by Jeff Wheeler
Kunmia stared into the fire. “One of my grandfather’s disciples decided to forswear his oath. He was a proud man and felt, as his own skills improved, that he should not be held to my grandfather’s rigid standards. Even though he had taken the oath, he decided to break it in secret. But secrets do not stay that way for long. Rumors started that he was involved with another man’s wife, a woman who cheated on her husband when the man was away on missions. When my grandfather found out, he was furious. The oath had been broken.”
Kunmia cracked a stick in half and fed it to the fire. Bingmei listened carefully. She had not heard this story, although she knew the rule against lechery within the ensign and had agreed to it herself.
“Did your grandfather honor the consequences?” Marenqo asked in a low voice.
Kunmia nodded. “He took some of his disciples and went after the man who had betrayed his vow. When the man saw them coming, he fled into the mountains. They hunted him down. It was in the spring that it happened, and it took all summer to find him. A summer when they could have protected a caravan and earned cowry shells. But my grandfather’s honor was at stake. They caught him eventually. And killed him. The story does not end there. You see, the disciple had a wife of his own and a son. That boy, when he was very young, came to the quonsuun to kill my grandfather out of revenge.”
“A child?” Marenqo asked. Quion’s eyes went wide too.
Part of Bingmei shuddered with horror, although she also understood. Had she possessed the ability to defeat Muxidi on the day he’d murdered her grandfather, she would have cut him down without a second thought. But now, years later, it shocked her to think of someone so young doing such a thing.
Kunmia nodded. Her mouth was pressed closed, and she revealed no emotion. But Bingmei sensed a wave of feeling roiling beneath the surface in her master. Of regret, of sadness, of wilted love. Like a flower that had been crushed under a rock for years. Even though she didn’t know the story, she knew Kunmia had loved that boy.
“My grandfather nearly accepted the boy’s challenge that night. The child would have lost, of course, which would have stopped the revenge. But no, he chose mercy instead. He spared the boy and took him into the quonsuun and trained him. He and I became friends. But there was the cancer within him. The cancer of revenge. When he was twelve, he forsook the quonsuun and left to study under another master. He returned ten years later. And he killed my grandfather. He wanted me to marry him, but how could I marry the man who had slain the one who had raised me? Who had taught me? All because of a forsaken oath.”
Kunmia looked so calm as she shared the tale. Like it was just another story. But grief still raged inside her. Although the hurt and sadness had been tamped down by years of self-discipline and training, they were still there. Still potent. Bingmei felt tears sting her own eyes. She could smell the tangled feelings that still lingered in Kunmia’s soul like smoke.
“I have told you this tale to remind you of the oaths you all have taken,” Kunmia said. “Should my grandfather have exacted vengeance against his former disciple? It was the just thing to do. Yet it led to his own demise. We cannot see the ripples in the future that our actions cause today. Thirst for vengeance is a powerful motivation. Perhaps the most powerful. Be careful how you rouse it. When we reach Wangfujing, we will join with the other ensign. Their rules will be different from ours, but they must abide by our customs. There is power in the different energies of male and female. But there is also an inherent danger there.” Kunmia looked pointedly at Mieshi, who had received the attentions of Damanhur.
Mieshi looked down. The acrid smell of spoiling squash wafted from her. Bingmei wondered what emotion was being felt.
“Above all, we must trust one another,” Kunmia continued, gazing at each of them in turn. “This may be the most dangerous mission we have attempted. Each of you is here for a reason. Be loyal to each other. I’ve often wondered what may have happened had one man kept his oath. It is always easy to make excuses. But I promise to fulfill my oaths to each of you. To be your teacher, your leader, your guardian. I would give my life for any one of you.”
She spoke sincerely; Bingmei could feel it. But as Bingmei gazed around at the others’ faces, illuminated by the dimming flames, she realized she was not ready to make the same promise. It made her ashamed to feel the way she did, but as she had seen time and again, the world extinguished life so quickly. Who knew what, if anything, lay beyond? Some believed that life repeated over and over. One might be born again as a newt. Or a blade of grass. Others taught that everyone had multiple souls, one which lingered by the body after death and the other which went to the afterlife beneath the earth. Both ideas felt a little absurd to Bingmei. Because no one knew what really happened after death, life was the most precious thing in the world.
She was determined to preserve her own no matter what.
They arrived at the brink of Wangfujing ahead of schedule, having shed their warmer garments after reaching the valley floor. Bingmei had woven a garland of wildflowers along the way and looked forward to something other than fish for dinner. The thought of the scorpion sticks made her mouth water. Her legs were weary from the walking, although it was always easier coming down from the mountains.
At the crest of the hill, they could see down the craggy gorge and into the fjord where the town was nestled. Mieshi and Bingmei saw the flames and smoke first.
They realized they’d arrived to find the town under siege.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Return of the Dragon
The Qiangdao ransacked the streets of Wangfujing. Several of the shops blazed, and screams filled the air along with smoke as thick as the killing fog. The sobs of frightened children twisted Bingmei’s gut. The smells carried on the wind were so overwhelming she could hardly focus on any of them. But the overall stench was rancid fear.
A band of marauders emerged from an alley, carrying sacks of foodstuffs and racks of leathery meat. This was a pillaging party, so desperate for food that they would raid a king they knew was wealthy enough to defend himself. Kunmia charged them, and her ensign followed. Bingmei felt anger burning in her nose as she rushed one of the thieves, her mind summoning memories of the Qiangdao who’d killed her parents and raided her grandfather’s quonsuun. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. Now she could defend herself. Save others.
One of the thieves dropped his bundle and leaped at her with a dirty knife. She easily blocked it with her staff, then twirled it around and struck him in the side of the head. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the cobblestones in a heap. Another yelled at her in a language she didn’t understand and came at her, but she jabbed the end of her staff into his throat. When he dropped his weapon to grab his neck, she struck the side of his knee to bring him to the ground, then knocked him unconscious.
By the time she’d defeated her third man, the others from the ensign had incapacitated the rest of the group. Bingmei saw some faces in the windows above, the townsfolk gazing down at them with relieved looks.
“To the three bridges!” Kunmia shouted to the ensign.
Bingmei had last been to the common square, connected by the three central bridges, with Quion, and the memory made her turn to look for him. His face was ashen with worry, and he gripped his walking stick defensively, his head swiveling to take in the dangers around them. She whistled to get his attention and motioned for him to follow. The others were already obeying Kunmia’s order.
Quion nodded and hustled to follow her into the mayhem. Exiting the alley onto the main street on the east side of the river, they ran into a small group of Qiangdao who were also carrying provisions. As soon as the Qiangdao saw them, they ditched their haul and fled. Mieshi was about to give chase, but a curt command from Kunmia stayed her.
The haze from the smoke made it difficult to see, but they came across some of King Budai’s guards, who charged at them through the smoke with spears until they recognized Kunmia.
“Master!�
�� the leader said, bowing quickly.
“Where is Budai?” Kunmia asked.
“He’s at the palace surrounded by fifty men. We were just sent to support Bao Damanhur, who went after their leader. This way!”
The ensign ran with the guardsmen, dodging past broken crates and the dead. Bingmei’s eyes were red and watery with the stinging smoke. It was difficult to recognize the familiar streets. She’d never heard of Wangfujing being attacked like this before, although she imagined it had happened in years past.
Some of the buildings began to look familiar through the haze, and she realized they were approaching the plaza with the three bridges. The fishy smell from the river confirmed it moments later, and they met another band of King Budai’s guards.
“There!” someone shouted, pointing.
In the middle of the plaza stood Damanhur. Wounded and dead bodies lay all around him as he single-handedly protected the crossroads. He held his saber behind his back, turning in a full circle.
“Where is your leader!” he shouted. “Does he fear to face me? Stop sending underlings. Come yourself.”
“Who leads this group of Qiangdao?” Kunmia asked the guard who had led them there.
“We don’t know,” he stammered. “They have at least two hundred. We haven’t been attacked by such a force in years.”
Kunmia nodded, her expression stern. “They are robbing the townsfolk while the attention is here. Go street to street and protect the families. If they all perish, King Budai will reign over nothing. We will assist Damanhur.”
“Thank you!” he said, looking relieved. He imparted orders to his men, who departed to fulfill her command.
“You clearly lack bravery. Do you lack pride as well?” Damanhur shouted. “What? More lackeys?”
As Kunmia’s ensign approached the nearest bridge, Bingmei saw a group of at least a dozen Qiangdao cross the bridge closest to Damanhur. They mounted the steps calmly, as if there were no threat awaiting them. Although the smoke impeded her vision, they looked mean-spirited and deceitful. These men did not wear patchworked clothes and furs. They were dressed in finery.
The leaders of the Qiangdao.
“Ah, now things will get interesting,” Damanhur taunted.
A huge man with a giant glaive gripped in his hand and a straight sword at his waist pointed at Damanhur and barked a command. Bingmei didn’t know how the ranks of authority worked within the Qiangdao, but the strongest and most ruthless men were usually the leaders. She suspected this man might be the one Damanhur wished to face. His arms were bulky and heavily sinewed, and his black vest, secured with gold-tasseled ropes, seemed to strain over his massive chest.
One of the other men strutted toward the square.
“What?” Damanhur said. “You won’t face me yourself?”
Another bark of command and two more men followed, making it three against one.
Damanhur brought his sword arm down, holding his saber in front of himself as he faced off against the three.
“Twelve against one is too much for any man,” Kunmia muttered. “Mieshi and Zhuyi, go to the south bridge and cross there. Cut off retreat. Marenqo, go with them. Bingmei—you’re with me. Quion—stay out of sight.”
Bingmei followed orders and started to reach for the Phoenix Blade when Kunmia frowned and shook her head. “Use the staff.”
Damanhur rushed to attack. He was not as big as their leader, but he was faster than a whip, and he’d stabbed two of the lesser captains within seconds. The third put up a fight before he, too, fell to the ground.
Damanhur bowed to the Qiangdao leader. “Shall I cut down all your men before you face me?” he asked in a mocking voice.
Another command was given—again in an unfamiliar language. Six men started forward this time, staring at Damanhur with hatred. They smelled of it too, a stench of ash and fire that stung her nose. Damanhur’s face became more serious once he found himself facing half a dozen men. His eyes darted from person to person as they quickly surrounded him.
Kunmia and Bingmei reached the nearest bridge and hurried up it.
“They’ll cut him down before we get there,” Kunmia said. “Use the cricket.”
Bingmei nodded, reaching into her pocket. She rubbed the meiwood cricket, invoking its power, and leaped up and over the bridge, coming down in the middle of the plaza. Damanhur turned toward her, having seen her movement, and the Qiangdao rushed him from all sides.
Whirling her staff, Bingmei struck at the ones nearest her and leaped again as the magic wore off, this time landing behind Damanhur. The Qiangdao shouted at her in anger, slashing with their long sabers, but her staff gave her even better reach. She struck one on the side of the temple, another on the foot, before she reversed the staff and smashed it into his head, dropping him. It was close quarters, and her heart began to pound wildly at the action when Kunmia finally reached the plaza with her staff.
“Neat little trick,” Damanhur muttered to Bingmei, his back to her. “Show me how you did that later.”
Then the leader of the Qiangdao charged into the fray. He butted past one of his own men and swung the glaive down at Damanhur, its razor-sharp blade coming to split him in half. Damanhur danced to the side as the blade struck the stone, sending up sparks. Then the shaft, which was made out of meiwood, began to glow.
“No!” Kunmia warned as she rushed him.
The Qiangdao leader grinned with malevolence. He swung the end of his weapon around, missing Damanhur, who ducked, and barked out a roar as he charged forward. The magic had added to his power and strength. Damanhur was blocking and defending, but he was forced to give ground. The glaive came suddenly at Bingmei, and she, too, ducked and jumped to the side. A saber sliced her arm, leaving an angry welt.
Kunmia struck at the leader with her staff, but he looked as if he didn’t feel her blows. Once, twice, three times to the head. No impact to him. He roared at her and swung the glaive to strike her down, but she blocked it with her staff.
“Stop it!” she hissed at him, her eyes wide with fear. If he summoned the killing fog, he would doom them all.
Bingmei struck the man who had cut her, knocking him down, then delivered a blow to the back of his neck with her fist. She turned, angling the staff, but she felt the Phoenix Blade whispering to her, urging her to draw it so that she might join the battle against the leader. The impulse frightened her, for she knew it would summon the fog. Damanhur struck at him, but the man easily parried his blows.
Kunmia struck at the huge man’s stomach, his heart. Hitting vital points over and over, trying to stun him. But his natural strength, bolstered by the magic of his weapon, seemed to prevent him from feeling the pain. He swung at her with the blade of his weapon, and it hit her staff. She had not yet invoked the magic of her staff to draw away its power. Bingmei knew she was worried about drawing the killing fog into Wangfujing.
Bingmei turned and saw the first hint of mist creeping up the river toward them.
“Kunmia!” she shouted in warning, pointing toward the river.
“Drop it, you fool!” Damanhur shouted at the big man.
The leader growled an unintelligible response.
Someone snuck up behind Bingmei, intent on stabbing her in the back. She smelled his awful intention just in time, whirling around and catching him with the dagger poised, his arm raised high. She countered faster, hitting him three times with her staff. The dagger dropped from his hand, and he wilted before her. She kicked him until he cowered, covering his face.
She turned and saw Damanhur and Kunmia striking in tandem against the giant of a man. It took both of them to bring him down, and in relief, she watched the glaive fall from his hands and clatter against the ground. Kunmia struck his skull one more time, and this time he fell, the magic stripped from him.
Kunmia dropped her own weapon, grabbed the fallen glaive, and hurled it off the plaza into the waters of the river. Bingmei’s eyes widened as she saw the mist converge where it had
gone under. Breathing fast, she watched in fascination and dread as the mist sank beneath the water, becoming cloud-like as it searched for the magic, drawn to it inexorably. Little bursts of green wriggled in the water, and Bingmei realized she was witnessing the death of the fish.
Damanhur stood panting near her, sword still in hand. His gaze lowered to the fallen leader, and Bingmei smelled a whiff of revenge. He stood over the man and raised his sword to strike off his head.
“No,” Kunmia said, holding up her palm. “Bring him to the king.”
Damanhur wrestled with his feelings. Bingmei could tell he was tempted to defy her. He was an impulsive man, and his blood was up. His eyes questioned Kunmia’s authority, but he didn’t say the words. Bingmei gripped her staff, wondering if the two of them would start fighting next.
Damanhur sighed and sheathed his weapon. “Yes, Master,” he said.
The attack on Wangfujing ended in failure. Kunmia’s ensign had disrupted the plundering and saved the town. The comatose leader of the Qiangdao was bound and brought to King Budai for judgment. Kunmia’s ensign accompanied the prisoner there.
King Budai had a short beard, one he hadn’t worn on their previous visits. His bald head glistened with sweat as he sat perched on his throne, gazing down at the massive man who had been forced to kneel before him. The man’s arms were bound behind his back, attached to his ankles, shackled with iron cuffs.
Bingmei saw Prince Rowen seated among the advisors of the king. He was looking at her with a fixed stare, not at the prisoner. Cold shot through her. Was he staring at her or the sword strapped to her back?