The Lazarus Curse

by Darren Craske

  ‘Consider it done!’ said Yin, and with that, he was gone – streaking a trail of dust as he was swallowed by the mine’s shadows.

  Prometheus looked down at Butter. ‘You all right, lad?’

  ‘I am not frightened.’

  ‘Good lad,’ smiled the strongman.

  The approaching brigade slowed to a stop a short distance away, intrigued by what their eyes were telling them. They were looking at two individuals clad in recognisable (albeit ill-fitting) armour, but they were certainly not soldiers.

  Prometheus ground his teeth. ‘Buckle up, lad – this is liable to hurt.’

  Chapter XXXV

  The Burning Bride

  Cho-zen Li led Quaint from his chamber and down to his personal quarters on the level below. Following the warlord’s shambling bulk, the sense of dread in Quaint’s stomach grew sharper with every step. Although the conjuror had no idea where he was being led to – nor what he was being led to – he had a rough idea what to expect, and one that did not sit comfortably.

  He followed the plodding footsteps of Cho-zen Li, down a flight of steps and into a long corridor quite unlike the starkness of the warlord’s main chamber. A maroon carpet stretched the length of it, and on the walls were tapestries, each one decorated with golden embroidery. Panoramic scenes; a cast of hundreds battling an array of mythological creatures. Chimeras, dragons, muscular tigers, winged serpents. Cho-zen Li huffed and puffed constantly, the strain of the long walk taking its toll. He was forced to steady himself against the wall. Quaint had no idea why, but something compelled him to steer Cho-zen Li’s elbow.

  Eventually, the corridor came to an end. Next to a set of black mahogany doors were long curtains draping from ceiling to floor. On either side stood an identical plinth decorated with Chinese symbols and scriptures, with a single candle upon each.

  ‘Behind these curtains my beloved rests,’ Cho-zen Li said.

  ‘You mean… like in an urn or something?’ enquired Quaint.

  ‘Not quite.’ The warlord tugged on a rope, and the curtain parted.

  As did Quaint’s jaw.

  With a tattered gown hanging limply from her bones, a woman’s emaciated body stood motionless in a glass sarcophagus, hanging on the wall like a trophy. Suspended above the sarcophagus was a smaller version of the glass cylinder found in Cho-zen Li’s lotus garden, with the same bright green liquid filtering down through tubes fed through attachments and into the casket. Wisps of emerald smoke drifted here and there inside the glass coffin. They crawled up the corpse, as if protecting her withered form. The flesh on the face and hands was blackened and charred, brittle grey hair was swept back into a tidy bun atop the head and two skew-whiff wooden hairpins stuck out like insect antennae from the bun. If this creature was once a human being, it was far removed from one now, yet every so often; the charred body twitched ? a reflex action to the liquid flowing into its glass coffin. The fingers moved ever so slightly, the mouth made an effort to purse its lips, almost mimicking speech.

  ‘This is Meng Po,’ announced Cho-zen Li. ‘She stands in a state of complete suspension, on the precipice between death and life, just as she has done since the night of the fire.’ His stout fingers traced the lines of the corpse’s face through the glass. ‘Just as the extract from the lotus oil keeps my death at bay, so too does it hold Meng Po’s condition in arrest. Her recovery has taken so very long, but gradually she improves. And that is why I wait.’

  Bile seeped into Quaint’s mouth and he swallowed it back down, wincing as it burned his throat. ‘But… she’s dead!’ he exclaimed. ‘Her condition isn’t going to improve any time soon!’

  ‘For one such as I, what is another decade here and there?’ asked Cho-zen Li. ‘It is for her that I prolong my own life.’

  ‘Don’t you mean death?’ said Quaint. ‘And hers too, come to think of it! It’s inhuman, Cho-zen Li, can you not see that? Keeping her here like this… like an exhibit in a museum… it’s a mockery of nature! A mockery of God!’

  ‘Do not speak to me of gods, Cornelius,’ bellowed Cho-zen Li, and Quaint was reminded what a force of nature he was. Although the warlord’s demeanour had relaxed considerably in the past hour, his temper was still something to be reckoned with – and avoided, if at all possible. ‘One day Meng Po will rise again, and China will be right here waiting for her… just as she remembers it. I am thankful that she has not witnessed what my country has become… how it has been tainted by the western world. Everything must be ready for when she wakes.’

  Quaint took a step back, finally understanding why the warlord was like he was, why he did the things he did, how he perceived the world around him; like clay to be moulded, and all of it to recapture a faded image of a long-dead dream.

  ‘And if she never wakes up?’ he asked. ‘What then? Or are you prepared to beat the world into submission until she does?’

  Cho-zen Li inhaled sharply. ‘She will wake up.’

  Quaint looked at the devotion in the warlord’s eyes and was forced to question himself. If he had Cho-zen Li’s power, would he have done the same for his departed wife? Would he have grabbed the earth in both hands and forced it to stop spinning so that he might have one more day with her? Quaint consciously left the question unanswered in his head, fearing that perhaps his response might not be all that different from Cho-zen Li’s. He could only guess at how long the man spent in front of the casket, waiting for his dead wife to return to him. Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? With a man like Cho-zen Li, months, years, even decades meant nothing. Quaint couldn’t help but respect him – and therein lay the root of his problems.

  His objective in China was most specific: discover why Cho-zen Li wanted Queen Victoria dead and remove the threat that he posed to the British Empire. He understood what that meant. A choice between justice and revenge when there wasn’t any choice at all. Cho-zen Li was a monster. In all good conscience, Quaint could not condone his actions. Yet love, devotion, commitment – clearly these things meant something to the warlord, and he was willing to move heaven and earth for the love of his wife. Almost by accident, that train of thought delivered Quaint a way to fulfil all his obligations.

  Cho-zen Li spoke of his curse, yet it was one that was self-inflicted. Using the lotus oil, he was keeping himself in a transient state between life and death until the day that his beloved rejoined him. But if he could be convinced (or coerced) into severing the ties that bound his physical form to the earth, perhaps there was a way that he could be defeated after all. It all became clear to the conjuror. Now that he could see Cho-zen Li more clearly, he could also see his greatest weakness – but just as he was about to exploit it he was interrupted.

  The timing could not have been worse.

  ‘Master Cho-zen Li, we have a problem!’ Li-Dao yelled, as she stormed into the corridor. ‘Makoi and his band of outlaws have arrived in force, aided by this Englishman’s accomplices! The guards are keeping them at bay for the time being, but any moment they might breach our defences!’

  Quaint cursed under his breath. Gone was his one and only hope, and it was not lost on him that it was his own strategy that was to blame.

  A low growl culminated at the back of the Chinese warlord’s throat as he spoke. ‘Very well, Mistress Li-Dao. Secure the entrance to the palace, double the guards and send word to our patrols to return home at once.’ Cho-zen Li turned swiftly to Quaint, his eyes ablaze. ‘And on your way, my dear, inform Dr Shinzo that he is soon to have another patient… one that it seems has kept me talking just so he could execute his plans. One good execution deserves another, and it is only polite that I return the favour.’

  Li-Dao nodded, disappearing down the corridor.

  An uncomfortable silence grew between the warlord and the conjuror.

  ‘It seems that I was foolish to trust you, Cornelius,’ Cho-zen Li said. ‘You are far more devious than I initially gave you credit for. But I will not make that mistake again… and neither will you.’


  ‘No! Cho-zen Li, you have this all wrong!’ protested Quaint.

  ‘I will listen to you no more, Englishman!’ Cho-zen Li coughed violently, sounding as if his throat was clogged with phlegm. His hand darted from his side and clamped itself onto the conjuror’s collarbone, digging his thumb into the space between the bones. Quaint’s muscles seemed to lose all their strength and he collapsed onto the floor, his limbs like putty.

  ‘You are cunning and resourceful, Cornelius… but your strategy has failed.’

  Cho-zen Li chopped his hand like an axe on the back of Quaint’s neck, and the conjuror was out cold even before his head hit the ground.

  Chapter XXXVI

  The Evening of the Odds

  Prometheus and Butter held their nerve as the platoon of armoured guards surrounded them with their weapons trained.

  ‘Who are you?’ yelled the commander of the brigade, a bullock of a man.

  ‘I don’t suppose you speak English, do you?’ Prometheus asked.

  ‘Speak!’ bellowed the commander again in his native tongue. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I wish Yin was still here,’ said Prometheus. ‘I don’t have a clue what that bloke is saying.’

  ‘At best guess,’ said Butter, ‘it is not good, my strong friend.’

  One of the brigade climbed down from his horse to join his superior’s side. ‘Commander Sing, I recognise some of their tongue, and it is possible these men are speaking English.’

  Commander Sing slid a sword from his scabbard. ‘Even more reason why we should kill them.’ He turned to his men, raising his sword in the air.

  ‘Definitely not good,’ noted Butter.

  ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, lad,’ muttered Prometheus, ‘you’re a master of the understatement, so you are.’

  Commander Sing took a long look at Prometheus before signalling one of his men.

  ‘Kill the large one first,’ he ordered.

  The soldier snatched his knife from his belt and ran at Prometheus, who grabbed hold of him by the helmet and wrenched him a foot off the ground before casting him aside as though he were a child’s toy. Double-taking, Commander Sing ordered another soldier to step forwards. The soldier looked down at his comrade, nursing several broken ribs, and gulped. He drew his sword and gripped it with both hands. Before he had a chance to use it, Prometheus’s huge fist made contact with his cheek. The soldier staggered back a few paces before collapsing face down in the dust.

  ‘It’s no wonder they wear all that armour,’ said Prometheus to Butter. ‘They’ve all got glass jaws.’

  Commander Sing pointed to four of his biggest men, and the soldiers climbed down from their mounts and surrounded Prometheus with their weapons drawn.

  ‘This looks a bit more serious,’ muttered Prometheus.

  The soldiers raised their swords to strike just as Butter leapt into action. Grabbing a long-handled spear from the ground, he jabbed it between the legs of the advancing men, tripping them up. They fell clumsily on top of one another in a heap.

  Commander Sing slid his hands down his bearded face, almost too afraid to look at the debacle unfolding in front of him. ‘Thank the stars that Master Cho-zen Li is not here to see this farce,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘Enough games. Everyone off their steeds. Now! A commendation to the first man that hands me their hearts!’ Suddenly, this game had a lot more players – and it was most definitely stacked in Commander Sing’s favour. His brigade numbered at least twenty men, and each one unsheathed a sword, or a dagger, brandished a spear, or cocked an arrow into a bow.

  ‘You know when I say before was not good?’ Butter asked his Irish cohort. ‘Now I think it get a bit worse.’

  Prometheus clenched his fists. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’

  Commander Sing stood at the back of the pack as his men advanced forwards, his arms folded, supremely confident that he was about to see his men exact some good old-fashioned mindless violence. In fact, good old-fashioned mindless violence was exactly what did occur – but Commander Sing was not alive to see it.

  Creeping silently from the shadows of the mountain’s foot, Ruby took advantage of the confusion and slid her scalpel blade across his throat, guiding his twitching body gently to the ground. By her side, Yang approached the now riderless horses and slapped their rumps hard. In a wild panic, the horses reared up and trampled over their owners, crushing them under their heavy hooves. Within moments, the brigade was halved. Crushed by their own horses, injured by Prometheus and Butter’s combined rage, or cut down by Ruby, soon the battalion of twenty soldiers had become twenty soldiers writhing on the ground in agony.

  Taking a length of rope from a horse’s pack, Yang quickly tied the ankles of the soldiers together in one large group and fastened them to the back of one of the chariots. Using the flat edge of a sword’s blade, he whacked it onto the horse’s rump and it bolted, dragging the trussed-up brigade with it at speed. They were a half mile away in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Well, my friends,’ said Yang, ‘it looks like we arrived just in time.’

  Prometheus grinned broadly. ‘Much obliged to you both! Not that Butter and I couldn’t have handled them ourselves. We were just warming up.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ sang Ruby.

  Butter beamed madly. ‘Yang! Miss Ruby! You are safe!’

  ‘Just about. Have you boys been having fun?’ Ruby said, flinging her arms around him. ‘What have we missed?’

  ‘Where is Yin?’ asked Yang, looking around fretfully. ‘I thought he would be with you. He’s not… ’

  ‘No, lad, he’s just fine,’ reassured Prometheus. ‘But he might not be for much longer. We need to get inside the palace… and hope to God that Cornelius has already taken care of that Chinese bastard. I don’t know about you lot, but I fancy a lie down.’

  Chapter XXXVII

  The Dead Words

  Cho-zen Li dragged Cornelius Quaint through the upper corridors of the palace, ruffling the carpet underneath his dead weight. Quaint’s broken arm was twisted awkwardly, and had he been conscious, he would no doubt have been in a considerable amount of pain. Cho-zen Li raised his fist, and was about to knock on the door to Dr Shinzo’s operating room, when he realised that it was already open. Dr Shinzo’s dead body lay just inside the door.

  Cho-zen Li saw the dead female on the floor. Like dirty washing, her limbs bent out of shape. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned slowly to see Li-Dao approaching.

  ‘Master!’ she said, breathless. ‘I arrived moments ago. I was just sweeping the area to find those responsible. Dr Shinzo is dead.’

  ‘So I see,’ mumbled Cho-zen Li. ‘Do we know by whom?’

  ‘It must have been his accomplice,’ said Li-Dao, looking down at Quaint. ‘The vixen! She killed Shinzo and made her escape.’

  ‘See to it that she is found swiftly,’ said Cho-zen Li. ‘Search every room on every floor, leave no stone unturned. I do not want any more nasty surprises.’

  Li-Dao nodded. ‘And… what about the Englishman?’

  ‘I was hoping that the good doctor would make our guest’s last moments on this earth as agonising as possible, but seeing as he is otherwise engaged, I shall take care of things personally.’

  Cornelius Quaint was relieved to find that he was not dead, but as his eyes started to focus on his surroundings, he realised there was still plenty of time.

  He was in a windowless room with dirty stains down the walls and a layer of green mould furring the corners of the low ceiling. Stripped naked to the waist, he was laid upon a table with his neck, arms and legs bound tight by ropes. His broken arm had been wrapped in some kind of clay cast, with a series of tubes extending from it. Suspended above him was a long, rectangular slab exactly the same size as the table, like two halves of a printing press. The nasty part about it was that large bamboo spikes were arranged all over the surface, each one sharpened into a point. The spikes were co
ated in dried blood; a souvenir from a previous occupant, Quaint assumed. His feet seemed to be bound to a wooden shelf affixed to a spring-loaded pulley. Feeling the bite of cramp in his calf muscles, Quaint shifted his weight.

  The slab above jolted towards him.

  He instinctively pushed back down, and the slab returned to its normal position. He didn’t need to be an expert in physics to work out what would happen if he were to take any amount of pressure from the base at his feet. The pulley would snap the springs and the wooden slab would fall, puncturing all his major organs. His lungs, his kidneys, heart and groin. Nothing would be spared. He would die. Quaint made a mental note to keep absolutely still.

  ‘Once again, Cornelius,’ grinned the corpulent warlord stood by the side of the table, ‘every time you start to become of interest, you go and pass out on me.’

  ‘I do that when the conversation gets dull,’ said Quaint.

  Cho-zen Li floated his plump hands over the wooden table as if he was trying to levitate it. ‘This tool is quite a marvel of modern machinery. It has a very simple design, as you have no doubt worked out. You have to push against the wooden board to keep the mechanism locked into place… but should you take the pressure off… well, that is when things get a bit messy. It takes a great deal of strength, I imagine. I wonder how long you will be able to stand it? Five minutes? Ten? Staying alive is all down to your strength of will.’

  ‘Spare me the details,’ said Quaint, staring at the bamboo spikes. ‘I get the point.’

  Cho-zen Li laughed. ‘I had wanted my resident torturer to have some sport with you, but it appears that your young female accomplice slit his throat.’

  ‘Good for her. So what’s this?’ Quaint asked, nodding to the cast on his broken arm, and the tubes that fed into it. ‘Plugging my veins with that oil of yours in the hope that I’ll join your little live for ever club?’

  ‘No, not at all, Cornelius,’ said Cho-zen Li. ‘The infusion of lotus oil is merely repairing the broken bones in your arm. It is hardly sporting to kill a wounded animal, is it? Far more humane to nurse it back to health and then snap its neck. Plus, I can hardly interrogate you when you keep passing out on me every five minutes. Although I am not sure how much longer you have. I can see the sweat running off your brow, and your knees are already beginning to shake. The cramp has set in already, has it?’