Swallowtail & Sword: The Scholar's Book of Story & Song (Tails from the Upper Kingdom 4)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Do not let your heads be filled with thoughts of bonding, imprinting or love, Tang-St. John had said. They will eat you as soon as choose you.

  This horse could kill him, he knew, but with the spear, the shield, the swords and his own claws, he could also kill the horse. It was a mutual relationship – cats and horses, and always had been. Dogs had never been so resourceful, preferring to kill and eat horses rather than ride them and so horses stayed safe and away. Good thing too. Packs of marauding dogs on the backs of savage thundering herds would present a threat that even the might of the Upper Kingdom could not withstand.

  The second rabbit now and the stallion took it eagerly, tearing and swallowing the flesh in great chunks. Finished, it tossed its head once more and grumbled. Kirin’s heart stopped dead as the horse took a step toward him, pawed a deep rut into the earth. Slowly, Kirin reached into the satchel for the second honeycomb, tossed it to the ground without the spear. The horse took it, crunched contentedly, its thick tongue separating the wax from the syrup, all to the gentle clanging of the bells.

  The last rabbit now. He released a deep breath and laid the spear carefully on the rocks, but kept the shield and the bell, just in case. He stretched out his arm, reached out with the tips of his fingers, gave the floppy carcass a shake. The horse grumbled again, ears pricked then laid back, pricked then laid back. It was thinking, Kirin knew, as limited as that might be. Thinking, weighing options – the rumble in his belly against the lion at the other end of the rabbit. And the possibility of more honeycomb.

  Yes, he dearly wanted to touch it.

  Most of the Avalanche was on its third rabbit and he noticed the outsiders becoming agitated. The large roan was one of them and he had resumed his pacing, snapping and snorting at the other three as he circled. One dove in to snatch a rabbit from the tip of a lion’s spear and away from the red horse the lion was feeding. The red horse squealed and bit, driving his fangs into the neck of the interloper and soon, their bodies thudded together, hoofs flashing, teeth drawing blood. The valley echoed with their fighting until the outsider relented and cantered off up the riverbed only to be struck by a volley of arrows from the mountainside. It staggered and went down.

  The air suddenly filled with dark shar chi as all the stallions grew restless. The head of his own bright bay shot up, nostrils flared, breaths coming in powerful snorts. Even the bells could not disguise it.

  With a squeal, a second outsider charged Liam’s black stallion and the sound of the collision was Thunder and Avalanche renewed. al’Massay-Carr cursed and threw the third rabbit and the horse leapt to snatch out of the air. It wheeled but the black threw itself into the horse’s path, clamping its jaws on the rabbit’s body and whipping his head savagely to the side. Immediately, the rabbit tore in half and each horse bolted in opposite directions. Liam cursed as arrows dispatched both horses when suddenly, a dark bay rushed in and snapped at the satchel wrapped to Liam’s waist, yanking the lion off his feet.

  “Shoot it!” Kirin cried to the distant archers and he scrambled across the snow and rocks towards his friend. “Archers, shoot now!”

  Liam had landed on his shoulder and was desperately trying to pull his sword from its sheath as the outsider dragged him across the stony ground toward the trees. He hauled the katanah from its sheath and in a powerful swing, severed the rope and released the satchel. The bay wheeled for the trees but arrows whipped through the air, thudding into its chest and flank. It continued until its forelegs buckled and it stumbled headfirst into the snow.

  Liam rolled to his knees, bruised and bloodied and beginning to push himself to his feet. But he was out of the protective circle and easy prey for a hungry stallion and Kirin saw the large roan thundering across the plateau toward him.

  “Liam!” Kirin cried.

  The roan struck like the Avalanche he was, sending the Middle Captain sailing back onto the rocks. Arrows thudded into the stallion but it was not slowed, rearing over him now and blocking out the sun. With horror, Kirin watched as the horse came down, both Thunder and the crack of lightning onto Liam’s thigh. The crack wasn’t lightning, however as bone shattered and blood sprayed across the rock.

  The roan reared again. In a heartbeat, Kirin knew that a second blow would likely kill, also that he could not reach him in time to prevent it. His hand went to the katanah and in one smooth motion, flung it from its scabbard, sending it sailing through the air like a shirh’khin, tip over hilt to bury itself into the roan’s throat.

  Iaijutsu. He had never done it, only seen it performed once. But it worked well enough to give him time as the horse reeled under the blow. He flung himself forward and grabbed Liam under the arms, dragged him backwards as the great hoofs came down like an earthquake. The horse tossed its head, blood bubbling up from its fangs and it began to wheel in ever-tightening circles. Finally, the iron legs buckled and it sank to the rocks, thrashing and groaning and spilling blood across the snow.

  “Shields and spears up!” snapped Ursa. “They may attack!”

  The other soldiers needed no other orders and they obeyed in a heartbeat, withdrawing to form an armoured circle with the shields as a wall. The Avalanche was subdued, however; silent and still, the Thunder dying along with the great roan. Ursa moved swiftly to her Captain’s side as he knelt to tend his friend.

  “Tell them to rope the horses,” he said. “And get the sherpi to help. This is why we’re here and we have succeeded.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and left his side. He could hear her shouting commands and soldiers moving to obey.

  “Did you find your golden horse?” asked Liam through clenched teeth. His face was bloodied from being dragged across the rocks, pelt torn away on his chin and his cheek.

  “I did,” said Kirin. The leg was bent at an awkward angle, the femur shattered, bits of splintered bone protruding from the leather of his uniform. If it had been lower, beneath the knee, there might have been hope but not the thigh. There would be no repairing this break. “He’s a bit ragged but should clean up nicely.”

  “Like my leg.”

  “Yes,” said Kirin. It was bleeding very badly and he knew the artery had likely been cut by shattered bone. “Like your leg. The physicians are coming now. They’ll patch you up as nicely.”

  “As long as I can ride home to my fiancée. I miss her already.”

  “Soon,” he said as the tigers descended. He watched them exchange glances, steadied his sinking heart as they lifted a small flask of sakeh to deaden the pain. The leg could not be saved and the bleeding would kill him as surely as a dagger or a sword. They might be able to take the leg but it would be at the hip, ending Liam’s military career along with his marriage to Anasuya Spring-Walters, daughter of the Second Magistrate of Cal’Cathah.

  He cursed the Thunder and the Avalanche and the blasted feline Way of Things.

  “Captain Wynegarde-Grey,” said one of the physicians. “Attend your horse. We have Middle Captain al’Massay-Carr.”

  He nodded, rose slowly to his feet as the tigers closed in. He risked a glance at Major Laenskaya. She had slipped a rope around the neck of her mare and was running her hand along the grey neck. She met his eyes but looked away quickly. She knew as well. Middle Captain Liam al’Massay-Carr would not be returning home to his fiancée.

  There was a breath on his neck. The horse was standing behind him.

  He ignored it, hated the tightening of his throat as he listened to the soft conversations of the physicians, watched the realization play out on his friend’s young face. Cursed himself now for being so weak. Death was a part of Bushido, as integral as honour and duty. A good death was the most any soldier could ask for and here, on the day of the Thunder and Avalanche, it was only fitting that it would come at the strike of a horse.

  “It is not weak,” said Master Yeo Tang-St. John suddenly appearing at his side. “Our feline natures are at once strong and sensitive.”

  “This is a barbaric ritual,” Kirin said, his
eyes locked on the physicians as they administered sakeh to deaden the pain. “Surely, there must be a better way.”

  “We double our army when we have both cats and horses able to kill on the battlefield. How better to defeat a legion of dogs than with feline strategy and horses who have a thirst for blood.”

  Tang-St. John turned his head.

  “You have won an impressive horse. You should touch him now. It is important in the attachment process.”

  “My friend is dying, Esteemed Master,” said Kirin. “My horse can wait.”

  “He won’t wait for long, Captain.”

  “Then he is not my horse.”

  The trio of tigers parted, and all three looked his way. He knew what they were asking, felt a pang stab straight through his very heart.

  “No,” he said. “Not Liam.”

  “You are ranking officer,” said Tang-St. John. “It will be first of many. Middle Captain al’Massay-Carr will be honoured.”

  Sinking, sinking, like a stone in a river.

  Liam would want it. Bushido demanded it. It would haunt him for the rest of his days if he refused.

  So he moved forward, casting a shadow as he stood over physicians and patient. Kirin had seen deaths from blood loss twice before to know his friend was feeling very little. A mercy perhaps. Maybe there were gods after all.

  “By the kabuki lips of Chancellor Ho,” said Liam. His eyes were glassy, his breathing shallow and his words slowed by a thickened tongue. “That is horrible sakeh.”

  Kirin grinned sadly. “You would know.”

  “I would indeed,” he said and blinked, lids sticking to his eyes. “Kirin, will you honour me onto that Last Road?”

  The Last Road.

  All the breath left his body as the memories flooded in. Liam’s smiling face that first morning in Kohdari, greeting him at the Five Hands Gate. The cursing that got him into constant trouble with Captain Shin-Portsmith and his generals. Getting drunk with him and Bo Fujihara on bittersweet Chi’Chen sakeh. Stealing Ursa Laenskaya out from under his Left Hand.

  “You honour me,” was all he could say.

  The tigers moved back as he sank to his knees.

  “My tanto,” said Liam. “In, in…”

  “In your boot, yes.”

  In the boot with the shattered leg, he found it, slid it out with a deep breath.

  “I have never done this before,” he said, unashamed to admit his lack of skill. “Where is best?”

  A tiger reached to place the blade tip between the ribs, angled Kirin’s hand so it would slide up and into the heart.

  “Wait,” said Liam and his hands moved to cover Kirin’s. “You will tell Anasuya that it was honourable and swift.”

  “I will.”

  “And that I loved her.”

  Unexpectedly, tears stung his eyes. He blinked them away. Cleared his throat, changed the grip on the hilt, wrapping his hands now over Liam’s.

  “I will tell her.”

  Do it.

  He could a deep cleansing breath.

  “What will you name your horse?”

  “What? My horse?”

  “The reason we’re here… after all.”

  He looked over at the stallion standing quietly behind Tang-St. John. As wild as it looked, it was a marvelous animal. The reason he was here. Right here, right now on this Last Road.

  “al’Massay,” he said. “I will name him al’Massay.”

  “By Ho’s twisted knickers.” His friend tried to laugh but it came out a groan. “I am to be remembered as a horse.”

  “For ever and ever,” said Kirin.

  Do it.

  He couldn’t.

  Liam grunted. “With that thought…”

  And his glassy eyes met Kirin’s.

  Do it, they pleaded.

  “With that thought,” Kirin breathed. “You join Ben Shin-Portsmith and your Ancestors on that Last Road.”

  Another deep breath and he welcomed the heart that was Bushido. His master, his guide, his rudder and foundation.

  “Greet him for me,” he said and slid the dagger home.

  One, he counted. Two. Three.

  Gone.

  He released a final deep, cleansing breath, sat back on his heels.

  All around him, soldiers touched their horses. Ran hands along their proud necks, patted their deep chests. Rubbed the poll between their ears, down the long faces to lift the lips, study the fangs.

  “Captain…”

  Cast his eyes across the Khali Ghandak Gorge, where six horses lay dead or dying in the snow. Where the bodies of two soldiers, now three, fed their Mother, the Great Mountains. She was a jealous, fearsome mother.

  “Captain…”

  Woodenly, he looked up. It was Ursa, her mare at her side. She held out his katanah, pulled from the roan’s throat. The blade was clean. She had wiped it on her own thigh.

  “Your horse wants to meet you, sir,” she said.

  He looked over at the horse.

  “al’Massay is a good name,” she said. “Strong and proud. It suits him.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Go meet him, sir.”

  He sighed, slowly climbed to his feet. It seemed to take a lifetime. Took the sword, slid it into its sheath and turned.

  The horse grumbled, tossed his head. Except it wasn’t a grumble, he realized. It was a nicker, deep and rolling up from his great chest. And the head toss was not in anger but rather up and down, a nodding gesture removed of the defiance.

  He reached into the satchel and pulled out the last of the honeycomb. He stared at it.

  He couldn’t move.

  The young stallion pawed the ground and chomped his teeth, large eye fixed on the comb.

  His legs were stone, like the rest of him.

  “al’Massay,” he said and the horse approached. Step, step, step until he was close enough to touch. He held up the honeycomb and the horse took it, munching happily the sticky sweet, working the wax off with his tongue.

  He longed to touch it but he was numb, a lion made of wood and stone.

  Still chewing, the horse reached his large head toward him so that the muzzle almost touched his forehead. It breathed him in, puffing great puffs on his face, his chin, his eyes. It tasted him with lips that were almost like thumbs, leaving smears of honey across his cheeks.

  He smiled. At least his face could work.

  “al’Massay,” he said again. “First is luck. I am very lucky to have you.”

  He wished he could move but even his wishes were dead.

  Then the horse did an unexpected thing. He lowered his great head and leaned it into Kirin’s body, arching the proud neck, making it easy. Making it so very easy.

  The stinging in his eyes returned and this time, he let them fall. His hand moved of its own accord now, reaching up to touch the young stallion. First a light touch, a slide of the palm along the curve of the neck, marveling at the feel of the coat. Winter coat, he realized. Very coarse, very thick. He needed a brushing. He would shine like dappled gold after a brushing.

  And he leaned forward now, ran his hand along the neck, down to the deep chest, feeling the muscle solid and strong. Both hands now up to the withers, into the mane, back up to the cheek, flat as a gong.

  “You are a fine horse,” he said. “A very fine horse. My horse, al’Massay.”

  The horse nickered.

  “al’Massay, my friend.”

  He wiped his cheeks with his palms and took a final, deep cleansing breath. Life and Death in the Great Mountains. It was the Way of Things. It was their way and it was good.

  There are times in a man’s life when the days are too rich and the air too sweet. Times when challenges come at a cost and comradeship is thicker than blood. Times when the battles are so fierce, the losses so steep that when they are ended, it is like falling into the arms of Heaven and even the sleep is bliss. Those days a man can, and should, savour every moment for he knows they cannot last. But wh
ile he lives them – for good or ill – he lives.

  Twelve had risked the Thunder. Twelve had faced the Avalanche. Nine had lived to tell of it but, for good or ill, nine had lived.

  He laid his hand on the stallion’s shaggy neck and turned, his step leaden and his heart heavy on the road that led to Pol’Lhasa.

  Bridge Over Tiger Stream

  Before my footsteps have reached the place

  my heart is already there;

  The spirit of the whole mountain

  beckons me from all sides.

  Solitary, strange, ancient and rare

  a universe gathered together.

  But here only the tiger stream

  and the bridge over the stream.

  Would I might see the old master

  riding the tiger across!

  The mountain moon is low now

  as large as a bamboo hat;

  The water gurgles, bubbling and splashing

  trees break up the light.

  Startled

  four or five children

  fall from the branches.

  And I laugh.

  The School of One Hundred Thoughts

  Year of the Ox

  Bright eyes will open

  The company of scholars

  The smile of old books

  It was tall, it was regal and it was utterly terrifying.

  “Oh mother,” said Fallon Waterford. “Can we go home now? Please?”

  “About time,” grumbled her father. “We don’t belong here.”

  But her mother smiled, causing the stripes to wrinkle ‘round her eyes.

  “We don’t belong here?” she asked. “At the university?”

  “In the accursed capital city, that’s where.”

  “Dharamshallah,” breathed Fallon. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “And so is the University,” said her mother.

  Fallon sighed and clutched her journals to her chest. Her mother was right. The University was breathtaking. The School of One Hundred Thoughts was the largest building in Dharamshallah, second only to the Imperial Palace and like it, towered high above the hilly streets. There were many staircases leading into the complex, with huge fire urns to stave off the chill from the mountain air. Columns flanked the steps and outer court, supporting three stories of winged rooftops and ceremonial arches. The walls were red plaster with bronze medallions, each stamped with one of the One Hundred Thoughts. She had memorized all of them for her interview tomorrow. A fraction of the things she had memorized.