SHIANG

by C. F. Iggulden

  Gabriel looked up as Sanjin rose from his place. The heavyset man still limped and wore a dark expression, but there was something else there as well, something more like lust in the firelight. As Gabriel watched, the man walked around the fire and took hold of Marias by the arm. He began to pull her away from the light of the flames, his intentions clear. She cried out in shock and fear, her feet kicking marks on the ground and scattering sparks at the edge of the fire. In anger, Sanjin took a better grip on her hair.

  Gabriel stood up, his hand dropping to the Yuan sword. He hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. What did it matter to him if Sanjin took the woman? Marias was not his slave, was nothing to him. He began to take his hand from the sword hilt and a voice spoke within him. He challenges you.

  It was true. As soon as he had the thought, he knew it. Sanjin had been surly from the first moments in the long room, when Gabriel had interrupted the healing. His half-foot was a burden, but the man could have cauterised it in fire if he’d wished. Instead, he had kept it wrapped and bleeding, suffering constantly. Gabriel had sensed the man’s resentment enough times.

  ‘Put her down, Sanjin,’ he said. ‘You will not hurt her.’

  Gabriel blinked at that last. He had not meant to add anything beyond the first command. He was not certain he had control of himself in that instant and the thought terrified him. He had come too far to be thrown out of his new life. He opened his mouth once more, but Sanjin was already coming at him. The limp slowed the warrior only a touch as he came round the fire.

  Gabriel found himself fighting for his life, the Yuan blade flickering. He already knew it would not cut for him as it had for the young king of Shiang. The royal sword had been attuned to the man’s blood in some way which did not respond to Gabriel’s hand. Still, it was a thing of savage beauty even so, the balance perfect.

  The swords clashed a dozen times in succession, like bells ringing. He had the edge on Sanjin, Gabriel realised. Beyond the initial shock at the sheer speed of their encounter, he knew he was better. It was a heady feeling. They had fought side by side for an age in the grey place. There were no more experienced swordsmen alive.

  Gabriel picked his moment and struck Sanjin’s hand with the flat of his blade, hard as a hammer blow. The man’s sword dropped from nerveless fingers and Sanjin stood with his chest heaving and his eyes wild, certain he would be killed.

  Gabriel held up his sword in the guard position.

  ‘Be still now, brother. Or would you be killed over a woman? Over a slave? Is your life worth no more than that?’

  Sanjin took the opening he had been given and smiled through his bitterness.

  ‘I’m sorry. I am always in pain … It is hard to be calm.’

  Gabriel repressed a grimace. The price of peace was to be the man’s foot, it seemed. He gritted his teeth.

  ‘Very well, brother. I will try. But she is mine.’

  He hid the shock that rippled through him as he heard himself say the last four words. There had been no intention to speak again, but he had done so anyway. Gabriel swallowed, feeling sweat break out beyond mere exertion.

  ‘Show me the foot, brother,’ he said.

  He watched as Sanjin seated himself and unwrapped the bandages and the makeshift boot he’d had made in Shiang. On the other side of the fire, Marias was left alone to collect herself and wipe at her tears. She gathered up the plates and stayed away from the firelight. Gabriel did not look in her direction, preferring to keep an eye on Sanjin.

  The foot was worse than he had expected, Gabriel saw. He could smell the rot before the last bandages were off and drew back from it.

  ‘You should have seared the wound,’ he said.

  Sanjin shrugged, though now that Gabriel looked for it, he could see a tinge of sickness in the way the man sweated. His skin was slick with the rot. Perhaps that alone had given Gabriel the edge in their struggle. The thought gave him pause, but he had promised to try.

  The place where toes would have been was a clotted lump of dried pus and thread-like veins. It seeped and Gabriel put Sanjin’s blanket across his lap before he cradled the thing, trying not to gag at the smell. Darker lines reached up from the ankle and he wondered if it would be possible even to save the leg.

  ‘I have said I will try, and I will, but you must know this is rotting. It might be best to take the leg off – to make a clean cut.’

  ‘No. You gave Thomas eyes,’ Sanjin hissed. ‘You can heal this.’

  Gabriel nodded. He breathed long and reached within for the ocean that lapped against the rocks of whatever he was. It was no longer infinite, if it ever had been. He wondered if he risked his existence by dipping into it once again. Gabriel closed his eyes as he felt the first tremble of power seeping through his fingers. He heard Sanjin gasp, though in pain or relief, Gabriel did not know.

  When he opened his eyes again, the veins were writhing like worms. No. He did not have the strength to give. He felt the man’s fever withdraw, but as the ocean began to surge, Gabriel broke his grip and stood up.

  ‘Finish it!’ Sanjin said in desperation.

  ‘Brother, I cannot,’ Gabriel said. ‘There is no more in me! Look, I have done all I could. Your fever has lessened. I will tell Lord Ran to help you sear the wound. At least then it will not become infected again.’

  Sanjin nodded, anger clear in his face. Gabriel was pleased to see that frustration. Sanjin weak was dangerous enough. Sanjin whole would have been to invite his own destruction. The man was a snake.

  Gabriel felt a pulse in the air. He twitched as it passed through him, seeing the same shudder in Sanjin and Thomas. The Fool whimpered and clasped his knees close. Only Lord Ran and Marias were unaffected. It was not a happy camp, Gabriel reflected.

  At Gabriel’s order, Lord Ran heated a horseshoe nail in the fire until it glowed gold and red. When he pressed it to sizzle against the veins of the half-foot, Sanjin began to scream. It was very loud in the darkness, with the forest silent around them.

  Part Two

  * * *

  But better down there in the battle

  Than here on the hill

  With Judgement or nothingness waiting me,

  Lonely and chill.

  John Betjeman

  13

  Forest

  Hondo had lost the heel of his boot somewhere around the high passes, unnoticed at the time as he’d been in deep snow. It was such a small thing to cause him so much irritation, but each and every step was awkward after that. He was worried that his uneven gait would set off an old injury to his lower back and make him practically useless. An active man of his age always had parts that were weaker than the rest. His mastery of the Mazer steps had helped him recover from injuries that would surely have ruined others. Yet time rolled on for all men. Despite the talents of his youth, Hondo still had a right knee that twinged under load, and two sore spots on his elbows that never seemed to ease completely. Just about every joint ached as he trudged through forests, and the return of blood to his feet felt as if he’d put them in hot embers.

  It did not help that his single broken boot seemed to amuse Bosin. The great bear had come through the mountains unscathed, of course, though he told the twins he was hungry enough to eat at least one of them. None of it would have mattered if they’d found new horses, or even a village with a half-competent cobbler to fix the boot. Instead, they’d come below the snows to trackless forest. Hondo had been forced to remove the other heel with his knife. It was not ideal, as his feet now seemed always to be wet, but it was better than his back going.

  Hondo had said nothing when Bosin made a great play on how he had become shorter. He endured every weak attempt at humour with the same steady expression until the big man finally gave up.

  They had trudged together for five days, low on food and spirit, when they crossed a logging trail, the first sign of man they had encountered since coming down from the high passes. It was nothing more than an old cart track, with the marks of
wheels, but it meant they were returning to civilisation. With only the sun to guide them, the forest had seemed endless, as if some terrible curse or spell had been enacted.

  Hondo stood and stared along the track in dawning delight as he understood. They were all bearded and filthy beyond description, he thought suddenly. The prospect of a return to the company of men brought back some sense of correct form. It had not mattered as much in the woods, nor in the snow.

  ‘We should follow it,’ Bosin said.

  Hondo shook his head immediately, though he wanted to pat the ground, just to know it was real. The thought of leaving it behind brought an ache to his chest, but his old self was still there somewhere, beneath the scratches and the beard, beneath the shivering and the clotted muck in his hair.

  ‘It runs north and south, who knows for how long. Look there, at the mosses growing in the wheel marks. This has not been used for a long time.’

  ‘There’ll be a logging camp somewhere close, though,’ Bosin went on, dropping his head and adopting his most mulish expression.

  Hondo forced himself to speak calmly.

  ‘Logging camps move on when they have cut the trees in an area. This is an old track. I see no clearings here. Our destination is the city of Darien, Bosin, by royal order. Now, I am as tired as you, as wet and cold as you, but I will not weaken. We continue west. If it helps, consider your body as a lazy animal which must be beaten. Your will is stronger than your ass, Bosin.’

  To Hondo’s surprise, Bosin snorted and almost bent over, growing red as he wheezed his amusement. He was actually ill, Hondo realised, listening to the tortured breathing. The man had endured a great deal without even his usual complaining.

  ‘I hope so,’ Bosin replied.

  ‘Good,’ Hondo said sternly. ‘This is not a committee. I am continuing west. Come with me or not, as you please.’

  He set off and the twins paused only to glance at Bosin. He raised his eyes and muttered an oath before following.

  Hondo did not look back, though his stiff-legged anger faded after an hour. They walked as a group once more as the sun sank ahead of them, showing gold through the trees. On previous nights, they had made camp at about that time, but they’d crossed a newer track some way back and found the black embers of two old fires.

  Before the light could go completely, they heard the noise of men ahead and came out of the brush onto a wider track lined with old branches. It led down to a large and muddy clearing, with a dozen dormitory shelters raised on wood piles above the clay and roots. Huge saws could be seen as the four men stood and looked. As well as enormous tree trunks, piles of sawn lumber rested on pegs, waiting to be taken back to the markets. Village tables and doors all came from that place. A fire crackled in a stone pit, but no one sat near it. The night was cold and the loggers had set no guards, so that the clearing had an empty, almost deserted air.

  It was a rough-looking sort of place, Hondo thought. For all his delight in seeing the light of oil lamps and the prospect of shelter from the cold, he was aware that strangers would not be a common sight there, not so far out.

  ‘Let me speak to them,’ he said, eyeing Bosin. Hondo doubted the twins would start a fight in that place, but Bosin was a different matter. ‘I have silver. I’ll arrange to hire one of those huts for us, as well as some dry blankets and food.’

  ‘A lot of food,’ Bosin grumbled. ‘I am starving.’

  ‘Oh? Well, you should have said something!’ Hondo snapped.

  Bosin’s astonishment was so comical that they both ended up grinning. The lighter mood was down to the prospects ahead of them as much as any warmth of feeling.

  As the four swordsmen walked in, a bearded logger came staggering out of a building ahead. That place was bigger than the rest, with more light spilling from the cracks. The open door let noise out onto the muddy slush of the main yard. The man was laughing at something, but then he saw the four watching him. Almost without a pause, he spun on his heel to go back inside. As the door slammed shut, the men of Shiang could hear him yell a warning.

  Hondo cursed under his breath. He’d hoped for a chance to explain, but he supposed they looked like thieves or wild men to the loggers, coming in unannounced as they had from the dark woods. He felt his temper fray as the door slammed open again. Hondo had endured snow and hunger, rain, frost and being unable to wash properly or shave. He had endured the company of Bosin. Hondo felt ten years older than he had in the peace of Shiang, where a man could bathe and was treated with respect.

  The workers poured out of their rough tavern. They stumbled over one another to see the strange thing that had appeared in their camp in the middle of nowhere. In response, Hondo drew his sword. The bell note echoed across the camp, his action copied on the instant by the twins. Bosin looked at Hondo.

  ‘This is talking to them?’ he said.

  Hondo did not reply. He waited with his sword held downwards, relaxing into a guard position. For those who knew the language of stances, it would signal his willingness to fight, without being overtly hostile.

  The loggers kept coming. There had to have been forty of them in that single building, but even more came trotting over from various other shacks across the camp. They were, to say the least, a hard crew. Half of them had hatchets or axes to hand. The other half had drawn knives the length of a forearm at the mere sight of swords. Hondo was not worried by such untrained men. He did not doubt their courage, but he was the sword saint of Shiang. No professional is ever afraid of amateurs, as his first master had taught him. Hondo recalled the man had been trampled to death in a mob, which gave him pause. There were a lot of loggers and they were all armed. He should not underestimate them.

  The first man to have come out had returned buckling a thick belt around his waist. A tool of black iron hung from each of his hips. Hondo frowned as he came to the front of the group. He wondered at the open stance the man presented to him. Though he carried no blade, the fellow was grinning, utterly unintimidated in the face of the four men of Shiang.

  ‘You have no business here,’ the man called. ‘We ain’t a village and this is private land. So move on and you won’t find more trouble than maybe you expected.’

  The accent was strange, but Hondo could understand the words well enough. He certainly understood the tone.

  ‘I am Hondo, servant to the court of Shiang,’ he said. He waited for some flicker of recognition, but there was none. The loggers just stared blankly at his little group. Hondo sighed. ‘We’ve come a very long way and we are weary and hungry. All we desire is food and a place to sleep and wash.’

  ‘A lot of food,’ Bosin added.

  In the gloom, Hondo saw the speaker’s gaze flicker to the big man and remain on him, awed by the sheer size. The only light came from the tavern lamps and it had not been completely obvious just how big Bosin was. Hondo watched in irritation as the speaker turned a fraction in Bosin’s direction – as if Bosin were the greatest threat, or the master of that group. It was infuriating – and disrespectful.

  ‘Nice to meet you, meneer,’ the speaker went on. ‘My name is Vic Deeds and I’ll say it one more time. This isn’t a tavern for strangers and their pet bear, especially ones who walk in with swords drawn. So be on your way. Now, I won’t tell you again.’

  Hondo turned to his companions.

  ‘Kill this one. Perhaps the next will be more cooperative.’

  One of the twins stepped forward with the same unearthly grace he had shown before. The reaction was instantaneous. The speaker’s hands blurred as he reached for the guns on his belt. Before the twin could strike him down, Vic Deeds had fired twice and reholstered the pistols as if he had never moved.

  Hondo froze as white smoke billowed across him, tasting of gunpowder. To his horror, he saw the twin give a strange grunt and pitch forward. His brother ran to him with a cry of anguish and Hondo saw the one who called himself Vic Deeds reach again for the weapons he carried.

  Hondo reacted at the spee
d that had made him renowned. His hand came up with the tiny blade he had palmed almost without thought, flicking it past the second twin as the man dropped to his knees by his brother. It passed through a small gap and sank into the side of the gunman, spoiling his aim.

  Hondo had come forward behind his own blade, but his path was suddenly blocked by Bosin, who charged the loggers with a roar. Once again, gunshots sounded, over and over. Hondo saw Bosin smash one man down with a blow of appalling force, bellowing all the while. His sword killed another and then Hondo too was amongst them. Two men turned to flee and he put them down with quick strikes to the back, sliding his blade between ribs into the heart. The rest scattered and when he looked around, the gunman had staggered away, hunched over his wound. Even as Hondo peered into the darkness of the camp for some sight of him, he saw a horse being untied and the man trying to get up into the saddle.

  Without a thought, Hondo ran, making his legs work faster and faster in the thick mud. He made no sound as he came and Vic Deeds was frantic at the sight of a swordsman who moved like a rattlesnake coming at him, sword held low and clearly ready to cut his head off. There was no time to reload, not against those four. The reins of his horse had snagged on the holding rail and Deeds had to slash them with the knife he pulled from his ribs, though he cut his fingers as he did so. The leather parted and he leaped on. Even without reins, the horse sensed his panic and lurched into a run as he dug in his heels and gripped the neck with bloody hands.

  Hondo skidded to a halt as the horse vanished into the dark, fixing the man’s face and name in his memory. The sword saint was still trying to comprehend what had happened: the cracks of sound and the bitter powder smoke, the sudden collapse of the twin. Hondo felt a wave of dismay pass over him. He had not yet even reached Darien. He dreaded what he would find when he walked back.

  None of the other loggers seemed to be carrying the weapons of black iron. He wanted to look at one and understand how a man could use such a thing to strike another down from a distance. The thought made Hondo swallow drily as he crossed back to where the crowd had scattered. He understood what such weapons might mean.