. Churned in eddies by a malevolent gale, it plummeted from swirled, marengo clouds until it came to a peaceful rest as thick as a woollen blanket over the tall scrub grass of the plain: a wide, rolling expanse amidst the silver birch forest at the foot of the mountains. In spring it dazzled with ten thousand daisies, in summer was lush and green and, by autumn, it glowed with the colours of fire. But now, robed white, the snow hid its beauty from view.
Across this plain traveled the man, bent double against the howling wind, with tattered cloaks of coarse wool wrapped tight for any warmth they could offer. He forced onwards up, over, and down the gentle curves of the land, trudging through the snow in boots soaked through. He led a pack horse behind him on reins of battered leather, the horse in turn pulled a single axel cart barely filled with firewood.
The man's name was Old Xiàngmù and he was reaching his seventy-ninth year. He was plagued by arthritis and an incessant ache in his bowels which would flare to burning pain after every meal; but no ailment or pain could stop him from his journey, for without firewood there was no fire, and without fire he would freeze – such was the ferocity of the winter. He was a man of lowly birth and name - a turner of soil and planter of seeds - in a desolate corner of the land, a land held in the tyrannical grip of a dying imperial power; a wounded tiger fighting to the last breath. Merciless laws, extortionate taxes, and corrupt officials had reduced Old Xiàngmù's humble but pleasant life into an existence of brutal hardship.
Old Xiàngmù led his horse and cart over the bleak and whitened plain, heading towards the North Path etched into the forest ahead. His gaze did not move from the forest before him but, as he neared the welcoming confines of the trees his attention was stolen for, over the way, the white blanket of snow was tainted with red spatters of blood. Small slivered lines at first they grew as Old Xiàngmù followed them until he came to a crimson pool in which lay the body of a woman. Dark, matted hair draped past a face of such beauty that, for a moment, Old Xiàngmù thought he had stumbled across the body of a goddess. She wears flowing robes in every shade of green possible, entwined with intricate designs of golden embroidery. But at her left breast the robes were damaged and soiled by a mortal wound, a black hole surrounded by flecks of congealed blood like the petals of a deadly flower. Old Xiàngmù's hands strayed to the wound where he found it wet; she died not long ago. He knelt beside her, whispered a solemn prayer, and wondered what circumstances lead her here, to this desolate plain: to her death.
As he stood, Old Xiàngmù spotted another trail of blood moving east from the woman's body. Bracing himself against the wind, he followed the trail until he came across the body of an imperial officer face down in the snow, his black cap a few feet away and his dark uniform tattered and bloodied. Old Xiàngmù, guessing it was this officer who dealt the deadly wound to the woman's heart, spat on the officer with vehement anger and struck the dead man's side with his foot – too many a time had Old Xiàngmù and his kin been hounded by imperial officer dogs like he.
Old Xiàngmù returned to his horse and sets off towards the forest and the North Path, his heart heavy with grief and anger.
The North Path was seldom used, especially during a winter storm, so Old Xiàngmù jumped in surprise as, turning a corner, he saw a chestnut stallion before him. For a moment he feared it was the steed of an imperial officer, ready to steal Old Xiàngmù's firewood under the guise of one tax or another but, as he approached, he saw the horse's bridle and saddle did not bear imperial insignia.
The horse was standing over a man, slumped against a tree and the snow about him splashed red. He wore robes similar to those of the dead woman from the plain but, instead of green, his were blue and gold. They were torn and bore the dark blood encircled holes of wounds. The man was young with a handsome face, pale with death, and did not move as Old Xiàngmù approached. Old Xiàngmù wondered how many other bodies he would find on his way home and knelt beside the young man, to offer another final prayer. It is then Old Xiàngmù saw the slow rising and falling of the man's chest.
He was alive.
He checked the man over and realised he was clinging to life by the finest of silver threads. Old Xiàngmù removed his outer cloak and, tearing it into pieces, fashioned bandages around the young man's more serious of wounds. As he bound the young man's right arm, a leather pouch fells from his fingers. Within the pouch were five small Kukri blades, their handles bound in leather and topped with slim and auriferous pommels. Old Xiàngmù drew a breath. Although the design of the knives were unusual, the image of them was a phantom symbol of rebellion to people like Old Xiàngmù; a sign of hope and freedom.
The owners of these knives were members of the so-called Flying Dagger House, a secretive clan of warriors seeking to overthrow the corrupt government. The Flying Dagger House fought to keep the imperial armies away and the people of the land safe. There had been times when Old Xiàngmù and his village found sacks of rice at the doors of their homes, left by mysterious donors; on another occasion, the heads of an imperial general and his officers, who had attacked Old Xiàngmù's village and stolen all the rice only a few days before, hung from the trees with fresh blood dripping from their severed bases. Each time, only a single note had been left: regards from The House of Flying Daggers. Although no one had ever knowingly met a member of the Flying Dagger House, or gazed upon their knives, the stories and rumours travelled across the land like benevolent ghosts of fortune.
And now Old Xiàngmù stood before one of their members, badly wounded but still alive: it was an auspicious sign, he was sure of it.
Forgetting his exhaustion, and the pains about his joints, Old Xiàngmù lifted the wounded man from the ground and lowered him into the cart. He tethered the man's horse and set off once more along the North Path, hoping to reach the village before nightfall.