by G R Matthews
“Sabaa, from Fēizhōu, one of the immortals.”
“Jing Ke,” the man said. “One of the immortals.”
His companion gasped for a second time.
“I am Xióngmāo,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Honest, I said and honest I meant,” Biyu said, directing a frank stare at Xióngmāo. “If you’re not honest now, we are all at risk.”
Zhou directed a concerned glance at Xióngmāo, a chill grasping his heart.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You must,” Biyu said, for the first time with a note of sympathy in her voice. “If you do not, then I must. In the rock, everything is shared, each grain rests upon the next, bound to it for strength, relying on its neighbour. It should be the same with us. Come on, child. Tell them.”
Xióngmāo looked up, tears falling from her eyes and meandering down her cheeks.
“Biyu,” the Emperor said, “we are here to discuss tomorrow’s plans. We know who she is.”
“No, Dà Lóng,” the old lady answered. “You do not know everything. Girl, tell them. There is no shame, you did what you had to do, but they all need to know. Only then can they make their plans.”
“Biyu,” Jing Ke stood, “leave her alone.”
The Taiji had spoken in a quiet, calm voice, but there was no denying the finality of his words. From his seat, Zhou could see the expression on the man’s face, serene, unemotional and determined. Keeping his eyes on the tableau before him, a crying woman he cared for, a dangerous swordsman and a blunt spoken old woman, he drew on the spirit, calling it to him.
“No, Zhou,” Xióngmāo said, her hand resting on his. He looked to the side and saw her take a deep breath and wipe away the tears. “I am Xióngmāo, daughter of Dà Lóng and,” he felt her hand tremble on his, “mother of Jing Ke.”
“You,” was the only word Zhou could find.
Jing Ke stumbled backward from the table, his chair tumbling and the look of calm vanishing from his face, leaving only confusion and pain.
Chapter 38
Haung looked between Jing Ke, the Emperor and the small woman sat at the table, tears still falling from her eyes.
“Xióngmāo?” The Emperor was the first one to find his voice.
The woman’s dark eyes met her those of her father and the pain was evident.
“You didn’t tell me?” the Emperor said.
“Tell you?” Jing Ke spat. “What about me? I grew up without a mother. One I’d thought had been killed or just left me to die.”
“Jing Ke,” Xióngmāo began, “I can’t ask for your forgiveness, but I was always there. I placed you with Shifu, he never had a child and promised to keep the secret. I visited and kept an eye on you. I watched you grow, played with you, taught you what I could, when I could.”
“He should have told me,” the Emperor said. “You should have told me.”
“You know the Taiji, father. They keep their word above everything else. He is a good man and I knew he would be a good father. Jing Ke would be safe with him, who would attack a Taiji under the Emperor’s protection,” Xióngmāo said.
Haung saw Sabaa reach across the table and take the woman’s hand in her own.
“It cannot of been easy. In my culture, it is normal for many to raise one child. Life is not easy for everyone and for women hardest of all. So many die in childbirth,” Sabaa said. “But to be reunited is surely a joy.”
“Father, I couldn’t tell you. You left the mountain, left us, to become the Emperor and stayed apart for centuries. There was no way to get close to you, to talk to you. I wasn’t sure how you would react. A father who sent his only daughter into the land of the Mongols?”
“You were the only one capable,” the Emperor said. “You volunteered.”
“You sent me away,” she said. “First you leave the mountain, then you call for me only to send me away.”
“Did Boqin know?” the Emperor asked.
“No one knew except the Abbot,” Xióngmāo said.
“Abbot?” Zhou spoke. The man from Wubei looked as confused as the rest, but there was another look in his eye. A catch of light against the pupil, a flicker of happiness cut through by a sullen spark of sadness.
“Shifu. My teacher, my father. Haung’s teacher. He was the Abbot of a Taiji temple,” Jing Ke said, his voice quiet. A sudden realisation crossed the Taiji’s face and he gave Xióngmāo a questioning, demanding look. “Is he my father?”
“Oh.” Xióngmāo raised a hand to her mouth and, if anything, the sadness in her eyes deepened. “I’m sorry, Jing Ke, no. Shifu is not your father. You know I’ve known him for centuries, ever since the temple war. Like me, he is long lived. I hoped his teaching would enable you to do the same. Your father, your real father died a long time ago.”
“Did he ever see me? Did I ever see him?” Jing Ke said, a tremor in his voice.
“No. I’m so sorry. He died before I even knew I was pregnant with you,” she said.
“Yes, yes, yes. All very touching,” Biyu said. “Now that you all know who everyone is there should be no surprises later on. If we are going to reach the Three Mountains and the meeting, we are going to need each other. Can’t have secrets and hidden motives getting in the way.”
“Did you have to do this now?” the Emperor said.
“It seemed like the right time.” Biyu waved the question away. “Tell me, Dà Lóng, has the pass to the mountain opened?”
“Yesterday,” he replied. “My scouts brought me the reports when we arrived this afternoon.”
“Good, if the pass is open we can go and get this meeting over with,” Biyu said.
“There is a Mongol army in the way,” Haung said, grateful for the distraction from the family drama playing out in front of him. “The scouts report they were camped at the entrance when the pass opened. They moved inside as soon as it was clear.”
“What do you mean the pass opened?” Zhou said, he had taken hold of Xióngmāo’s free hand. A subconscious act, Haung suspected.
“It is hidden from view, only opening when a meeting is to occur,” Sabaa said.
“Then we have an army to go through to get there. Biyu, can you transport us through the rock?” the Wu asked.
“There are too many and the mountains would not permit it. The same way that Sabaa could not command the air enough to allow her to fly to it. Everyone who approaches the meeting does so as a person, on foot or horseback,” Biyu said.
“I made plans,” Dà Lóng said. “The garrison is being made ready to march. We are less than a day from the pass and the soldiers were placed here to protect my access to the meeting. The valley leading to the Mountain is narrow and rocky. The Mongols will not be able to use their horses as effectively. The Empire army will engage them in battle, to distract them long enough so that we can use one of the higher tracks. Once we are through, the army has orders to retreat to the pass entrance and to contain the Mongol army.”
“Won’t they just be waiting at the base of the Mountain?” Zhou said.
“The pass narrows quite quickly,” Sabaa said. “Little room for an army, unless it is willing to march in single file.”
“We leave in the morning,” the Emperor said. “Rooms have been made available to you. The servants outside will see to any of your needs.”
Haung stood first and helped Biyu stand. The old lady patted him on the hand, the action of a kindly grandmother thanking a child. An act at odds with her sharp tongue and sharper mind. She walked from the room and he could hear her berating one of the servants outside. Sabaa left next and Haung waited for Zhou to stand, but the diplomat did not move.
“Go, Zhou,” Xióngmāo was saying to him. “I think my family and I need to talk. We only have a few hours until we leave for the pass and there are many years that we need to cover.”
Haung saw the Wu, his clothes covered in rock dust, reluctantly stand and move back from the table.
“Come on, Zhou,” Haung said to his fo
rmer enemy. “Let’s go eat.”
He led Zhou from the room, placing his hand on the man’s elbow to guide him. The Wu’s face was pale and there was a look of deep sadness in his eyes.
# # #
“There they are,” Haung said. Underneath him, his horse danced a step sideways and he soothed it with a pat on the neck.
“There are a lot of them,” Zhou said.
“No,” Jing Ke replied. “They look more because the valley is narrow.”
In the centre of the line, the Emperor sat astride a great dark horse. Xióngmāo, sat upon a grey mare, had taken up position next to her father. On the other side were Sabaa and Biyu, then Jing Ke. It was clear, throughout the long ride, that conversations had gone on long into the night and not been a total success. Haung had tried to make conversation during the morning, but the Taiji had ridden in silence.
“They are expecting us,” Haung said. “They’ve drawn up in lines. It will be dark in a few hours. Are we going to set up camp?”
“No, Colonel, we are going to attack,” the Emperor said. “There is no time. My daughter has told me who leads the Mongols and, though I thought him dead centuries ago, we cannot permit him the chance to ruin this meeting.”
“Who?” Haung sat forward in his saddle.
“A Wu named Yángwū. Once the strongest of all.” The Dragon Emperor stared down into the valley. “Zhou has met him and the description seems accurate enough, as do the stories he tells. That this Wu is no longer in possession of his old power is no cause for joy. If Zhou is correct, and Yángwū is not lying, then he has somehow gained the power of two immortals, the realms of fire and death.”
Haung followed his gaze down into the valley. Either side of the narrow, flat valley floor were steep cliffs of dark stone, a gorge cut by water that no longer flowed. According to Biyu and Sabaa there were tracks along those cliffs that had been used in millennia past when the river still flowed. These thin roads of stone were, in places, only wide enough for a single person, but they were there.
The valley floor itself swarmed with Mongol warriors on horseback, small figures rushing around in complex patterns, but with an aura of order rather than chaos. His first thought was of the ant hill he had broken apart, in the fields beyond the walls of Yaart, when he was a child. The little creatures had crawled all over his bare arms and legs, their bites raising small welts and lumps on his skin which stung and itched for days afterward.
“Colonel,” the Emperor said, “could you issue the orders then lead Zhou and Xióngmāo to the stone roads. The rest of us will be needed for the initial stages of the battle, but we will join you shortly.”
Haung bowed in his saddle. “Of course, my lord.”
He beckoned to Zhou and the Emperor’s daughter, wheeling his horse around and galloping back to the lines of waiting Empire soldiers. Four generals were waiting to meet him as he slid down from his horse. Beside him, Zhou and Xióngmāo did the same, handing the reins to soldiers who led their mounts away. Where they were going, horses were going to be of no use.
“The Emperor requests that the war wagons and shield walls be brought to the fore. Deploy the archers and infantry. He wishes to attack right away,” Haung said to the generals.
The four men looked at each other and then towards the sky. The grey clouds of early winter promised snow, a cold wind snapped at the pennants and flags, and Haung shivered. He could understand the reticence of the experienced generals in front of him. Fighting at night, on an unfamiliar rocky ground with little room to manoeuvre was inviting disaster, but Haung had to remind himself that the battle was a distraction. A means to an end, and that end was the group of immortals making their way, safely, to the meeting.
Shouting out the orders, the four generals turned away from Haung and began to organise the army.
“Come on,” Haung said. “The beginning of the track is supposed to be on the western side of the valley.”
They passed through the massed ranks of the army, thousands of men dressed in leather armour and steel strip helmets, their plumes waving in the wind. A variety of expressions were evident, from fear to hope, anger to desperation. They followed orders as they had been trained to. Just as Haung had been. It seemed a lifetime ago.
The clatter of swords and armour faded as they began to climb, the sparse grass disappearing beneath their feet. The ground became a loose collection of sharp-edged rocks that slipped and tumbled down the slope behind them as they ascended.
# # #
An hour later, covered in rock dust and dirt, with a stinging cut on his cheek from a falling rock, Haung crested the last of the rise and stood upon the stone path. Ahead, to the north, the path rounded a corner. A low stone wall was all that marked the edge, giving the illusion of safety. Behind them, the paved surface vanished beneath a tumble of rocks.
“Let’s move,” Haung said. “We can make sure the path is clear, ready for the Emperor and everyone else to join us.”
Zhou nodded, the man’s mouth was a hard line. Haung looked toward Xióngmāo whose eyes carried a haunted look, she nodded as well.
Haung unclipped the scabbard from his belt, holding it in his left hand, ready to draw the sword with his right should the need arise. “I’ll lead.”
Keeping close to the sheer cliff, he sidled up to the first corner and poked his head around. The path was intact though there were several large boulders which had evidently fallen from the rocks above. They did not present an impassable barrier and he waved to the others, stepping round the corner as he did so.
The view ahead, revealing more of the path, showed only that it meandered, twisted and turned, following the contour of the cliff face. As it did so, it rose in height. The gradient was gentle, but with a view along the side, which he had now, it was perceptible. In the far distance, rising above the path and over the cliffs were the three peaks of the mountains. If anyone was up there, it was impossible to tell from this distance.
He waved them onwards and set a steady pace. There was no guarantee that the pathway was free from Mongols. Yángwū, the Emperor had explained, with Biyu chipping in whenever she felt the explanation was lacking in detail, had been to the previous meetings. He would, therefore, know about the paths.
Turning a corner, the path entered a narrow chimney in the cliff face. To the right, a thin shard of rock rose high over the pathway to join the rest of the cliff in a sharp angled arch about, Haung estimated, the height of ten men above his head. The passage way was not long, maybe thirty paces, and looked as though it opened out onto a wider section of the pathway.
Haung’s instincts kicked in, saving his life, three paces into the passage. The first Mongol arrow struck the stone where his head had been a moment before. A second whistled down the constricting corridor. He called out a warning to Zhou and Xióngmāo as his sword cut the third arrow from the air and he settled into the quiet.
Twenty paces to go and another arrow flew towards him. Without breaking his stride he swayed to the side, letting it fly past.
Fifteen paces and he was forced to leap over the fifth and sixth arrow. His feet found the rock wall and for five paces he skipped along it, before dropping into a forward roll as the seventh arrow raced towards him.
Five paces and a growl sounded behind him, echoing along the corridor. The eighth arrow went wild, skimming off the wall and twisting in the air like the bamboo dragonfly he had bought his son.
He flew out of the corridor, the Jian sword cutting left and right as he spun in the air. The two Mongols fell, red lines painting their necks between armour and helmet. Recurved bows dropped to the stone, taught strings slapping at the wood and a readied arrow ricocheting off the paved slabs, spiralling out into the winter sky.
Zhou erupted from the corridor, dark eyes bisected by a golden diamond that shone with rage. The Wu landed on all fours as Haung’s feet found the floor again. The diplomat of Wubei did not waste any time, jumping once again and sailing over the large boulder that lay t
en paces ahead. A scream sounded from the other side.
Haung darted forward as another Mongol slashed down at him with a curved sword. Sliding under the blow, Haung let his sword slice along the inside of the Mongol’s thigh, under the thick leather and fur tunic, cutting deep into the meat and finding the large blood vessels there. Rising, he twisted the sword, opening the wound and left the mortally wounded invader to die.
A pain filled gasp sounded behind him and he spun around, sword leading and sweeping up to block the attack that never came. Another Mongol had evidently dropped down from a small ledge above. He had never had the chance to swing the sword at Haung’s unprotected back and now stood, back arched, on his tip-toes, blood bubbling from his mouth. Xióngmāo withdrew her two daggers letting the Mongol fall into a heap to the floor, and nodded to Haung.
He cast around for more, but the pathway was silent. Zhou stepped out from behind the large boulder, his staff and hands covered in blood.
“The others ran,” Zhou said, pointing down the pathway.
“There will be more,” Xióngmāo agreed.
Haung words were drowned out by large explosions which raced up the side of the cliff to batter against his ears.
Chapter 39
The explosion echoed along the valley, the sound chilling Zhou’s blood. Above his head, a groan emanated from the rock, as if a giant had awoken from a deep sleep, and vibrations rang through the stone beneath his feet. A rain of small stones clattered upon the pathway accompanied by a veil of rock dust and the groaning grew louder.
“Into the passageway,” Zhou shouted and began to run. In the valley below, a confusion of coloured light lit up the dark skies and a new round of explosions followed.
He grabbed Haung’s arm as he raced towards the dubious safety of the rock archway. The Jiin-Wei had been gazing upwards in shock. If his mouth, Zhou thought, had been any wider the man from Yaart was going to swallow the whole mountain. He pulled him along, breaking the stare and forcing Haung to find his feet.
Xióngmāo was already in the passageway when he arrived, followed by Haung. He hurried her further down, away from the entrance as the falling rocks grew in size, crashing onto the stone path. Rock dust billowed in great clouds from both ends of the passageway, flooding the corridor and obscuring his vision.