Curt Benjamin - [Seven Brothers 03] - The Gates of Heaven

by Curt Benjamin

  Ghrisz nodded. With fifty thousand troops outside in addition to his own force and those Shokar was bringing through the tunnels, they should have no trouble defeating the Harnish raiders. They all knew the magician was the key, however. Markko could wipe the city flat with a storm like the one that had swept the Marmer Sea. He might command the demon-king to destroy the city if he chose. That’s why Llesho had to get to him first.

  “We’d better get moving, then. I’ll be your guide myself.” Ghrisz gave him a fleeting smile that disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Ping will meet you in the temple. I couldn’t stopher either.”

  That didn’t surprise Llesho. In his dream-walk, he’d found Ping waiting for him at the base of the temple tower and had it figured that she spent more nights than that one there. He followed Ghrisz down the long dark passage. He’d been in tunnels like this before, under the arena at Farshore, and following Shou through the secret passages under the palace in the Imperial City of Shan. With little concern for the weight of the great wall that towered above them, they made haste in the flickering light, while behind him the sound of his armies starting their attack thundered through the plaster.

  Llesho tried to close his mind to the numbers who would die in the diversionary battle. Master Markko’s raiders had the advantage of cover. Their arrows would be falling from above like murderous hailstones into the midst of his troops below, with only the shields of their swordsmen raised in a protective leather shell over his own bowmen. The wall of shields would protect them for a while, but his forces would break hopelessly against the might of that great wall if Shokar didn’t open the gate.

  All along the wall they heard the sound of fighting until Ghrisz angled them down, to make their way underground toward the center of the city. Bixei and his mercenaries had passed out of hearing long ago, heading for their own exit point. They would rejoin Llesho’s group closer to the palace, in case they had to fight their way through. For now, however, the goal was to pass in small bands unnoticed through the city streets.

  Here the tunnels were narrower and more roughly carved. No plaster or beams held up the earth over their heads—nothing but the dry stubbornness of the Thebin soil. For more than three li they traveled that way, their shoulders brushing one side or the other, with only a torch in Ghrisz’s hand ahead of them and one that Stipes carried behind to light their way. Narrow conduits brought fresh air from the surface, and sometimes the sound of shouting or running feet. Once Ghrisz pulled them into a side tunnel to let a runner pass on his way to the front.

  When they started moving again, the ground under their feet began to rise. “This way.” Ghrisz pressed against what appeared to be a solid wall.

  Llesho heard the slide of stone upon stone at ear level, then a breeze tickled his face. A hidden door swung open into a storeroom at the back of a tavern. The area was poor, the walls of Thebin plaster long gone black with soot. A hallway crossed in front of the storeroom, at the end of which a door stood open to an alley stinking of piss and worse. From the other end of the hall came the angry sounds of an argument in the public room.

  “By ones and twos,” Ghrisz said. He plunged his torch into a bucket that sizzled and smoked as the flame went out and pushed Hmishi and Lling into the hallway. After a few minutes Stipes doused his own torch and with Kaydu followed them into the public house, arguing loudly with the two princes.

  “More beer!” Ghrisz called, and the barman grabbed a club and shook it, bellowing, “Not tonight! If you are so keen to fight, take it to the gates! You’ll find plenty of work for your fists!”

  They had only just arrived and had done no fighting. Llesho figured the man was part of the plot and allowed himself to be chased from the pub.

  Great Moon Lun had not yet shown her face but Han and Chen cast a dim light as they chased each other across the sky, cloaking the streets in layers of shadows. None of this was familiar ground for Llesho so he hunched ear-deep into his shoulders and ran, following Ghrisz, who knew where he was going.

  Careening around a corner of broken plaster fallen in the street they were met by a squad of raiders rushing away from the temple in their direction.

  “He’s one of them!” shouted the leader, drawing his sword and pointing it at Ghrisz. Immediately his own cadre drew their weapons and the battle was on.

  “Go!” his brother shouted amid the clang of sword against sword.

  From its sheath at his back the short spear whispered, “Kill them!” in his ear, “Only cowards run!” But it had never spoken a true word to him in all the lifetimes he had known it. If he turned back to help here, Master Markko would gain valuable time against them. Just a few streets separated Llesho from the temple in the public square: from here he could see it rising in front of him, could figure out the way on his own.

  He started to run, almost stopped at the grunt of surprised pain he heard behind him. Kaydu, that was. Little Brother screeched in rage, and suddenly his monkey voice deepened, bellowed louder than Llesho had ever heard it. He did turn then, just a quick glance, that took his breath away. Kaydu lay curled on her side, protecting a wound on her arm that bled slowly but surely onto the street. Above her Little Brother, in his uniform of the imperial militia, had grown to the height of a man. In his great hairy arms he had taken up her sword and he lay about him with it in perfect form. Enemy and ally alike fell back in amazement, but Little Brother recognized friend from foe and soon the street was slippery with blood.

  Hmishi and Lling recovered quickly. Having traveled with Little Brother they’d had their own suspicions about him. Ghrisz had lived with fewer wonders but knew better than to insult an ally. “Go!” he said, and joined Little Brother in the attack. Llesho ran, dodged into an alley—

  —and tripped over a beggar who snatched at his ankle from the dusty shadows. “Turn back! The monsters are coming!” the voice called to him, hoarse as if he’d been shouting for a long time. If he saw the things that Llesho had seen, that seemed likely. It didn’t stop him, though; he turned onto the main thoroughfare, keeping close to the buildings collapsing in on themselves that had once been temples and markets and houses of trade and diplomacy.

  The Temple of the Moon lay in front of him but so did another skirmish, between bands of Harnishmen, it seemed. Except that he was sure he recognized the fighting style at the center of the fray. Bixei, holding the way clear for him, or trying to. Llesho tried to zigzag around the fight, caught the blunt end of a short spear in the head and kept on moving while the ringing in his ears clashed with the sound of steel on steel.

  Suddenly, moonlight so tangible he thought he might reach out and caress it poured like molten silver over its stepped sides. The sight filled him with so much yearning and pain and joy that for a moment he was paralyzed with the conflicting emotions. His mother had lived here, had held him on her lap and sung songs to him; had greeted dignitaries and priests alike with him tucked safely in her arms. His mother had died here, and her spirit still filled the temple with her death.

  High atop her tower, two bridges of moonlight would reach out to him. Menar’s prophecy itched at the back of his brain—two paths, it had said. Llesho knew which one he wanted to take, knew also that tonight he would go the other way. Not to the gates of heaven, where the Great Goddess awaited him, but to the Palace of the Sun, where Master Markko wove his poisonous webs.

  Ahead lay the small side door he’d used as a child and later in his dream travels. As he approached, Princess Ping appeared from the shadows dressed in tattered rags as she had before.

  “There isn’t much time left. Give me your hand.” She held out her own small, callused fingers and he took them, studying her eyes for something . . .

  “The spirits,” he began, a warning for her to stay out, to let him do alone what he had already done once.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Ping gave him a mischievous smile. Lifetimes looked out of her eyes at him. “There isn’t time—come on!”

  She gave a t
ug on his hand and he followed her willingly, into the temple, to the staircase that had haunted him with its sorrowful spirits. This time when the ghosts crowded near, his sister spoke to them and they fell silent. Only a hushed whisper, as of ghostly clothing passing on the stairs, accompanied them. There was purpose in that unearthly tread; the higher they climbed, the stronger the sound of ghosts following on the stairs became.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  AT FIRST the thought of so many Thebin dead at his back sent a chill of fear curling up Llesho’s spine. Gradually, however, he allowed his awareness of their company to warm the spirit that curled at the bottom of his heart. His thoughts reached out to the temple’s ghosts and they touched him, softly, as supplicants might kiss the robes of a priest who passed through the streets. They offered comfort and their own deadly protection, though he knew they couldn’t travel beyond their own tower.

  He felt the presence of his sister at his side, undisturbed by the spirits around them, and he knew she shared with him her easiness with their dead. He set the supplicant spirits aside with a promise, “Later,” but his thoughts were for the living. Reaching out to them, he touched living minds.

  The emperor of Shan sat his warhorse directing armies with a sword he clenched in his fist. With the emperor’s ears Llesho heard the screaming of horses, the singing of arrows in flight from the Uulgar wall and the cries of his own followers as those arrows found their mark. Shou/ Llesho raised his hand and a hundred ladders clattered against the Uulgar wall. Shannish soldiers climbed swiftly, dodging arrows—there were too many of them for the Harnish defenders. Llesho felt their fear and their determination as they climbed; some fell, and he staggered with the impact and kept on going. Others were reaching the top, drawing swords against bows and arrows that were no use for close-in fighting.

  This was new, this living in the skins of his soldiers, of the newly dead and the soon to die. Was it some gift of the tower itself, or had his own mind expanded to meet his coming trial? Shou turned his emotions to stone, focused completely on the wall in front of him. In his mind, the emperor didn’t waste men in a diversion to buy time for Shokar or for Llesho. He fought to take the wall, and if he had help from inside, fine, and if he didn’t, then they’d take it any way they could—over the top or chipping away piece by piece until they had turned it into bloody rubble.

  At his side the mortal goddess of war gathered messages from runners up and down the line. They could not hold long, but with a word, a command, they would, and did.

  Somewhere in the Palace of the Sun a raider made a decision. He would send no troops outside the wall to engage the enemy. The wall would defeat them, or wear them down, he didn’t have to make it easy for them. His master would see to their success; he just had to hold until the magician came out of his tower. A chill terror clutched at the man’s gut at the thought of Master Markko, an image of his own superior officer gutted on a spit for failing in his mission. Hedidn’t think, reminded himself not to think of surrender, of flight. The magician would know, would punish even the thought of failure . . .

  Shokar moved silently in the shadows, by small gestures directing half his combined force of Thebin recruits and finely honed Gansau Wastrels up a secret stairway carved inside the wall to the left of the great northern gate. On the right, the rest of his troops did the same. Unaware of the danger rising at their backs the Uulgar bowmen continued firing down into Shou’s army below. . . .

  Willing his awareness to sweep over the city like a dragon, Llesho found Habiba astride his rearing white warhorse, urging a division of Shannish and Tinglut troops against the gate. Arrows flew perilously close all around him. One would have shattered his breast and exploded his heart, but her ladyship’s witch held out his sword in a warding gesture and the arrow erupted in a shower of splinters over the pommel of his saddle. Habiba shook his head as if clearing it from a blow, then he raised his sword over his head and shouted a call to attack.

  At the rear, Bright Morning rolled bandages with Master Den and Balar. Carina and Adar stole a moment for a frightened embrace while they gathered their salves and unguents and medicines to reduce the fever in grievous wounds. Lluka they had tied to a cot where he lay shivering in dreams of disaster and destruction that Llesho had no time to battle right now. But Menar held his brother’s head and wiped his brow with a cool cloth, reciting healing poems over him from both Thebin and Bithynian apothecaries.

  Llesho ascended higher into the tower but now he scarcely noticed the gathering storm of spirits following him. His dream vision moved on. Little Brother was nowhere to be seen, but Kaydu had a makeshift bandage wrapping the wound on her arm. She had joined his cadre to Bixei’s mercenary forces and together they fought their way to the temple. When they tried to mount the haunted staircase, however, the voracious spirits drove them out again, half mad from the attempt. Kaydu set them about to defend the base below him, with Bixei to lead the defenders and Stipes as his lieutenant. She was a magician, the daughter of dragons, and would not abandon her charge to ghosts; Llesho felt her determination like a steady flame as she took one step and then another up the stairs. Hmishi joined her, his own heart calm. He had been where these spirits were, and had nothing to fear from them. Lling joined him, like hilt to blade he drew her into his calm, and together they climbed. . . .

  Shokar’s troops had reached the parapet above the gate and, with swords drawn, fell upon the archers, hacking and slaying. Llesho felt his brother’s determination, his loathing for his own actions as he cut down men who had no time to draw sword against them. Bow and arrow were useless in this struggle. Archers threw down their weapons, reaching for their swords, but too late. The first rank were cut down with hand to scabbard, but the second turned the battle against the new invaders. The commotion was bringing Uulgar defenders from positions farther down the wall to aid their fellows at the gate, but that gave Shou’s troops a clear shot with their ladders.

  Not soon enough for the emperor on the other side of the wall, however. Llesho fell back against the tower wall that girded the stairs he traveled. With a gasp of surprise he gripped the scar below his shoulder where long ago an arrow from one of Lord Yueh’s men had buried itself.

  “What is it?” Ping asked. She moved his hand carefully, looking for some wound, but saw none.

  “Can’t you feel it?” he winced, sliding to the step with his knees up around his chin.

  “I can’t sense beyond this tower, not until we reach the top. I need the light of Great Moon Lun to read the city.” Which told him something he’d begun to guess about her, too.

  The spirits had grown silent in the tower, but the sound of battle reached them from closer now. There was fighting in the city streets and below them Bixei’s mercenaries repelled a halfhearted attack on the temple. But the wounded lay on both sides of the wall, screaming, or too exhausted to weep into the mud of their own blood mixed with the soil of Thebin.

  “Llesho, come back to me!” Ping was looking at him with desperate compassion. “What do you see?” she asked him again.

  “Shou has fallen.” Llesho’s dream-vision found the emperor still on the battlefield, pale and bleeding in the arms of the mortal goddess of war. Her warhorse stood, steadfast as the mountains as his mistress took the emperor onto her own saddle.

  Not even the gods had time to mourn their losses now. “Take him,” Llesho heard the mortal goddess of war say, and felt the emperor’s body eased into the arms of his Imperial Guard. It hurt so that he couldn’t breathe when they moved him. Llesho realized that the emperor must still be alive, but for how long?

  “I think he may be dying.” He rubbed his face, trying to clear his mind of the lingering effects of Shou’s injury.

  Ping nodded as if his words confirmed something that she had only guessed until that moment. “Let me help you. I can’t stop it—if I were meant to, the tower wouldn’t have given you the visions in the first place.”

  “That’s enough,” he assured her
, comforted by the fact that she didn’t doubt what he had seen and felt.

  “Focus on me, and the staircase—direct your arms and legs as if you stood outside yourself. You can set the feelings at a distance.” She put her hand on his shoulder and the pain faded.Mother, he thought. He knew that was wrong, but her power felt familiar in that way. His mother had been a priestess-queen, a goddess in her own way.

  “Oh!” he realized. “I know who you are—”

  “Your sister. Always.” She meant more than this lifetime. His heart swelled within him. The sapphire princess indeed, and a stripling girl only in this world’s eyes. He trusted her utterly to lead him unharmed to the queen’s pavilion now. And he knew that, while he’d been born to be king for a little while, he’d never been meant to sit on the throne. Because his sister, Princess Ping, was going to be queen.

  He levered himself up and, shaking off the reawakened ache of old wounds, he started up the stairs again. This time he kept his thoughts focused on the worn stone of the steps he ascended, and the rough walls of the tower at his shoulder.

  He couldn’t quite block out the spirit presence that gathered at his back. Ping took his hand again, however, and he accepted his living sister and her dead courtiers as a comfort and support for his coming battle. When they had reached as high as they could go it seemed that every life of every priest and priestess, of every queen and all her children who had lived and died in the temple, accompanied them in these last steps of his quest.

  “I can’t kill him,” he said, a confession he hoped she’d understand. “There are innocents involved.”

  “We know,” Ping said, denying nothing of her connection to the spirits of the temple.