The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3)

by G R Matthews

  There was no further movement from the ship. The newcomer stood still, as did Haung and Liu. Even Gang stopped his pacing. The dockhands clustered together to engage in a whispered conversation. Haung looked at Liu, who shrugged.

  The uncomfortable pause and silence lasted until Haung shook his head, took a step forward and bowed.

  “Welcome to the Empire,” he began. “I am Colonel Haung, sent to escort you to the capital.”

  The dark clad stranger stared back at him. No bow and no words.

  “If you would like to come with me,” he tried again. “We have rooms booked at a pleasant inn and will begin our journey in the morning. You must be tired after your long journey.”

  There was no response, bar a slight squint from the newcomer.

  “Emperor?” Haung said.

  The stranger nodded.

  “Good.” Haung sighed with relief. The conversation on the way back to the capital was not going to be interesting if it was to only consist of one word sentences followed by shrugs and nods. “This way.”

  He waved a hand, trying to indicate they should walk. The stranger took a step towards them and there was the whisper of metal on leather followed by a cry of pain.

  Haung spun around, drawing his Jian sword without conscious thought. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gang moving also, the big hammer dropping from his shoulder into his large hands. Liu staggered into view, a scruffy dockhand pulling the dagger from the axe-wielders back and lifting it again, ready to stab downwards.

  The double-edged point of Haung’s sword dipped into the dockhand’s neck, just below the jaw line. A flick of wrist and the sharp edge sliced through the attacker’s artery, blood sprayed and the man fell to the ground. Liu staggered, falling to one knee, struggling to lift an axe in defence.

  The other dockhands had all produced knives and daggers and were rushing at Haung’s group. He settled into the quiet, letting the image form from the grey mists of memory, a deep sadness welled from it. That and the desire, the need, to protect.

  Gang swept his hammer in a large arc, forcing a dockhand away from Liu. The stranger drew his own weapon, a long curved sword.

  Three of the attackers raced at Haung, daggers held out before them, and he moved to meet them, drawing them away from the injured Liu. One of the dockhands, more eager than the others, leaped towards him, dagger seeking his heart. It was a simple matter to turn his body, letting the blade pass him by and grab the man’s dirty jerkin in his free hand. Haung lifted his own sword in a high arc and brought it down on the back of his attackers neck, severing the spinal cord and killing the man instantly.

  A ripple in the quiet made him duck and spin to the left. The arrow meant for his back took one of his other attackers in the thigh. The man fell and Haung, completing his turn spotted the bowman high up on one of the warehouses overlooking the docks, far out of range of his sword. They were all vulnerable to the archer who was already knocking another arrow to his bow.

  Haung parried away the attack from the third attacker, sparing a moment to kick the arrow struck man in the head, knocking him unconscious. A mercy he did not deserve. The quiet was full of vibrations, of ripples, currents of air passing over him. His brain, understanding battle on a primal level, interpreted those signals. He let go.

  Another wild stab from his remaining attacker, easy to avoid and the return stroke of Haung’s sword caressed the skin of the man’s arm. The knife clattered the stones, as the attacker gasped and sought to stem the flow of his life’s blood from his severed wrist.

  The sound of release, a thrum on the air and an arrow was seeking his back once more. Haung let the sword flow around his frame, cutting the projectile from the air. At the same moment, his free hand dipped into a pouch and he threw the small ball of wadded paper towards the archer. Haung shouted a word and the paper became a flaming arrow of his own. It sped through the dark, lighting up the surprised and shocked face of the archer as it burrowed itself in the man’s chest.

  The quiet in his mind lurched, the image began to crumble. Haung took a quick step away from the fight, turned back and steadied the image, letting the quiet return. Mixing Jiin-Wei magic and Taiji was new. If Enlai had not suggested it, Haung would never have been tempted.

  The fight was over. Liu was down, a red stain spreading across the back of the man’s robes. Gang stood over his long-time colleague. Around them the dockhands were either unconscious or dead. The dark clothed stranger had also dealt with his fair share during the fight. Three dockhands lay on the stones, their blood puddling around their unmoving forms.

  Haung let the quiet go, allowing the image to dissipate back into mist, and raced over to Liu’s side. Gang turned at his approach, the hammer drawn back, ready to swing, and a wild look in the large man’s eyes. The light of recognition came slow to the warrior’s eyes and Haung slid to a stop, just out of range.

  “He’s hurt,” Gang said.

  “I know,” Haung replied. “Let me look at him.”

  Haung watched Gang lower the hammer and step aside. The large man’s face had not lost its look of shock, skin pale even in the dark of night.

  “Keep an eye out,” Haung said as he knelt beside Liu. A quick glance showed the dagger had entered just to side of the tall man’s shoulder blade. The blood was still bubbling out of the wound and that, Haung knew, was serious. With a dagger, retrieved from the stones, he cut a larger hole in Liu’s robes and wiped away the blood with his palm. It was a pointless exercise. On each wipe, more blood welled up and covered the wound. A check of Liu’s pulse showed it to be weak. “We’re going to need a doctor.”

  Haung felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the black eyes of the stranger. The man waved Haung to stand and move aside. With little choice, he complied and watched the stranger take up his position by Liu’s frame.

  The wind picked up, gusting along the dockside and large droplets of rain began to fall in earnest. Gang stood still, his back to the ship and his eyes focused on the stranger and Liu. Haung took a moment to glance up at the rail. A few faces peeked over at the scene below, too late and too slow to help.

  “Do you have a doctor on board?” Haung called up. The answer came back and it was not good news. “Gang, when we rode in, I am sure there was a herbalist’s and surgeon’s. We can carry Liu there and get him treated.”

  “There is no need,” a new voice said, soft and melodious, a voice more used to singing than speaking.

  It took a moment for Haung to realise it came from the stranger. “You speak?”

  “I speak your language, yes. Forgive me, I was not sure if you were with them or not? Whether it was a trap or not?”

  “We weren’t,” Haung said. “We need to get Liu to a doctor or, better yet, a surgeon.”

  “The knife went in at an angle and pierced the lung,” the kneeling stranger said. “If we can get her to a well-lit room, I should be able to sew up the blood vessels and muscles. The quicker we can do this, the better, as it is quite tiring to keep the blood from escaping.”

  “Her?” Gang said. “Liu is a man. Haung, if this person can’t even get that right why should we place our faith in them.”

  “Your Liu is definitely a woman,” the stranger said, unclasping the headscarf and uncovering their face. Long black hair, braided on either side of her head, fell free and a woman’s face looked up at the angry warrior. “I have raised and looked after enough children, been midwife to more women than I can count. I know a woman when I see one.”

  “So do I,” Gang countered.

  “It is not the time to argue,” Haung said. “We have a bed at our inn. If the bleeding is stopped we can move Liu there. Gang, go and get a dock cart. Once we have Liu in bed, you can go and find a surgeon for a second opinion. At present, from what I can gather, Liu is out of danger and we need to be away from these,” and he held up the dagger before his eyes, inspecting it for the first time and remembering the archer, “Mongols?”

  Chapter
31

  “There it is,” she said, reining in her horse and letting Zhou catch up.

  They had kept the extra layers on as they ascended the foothills, away from the desert. He was grateful to be rid of the sand, out of the blinding storms and had hoped for the weather to improve, to warm a little, once they were out of the wind. He was disappointed.

  “It looks deserted,” he said.

  The foothills continued to rise and the temperature to drop. Raised in Wubei, a city in the mountains, a city of ash now, the cold weather was not unknown. As winter tightened its grip, it would get colder still. Winters in Wubei had been a time of wonder and danger. Thick snow had coated the high pastures and only the main roads kept clear by troops who were happy to be doing something that kept them warm. He remembered completing his obligatory time in the army, back when he was young and before he started his studies. Being on guard, standing still and watching, was the most hated duty during winter.

  “I don’t think it is,” she replied, before adding, “totally.”

  He followed the direction of her pointing finger and spotted the smudge of smoke rising into the grey sky. The temple ahead appeared to have been hewn into the cliff face itself and the smoke was twisting out of a window high in the rocks.

  The track, he refused to call the weed strangled cobbles a road, led to a large double door, the arch of which blended in with the rocks of the cliff. No one seemed to be on guard duty unless they watched from one of the many windows that dotted the face of the sheer rocks. Someone, perhaps many people, had spent a long time carving statues and symbols into the solid rock. A few of the stone figures looked to be twice or even three times Zhou’s height and all of them were engaged in some activity or another, mining, quarrying, smelting, beating metal and others he could not ascertain. As for the symbols, they were meaningless to him. They might have been writing, but nothing he could decipher, or they could be stylised pictures of something else.

  “Are we going in?” he asked. The promise of a warm fire was calling to him.

  “That is why we came here,” Xióngmāo replied.

  “Who are we meeting?”

  “There is someone in here that we have to talk to.”

  “Who?” he pushed.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Someone important, probably the Abbot. They have something we need to take to our next destination.”

  “We have somewhere else to go? After this I thought we would be heading back into the Empire. Now we know who set the war in motion, the one responsible for my city’s destruction and the death of my wife and child,” he stopped, took a deep breath and forced down the anger, containing it. Control was central to the life of Wu. Control of one’s self, one’s emotions and thoughts. By knowing yourself, you could know the spirit. By understanding yourself, you understood the spirit. “We can help with the defence of the Empire.”

  Xióngmāo reaching the door to the temple, slid from her horse and turned to him. “I understand that, Zhou. I know you want to take revenge and I know your spirit pushes you to defend its territory, mine wishes the same. It is the nature of animals to defend what is theirs. Put it aside for a moment. We have been told to come here by the Emperor. He too will be working to defend the Empire and this is part of it.”

  Zhou slid from his own horse to stand next to her and looked down into her eyes. “We are on the very edge of the Empire, far from the war. We are running away when we could be fighting.”

  “We are doing what we have to do, Zhou. Understand, not all wars are won on the edge of sword. They are won by the actions those outside of the battle. This is important to the war and it is our responsibility to see it through. The Emperor has given us this task.”

  “So you say.” He heard the words escape his mouth and wished, with all his being, that he could take them back. The look in her eyes hurt more than the fall from the Wall. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you don’t trust me, Zhou, leave. Go your own way. It was the Emperor who helped me find you, helped me rescue you from the Mongols and now, with one simple task, you throw all that away. Is that really the person you want to be? Would your wife recognise the man in front of me now?” She held her ground and stared into his shame-filled eyes. “Would your son be proud of you?”

  “You don’t...” he tried, anger warred with shame and lost. “No, they would not. Xióngmāo, I am sorry. Those words.”

  She held up a hand and stopped him. “Do not explain, Zhou. You will only take the truth away from the apology, lessening it. Believe me, I understand the frustration and anger, but this is vital. I do not like being away from the Empire when it is in trouble. I have spent centuries looking after it and its people.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, all his diplomatic eloquence fleeing before her dark eyes.

  “The temple door,” she said, indicating he should seek entrance.

  Cold knuckles met cold, hard wood and the echoes took a long time to die away. Zhou blew on his hands as he awaited an answer. None came and he knocked again. After waiting what he considered to be a polite length of time, he turned to Xióngmāo and shrugged.

  “Try opening the door?” she said.

  He grabbed the thick bronze rings on either door, thankful it was not iron. Had it been there was a good chance he would have left a layer of skin behind on the metal when he pulled his hands away. He gave the rings a tug, the door did not move so he pushed instead. The wooden doors bowed inwards a little, but still did not open.

  “Locked,” he said.

  Xióngmāo shook her head and gazed up towards the window from which smoke still billowed.

  “Call?” she suggested, raising an eyebrow as she spoke.

  “Hello!” Zhou shouted. “Open the doors.”

  Three more times he shouted and there was no answer. He knocked once more, for the sake of symmetry more than expectation.

  “We need to get into the temple,” Xióngmāo said.

  “It is deserted,” he said.

  “The smoke?”

  “Could be any number of reasons,” he replied.

  “Describe one,” she said and when he struggled, she laughed. It was a good sound, one he worried he might never have heard again.

  “I could break it down?” he suggested and called to the spirit. It leaped down the blue thread in his mind and expanded in his consciousness. His vision changed. The muted colours of winter were overlain with blue. He let the anger rise in his chest, ready to transfer feeling into strength and power.

  “We will not break into a temple, Zhou. It is not right.”

  “We have to do something,” he said, holding the spirit close. “I am not spending another night out in the cold. Not when there is a wall, a fire and, hopefully, a bed close by.”

  He shouted once more, letting the great cat that was his spirit add its own growl to the tone. There was no answer so he raised his fist, to bang it hard upon the door. If it accidently broke open, well, surely he could be blamed for that. The meaty side of his closed fist met the door and the world vanished.

  # # #

  He fell.

  He knew he was falling. He’d fallen before. Arms wheeling, mouth open, screaming. Panic. Fear.

  The spirit took control, turning and twisting to guide his descent. Manoeuvring his body, flattening it out to increase the resistance of the wind, and ensuring he faced in the direction of the fall, getting ready for the landing. The impact, a small part of his thoughts shouted at him.

  Only there did not appear to be a floor. There was, when the initial fear had subsided, nothing. Everything was dark. Not the dark of night, it was not black, it was grey. A dark grey to be sure, but not black, and the more he examined it, the more less uniform it seemed.

  He became used to falling. Without a floor in sight, and as the time passed, it stopped being a thing of fear and perversely, he felt, it was almost enjoyable. With fear no longer dominating is thoughts, he stopped fighting the fall and focused instead on the g
rey. With the eyes of the spirit, he examined the new world around him.

  Amongst the dark grey, he started to notice a mottling of lighter greys, flecks of blue and green. These grew and sparkled with different hues, some glowed and others pulsed. He saw they were connected to the greyness surrounding them by little filaments, tiny wisps of colour. There were dark spaces too.

  There was no impact, no smashing into an unseen floor, no snapping of bones or explosion of gore. One second he was falling and the next he was not.

  “You are both welcome.”

  # # #

  Light and the door opening.

  He could not stop his fist moving, the power of his own muscles and the spirit driving it forward, and he missed the door. Set for the expected resistance and finding none, he lost his balance and fell into the temple. Spirit enhanced reflexes saved him from falling face first onto the stone floor, but the stumble to his knees was less than graceful and more than a little embarrassing.

  “It seems we have been invited in,” Xióngmāo said, stepping past him. “Shall we go and see if they can help. Close the door behind you. No point letting the cold in.”

  Chapter 32

  “Pass me the thread.”

  Haung picked up the small spool of silk from amongst the instruments on the table and passed it to the lady who bent over Liu’s unconscious form. The master of the twin axes was laid, face down, on the table in Haung’s room. The room itself was bathed in flickers of orange and yellow light. Oil lamps and candles rested on every flat surface.