“To whom? What for? He’s not even yours. And he’s not Zhu’s either. Is he, Zhu? Is this boy your son?” Her lips curved into a sneer.
“Of course not, he’s my nephew.”
Light dawned in the fox faerie’s eyes. Swords and stones! What horror had he committed?
She grabbed Wu by the leg, although Alai held him fast, drawing her blade. Jasmine transmuted into the golden fox and snarled, darted between the horse’s legs, spooking the beasts, and causing them to rear up on their hindquarters—but strangely, they did not flee.
How was it that they could not run? Zhu drew his sabre, reluctant to strike, lest he cut one of the horses. The ground shook, a booming voice shattered the desert silence, and in the fierce, blue sky creatures circled in droves. “What are they?” Alai’s voice came in a frightened squeak.
Seven-headed raptors. The Jian: evil birds with one-eyed heads and seven sights between them. Zhu had only ever seen such creatures in painted vases, watercolours and tapestries that adorned the Imperial palace. They were not of this earth. Where had they come from?
“Zhu,” Alai shouted. “Behind you!”
When he turned, he felt the teeth of the fox at his throat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The Language of Colours
Zhu had no time to use his blade. The fox had torn out his throat. His only thought was that Wu must take the Tiger’s Eye and escape, but how was he to get it to him? In his blurred vision he saw another fox leap into the fray. The foxling locked eyes with him and a flicker of comprehension stirred in her stare, then she tore the gemstone from his finger and his lights went out. He could hear Alai’s screams as she fought the fox. Something warm fell on him and he knew that it was Alai. Everything else was silent. He was blind to what was happening, had lost his voice and all sense of his legs; only one arm responded. Warm, wet blood seeped over his body, and he knew Alai had been mortally wounded. He forced his only functioning limb to embrace her, to hold her against his waning heart. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he was sorry he had brought her into this mess, that the world was in chaos, in mortal danger of annihilation—and he was denied the task of seeing it through. His tears mingled with the blood and he felt the last breaths from her lips. He opened his eyes because he desperately wanted to see her face once more. His lids peeled away and all that was visible was the top of her head, then a dark image appeared in the distance. The wall. They were so close!
Alai stirred in his arm, her head tilted toward him and their lips touched. His last thought came as a revelation: the walls, the damn walls that he had helped Quan build for almost all of his life, had failed. They could not keep the Chinese in, or the barbarians out. But the four thousand mile long barrier, now known as the Dragon Wall, had brought him and Alai together.
%%%
“What have you done?” The booming voice demanded.
Jasmine returned to her human form, lips dripping with blood. “I should have done that long ago.”
“I wanted to kill him myself.”
“Why, My Lord of Supreme Battles, when I can do it for you? Besides you refuse to break the laws of your Heaven. They will not allow you to take the life of a mortal, and until you grow a pair of testicles that will allow you to defy them, I will do the dirty work for you.”
Chi Yu’s metal face creaked. His eyes blackened. “Do not taunt me, fox. You are not beyond the reach of my powers.” The war god shuffled his hoofed feet, took in the carnage that she had left. The boy trembled upon his horse, which the god of war had frozen into place. The foxling had returned to her human form and stood watching. “What will you do with the boy?” he demanded.
“Save him for a snack. I want to see the face of his mother before I do them both in.”
%%%
The last time Master Yun used his powers of geomancy to transcend space, he had sent Jasmine into her own sinkhole and teleported her to her progenitor. How could he manipulate this knowledge to his advantage? He had used a spell of reversal on her, but it was she who had created the sinkhole. The creation of sinkholes was not among his known powers. “I need to get to the capital, and I need to send you back to the desert,” he told Quan.
“What? Forgive me, Master Yun, but what for? I refuse to return to that wasteland. Did you know creatures live there, prowling the arid sands, leaving footprints, but are themselves unseen? I do not wish to confront the beast again.”
“That is exactly why I want you to return. They are not malicious, Quan. At least I don’t believe they are. For I have encountered one, too: a creature of ungainly proportions, whose bones grow flesh and fur at will—and then dissolve into air. But I don’t think they mean us harm. They can’t speak as we do, and their means of communication is a mystery. But all creatures speak to their own kind, and I suspect they have as much reason to fear us as we to fear them. We must learn their speech. I have studied them since my time in the Red Desert, and have learned some points of interest. We need every man, every creature that will join our armies because we must build a force equal or greater to that of the Nine that Dahlia will summon. We must hold back her forces until all members of the magic Crosshairs can be assembled. And one more army—an invisible army at that—gives us the advantage of surprise.”
“But if they don’t speak the Emperor’s Chinese? How will I communicate with them?”
“That is why I have assigned you to this task. If anyone can find out, you will.”
The bamboo sails luffed, and already Li prepared her pirate junk to meet the White Tiger. Li was sure she would not have long to wait before the admiral caught up with her. Meanwhile, she was prepared to sail north to land Master Yun and Quan on shore.
Master Yun paced the deck as the wind bellowed. “This vessel is too slow. Time runs swiftly, and we cannot return on the same transport by which I came. I must try something else.”
With the besiegement of the Forbidden City, Ming soldiers had fallen. Zi Shicheng’s rebels and Liao Dong’s Manchus had wiped out the guard, and sentries too numerous to count were crushed or fled at the sight of the invaders. Master Yun’s power was strong. So many deaths of his own people had increased his ability tenfold. What more was he capable of? Could he outwit the fiendish fox faeries? “Li!” he shouted up to the helm. “We are leaving now. Do not fail me. Bring the pirates and the White Tiger to join us in battle. We fight on the Plains of Xian!”
Before her astounded eyes, Master Yun raced around Quan in a vicious circle causing the deck planks to scorch and smoke. Faster and faster he sped until he seemed to be flying, his grey robes and silver hair whipping out perpendicular to his torso. When it seemed the deck would burst into flame, the warlock grasped Quan by the shoulders, leaped into the smoking circle, and vanished.
%%%
Chi Quan awoke to the sound of a voice reading poetry. He sat inside a dark, round structure, and overhead a camel-hide stretched across a steepled framework of animal ribs. Dried flesh clung like rags to some of the bones. Quan croaked out a greeting but got no response.
On the floor of the living area were the same hides, bones and water-filled animal bladders. The floor started to move. Chains of ants burdened with the days foraging flowed to their sandhill. They reminded him of his own hunger. Locating the corner of the hut where he recalled a cache of dried meat, he gobbled down three strips before searching for his host. The place was mostly composed of bones, etched with delicate Chinese characters. Blood, dried and darkened, had been rubbed into the letters, each stanza leaping to the eye like they had been inked on white parchment. He lifted one and read:
The Emperor’s armies have fought
one hundred thousand battles.
The soldiers flee
scattering
while the black crows watch,
dipping their beaks and wings in blood.
The invaders have taken the wall.
The golden gates of the palace wait.
And hear only
; the silence of the drums.
“So, you’ve returned!” a voice called.
Sunlight from outside cast a half shadow around the figure that stood above him. “Ho Teng, you’re still here!”
“Don’t you see me? But I must say, I am surprised to see you. How on the god’s earth did you get here? I saw no horse outside.”
“That’s because I have no horse.” Quan apologized for dropping in so unexpectedly. “Master Yun decided on the mode of transport and although the ride was unconventional, it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before.”
Ho Teng’s mouth curled with amusement. He understood for he, too, was acquainted with His Majesty’s warlock. Quan studied the outline of the wizened figure of the poet uncertain how to proceed. “I suppose you must be wondering why I’ve returned.”
The poet flung off his hide cloak and turban. Clawing his way down the ladder, he stopped in front of Quan, and when Quan bowed in courtesy, the poet indicated for him to sit. “Perhaps you missed my insightful verses?” he said, sinking cross-legged beside him.
A laugh, not of disdain, but of joy escaped Quan’s lips. “Have you written much that is new?”
“Here, in the barrens, everything is new.”
Quan suddenly became serious. “I need your help. You have thrived in the desert for many moons, and it’s a wonder you still live considering what lurks beyond these tough hides. Can you tell me how you do it?”
“Why?” the poet asked suspiciously.
“Because I may need the help of the Yeren.” Quan proceeded to explain Master Yun’s theory, how the Yeren were the precursors of all men, and, for that reason, might have a loyalty to their current-day relatives. Then he untangled all that had happened since they’d last met and how the day of reckoning approached. The beasts of legend were rising, seeking to reclaim the land, to be ruled by the laws of magic under the dominance of the malignant fox faeries. Simple men had no weapons against beasts of lore. If they won, what would be left for men, but enslavement? “You must have seen many strange things in the badlands, least of all, the invisible monkey-faced man-beasts they call Yeren. Did you know the creatures supposedly died out millennia ago, but have somehow returned to haunt us? You know these manlike creatures, Ho Teng. You have shared the desert with them and survived. Do you think they will help us?”
The wizened old poet’s head dipped in a bow. “Why would they help us? Aren’t they creatures of legend themselves?”
“If Master Yun’s surmise is true, they are kin to us.”
A sigh left Ho Teng’s lips, and his eyes widened with wonder and detachment. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You wish to speak with them? Do you know how? If you make a mistake, your skull will be crushed before you know it, and your bones buried in the sand.”
Quan shook his head. “I thought, maybe, having lived among them so long, you’d know their manner of speech.”
Ho Teng chuckled. “I know only this: they don’t speak with voices like you or I. I swear they speak the language of colours. Oh, yes, I recently discovered that when they become visible and show stark white fur, it means they are frightened. White as you know is associated with death. And white means they fear for their lives. That’s when they are most dangerous. They strike first, and think later. Indeed, I’m not sure how much they actually think. I believe that is how they communicate among their own kind. I have seen their fur transmute from white or silver to red, blue, black and gold.”
Stunning as this new knowledge was, Quan could not afford to waste another moment. He left the pithouse followed by the poet to seek out the mysterious bones that walked.
The sand gleamed red-gold under the red sun. Correction—the white sun. The sand gleamed red-gold under the white sun. For when he blinked at the blinding celestial orb, it was a ball of pale fire. And all around him loomed rust-coloured columns.
A disturbance in the atmosphere drew his eyes level to the skyline. A crunching of footsteps. On the ground, twelve paces distant, tracks appeared, and the footfalls came louder.
Quan slammed shut his eyelids to listen; then raised them. The footsteps ceased. Tenuously, he reached out, felt nothing and rubbed his face from forehead to jaw. He closed his lids again, feeling his footing waver. Remember, the creatures are invisible. An invisible prey was a prey that remained alive. An invisible hunter had the advantage over his prey. Quan’s eyes snapped wide to the desert landscape and he almost catapulted out of his boots. All around him the rust-coloured columns separated to open a path. He sidled to one of the columns and paused beside it. The crunching resumed, but this time it moved away.
Weren’t there originally seven rust-coloured columns to his left? Now there were twelve. He spied an opening and headed for it, another column blocked his way. Confound the travelling stones; confound the bones that walked! How was he supposed to communicate with the beast if it refused to show itself? A sound sent Quan spinning on his heel, and instinctively he hoisted his sabre. It was nothing more than a reflex action; the blade was useless against the unseen.
Quan exhaled involuntarily, kicked something hard near his feet. He glanced down to see a cracked, white skull. The footsteps began to move away. The tracks travelled well beyond the forest of rust-coloured columns, and red sand sank all around. Quan squinted to control his focus, made chase. The footprints stopped abruptly. Quan waited as the sand settled. No movement now, except for the tracks on the ground. He stared at the last footprint, and then saw a magnificent form rise from it. Covered in muscle and fine white fur, the Yeren’s pale fleshy face grimaced.
Quan untied the red sailor’s kerchief fastened at his throat and waved it like a flag. As the sands swirled and spewed in the wind, slapping at the beast until it cowered in confusion, Quan held his stance while Ho Teng joined him.
“Good thinking, Quan. Red corresponds with fire and symbolizes good fortune and joy. It is also the colour of the stone forest and the desert sands. It’s a peace offering.”
The pale fur of the Yeren darkened to black, almost blue, the hue so deep in contrast to its earlier shade. This colour was associated with death and funerals. A shriek came from above and Quan’s head shot up to see the green-headed desert vultures circling the skies. Far to the east more birds flocked, but these ones appeared different. They seemed to have multiple heads and one was much larger than the rest. Something had died or was dying in the badlands and the monkey-faced, man-beast changed course to follow them.
It vanished. Clearly, the Yeren travelled swifter in this form. Blinded by the relentless sun, eyes mesmerized by miles of wasteland, Quan’s vision played tricks on him—turning sand dunes into lush green hills and red plains into valleys. Wind blew stinging particles into his face, and then two horses appeared out of the mirage. The two men pivoted to gape at each other, then knew the mirage to be real. Quan recognized the yellow band strangling one of the horse’s forelimbs, the Imperial badge. He called out, inching close enough to stroke its forelocks. “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” he whispered.
The horse neighed softly.
“Where is your master?”
The leather saddlebags carried a meagre supply of food and no water. Whoever lost these mounts were in desperate need. Two empty goatskins were all that remained. The horses were unharmed—but what caught his eye, wedged between horseflesh and saddle strap, sent a thrill to his brain: the gleam of bronze, the Scimitar of Yongfang. Only one man possessed that blade, and since it wasn’t Master Yun, it must be He Zhu. This was Zhu’s horse. But where was Zhu?
“Ho Teng,” he shouted. “Help me with these horses; their riders need us. We must follow those demon birds.”
They gathered the reins to the horses and glimpsed behind the scrawny rumps of the beasts an oasis of pure spring water. This was what had drawn the horses and how they’d managed to stay alive. Quickly, Quan filled the goatskins, and allowed the horses to drink their fill. Four hours before sundown, and no idea where they were headed, only the wak
e of the winged harbingers of death to show the way.
%%%
Zhu’s gelding, on which Quan rode, whinnied in protest at its return to the place of death. Quan held his breath to ward off the stench of decay and balked when he grabbed at a breath to find there was no odour to speak of. He dropped to the ground and handed his reins to Ho Teng. Beside him was an abandoned village, and in front of him, two people foundered in a lover’s embrace half buried in the sand. Above, the vultures wheeled, refusing to descend. That in itself was peculiar, but Quan wasted no time on theorizing over the behaviour of carrion feeders, even though it was as if they had been sent to guide him here.
It was the sand as much as the desiccating heat that prevented the iniquitous treatment of the bodies. The flesh had dried to tough leather so even carrion feeders found it unpalatable. The sand floated like a gentle blanket cloaking the two lovers.
“You know them?” Ho Teng asked.
The upper arm of the larger figure lay exposed. Quan leaned over the scar on the right bicep, atrophied now. Memory shot its painful sensations into his mind for he knew the enemy who had inflicted the wound. He shut his eyes to dispel the horror. It can’t be! But the raised, jagged ridge of a scar, shrunken to a worm’s form couldn’t have proved the man’s identity greater if it had sprouted lips and cried out his name. How had this happened? He moaned and shifted his glassy gaze to the other figure swallowed by the sand.
The woman was unrecognizable, not through disfigurement or by decay, but because she was a stranger. Who was this stalwart maiden his friend held so tenderly? Then tears erupted in a torrent of despair as Quan registered, irrevocably, that Zhu was dead. Never would he call him brother-in-law. Never would Li know him as brother. Never would Wu see his uncle again.
Wu! Where was he?
Master Yun had told him that Wu was safe with Zhu—but, if Zhu was dead?
Before all was over he himself might be dead. Quan rose from his knees and stemmed his sorrow. Most of the tents were removed when their owners fled. What remained were torn sheets of felt, broken beams and cracked poles, no longer useful. Cold fires indicated much cooking had taken place in safer times, and fallen fencing showed where goats and camels were formerly stabled, their droppings soiling the ground.
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