Roar’pundih. Once a jewel among dogs, if such a thing were possible, now a thorn in the paw of the Upper Kingdom. This thorn had not been pulled. Rather, it had been patched, bandaged over and left to fester and rot. The land in the last few hours had told them as much. Fields of grass, dry and parched, rubble and twisted metal and stone. The Mountains seemed angry, snappish and small. Indeed, it seemed as if she were a different Mother, one with brittle claws and yellowed teeth. Or perhaps, all the years of canine infestation had simply made her that way.
Or the rats.
They had started the Wall in quiet good humor since morning, determined to maintain the course of the night before and, indeed, they had made good time. But the deeper they journeyed into the Phun’Jah, the deeper their spirits had fallen, kites with no wind. Towers had become more frequent along the way and they were manned almost every 100 paces. Leopards, for the most part, but there had been some tigers, some jaguars, and some of the smaller Races, ocelots and servals and sandcats. More than a few snow leopards too. They had not spoken but he knew they watched. It was their job to watch.
So it was in the middle of this red evening that the huge battle tower came into sight, tall and gleaming, her stone and brickwork worn smooth from years of wind and sand. Roar’pundih. As they drew near, Kirin could see the stories, scorch marks and oil slicks and broken carapaces along its length, stone scars from too many battles. Not so different from the land and surrounding mountains, he thought, but high above, the Imperial banner still waved, and he had taken some measure of comfort in that.
They had been ushered into that great red tower by the commander, a greying lion named Nehru Tripp-Jonesthon. They were fed the same meal as the previous night and so they sat, mugs of hot tea in hand, parchments and inks and chalks scattered around the brazier, waiting for Solomon to come.
“They rushed to their hut once they heard what had happened, but it was too late. Pure Gold had tasted the poisoned plum, and lay, still as stone, on the cold, hard floor. And this is how the young Rajah found her... “
Once again, Kerris had managed to enthrall his audience, for this time, even the Seer seemed caught up in the ages-old tale, Pure Gold and the Seven Chi’Chen. It was a sad tale, poignant when well told, and more than once, he had seen his brother bring veteran soldiers to tears. Despite his many flaws, Kerris was a brilliant storyteller.
“They built for her a glass sarcophagus, embellished it with gold and rubies and sea shells, and laid it out in the depths of the jungle, to be guarded day and night by all seven monkeys. The young Rajah stepped down from his palanquin the moment he saw her, placed his fingers to the glass that covered her. He wept, for she was as beautiful in death as she had been in life, and it was with a lilting Chi’Chen blessing that he knelt down to kiss her lips. The Old Rani’s magic was too powerful, however, her secrets too dark, and with a terrible breaking heart, the young Rajah took the poisoned plum into his own golden hands and bit deeply of it. They laid him next to his love and sealed the sarcophagus with anhonda paste and tree gum and left it to the vines of the green, green jungle. And so there they have laid for a thousand years, less a day, covered in gold and rubies and sea shells...”
His quick blue eyes scanned his audience, searching for those most caught. They fell upon the tigress.
“Perhaps one day, the spell will break and the lovers will rise. Perhaps one day, someone will find the sarcophagus, but it is said to be guarded by the spirits of seven dragons now. Until then, however, and even today, and perhaps forever more, they lie together in a sleep as still as stone, deep in the green, green jungle, covered in gold and rubies and sea shells...”
The silence was praise enough, for true storytellers prefer a hush over a cheer. Kerris lifted the tea to his lips, waiting to see who would be first to break the spell he had woven. It would not be the tigress, he was sure of this. She was staring into her mug, shaking her head, fighting back tears. And although he had seen this reaction in many, many ladies on many, many occasions, this time was different. He wasn’t entirely certain why.
“Admirable, Kerris, as always,” said Kirin. “The kabuki is also effective.”
“I beg to differ, dear brother,’ he said. “Kabukis are rarely effective.”
“Mmm,” purred Sherah. “A man can never play a convincing woman.”
Kirin turned to her. “You think not? With the face made white, and the lips red? And the wigs and kimonohs? I think it rather amazing.”
“A woman is more than white face and red lips, sidi. No man can plumb her depths.”
“But a Kabuki is not meant to capture depth, sidala. It is a treat for the eyes. Nothing more.”
“And you have just made my point, Kirin. Kabuki is a treat for the eyes,” Kerris sighed. “But a well-told story is a treat for the soul.”
“Hm,” said Kirin.
“It is a stupid story,” said Ursa. She slid a glance at the Seer. “I’m sure you like it.”
“I do,” said Sireth. “I think it’s lovely.”
“You like k’zlaki.”
“In fact, I don’t like k’zlaki. But I do like kittens. And this is a lovely story for kittens.”
“Pah. Kittens, stories and k’zlaki. I don’t know which is worse.”
Sherah rolled onto her belly, crossed her ankles in the air, cupped her chin in her hands. Her golden eyes were glued to the Captain, her gaze stickier than anhonda paste and tree gum.
“You like kabuki, sidi?"
Kirin cleared his throat. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if her question were more personal than one’s taste in theatre. He chose his words as he would swords.
“In truth, I have not seen many. This one, yes, when I was a child. A few others...”
“Perhaps you shall take your children some day.”
It was an innocent comment, he told himself over and over, an innocent topic. So why did it boil his blood so?
“Perhaps.”
“If I have kittens,” said Fallon in a quiet voice, “I will tell them this story, but, differently.”
Kerris cocked his head. “How so?”
She looked up at him, her eyes serious and round.
“I think I would make Pure Gold a tiger.”
Everyone stared at her, just like they used to at home. Except Sireth benAramis. He was smiling.
“Well? Why not?” Fallon sputtered, “It’s not fair! The stories are always about lions and lionesses!Why can’t I tell stories about my people? Why does everything have to be about lions?!”
No one had a response for her, and she glanced from face to face, begging to be told if and how she was wrong. The Captain seemed to be wrestling with the question on his own and avoided her gaze. Kerris seemed amused, intrigued even, that she would have the nerve to ask. She could see the wheels behind his eyes turning. The Seer reached over and squeezed her hand.
“You will have many stories to tell your kittens, my dear,” he said. “But a great many of them will have to do with lions.”
And then it came.
whoompf
Kirin’s head snapped up.
whoompf whoompf whoompf
He was on his feet in a heartbeat, pressing a hand onto the dark window glass, the Major at his side.
One by one, cauldrons of blue flame leapt to life all along the Great Wall.
“Rats,” he growled. He swung around to the people behind him. “No one is to leave this room. Kerris, bolt the door and open neither it nor the window unless either myself or the Major commands you do so. Is that understood?”
It wasn’t a question.
And with that, he, the Major and the remainder of the leopard Guard strode out the door and Kerris slid the bolts home.
***
Rats are a terrible thing. It is said they are born in the depths of the earth, formed from clay and worms and decayed monkey flesh for indeed, they have some marked similarity to monkeys. Mostly in the arms and fingers and face, but with the teeth, the jagge
d claws and the whipping, scaly tails, they are the worst of all animals. They sometimes move on all fours and sometimes on two and the big ones come almost to the knees. They do not speak, but rather chitter and squeal and the scraping of their limbs over rock lives in nightmares all throughout the Kingdom.
They move by the hundreds.
It is also not sure why they move as they do, what causes the massive swarms of creatures to destroy villages and farms alike. But the only thing that is sure to stop them is oil, brute force and fire.
Like a single living thing they swarmed up the Wall, a mass of shiny blackness and Ursa could see the leopards of Roar’pundih fighting to stop their advance. They poured great vats of boiling oil, they loosed flaming arrows into the slick, and even as the creatures burned, others came, crawling atop their dead like stepping stones. Everyone with a sword was into the fray, and she could see her Captain, swift and methodical, swinging as a farmer harvests wheat, severing heads and limbs and torsos with lethal grace. She admired his technique.
She thought, with a frown, that he seemed to have more than his share to battle.
With both swords drawn, she waded in toward him.
***
“Wow,” breathed Fallon, hands and nose pressed up against the glass. “They can’t stop all those rats not like that. There’s, there’s too many.”
“There’s always too many,” said Kerris, beside her. “You stop them any way you can.”
She bit her lip. From up here, even with the blackness of the night sky, she could see it all silhouetted in the flames. The great cauldrons burned blue, blue being the color for rats, orange for dogs, yellow, Gowrain. She was sure in the far Southwest, in the lands of Aegyp and Sahood, the cauldrons burned a different color for bab’Hundi. It seemed every creature wanted its share of the Upper Kingdom. From what she had seen on this remarkable journey thus far, she could understand why.
A rat slammed into the window glass at her face and she screamed.
***
This was wrong, he thought to himself. Pivot, swing, swing, strike. All wrong. There were too many, too many and this time, they moved with precision. Dodge, step back, strike. It was as though they had a goal, an aim to their usually aimless invasions. Teeth dug into his leg, just behind the knee. He sent the short sword back, heard the squeal, swung the body into the face of another, impaled them both before stepping back again. Far too many and their goal, it seemed, was him.
Another now, the same knee. Pain threatened to blind him but he pushed it from his thoughts. There was room for nothing save the fight, save the analysis of their offenses, which was separate but the same. Even the knowledge that their bites brought with them poison and disease, even this he pushed from his thoughts. He brought the hilt of the long sword down, splitting a skull the size of a baby’s, slicing so many more as he followed through, the motion mirrored by an opposing sweep of the short. Step, pivot, swing, swing. He could hear the army of Roar’pundih, shouting commands and pouring oil by the vat-load. Smoke and fumes were heavy in the air, and the stench of burnt flesh, and blood. His own blood. He could taste it in his mouth. Yes, it seemed they were after him. But why?
Stepped back, felt a scaly tail under his boot, crushed the spine with the other. Swing, swing, pivot, strike. Harvest them like wheat, he kept telling himself, like ripe, bloody wheat.
***
The glass cracked with the veins of a spider’s web as the hairless, monkey-like fingers scrabbled at it. They were hanging from their scaly tails, smashing at it with things they held in their hands.
“This is wrong,” said Kerris as he pulled the tigress from the window. “This is all wrong.”
They could see the grotesque faces, the black glittering eyes and lipless rasp-toothed mouths, raking the panes as if they could chew it like meat. But what was worse, was the fact that within their scaly hands, were stones.
“Tools?” Fallon dug her claws into Kerris’ arm. “I didn’t think they used tools.”
“They don’t.”
The grey lion wrested free her grip and sprang to the packs, rummaging through in desperation. The window split with a groan, and many scrabbling hands pried at the shards. They still hung upside down but now there were more, using their fellows as ladders, smashing the panes with their skulls.
“Knives, forks, did they leave us nothing?”
“My staff?” It was the Seer.
“Good.”
“Fire powder?” It was Sherah and Kerris’ head snapped up.
“Better! Where? Where?!”
She, like the Seer and Scholar, was standing in the middle of the room, and she seemed as terrified as the rest of them. She pointed a trembling finger.
“The sealed bag, with, with the scarlet clasp.”
There was a thump overhead and sprinkles of wood rained lightly down onto their heads.
Fallon looked up. In the middle of the high ceiling was a wooden hatch with a long rope serving as a latch keep. The hatch was bumping.
“Oh mother,” Fallon swallowed. “Hurry...”
***
Pain had turned his eyesight red. Time had slowed too, and the battle, to Kirin, was a dance. He could not miss a step, every movement vital, one slip would be his death. He felt too heavy for this dance, the poisons he knew, and his knee twisted whenever it bore weight. Pivot, pain, swing. Even his swords, normally an extension of his very hands, were heavy and slow. They slipped in his grip from the blood on the hilts. It was only a matter of time.
Something struck his shoulder between the blades, and he staggered forward. Wrong, he thought, bad move. His balance was compromised. Even through the leather brigandine, and the leather underneath, he could feel the claws. Teeth sank into his neck and he sent the short sword back to pierce the skull.
He heard the squeal but a second set of teeth closed across his wrist.
It was only a matter of time.
***
“Hurry!” shouted Fallon. “The hatch!”
It began to lift away from the ceiling. Black, scaly fingers pried into the gap. With barely a thought, she leapt for the latchkeep, caught it. Still they pulled her up, fingers scraping at her hands, her legs swinging wildly as her feet left the floor. Mercifully, arms wrapped round her waist, and she did not need to look down to know it was the Seer, adding his weight to hers.
The cord burned in her palm but together, they pulled it back down, closing off the terrible squeals. Severed fingers dropped to the floor like twigs.
Kerris was at the window, flinging handfuls of fire powder around the panes. There was a sharp shattering sound, and the window spat its glass across the floor. The creatures followed, squeezing over their fellows, impaling each other on the slivers and shards, but oozing through nonetheless. With a deep breath, he tossed a torch into the powder and ducked away as the entire frame burst outwards, sending flame far out into the night sky.
The hatch thumped and thumped again. Splinters of wood rained down into Fallon’s face. Blinking them away, she could see gaps now in the wood above her. Her heart leapt to her throat. They were using their stones now to dig and chip. The wood was strong, but she wasn’t at all convinced that it would hold against this.
“Kerris!” she shouted, but he couldn’t hear, leaning out through the pane as he was, staring up to the very top of the tower. His ashen hair whipped in the winds.
“There’s more of them,” he called out. “By the Kingdom, how did they get all the way up there?”
“Kerris!” she shouted again, and almost lost her hold on the rope latch. Her hands were aching and raw, and the hatch jerked and bumped as rats tugged the other end. “Kerris-your-name-was!! Up here! Look here now!!”
He turned – “Damn.” and took a step toward them when chittering caused him look back. “Double damn.”
They were at the window again.
***
He didn’t remember stumbling. He didn’t remember the wave of creatures crash over him as he went
down to his knees. He did however, distinctly remember a woman’s voice, carrying over the howl of the winds, and the flashes of steel as throwing stars and shir’khins whipped past him and beside him and above. He did remember the slice and tang of swords and death squeals of rats, and it all blurred into one last roar until the quieting of the night and the welcome clacking of high bootheels on stone.
When he had finally caught his breath, and was able to wipe the blood from his eyes, her face was there, brows drawn, mouth in a tight bow. He was able to smile at her, for everything had worked out right after all. He had known it would.
It had only been a matter of time.
***
“The staff!” shouted Kerris. “Where’s the staff? Never mind! Found it!”
The light in the tower hold became eerie and dark as the grey lion snatched the remaining torch from its perch on the wall. He flashed it at the creatures climbing through the window, pushing them back, but only so far, as their numbers forced them, uncaring, into the breech. The ones that made it through, he smacked hard with the staff. Flash and smack. Flash and smack. It was not a particularly effective strategy.
The noise above her grew louder. Not just chitters and squeals now, but a growl, a low, gutteral drone like the buzz of angry bees. Fallon yelped and was almost torn out of the Seer’s grasp. A chunk of meal wood struck her in the forehead and she could see faces through holes in the hatch. They were trying to squeeze themselves through.
One from the window launched itself onto Kerris’ shoulder and he staggered, the tip of the staff touching the window. Rats began to climb it instantly.
Like a wraith, Sherah was suddenly at Kerris’ side, snatching the creature from his shoulder and hurling it toward the others. She spun and snagged the powder bag next and began to circle the room, spilling a trail of black behind her. For a brief moment, Fallon could see her, understood immediately what it was she was doing, had an idea of her own.
To Journey in the Year of the Tiger Page 35