The Buried World (The Grave Kingdom)

by Jeff Wheeler

  When Bingmei started twirling the staff, the soldiers around her retreated a pace, looking for an opening to jab at her again. She smelled the other soldiers rushing up behind her. The eagerness of their desire to capture her was heightened by the lemony scent of greed. The reward for capturing the phoenix-chosen would no doubt be substantial. She backed up, still spinning the staff, and saw the taut rope jerk as Quion worked his way down the wall. His smell was gone, so she didn’t know how far he’d made it. She had to keep fighting a little longer.

  One of the men broke the stand-off and rushed at her, jabbing with his spear, his eyes wild with determination. Bingmei dodged the haphazard strikes before slapping the spear down with her staff and kicking him in the throat with the edge of her foot. He dropped his spear, clutching his neck, and turned and ran.

  A shadow smothered the light coming from the Woliu, and she heard the flapping of the dragon’s leathery wings. From the smell, she knew it to be Echion. If Bingmei jumped with the cricket, she’d be leaping right into its claws, so instead she dropped low and did a forward roll to reach the edge of the embrasure.

  The dragon was nearly on top of her when Xisi exploded onto the scene from above. The white dragon struck the black behemoth with her claws, their wings beating madly against each other.

  She’s mine! Mine to devour!

  Bingmei heard Xisi’s thoughts ring in her mind like clarion bells. She looked up, seeing the tangle of scaly hides, the wicked teeth snapping and striking at each other.

  Begone demoness! Echion roared at her in his mind.

  She’s mine—my prize! Mine!

  The dragons hissed and roiled, lashing at each other, neither able to do the other harm. Bingmei glanced down at Quion’s rope as it quivered with the weight of his body. She couldn’t act until he was safe, yet she felt so vulnerable atop the wall. The soldiers who had charged them were gaping at the dragons locked in mortal combat, ignoring her.

  You let her escape! Fool bride, you had your chance!

  She is mine, I say. You have everything and leave me with nothing. I want this. I demand it!

  The black smoke wafting from Echion thickened as he raged at her, his fire-coal eyes searing with animosity. You have palaces, servants, wealth beyond counting!

  You have concubines, generals, and slaves to grovel before you! I want what is mine!

  The dragons spun end over end, hovering above the wall as Echion kept trying to get past Xisi.

  As she stared at them in fear and awe, an image surfaced in her mind—the carving of the twin dragons in Fusang. The marble slab had depicted them above mountains and sea, enveloped by clouds. Before, she had seen it as a symbol of Echion’s power—the emperor and his queen, two dragons united in strength.

  The truth struck her as she watched the dragons grapple with each other in the sky above her. The dragons were fighting each other in the marble effigy. They always fought, for none of their lusts could ever be sated, not for gold, not for conquest, not for flesh. Power bound them together, but they hated each other. There was no reason for that hatred, only madness. The dragons hissed and clawed at each other, the larger dragon held back by the smaller.

  Then the rope went slack.

  You are my curse! Begone, wraith wife!

  You were nothing before me. I remember your past.

  That last accusation caught Bingmei’s attention, but not so much so that she would miss her opportunity. She scrambled over to the rope and examined the knot. It was one of Quion’s easier knots, and she quickly loosened it. The slack rope slipped away. One less clue to help the others track them.

  She heard grunting voices, then saw some of the guards creeping toward her, hunched low with their spears to avoid the battling dragons. Bingmei smelled their fear at the savage display.

  She’s getting away! Echion shrieked.

  Xisi turned to see, revealing her long neck, the black dragon’s jaws immediately clamped down on her flesh. The teeth didn’t penetrate, but the attack had given him the leverage he needed to yank the smaller dragon out of his path. Xisi screamed in frustration, and clear liquid gushed from her mouth, smoking as if it were on fire. The soldiers crouching directly beneath the dragon fight were all splashed, and their cries of fear turned into wild yells of agony. Bingmei watched in horror as their skin turned gray.

  A rivulet of smoking fluid rushed down toward Bingmei. She frantically backed away, reaching in her pocket for the cricket. It was gone.

  Shock and disbelief flooded her. Had it fallen out? She looked behind her, trying to spot it amidst the confusion, but it was like looking for a grain of rice. Most of the sentries had turned and fled, but one brave man charged up the slope and jabbed his spear at her. It had a meiwood pole, covered with runes, and the head shimmered with heat as he lunged it at her. Bingmei dodged the blow and spun the staff around to beat him back, summoning the power of her own staff to defend herself.

  She was going to lose. Without the cricket, she’d die if she leaped over the wall.

  The runes of the staff all ignited at once. She hadn’t summoned its power like this before. Some other influence had taken control of it. Terror rocked her senses as streams of green and gold light shot out of the ancient staff. And then it shattered in her hands. The explosion knocked her down as a thousand splinters blasted in all directions, digging into her skin, her hands, her arms, and her face, although she’d turned her head to the side on instinct.

  Pain bloomed everywhere. She was on her back, smashed against the embrasure, stunned and shocked. The rune staff was no more. The man with the meiwood spear had been struck by the splinters too, his face a grimace of agony.

  The anguish of losing Kunmia’s weapon struck her like a hammer. The black dragon lunged for her, jaws open, and the smoky trail of colorless ichor from Xisi’s maw reached for her body. She had no way to defeat them anymore—it was only a contest of which of them would get to her first.

  Bingmei nearly gave in to death. Fighting was so hard, and she was so very tired, but one thought stopped her.

  Death would not bring sleep.

  It would only bring slavery.

  She would fight until she took her last breath.

  Then she saw a little flash of color and movement from the corner of her eye. A small finch with a green breast had landed by her hand, its tiny beak clenched around the meiwood cricket. She watched, stunned, as the wooden charm landed in her palm.

  A little bird had saved her life.

  Squeezing her hand around the charm, Bingmei gazed up at the vicious dragon, staring into the yellow reptilian eyes that hungered for her soul. She reached for the edge of the embrasure with her other bloodied hand, groaning as she pushed her way back up.

  Everything seemed to slow around her, the moment permanently fixed in her mind. Echion’s smoke. Xisi’s poison. The moans of dying guards. The smell of violence and savagery that hung in the air. And yet she refused to die—she refused to fail.

  Bingmei leaped from the wall just as Echion reached her. She plummeted down, seeing the thick trees rushing to meet her in a sharp embrace. The snap of teeth filled her ears as the dragon extended its neck to finish her off.

  But she fell faster.

  And as she fell, a thousand little birds exploded from the canopy of the trees below, rushing up at her. With high keening whistles, they hurtled up past Bingmei toward the dragons hungering for her blood. They came from everywhere at once. She felt the myriad wings flapping past her as she fell, heard the shrill shrieks of defiance coming from the tiny finches. Their colorful plumage streaked past her, wings flapping, blinding her to everything except their dazzling hues.

  The trees rushed toward her. She only had a moment to open her fist and rub the cricket with her thumb.

  One moment to trigger the magic that would save her from the fall.

  A moment was all she needed. Her thumb grazed the cricket. Her legs tingled with magic as she went crashing into the trees on the other side of the
Death Wall.

  All of Life is a dream walking. All of Death is a going home.

  —Dawanjir proverb

  EPILOGUE

  The Blind King

  Rowen could scarcely believe his idea had worked. They’d hidden beneath the dragon’s oily corpse, using one of its wings as shelter. He’d wondered how Bingmei would have felt, smothered by that terrible reptilian stench. He couldn’t see, and the pain in his eyes ached, but he had a thirst for survival and listened as the hunting party reached the dragon, searched around it, and then—one by one—left.

  The lack of sight heightened his sense of hearing, and he listened until he could no longer discern the snapping of twigs, the slurping of mud on boots, or the distant shout of voices.

  “They’re gone,” Jidi Majia whispered.

  “I think you’re right,” Rowen said.

  “And how are we going to escape this wilderness if we cannot see?” Eomen asked, despair thickening her voice.

  “One step at a time,” Rowen said. “At least we’re not dead. Not yet.” He pushed against the leathery wing, amazed by how heavy it was. Lifting it brought sounds that had been muffled before, like the hum of insects. He heard a trilling song from a bird nearby, which seemed to be shouting at the hunters to come back and find them.

  “Noisy thing,” he muttered to himself. “Come on.” He groped for his sister in his blindness, found her arm, and helped pull her to her feet.

  Jidi Majia rose as well, wrenching himself out from under the dragon’s corpse. There hadn’t been enough room under the wing for all three of them, so he’d dug his way through the mud at the creek bed to make room.

  Once they were all free, Eomen asked, “Where do we go?”

  “Let’s follow the creek,” Rowen suggested. “Hold my hand. I’ll go first. If you hear anyone coming, squeeze my hand. Jidi Majia, take her other hand.”

  “I will, my king,” said Jidi Majia.

  The title felt like an insult at that moment. But his brother and father were dead. Grief whispered in his ears, but he banished the thoughts. He needed to focus on surviving. He’d mourn his losses later.

  Holding his sister’s hand, he began to follow the creek. There wasn’t much water in the middle of the season, and he felt mostly wet pebbles and mud squishing beneath his boots. He groped in front of him with his free arm to clear away branches or brush that blocked the way. The absence of sight caused fear to wriggle in his stomach. They were in a vast wilderness near the Death Wall. Survival would be nearly impossible.

  He refused to give in to the growing despair. For Bingmei, for Eomen, and for all his people, he needed to keep going.

  “I hear something,” Jidi Majia whispered.

  They halted, Rowen’s legs trembling. He listened for the telltale sound of cracking limbs or rustling leaves.

  He waited and, hearing nothing, asked, “What did you hear?”

  “It’s a bird,” said Jidi Majia. “A siskin. It’s been following us.”

  “What?” Eomen asked. “Like the kind Mother kept in cages?”

  “The very same,” Jidi Majia said. “This one is wild. I heard it singing when we came out from beneath the dragon. I recognize the sound. It’s been following us, chirping loudly.”

  Rowen took a moment to listen to it. Its birdsong did bring back memories of his mother and her bird cages. She’d kept them in the hanging trees, the palace gardens at Sajinau.

  As the memory flowed over him like a river, it struck him that the bird wasn’t calling for the hunters to find them. It was trying to get their attention. He didn’t know how he knew, but the thought struck him with such certainty, he didn’t question it.

  “Let’s rest a moment,” Rowen suggested. Squatting down in the muck, he bowed his head and listened to the trilling of the bird.

  The siskin came closer until it was in the trees overhead.

  “It’s right over us,” Eomen said. He could hear the smile in her voice.

  Rowen’s mind cleared of thought as he listened to the bird. He felt a breeze tickle the back of his neck. He felt the water pass over the edges of his boots. His hands rested in the mud as well.

  Draw in the mud.

  The strange thought reminded him of being a child again, of playing along the riverbank with his older brother. Sometimes they’d drawn shapes in sand or mud with sticks. That carefree feeling of childhood was a precious thing. He and his brother had been close back then. Juexin had always tried to teach him, to encourage him to follow their father’s example. Back then, Rowen had been more interested in copying his brother’s example.

  Draw in the mud.

  The thought came again, unbidden. Was the bird communicating with him? It was a foolish fancy, yet the trilling grew louder, more insistent.

  Draw in the mud.

  Why? He didn’t understand. But the third time the thought came to him, he pressed his finger into the mud and drew a line. It was soft and wet. Power reverberated through him as he drew the line. His finger, of its own accord, began to move. Or maybe some unseen force directed his hand. It was a sigil. A word.

  Touch their eyes.

  The whisper was more pronounced now. Power flared down his arm.

  “Sister,” he whispered, his heart quailing.

  “Yes?”

  With one hand, he gripped her shoulder gently. He felt along her neck and then her cheek. Once he was cupping her cheek with his hand, he lifted a muddy finger.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  She held still, though a shudder rippled through her.

  He dabbed the mud against her closed eyes, one by one. Once he was done, he dipped his hand in the mud again, the place where he’d drawn the symbol.

  “Jidi Majia, come nearer.”

  “What is it, young master?” asked his friend, his mentor. Rowen heard him shift and move closer. He reached out and felt Jidi Majia’s knee. Then he groped to find his shoulder, his face.

  “Hold still,” Rowen said. He smeared the mud against Jidi Majia’s eyes as well.

  As he lowered his hand, he heard the whisper in his mind again.

  Have them wash.

  He heard the bird trill excitedly. The message was clear, although the source was still a mystery.

  “Use the water. Wash your eyes,” he told them.

  He waited in anticipation, listening as they obeyed his words. He heard their hands splash in the trickling water. He felt something jolt inside his heart, felt the power burst forth from within him.

  Then his sister gasped.

  “I can see again,” she said, her voice throbbing with joy.

  A few moments later, Jidi Majia’s voice joined hers. “So can I. The mud . . . it cured me!”

  It wasn’t the mud. It was the word that Rowen had drawn in the mud. He lowered his hand, trying to find the spot where he’d drawn the word, but the flowing water had already eroded it. He reached down and drew a line in the mud, anxious to be rid of the blindness too.

  Nothing happened. Worry clogged his throat.

  You cannot heal yourself. Only others.

  The thought struck him like a slap to the face. The bird began to chirp again, this time in agitation.

  “My lord, you healed us!” Jidi Majia said, grasping Rowen’s muddy hand with his clean one.

  “Rowen?” His sister sounded concerned.

  The bird continued to whistle in warning. Then he heard boots sloshing in the creek.

  “They’re coming,” Rowen said.

  “What happened?” Jidi Majia said. “You still cannot see?”

  “I’m still blind,” Rowen said, feeling the bitterness eat away at his heart. Their trail in the mud was being followed. He knew what he had to do. “Go. Both of you.”

  “We cannot abandon you,” Jidi Majia said.

  “You must,” he answered, reaching out and gripping the older man’s arm. “You have to protect Eomen. Get her far away from Echion. What he threatened to do to her . . . you have to save her. I
order it, Jidi Majia. As your king.”

  Eomen flung her arms around Rowen’s neck, hugging him.

  “We’ll go together,” she said, squeezing. “We can see now. We’ll guide you.”

  The bird’s agitation was frantic.

  “We won’t. I cannot run. You have to go. Jidi, take her away. Now!”

  “Brother!” Eomen said. But Rowen heard Jidi Majia rise to do his bidding. His sister kissed his cheek, a quick press of the lips, and the two of them began to flee. Rowen, kneeling, rose to his haunches and reached for his twin blades. He gripped the hilts, feeling comforted that his sister and friend had escaped.

  Why couldn’t he heal himself? He didn’t understand how the magic of the immortals worked. Nor could he remember the intricacies of the symbol he’d drawn. It had all happened by instinct.

  Like what had happened to Bingmei.

  He heard a voice shout out a warning. Then, moments later, he sensed he wasn’t alone and slowly rose to his feet, drawing both blades. He noticed that the sound of the bird was gone. Had it fallen silent or merely flown away from the commotion of the hunters? Fear trickled from his heart down to his knees. There were so many of them.

  He heard a voice snarl in challenge. Without understanding the language, he couldn’t respond.

  Someone gave him an order. He stared fixedly at the ground, listening to the sounds around him. Another man shouted, and then two of them rushed him at once.

  Rowen stabbed the first with his sword and tried to strike the other and missed wildly. He heard a grunt of pain, then felt a body slam into him. He sprawled backward but managed to cut the man on top of him. A hiss of pain, then a release of pressure. Rowen struggled to rise, hearing the noises assaulting him from all sides. Something blunt struck his stomach hard, making him bend at the middle. He lashed out with his weapon, but the warrior overpowered him, wrenching the blades from his hands.

  As he knelt in the mud again, his arms were yanked behind his back and secured with ropes. His weapons were either confiscated or left behind. He struggled against his captors until one of them boxed him on the side of the head, stunning him. Soon after, he was hauled to his feet, and they started marching him up the edge of the gully and into the forest. The cracking of wood and rustling of leaves filled his senses.