The Blue Mountain (The Forbidden List Book 2)

by G R Matthews

  There were other differences too. Zhou noted that Haung’s light was contained within the outline of his body. In others, the glow flowed from their body, creating an aura around them. Xióngmāo’s glow was the brightest of all. It filled her entirely and spread far beyond the limits of her body. The purest, brightest blue he had seen since the heart of the mountain. It was hard to look at for more than a moment. She moved in small little steps, always a movement ahead of her attackers. The general’s glow was diffuse and weak. He was surrounded by his own bodyguards who fought as one unit, each covering for the other.

  Gang and Liu fought in separate knots of the enemy. Their glows pulsed in a constant, even rhythm. Gang’s was slow, Liu’s much quicker, but both matched their style of fighting. The slow hammer, swinging in great arcs, battering the Mongols, crushing them against the wall. Liu’s axes were always in motion, catching a sword one moment and then slicing through the unprotected legs of a Mongol, the other axe battling a different opponent.

  Enlai’s light was the strangest of them all. It was there and it was pure blue, but it was so small, so contained within the centre of his body. A small pinprick of blue that shone brighter than anyone’s except Xióngmāo’s

  Yet, despite all the skill shown by the Empire forces, Zhou could see they were being forced back from the parapets. They were ceding the control of the wall, being beaten back by sheer numbers. As they retreated, the light at the centre of each man dimmed. Zhou could smell the sour scent of fear and desperation. They were losing.

  Then Xióngmāo was there, next to him, in the middle of the battle. Her face was calm and she stood still, ignoring the battle around her. From her centre, blue threads speared out. Not towards the enemy, but to the Empire soldiers. A thread for each. Every one pulsed and thickened, pouring energy into each man, strengthening, bolstering courage and determination. Only two remained unattached. Even so, Haung and Enlai fought in unison. Swords darting out, parrying away the attacks and stabbing into the weak spots of enemy soldiers. They killed every, and any, Mongol soldier who stood against them.

  The Empire began to fight back. Each soldier moving in perfect synchronicity with those around him. Slicing and cutting where there were openings. Defending each other, parrying away blows that would have wounded another. They fought as one and the line steadied.

  “I cannot do this for long,” Xióngmāo spoke in a calm, hollow voice. “Do something.”

  Zhou jabbed his staff into the chest of the nearest Mongol, throwing him back into those behind and creating space to think. Xióngmāo was a fully trained, experienced Wu and Zhou knew that he was not. Close to two years ago he had been a diplomat seeking advancement, respect and riches. What could he do but keep on fighting as he had been?

  “What?”

  “Anything,” Xióngmāo’s voice was beginning to crack with effort. Her own light was dimming as she gave more and more of herself to the troops. “Quickly.”

  The last time he had tried to use the spirit to accomplish anything but enhance his own physical strength and speed he had collapsed. Boqin had defeated whatever he instinctively tried to do, and Zhou had woken up days later as weak as a new-born kitten. Xióngmāo was a protector, it was clear from her time in the tent town before the walls of Yaart. Clearer still from the training that Boqin and she had given him on the Blue Mountain. That was not his way. Like the great bear, he was a hunter, a killer. Attack was always preferred to defence.

  He let the Empire soldiers push past him, forming a wall of steel and leather that would, he hoped, keep him safe while he attempted something. Zhou gave the spirit everything, every part of his being, let it drown him. His vision changed, the outlines of people fell away, the wall disappeared and only the glows remained. Purple for the Mongol soldiers, blue for the Empire, a mix of green and blue for the vegetation. To the right, far away, the bright red of the Mongol magicians and swathe of crimson covering the land north of the wall.

  But it was the dull purple in front of him that he focused upon, the blue spirit in every soldier battling the red. The colours swirled, twirled and danced around each other, two liquids, oil and water, occupying the same space but not mixing. Zhou’s spirit was not for defence. It cried out to attack and he did. Sharp spears of his own blue light flew, stabbing into the purple. The blue cut and sliced at the red, dicing it into smaller and smaller pieces.

  Mongol warriors staggered back, clutching their chests and crying out in agony. No invitation was needed and the Empire soldiers leaped forward, spears, swords, and axes leading the way. The invading army faltered.

  “Again,” Xióngmāo gasped.

  Chapter 38

  Haung stepped back, away from the horde of Mongol soldiers who were clambering over the wall. Around him the Empire soldiers did the same. He flicked his sword out in a parry and followed it with a straight lunge, the sword flowing through the Mongol’s defence and stealing his life. The soldier on his left fell, a look of surprise his final expression. Another to his right crumpled, the fletching of an arrow poking from out of the gap between armour and helmet. He took another step back as more breasted the wall.

  It was not a sound, but he heard it. A silent sigh that escaped the lungs of every soldier. They wavered, a gust of wind over the rice paddy, every stalk leaning back. The quiet fled and he could taste blood, death and fear in his mouth. The world dropped away, terror filled him and he was falling. He would never see Jiao or the baby ever again. His son would grow up without a father, without him. The urge to run was strong. He fought it. He was losing.

  “Lot of them,” Enlai said as he moved through the lines to stand next to Haung. The old corporal looked detached, calm, and distant.

  “That’s true,” Haung managed to say.

  “Just means more to kill,” Enlai said as he parried a short spear away and, with the return stroke, sliced the Mongol warrior’s neck. Red blood gushed and the warrior stumbled away clutching his throat. “How is your arm?”

  “It itches,” Haung replied. He ducked the axe aimed at his head and thrust his sword into the attacking Mongol’s groin.

  “Funny that,” Enlai smiled, “mine too.”

  Haung chuckled, “Of all the times to get bitten.”

  “Haung, for a Jiin-Wei you are very dense.” Enlai killed another Mongol and then lifted his blade high, point towards the sky and let the sleeve fall down. Haung already shocked by the corporal’s use of his name rather than rank could only stare open-mouthed at the fiery dragon that glowed on the man’s arm.

  “Stop gaping and start killing,” Enlai said and he diverted an attack that was designed to take Haung’s head from his shoulders.

  “Who are you?” Haung started to breathe again.

  “Keep up, if you can,” Enlai said, stepping forward towards the parapet and the Mongols cresting it.

  Haung saw the line steady, a resolve growing in the Empire soldiers. He reached for the quiet he had lost and found it in the strong beat of his heart. Strength flooded his muscles, eyesight sharpened, every detail of the battle became clear, the clambering Mongols, faces full of rage, fur lined helmets over dark eyes, curved swords swinging and slicing into the defenders on the wall. Haung took a deep breath, the taste of blood was absent and, instead the clean, sweet air of a bright spring morning filled his lungs. He took a renewed grip on his Jian sword and stepped forward, following the mysterious corporal, into the Mongol warriors.

  All along his section of the wall he saw the same thing. Soldiers pausing in their retreat, their chests swelling and the fear of defeat leaving their faces. Courage flooded the wall, sweeping through each and every man. A great cheer went up from the soldiers and they pressed forward once more. Haung took the moment to look around, marvelling at the change of heart amongst the Empire soldiers. In their midst, stood the small dark haired woman who had accompanied the diplomat of Wubei. She carried no weapon, spoke no words, or made any exhortations, yet all around her the men rushed forward into battle and H
aung knew she was the source of their renewed courage. How she did it, he had no idea. It did not matter. The fact was, the men were pushing forward, forcing the Mongols back.

  He found the quiet once more, let it enfold him, and let his sword lead the way. The first Mongol died without mounting any defence against his blade. All movement slowed as he sank deeper. Reaction, not thought. Before a Mongol had started to swing, he had seen it and moved. Sliding beneath axes, he cut at their legs. Leaning around thrusts, he sliced their arms, bellies, throats. The only man moving as fast as him was Enlai.

  The two of them fell into a rhythm. A partnership in battle. Two swords fighting as one, without thought. Two masters, cutting their way through the enemy. Enlai’s parry forced the Mongol’s blade high and Haung’s stabbed the man through the unprotected armpit. Haung caught the axe hand of an invading warrior, pulling him forward onto the point of Enlai’s sword. It was intoxicating. They moved, flowed, and danced through the Mongols.

  Theirs was the only place where true advancement was being made. Elsewhere the Mongols had regrouped near the wall. For each one who fell, another took his place, jumping from the ladder and joining the battle.

  And then they fell. The front rank of Mongol warriors just collapsed. One moment they stood, fighting, shouting and the next they were down, unmoving. No one had cut them. No empire blade had stabbed into their flesh. They simply fell.

  “Again,” he heard the lady’s voice command.

  Another group of Mongols fell, boneless, to the stones of the wall.

  “Forward,” Haung shouted.

  * * *

  “See to the wounded,” the general ordered. “Clear the dead from the walls and throw those bastards back where they came from.”

  Haung took a cloth from his belt and wiped his sword clean before re-sheathing it. His arms ached, his lungs burned, but it was good to be alive. The rapid click and crack of crossbows began again as Empire archers harassed the fleeing Mongols.

  A great cheer went up from the soldiers on the wall accompanied by an undertone of relief. Haung looked along the parapet. Everywhere there were men, Empire and Mongol, lying dead or dying. The wounded defenders were being helped by those who had been lucky enough to avoid having their flesh sliced open, their guts impaled on a blade or their bones broken by an axe or club. The other wounded, the Mongols, were not so fortunate. Death crews, troops specially selected for the task, went amongst the wounded. The men of the Empire, in pain and with no chance of survival were given the mercy of a quick death. The Mongols were picked up and tipped over the wall. Most died on impact, but the cries of those few who survived the drop were pitiful.

  “They will be back,” Haung said to the general.

  “Indeed, we do not have long. Corporal,” the general turned to the corporal, “go and fetch Master Shen. It is time for the magicians to do their work.”

  “Do it yourself,” Enlai said from his position, sat with his back against the wall.

  “Corporal,” the general shouted, “you forget your place. You will do as ordered or I will have you executed here, on the spot, right now.”

  “Haung, explain it to him. I’ve really had enough of his voice. I need food and drink.” Enlai pushed himself back to his feet, bare sword in hand and walked off towards the stairs. “I’ll be back when the fighting starts.”

  “Sergeant,” the general screamed, “arrest that...”

  “General,” Haung interrupted, “let him go. He has the Emperor’s mark on his arm. He is on the list.”

  “What? He can’t be. He has been with us for years. We would have seen his name by now,” the general spluttered.

  “Actually, sir,” JunFu Gongliang said, “I believe the corporal only arrived about seven months ago. He was one of the guards on the first shipment of huo-yao powder that came in during the spring.”

  “What? How did a caravan guard get so close to the senior officers? He has been in and out of the tower more times than I can recall.” The general cast looks at all of them and no answer was forthcoming. “I will find the answer. Tongjun will have the orders stored somewhere. I do not like this. That cursed list causes more trouble than it solves. Sergeant, go and fetch Master Shen. I want his magicians ready for the next assault.”

  Chapter 39

  “Some things you have to learn for yourself,” Xióngmāo said.

  “But what did I actually do?” Zhou dipped the ladle into the barrel and took a long drink.

  “You have started to understand some of what you are capable of.” Xióngmāo took the ladle off of him and drank her own measure of water. “So far all of your training was in the internal skills of a Wu. Calling the spirit, caring for it, learning how to use it. Today you took the first step towards the external skills. Once you understand the true nature of spirit and can balance its needs with yours, you will be able to do things you never thought possible. You must cultivate both styles, internal and external, to be a master.”

  Zhou sat on the dirt near the fire pit. The second shift were on the wall keeping an eye on the Mongols. The first shift, those who still lived, had retired to their tents and barracks to rest. The camp still buzzed with activity, soldiers and administrators rushing about on their errands.

  “Zhou, you have seen Gang and Liu fight. Each uses a different style but they are both effective. They have practised for many years to be as good as they are. They understand their styles and techniques. They are masters. That is what you must become,” she said.

  “What about Haung and Corporal Enlai? They were the only two who did not take the energy from you,” Zhou asked.

  Xióngmāo smiled. “They are Taiji. Though I do not think Haung expected to run into another, and one more skilled than he. In many ways, you are at similar stages in your training. You both have had enough to be dangerous but not yet mastered all that you need to know.”

  “A Taiji?”

  “The Taiji are masters of their own spirits. They do not call on others, do not rely on magic, have no tricks except their own skills and training. I have always found the Taiji interesting to study. There used to be many more of them, before the temples became jealous of each other and started to fight. The Taiji wanted no part of the war. They cut themselves off and carried on developing their understanding of Qi.” She shook her head and a sad note entered her voice as she continued. “But they could not cut themselves off completely and the other temples banded together to destroy them. By being apart from the conflict the other temple leaders felt that the Taiji were looking down on them, considered them arrogant. Every attack on the Taiji temple failed. The other temples eventually united around that common cause.”

  “What happened?” Zhou leaned forward.

  “The temples discovered where the Taiji were getting their food from and ensured that one delivery was full of poison. The masters survived the poisoning. Some of the adepts managed to overcome the effects, but all of the acolytes died. The next morning the other temples attacked. The smoke of their destruction could be seen for miles around. By the end of the day, the Taiji temple was no more and most of the monks were dead. The fire destroyed their library. We managed to recover a few scrolls and had stored them in our own. Now that is gone too.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what? Why did we take the scrolls?” Xióngmāo sat down next to him. “Zhou, the Taiji are our opposites. We seek other spirits and bond with them. They focus upon their own to exclusion of others. We both cultivate our path and we both stood to learn a lot from each other. They had a hierarchy and we have our loose collection of individuals, but we still communicated and helped each other. We were too few to make a difference. We could not protect their temple, but we could protect their knowledge.”

  “How many are left?” Zhou asked.

  “Zhou, the temple wars were hundreds of years ago. I know that three Taiji masters and two adepts survived. We sheltered them on the mountain for a time, but they could not stay. The chaotic nature of the W
u lifestyle did not suit them. There was no falling out. Each understood their place. We still do.”

  “So, how many are there today?”

  “The skills of a Taiji are in great demand, but finding one is harder than digging up diamonds. Haung’s teacher lives in the capital, protected and nurtured by the Emperor. There are still people who would like to see an end to the Taiji, they fear their power. Hatred can outlast a single lifetime. Some find it hard to let go of supposed, half-remembered, ancient wrongs done to an ancestor whose name has been lost in the desert of history, a place where a life is one grain of sand amongst millions, where scholars focus just upon the wind that blows them about. Reason weathers away to expose fear and hate which, in time, become tradition and custom.”

  “What about Enlai’s teacher?”

  “That is something you will have to ask him. I suggest that you leave it for a while. It is really none of our business.” She opened the food pack at her feet and handed him a cold Baozi.

  “What is the filling?” He lifted the white steamed bun up to his nose and sniffed.

  “Just eat it,” she said with a smile.

  He returned the smile, a little weary, and bit into the soft flesh of the Baozi. From the top of the wall shouts of alarm stirred the camp into renewed fervour.

  “Here they come again,” she said, the smile fading from her face.

  Chapter 40

  “General,” Haung said, as he pitched the body of a Mongol warrior over the wall. He turned away before the body completed its downward journey and joined the pile of dead at the base of the wall. “We need reinforcements or the Fang-Shi. The Mongols are not giving up. They think we are weak. We need to show them our strength.”