The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom

by Dickson, H. Leighton

  The Bear laughed under his breath and followed.

  Ulaan Baator

  The sky was black, there were no stars, only a thin yellow moon but snow was falling like ash across the plain. Fires had been lit and men of all races crowded against each other as the fate of the known world circled each other on the Field of One Hundred Stones.

  They said nothing as they circled, Kirin sliding first the Blood then the Jade from their homes at his hip, the Khargan dragging the kushagamak along the ground. They did not look as they moved but they were aware, even down to the last hair, for it was a dance of sword and blood and steel. They were warriors born. It was, and had always been, the way of things.

  Like music to the dance, the kushagamak began to spin.

  It was a cruel weapon, a terrible weapon, the hook and chain of the Khan of Khans, and the Bear spun the lethal hook around and around until it was a blur but Kirin was not watching the hook. Kirin was not watching the Bear. Kirin had gone deep inside himself, where the heart of Bushido beat, strong and noble and whole.

  Without warning, they both lunged and the clang of steel echoed across the Plateau of Tevd. ala Asalan was heavy but Kirin was skilled and he rolled with the force, bringing the Jade around to slice leather at the Khargan’s belly. The hook slammed into the earth, the chains snapping like angry dogs, and the Bear drew it back, the hook swinging a wide arc toward Kirin’s head. He ducked it easily but then again, the Khan hadn’t really tried.

  They circled again, a low growl coming from the throat of the Khargan and Kirin lashed the Scales of the Dragon. They sent sparks up from the stones of the plain. The Lion Killer swung again, the Blood Fang parried but Kirin felt the impact up the length of his arm. He would not shake it out. Another lunge and both Blood and Jade caught ala Asalan between them like scissors and the sound made by steel on iron was the grating of dragon teeth. Again, sparks flew up into the night sky as they withdrew their blades and circled once more.

  It was a dance, the heart of Bushido his drum, the sliding of steel his song.

  The kushagamak spun again, even as ala Asalan sliced the space between them. It was a long blade, heavy and fashioned in such a way that Kirin knew a stab was the least of his worries. He pivoted as the blade moved through the air but the kushagamak whipped, its lethal hook no more than a blur, and Kirin stumbled as it caught the leather brace of the soteh, yanked him off balance and toward the Khan. He went with it though, rushing in and leaping from the ground as the Lion Killer sliced the air where his legs had been. As he leapt, he snapped his wrists and the Teeth of the Dragon sprang from the braces, raking the man’s face with steel.

  The Khargan staggered and Kirin landed lightly, still attached to the kushagamak by the braces of the soteh that covered his upper arm. He swung the kodai’chi up then, in a smooth motion, down and the leather plates and metal buckles fell away, leaving the arm bare of protection but free of the hook. The Jade’s green iron gleamed in the firelight.

  Five long slivers of red glistened on the face of the Khargan. He wiped the blood with his arm.

  “Seken,” he growled and raised the Lion Killer.

  “Ulaan Baator,” said Kirin.

  The Khargan rushed and steel clashed once again.

  ***

  It was snowing harder now as Ursa stormed through the last of the Legion, slaying any left standing, beheading all that lay on the ground. Her uniform, once silver, was as red as the Shogun-General’s and she picked up as many swords, arrows and bows as she could carry. Naranbataar was staring at the Eye of the Storm, still gasping its last under the yellow moon. He shook his head.

  “What?” growled Ursa as she pressed bloody arrows into his hands.

  “Could be Setse,” he moaned. “Oracles go mad. None live. Unless like that…”

  She looked at it.

  “That is a monster,” she said, spitting blood from her tongue. “Your sister has you.”

  “And Shar Ma’uul.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He looked down to see fabric torn across his ribs. Beneath, the pelt was separated, the pink flesh exposed to yellow bone. He glanced at her, frowned.

  “You also.”

  She grunted. Her arm was beginning to throb. She rotated it in its socket, shook her arm out.

  “Keep moving,” she said. “If you stop, you won’t move ever again.”

  She looked over to where her husband was dragging the body of the Needle toward the Storm. Mi-Hahn was perched on the inky shoulder, four eyes in her talons, one in her hooked beak. The Alchemist lay pushed up on one hip, head down and bleeding out of an ugly wound in her neck. Ursa shook her head. Better to kill the woman now. One swift stroke of the katanah and she would feel pain no more.

  “Get the horses.”

  And she left the dog to help her husband with the bodies of the Oracles.

  ***

  He was skilled and powerful and Kirin knew he had met a formidable fighter in Khan Baitsuhkhan. The man swung the iron sword like a club sometimes, like a spear at others but not at all like a feline sword or even a Chi’Chen one. It was barbed like an arrow—it would do more damage coming out than going in. He wondered how many men it had slain and of those men, how many lions. Even more deadly was the hook and chain, but it was less wieldy than a sword. It struck with force but required much time to recover.

  All these thoughts floated like wind chimes through his mind, like the snow falling from the black sky. There was little blood, not yet, save for the stripes across the Khargan’s face.

  The dog was standing now with his back turned, spinning the kushagamak but little else and Kirin counted the beats of his heart as he waited. He did not want to kill this man but he knew there would never be peace if he didn’t. Retreat was not an option. Not now, certainly not after Kerris’ demonstration on the plain. Everyone knew the Ancestors were back. Everyone knew their power.

  He looked up at the sky, seeing the yellow moon through the snow clouds. He remembered another night like this, so very different, on a hilly plain in Turakhee. Beaten and strung between poles, he had lost so much that night. He was a different man and he realized that right here, right now, he did not fear this Khan of Khans. After riding with the Oracle, running with the brother, even dancing the Chai’Chi’Chuan with the Irh-Khan, he knew with certainty that he would never return to that gar in his dreams again.

  At least one cat had found peace with the dogs.

  The Khargan roared and swung the hook and Kirin moved but suddenly, the iron sword was there where he had moved and time seemed to slow as he slid backwards to avoid both weapons. The Lion Killer clanged against the Jade and again, the impact sent shock waves down the length of his arm. The Khargan jerked his arm back, yanking the kushagamak and it sailed toward his face. Kirin twisted his body, desperate to get his feet beneath him. The hook scraped the bronze of the kabuto with a clang, sending sparks up into the snow and bouncing away. His knee, the one damaged so long ago, sent daggers up his thigh and he cursed the rats of Roar’Pundih. It was a weakness. He hoped the Khargan hadn’t seen.

  He rolled on the ground, feeling the snow crunch beneath him and ala Asalan thudded onto the stones just a hands breath from his face. He flipped onto his feet, bringing the Blood up as the hook hurtled toward him. The chain caught the red Kamachada iron, wrapping around and around until all weapons were stilled. They locked eyes for a brief moment, a moment that lasted a lifetime, until the Khargan yanked the chain back and Kirin dipped the sword, allowing it to go. The hook sailed back toward its wielder, and the lion chased it home.

  Both weapons out of position, the Bear bellowed and turned his body as the lion leapt up, bringing both swords down, tearing great seams in the Khargan’s cuirass. Kirin continued up and over once again, the Teeth of the Dragon raking across the neck and jaw but this time, the Khargan rolled with it, closing his own teeth on the wrist of leather and the two warriors went down.

  They rolled together, Kirin pulling
his feet underneath to boot at the chest of the heavier foe, but the Khargan had the advantage, forcing lengths of chain across the lion’s throat and using his weight to hold him down. Kirin brought both Fangs up to cross the back of the grizzled neck. He drew the blades, slicing much of the iron locks, freeing some of the gold and sliding deep into the surface of the pelt. They did not move for a long moment.

  “Enx tajvan,” said Kirin.

  “Te sha,” said the Bear but he released him. Both dog and cat staggered to their feet and once again, took their places on the circle.

  ***

  From his place on the fallen Deer Stone, Kerris watched his brother move. It was like poetry, he thought, like music and lyrics they way steel and bone worked to become one. He could never fight like that, never had the grace in him nor the strength. His had always been the words, the charm, the luck. First was luck. And now, even that had fled him under the Necromancer’s crushing hand.

  He was kneeling in a black pool because of the arrows. Five arrows. Five, the number of death. They were all but drops of dew, and he had no will to call the lightning. The Breath of the Maiden lay at his knees. He couldn’t even pick it up, so useless his arms. He wondered where Quiz was, if he was alive or in pain and his eyes stung at the thought.

  And his wife…

  He had failed. He had failed her, he had failed his children, he had failed his people. Fabled Kaidan, legend Kaidan, left to die on a fallen Deer Stone while others looked elsewhere. He deserved no better but he was quite certain he deserved no less.

  Like a black cloak, he could feel the weight of the Necromancer on him, the pressure and lightness of blood-loss and fatigue and the earth, ever his nemesis, called to him, wooing him to lay himself down and let her cover him. He could sink into her arms, he knew it, sink deep into her and never be found again. She would take care of him forever and ever and he would slowly turn to stone inside her. It was a morbid thought, he realized, but somehow appealing. The Necromancer would like that.

  He fumbled with numb fingers, managed to reach into his pocket for the sticks. They would help him decide. They always did.

  They all stuck on the blood but he pulled two, squinted in the darkness to read them.

  Two and Wood.

  Two. Feminine, warm, encouraging, peace-loving, shiny.

  Wood. Optimistic, life-giving, curious, steadfast.

  He looked up now, his heart lurching within him, eyes scanning the sea of bodies even as the pressure from the black cloak was pushing him lower and lower on the rock. He felt his shoulders grow too heavy and he slumped forward into the black pool, hoping now that the earth would just swallow him up. He didn’t want her to find him this way.

  He closed his eyes, seeing his kittens, his mother, his brother fighting for his life, for all their lives and for peace on the plain. He didn’t even feel his wife when she turned him over on the rock.

  ***

  The lion advanced this time, swinging both swords so that they sounded like arrows in the wind. The Khargan leapt into the air, a feat Kirin had not thought possible from such an enemy, sent the hook sailing backwards toward him. It struck him in the chest, forcing all breath from his body and sending him staggering back. He looked down. The hook had snagged one of the links of the doh and he quickly brought the Jade up to shear the mail but the Khargan yanked him off his feet, yanked again and swung out with a savage kick to the injured knee. It buckled as Kirin dropped to the ground.

  Pressing the advantage, the Khargan kept coming, swinging his booted foot toward Kirin’s other knee but the Fangs sliced downward, keeping him back. The hook yanked again and Kirin rolled, knowing he was vulnerable now to the Lion Killer sword but his feet hit the ground and he sprang up, throwing himself headfirst at the Khargan and praying the lion-maned kabuto would take the hit. It did, and the Bear staggered back, almost losing his grip on ala Asalan. Kirin landed with both feet on the chain and unleashed the hook with a swipe of the Jade. He swung both blades down at his sides. They sang like falling sparrows.

  “Enx tajvan,” he said again.

  “Tsus,” sneered the Khargan.

  The dog tugged at the chain but it was held fast by the weight of the lion. Kirin stepped forward onto the chain, and forward again. The Khargan yanked with all his strength as Kirin sprang to one side and the hook was released, hurling back to lance the belly of its wielder. Blood seeped out from beneath the tears in his cuirass.

  Snarling, the Bear began to swing the kushagamak high above his head now, making wider and wider arcs with the chain and soldiers from all races stepped back to avoid being struck. The sound was like that of great fans and he began to spin ala Asalan as well and Kirin grew still, breathing the snow and feeling for the beat, the pulse, waiting for the rhythm of the dance to decide his next move.

  ***

  The fire was visible for miles across the Holy Plateau of Tevd as the bodies of sixty dog soldiers were fed to the flames, and the heat of it melted the falling snow long before it hit the ground.

  Sherah al Shiva was dying. She lay in the arms of Jalair Naranbataar, silent and proud, her breathing as soft as a summer night. Her wounds were bound in lengths of black silk but the fingerstick of the Necromancer had started a bleeding that was unstoppable and the pelt of her neck and collarbone – normally a milk and butter cream – was shot through with the green-black ooze of rapid decay. Ursa felt nothing for her, this kunoi’chi and traitor, but she wished no one a bad death. This, Ursa knew, was a very bad death.

  The Eye of the Storm knelt very close to the fire and Ursa watched as the inky pelt puckered and boiled. It had no eyes now, the Storm, and it rocked slowly back and forth on its knees. Even in such a position, he was still larger than the shoulders of most men. She could hear the deep rumble of his breathing and his breath rose up from his jowls as frost, for the night was very cold. Her katanah was poised and ready in the double-handed stance but she knew it would take more than one blow to remove his head even though her tang was sharp. She waited on her husband now, watched him with her ice-blue eyes.

  Sireth benAramis knelt beside him, the body of the Needle laid out in front. Two puckered eyes, both brown, sat on the blade of his dagger, pupil to pupil. With a deep breath, he looked up.

  “Eye of the Storm,” he began. “I don’t know the road you have walked to end here on the Plateau of Tevd, but it is a magical place, a holy place. You are a powerful Oracle, blessed with a gift that is rare and precious. You could have served your people with this gift but you chose a different road and it has led you here. Necromancy has consumed you, Storm. It has killed you and your companion and you are being given a death far more honourable than you deserve.”

  She glanced at him. Her husband was Brahmin. He did not believe in honour, only Kharma, her sister Dharma and the powerful, unrelenting wheel of life. It was the influence of the Captain – now Shogun-General – and the Way of the Warrior. Bushido, she knew, was a good master.

  Her husband might be changed yet.

  “You may find redemption, however, before you are given to the sword and the flames. Trade your soul, Storm. Trade your power and free the Magic. Heal their bodies and release them from your dark corruptions. You may yet find rest for your weary soul and that of the Needle. Do it now and we will make your death swift and clean and honourable.”

  The Eye of the Storm, now eyeless, sighed, a sound like the dying of distant thunder.

  We release them, came his voice inside their heads.

  “Go, then, to your Ancestors, to the Ancient People of the Wolf and the Moon.”

  He nodded at his wife.

  And her sword came down.

  ***

  There was a scream to end all screams and the sea of soldiers parted to reveal a slip of blood in the shape of a girl, clutching her belly on the Plateau of One Hundred Stones.

  The snow was falling harder now, and the red on the battlefield was a sharp contrast under the dark sky. She was a wraith, a shadow,
a dagger of blood and when she straightened, all who saw her stepped back.

  “Too late,” she snarled and stepped toward the circle of flames. “Too late!”

  He heard the Khargan snarl next, saw him turn his face to her, saw the hatred in his eye.

  “You kill him!” she bellowed, louder than he would have thought possible from such a young girl. “Not even your eyes can save him now!”

  The Khan pointed his iron blade at her heart.

  “Jinqir,” he growled.

  “The Fall of Ulaan Baator at the steel of Ulaan Baator.”

  Kirin gripped the Blood, spun the Jade.

  “The Fall of Ulaan Baator at the steel of Ulaan Baator.”

  And the Khargan lunged, sending the kushagamak like a stone toward her and Kirin bolted, praying his knee would not give out as he threw himself toward the man, leaping like a bird of prey. He twisted in the air, slicing with the red blade, slashing with the green and Khargan pivoted, jerking the chain and causing the hook to fall short, its lethal spike leaving only a drop of red in the middle of her forehead.

  Kirin landed on his shoulder, rolled into a crouch, both swords swinging wide in his hands. He grunted as he watched the damaged cuirass fall away in two thick pieces from the Khargan’s chest with a spray of blood. The dog bellowed and yanked the kushagamak back, hooking the kabuto under the rim and pulling Kirin out of position.

  With a move like a wave on the ocean, he swung his gloved hand to roll the helm just as the Khargan yanked again and the kabuto flew into the air to land at his feet. With a grunt, the dog brought the Lion Killer down to pierce the helm. He raised it to his eyes.

  “Gedereg yamar, Asalan,” and he snapped the sword over his shoulder, sending the kabuto flying over the sea of soldiers. It disappeared in the night sky and the crowd.