The Girl with No Face

by M. H. Boroson

  I glanced at my father, at Shuai Hu. “Then let it be my father’s hand.”

  “A surprising choice, priestess.”

  I shrugged. “I would not wish the monk to suffer the guilt of having killed me.”

  “Intriguing,” the demoness said. “I do not care for the feelings of my mate, so it surprises me that you care for yours.”

  “Shuai Hu is not my mate,” I said.

  “Are you sure of that, priestess?” she said, and reached up her hands as if she were snatching at flying moths. “I can taste something in the air between the two of you. How sad you both choose to be alone.”

  “Shuai Hu is my friend, demoness,” I said. “We respect each other, which is rare, and we trust each other, which is rarer still. Shuai Hu is devoted to his pursuit of enlightenment, and I am devoted to a path of reverence, for my ancestors, and I intend to find a way to resurrect my husband. Tell me, demoness, do you answer to the Ghost Magistrate?”

  “I am in his employ, priestess. Why do you ask?”

  “Because when this battle is done, I will let you live, so you can send him a message.”

  There was something disconcertingly sweet and girlish in her laugh. Hearing it, the faces along her dress lit up with pleasure. Even my father and Shuai Hu sighed contentedly when she laughed. “Oh priestess,” she said, “I will be sad when you are gone. You are so much fun to play with.”

  That slowed me down. I quirked an eye at her. “Demoness, you see me as a friend to play with?”

  “No, priestess: a toy to play with.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps, demoness, if you understood friendship, you could understand why the monk and I can have feelings for each other we choose not to act upon, and then you would have less need for men to want you so much they want you dead.”

  Her mouth opened as she prepared a retort. A small pair of tusks protruded from her lower jaw, and her thin dress clung to her exaggeratedly female contours as if the wind were pressing the fabric tight against every curve of her pale blue skin; but no wind was blowing. Only the faces of the men trapped in the silk clinging to her voluptuous body seemed happy; yet their happiness reminded me of egui, hungry ghosts, whose tiny mouths can never eat enough to fill their hungry bellies. That kind of craving leaves no room for any humanity.

  The horse-headed Hell Guardian strode to us, his military gait and majestic bearing making him impossible to ignore. He radiated authority.

  “Demoness,” he said, his voice all burrs and snaps. “The duel must proceed in an orderly manner. Your power over the men’s minds must be released until the combat has officially begun.”

  She nodded and drew herself up, so tall; when she moved, she had a dancer’s grace; when she held still, a statue’s. I saw her watch the Mamian’s equine face, expecting a certain reaction, which did not come. A momentary glazing clouded her eyes, and I heard my father and Shuai Hu start to breathe normally again. I went to them at once.

  The tiger monk looked shocked, vague, and ashamed, as if he were coming to his senses. My father’s comprehension was quicker, and he looked horrified. “This battle is nearly lost, Li-lin,” he said.

  “She caught you both unprepared,” I said. “Now that you have been warned, could you fortify mental defenses and prevent her from controlling your minds?”

  “I wish it were that simple, Li-lin. But observe this, look at her, right now; in order to comply with the guardians’ rulings, she is applying her power. Controlling men’s minds doesn’t take even a tiny investment of her strength; it takes effort for her to stop controlling our minds. The moment the fight begins, before I can pronounce a single sacred syllable, she will let go of the self-control she’s exerting, and my mind will go blank and obey.”

  “As will mine,” the tiger growled.

  I frowned. I felt an inclination to say something about men mindlessly following their desires, but it had only been a matter of hours since Xu Shengdian had very nearly enslaved my will to his. The demoness’s power was overriding the decisions of my father and my friend; this was not their choice, or even their inclination; it was mo, demonic magic, unlike any form of seduction within the range of human ability, and she was violating them. They had my sympathy, though I would not shame them by saying so.

  The ox-headed guard approached us. “Now is the time to draw up your battle plans,” he said. “Formulate your strategies, fortify your powers, and . . .” his big bovine eyes seemed to glisten, “say farewell to the ones you love. I liked you, priestess. Watching this fight will sadden me.”

  “Do you not consider it premature to write my eulogy?”

  “Sadly, I do not,” he said, his voice deep and mournful.

  “We must strategize,” my father said, gesturing Shuai Hu to gather with us in conference. “Li-lin, there is only one chance for us in this fight. The female luosha will seize my mind and the tiger’s, turning us against you. The moment the fight begins, you must sprint to her and cut her down. If you can slay her, then we will be able to fight the enemy; if you do not, then we will be forced to kill you.”

  I nodded, saying nothing.

  “Sifu,” Shuai Hu said, “if I may suggest an amendment to your plan? It seems to me that Li-lin should shut down her most immediate threat first, and then slay the luosha demoness.”

  “What threat is that, Brother Hu?” I asked.

  “Me,” he said. “I would suggest that as soon as the battle commences, Li-lin needs to kill me, as soon as possible, and then slay the luosha demoness to set your mind free, Sifu.”

  My father considered this. I could see his thoughts on his face: both weighing the strategy, and reassessing a beast who would offer to die rather than kill. He nodded. “In the instant after the fight commences, kill the tiger, Li-lin. Disembowel him with your sword, you know how to do that, and then go after the female luosha.”

  My father called out to the guards. “What manner of preparations are we allowed to make, ahead of this duel?”

  “Write your talismans if you must, Daoshi,” the ox-headed guard said, his voice a rumble. “Sharpen your steel. But do not start an incantation now if it must be finished on the field of battle. All preparations must be ceased in the moments before the fight begins.”

  Father nodded and started chanting. “I address the Ministry of the Most Mysterious, Taixuan! The order of the Maoshan Linghuan confers the following certifications upon Xian Li-lin, hereditary disciple . . .”

  His recitation continued, though his voice grew softer as his throat grew tired, and the hiss of wind and the sloshing of the sea’s waves rendered the chant inaudible. A minute passed while he chanted and waved his hands, chopping the air with his fingers. He finished with a stern cry, “Quickly, quickly, for it is the Law!”

  I gasped, feeling the electric world, the heat and cold, the power raising me up and plunging through my body. Tiny suns sizzled through my fingertips and zoomed through my spine, brightening me into a blaze. Too much, it was too much, it knocked me off my feet and threw me to the ground on my back, where I stayed gazing up at the permanence of spiritual evening.

  Shuai Hu knelt over me solicitously. “Daonu, are you all right?”

  I tried to speak, but a different sound wiggled out of my throat and bubbled through my lips. My laughter roared.

  “Sifu,” the tiger said, his voice filled with concern, “what have you done to her?”

  “I sharpened my steel,” he said.

  Grinning, I climbed to my feet and planted them powerfully on the spiritual ground, a Daoshi of the Fifth Ordination, holding twice as much power as I ever had before. I was ready to fight, and ready to die.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The boundaries of the dueling field were scraped assiduously into the rocky terrain, raked into the spiritual ground by a gangly battalion of animal guardsmen. A line was drawn down the center, to divide us. I gripped peachwood. My father took a stance with his back toward me, facing out behind us, while Shuai Hu stood baring his muscular chest
and stomach to my sword; they were doing whatever they could to buy me another second or two once the fight began.

  On our enemies’ side of the line, the demoness stood in the rear, flanked and protected by her huge, deadly demon husband, whose breath smoked blackly in the evening air, and the smooth, elegant little rat-man. Gan Xuhao stood a little in front of Biaozu, a formation designed to cost me precious moments, allowing Biaozu to inhale a great gust of air which the furnace of his lungs would transform into inferno and blast out over the head of the rat. Immolation: that was how Biaozu intended to take me down, if his wife did not force my father or my friend to kill me first.

  My enemies’ formation told me clearly: they knew what we were planning.

  “Get ready to start!” a squirrel-soldier shouted.

  “Li-lin,” my father said. From the hesitancy in his voice I could tell he was struggling to find an adequate valediction. He spent a moment gathering his thoughts, then cleared his throat. “Don’t make a mess of things.”

  A bell rang, and a chorus of animals shouted, “Fight!”

  Fleet of foot and clear of purpose, sword in my hand, I heard my father and Shuai Hu’s breath catch and knew she’d taken both their minds. Kill me first, the tiger had said. Don’t make a mess of things, my father had said. Ignoring them both I charged at the enemy line.

  From behind me came a noise like swirling winds; Shuai Hu, at the demoness’s bidding, transforming into a giant tiger. He’d be a major threat but I’d seen him transform before; the process was time-consuming.

  My father, on the other hand. . . . His footsteps came after me, steady and direct; I was faster but I couldn’t afford having him reach me when the real fight met. I needed to remove him from the field of battle. I shifted my sword to reverse grip, holding it like a dagger. Allowing my ears to guide me, I sprang backwards, a spinning jump called Dandelion Seed Swirls in the Wind. He ran at me but I came in on the side of his blind eye and hammered the blunt side of my wooden sword against his ribcage where a bullet had once broken his bones.

  The agony in my father’s cry made me wince, but I could not allow myself a moment’s sympathy. I landed gracefully, while he staggered to one knee and gasped for breath. He would regain his feet soon enough. I performed a double punch downward, on the side where he had no peripheral vision, my fist vipering snake-style against the injured vertebrae in his neck where he’d once been mauled by a giant dog; shrieking, my father flopped to the ground.

  Flipping my sword forward, I took a half-second to assess Shuai Hu; I had a minute or so before he was fully a tiger. Ninety seconds at most, and then he’d hunt me down. I made a mad sprint toward the demoness and her defenders.

  Standing in his vestments and loincloth of tiger-skin, Biaozu’s face brightened with wicked joy to see me coming. Gan Xuhao planted his little rodent feet and held his skinny pinprick of a sword in an elegant, defensive posture.

  I was running at the demoness. Of course I was. Everyone knew I needed to kill her, because without my father and the tiger, I had no chance. Everyone knew she’d be my target. The only logical plan would be for me to try to kill her immediately.

  Gan Xuhao stepped forward to intercept my charge at the demoness. He’d misunderstood my strategy so when I drove my sword into his chest and out the other side, impaling him to the hilt, his jade eyes bulged; I could not tell if he spent a moment in surprise or if he died upon the instant.

  I didn’t slow my pace at all. Both hands gripping the hilt, I lifted my sword, with the dead rat attached to it, and wielded his carcass like a shield while I sprinted, charging at Biaozu. The male luosha blasted fire at me, blindingly bright and then burningly hot; I felt flickers of flame singe at my feet, but the rest of me, crouching behind Gan Xuhao’s dead body, remained mostly shielded. The rat goblin’s silken robes caught fire, as did his ruddy fur, but I just kept running. I drove my sword into Biaozu’s stomach, a thrust compounded by all my strength and momentum.

  Skin parted as if I were slicing a chicken; muscle separated beneath the peachwood blade; gristle tore. I gouged my sword upwards at an angle, and daggered it down at an angle. I placed one foot on the carcass of the rat and yanked my sword out from the sloppy wound across Biaozu’s bowels and out from the smoldering charcoal that had once been a rat and an essayist. Dropping the dead animal to the ground, I ducked below the inevitable outswung arm as Biaozu tried to strike me.

  Never one to miss a chance to use an opponent’s force against him, I raised my sword and allowed the demon’s swinging arm to slide against it, slashing open his forearm. Blood spewed, gouts of green and black fluid.

  “You’re going to need both hands,” I said, “to hold your intestines in.”

  I didn’t want to be near the demon when he really understood that he’d been disemboweled, so I pivoted and took three steps away. Biaozu’s eyes already glazed; he held up his arm, examining the gouge which had gone deeper than any I could have scored with my small strength, still unaware of—or perhaps hoping to deny—the mass of his entrails slopping to the dirt.

  I didn’t know what caught his attention, but he dropped to his knees, and tried to scoop up his innards with his enormous, clawed hands. The look on his leonine face showed such deep confusion, a moment I would remember with glee as long as I lived. I could imagine the betrayed, incredulous tone in his voice, in which he might say something like, “You, female? You killed me?”

  But he deprived me of that satisfaction, deciding to try to get in one final act of retribution before he died. I watched the kneeling demon tilt his chin low (one), his neck undergo the frog-like throb (two) and convulsion (three); I knew his jaw, at four, would distend, his lips would peel back at five, a moment would pass (six), and his blast of fire would launch on seven.

  At four I went at him. At six I raised my knee, high and hard, crashing upward against his lower jawbone. His mouth snapped shut, his head knocked back, and (seven) I dropped to the ground while he disgorged fire upwards like a volcano.

  Spewing straight up like a geyser of lava, the blast of flame erupted through his closed mouth, instantly blazing through his lips and burning through half his face. I rolled back and away, since his flailing arms could still shatter my bones, but it wasn’t necessary; he knelt, stunned, eyes agape, hands vainly cupping his innards. Between his eyes and his chin, there was nothing left but a circular charred ruin, and it was smoldering.

  I wasn’t sure he understood what I’d done to him. To make it clearer, I stepped forward and explained myself by slicing through his throat from ear to ear. I took two steps backward to get beyond his arms’ reach and stated the facts.

  “I killed you for my mother.” Then I wove in from behind him and swung my sword in a horizontal slice. The demon’s head toppled and fell, hitting the ground with a thump, like a heavy gourd.

  Behind him, a sultry voice that sounded as lovely as burnished gold or silk brocade was shouting. “Kill her, tiger! Kill her!”

  I glanced and saw Shuai Hu at the other end of the arena. A proud, gorgeous beast, he stood on all fours, his fur the orange of fire, his stripes a shade of night. The giant jungle cat began prowling toward me.

  “Faster!” the demoness shrieked, and the tiger sped his gait.

  My sword was smoking, a line of char along the edge where fire had scorched it, and dripping with the gore of a notorious rat goblin who murdered two women and the slick sloppy insides of a huge demon who used to torture women in the afterlife. I stepped toward the demoness, raised the sword that slew her husband, and said, “Release my men right now if you want to live.”

  The makeshift arena’s audience was a crowd of animal soldiers: hopping rabbit-men with floppy ears, bucktoothed squirrel-men with swishy fluffs of tail, octopus-faced soldiers writhing their cheek-tentacles, and chittering armored insect-men. All of them were cheering now, a celebration of athleticism, battle waged and triumph won upon the improvised arena.

  The look on the horse-head’s face fill
ed me with pleasure. “An incredible victory,” he said. “There are no words, Xian Li-lin. This tale will be told many times. I am proud to have established a reciprocal relationship with you.”

  His statement, “there are no words,” seemed to be true for my father and Shuai Hu as well. They stood near me, their faces flushed and jubilant, yet neither seemed able to formulate ideas in language.

  Words eluded us all, until the tiger bowed and said, “Daonu.”

  My father, eyelids wide, stammered out, “Li-lin, this . . .” He surveyed my scene of carnage. Gan Xuhao’s carcass was turned face-down, his once-red fur now black as soot, his shiny silk robes charred and still smoldering; his jade eyes rolled free of their sockets. Biaozu’s corpse was sprawled on its side in a murky puddle, an arm’s reach away from his head. His face was little more than a blackened ruin beneath a pair of open, death-blinded eyes. Blood still poured from his slit throat, pooling into a slick, sticky glob.

  “My apologies, Sifu,” I said. “I made a mess of things.”

  His mouth lolled dopily for a moment, just a moment, and then he grinned. “Yes, Li-lin, you made a mess of them.”

  “Whatever praise I may merit is the due of the man who raised me to be capable,” I said.

  He nodded. “And what of her?”

  The luosha demoness knelt with her head to the ground. It was odd to acknowledge, but her kowtow was directed toward me; pleading for my mercy.

  I regarded her there for a moment; she had been, truly, the deadliest of the three enemies who fought us moments earlier.

  “She cannot,” my father said, “be allowed to live.”

  “What is your reasoning?”

  “She has the power to cloud the minds of men, Li-lin. She has destroyed many, and will destroy more.”

  “This is true, but has she ever had any other form of power? Her husband was a brute who would have abused her if she had not been able to control him. Would you truly condemn her for developing the only means she had available?”