by Mark Morris
Contents
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
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About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Also available from Titan Books
The Great Wall: The Art of the Film
The Great Wall: The Official Movie Novelization
Print edition ISBN: 9781785652981
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785652998
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: February 2017
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 Legendary
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
1
The mountains looked like something from a dream. The many layers of sandstone and multi-colored minerals had been compressed together over millions of years, creating rock formations both bizarrely garish and breathtaking in their beauty. Beneath the desert sun they glowed in vivid stripes of red and yellow, green and blue. It was an artist’s palette of color, a phantasmagoric feast for the eyes.
Despite its beauty, though, this was a harsh landscape. People died here every day. The unprepared and the foolhardy expired from hunger and thirst; others fell prey to wild animals or brigands. Vultures wheeled in the sky, knowing that carrion was never far from their hooked beaks. The desert dust beneath the sparse clumps of greenery was rich with the powdered bones of the dead.
For now the air was still, the desert undisturbed. A lizard basked motionless in the heat of the slowly setting sun. Then, sensing vibrations beneath its feet, it darted for cover. Next moment a blot of darkness appeared on the horizon, wreathed in a churning cloud of dust.
Anyone standing where the lizard had been would have heard, faint at first, wild cries and approaching hoof beats. They would have seen the blot of darkness emerge from the heat haze and resolve itself into a tightly packed group of eight horses, five of which had men mounted on their backs. The men were hunched over, urging their chargers on. They were heading for the range of Painted Mountains, hoping that, under cover of the coming night, they would find safety in its deep ravines and steep valleys.
One of the men, William Garin, narrowed his eyes against the stinging onslaught of desert dust. He was lean, scarred and sinewed, his beard and hair wild and matted like those of the rest of his companions, his clothes a filthy patchwork of well-worn leather, threadbare animal hide and light armour. Born in England thirty-seven years earlier, he was currently a long way from home. But then William was a nomad; he regarded the entire world as his home. In the last three decades he had fought his way across continents. His past was steeped in the blood of countless battles. His vast experience of warfare had not only hardened his resolve, but had sharpened his senses and turned him into a master tactician. Glancing at his companions, he realized he was going to have to call on every one of his countless skills to get them out of their current predicament.
Of the twenty-strong party that had embarked on this possibly foolhardy quest, only five were left. The rest had been cut down by the thirty or so brigands who were now on their tail. Out in front was Najid, the Saracen mercenary, his dust-smeared robes flying behind him. If it came down to a case of every man for himself, then Najid was the one most likely to escape the flailing blades of their pursuers. He was a master horseman, and when in the saddle he and his steed seemed like one creature, a perfect fusion of man and beast.
Least likely to escape was Rizzetti, or possibly Bouchard the Frank. Rizzetti, the Italian, was an adept soldier, and fearless in battle, but he was badly wounded. He had taken an arrow through the leg, and was now pale and sweating, hunched grimly over his horse, his teeth clenched against the pain. William glanced at the untended wound, and saw that blood was still pouring down the Italian’s boot and leaving a trail on the sand behind him.
At least, though, Rizzetti had the grim, determined mind-set of a soldier. Bouchard, on the other hand, the master of their ragtag crew and the only non-soldier left alive, was nothing but a soft-bellied blusterer, a smooth-talking entrepreneur, who had enticed them here with wild tales of a magical black powder that would bring them fame and untold riches. Confident, even arrogant, when spouting his empty promises, Bouchard was now terrified and much reduced. No longer a leader, but a gibbering wreck, he couldn’t prevent himself from glancing continually behind him.
William caught the eye of Pero Tovar, the fifth member of their group, and the only one among them he would tentatively call a friend. Pero was a fiery Spaniard, a beast in many ways. Yet although he could be wild and unrestrained in temperament, and brutally efficient in battle, he nevertheless possessed a resilience, an intelligence and a humor that appealed to William—and indeed, that led him, if not to fully trust the man, then at least to know he could rely on him when they were faced with a common enemy.
Pero’s expression right now was easy to read, not least because William himself was thinking exactly the same thing. Bouchard was a liability. He was slowing them all down with his persistent backward glances. Twitching the reins of his horse, William brought his steed flank to steaming flank with Bouchard’s own.
“Stop looking back!” he yelled at the Frank. “If you can see them, we’re dead men!”
Bouchard’s only response was a flicker of his wide, panicked eyes.
Leaning over in the saddle, William whipped Bouchard’s horse, urging it to go faster.
“Ride!” he yelled at the Frank. “Ride or die!”
As Bouchard’s horse, stung into action, eased ahead of him, William broke his own rule by glancing quickly back. He couldn’t see the brigands behind them. Yet. Which meant there was still a chance of escape.
“Najid!” he bellowed into the dust.
Ahead of him, the Turk looked back.
William pointed at the ridge of multi-colored mountains ahead, which were looming ever closer, and then at the three riderless horses that were pounding along beside them, full saddlebags jouncing.
“Cut loose the horses on my signal!”
His words penetrated Bouchard’s brain-freezing barrier of mortal terror, and now the Frank looked panicked for a different reason.
“The bags?” he gulped. “Non! Pas les sacs!”
But William didn’t give a shit about the Frenchman’s precious bags, not when their lives were at stake.
“Now!” he yelled.
Bouchard let loose a high-pitched wail of denial and distress, but Najid didn’t hesitate for a moment. Drawing his scimitar, he sliced through the lead tethering the three unmanne
d horses to the rest of the group, and then whipped the animals to encourage them to run faster.
“Yahhh! Yahh!” he shouted almost gleefully. “Run for your lives, ladies!”
The three untethered horses pulled ahead, making for the nearest ridge. Bouchard’s eyes bugged with distress and rage as he watched them go.
As they dipped towards the valley Najid twitched his reins and led his party in the opposite direction to the three untethered horses. With luck, by the time the brigands crested the hill, the five survivors would be out of sight among the jagged peaks, and their pursuers would follow the distant trail of decoy dust kicked up by the trio of unmanned and still blindly fleeing horses.
* * *
The fire flickered feebly in the darkness. Advertising their presence was a risk, but a calculated one. Out here, in this dazzling but inhospitable landscape, the temperature dropped like a stone at night. If they were going to survive they needed at least a little heat to prevent themselves freezing to death.
Although all of them were shattered, and their horses all but hobbled after the headlong chase through the desert, Rizzetti was the member of their party who was most at risk. He was now stretched out beside the fire, bundled with coarse blankets to keep him warm. William, Pero and Najid had extracted the arrow from his leg, and cleaned and bound his wound as best they could, but the Italian’s grizzled, bearded face was now slick with sweat, his body shuddering with fever. William knew he couldn’t ride in his present state—but nor could the rest of them afford to linger here beyond the break of dawn. So either Rizzetti’s fever had to break overnight, enabling him to recover quickly, or they would be forced to leave him behind to die.
It was a harsh choice, but it was reality. In reduced circumstances, survival was all. There was no time for mercy, for hesitation, or for sentimentality. They all knew it—even Rizzetti himself.
With Rizzetti stretched out between them, slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness, the other four survivors huddled around the fire. They were too tired to speak, and they were hungry and thirsty too. When the brigands had attacked they had escaped from the caravan with little more than a few skins of water between them and a pouch of dried goat’s meat. That meat was now gone, as were the two small lizards they had managed to capture and share between them.
William looked up as something gave a harsh, cawing cry out in the desert—a nocturnal bird or some as-yet-unseen predator? He had encountered many strange beasts on his travels, and hopefully, if he survived this night and the following days, would encounter many more. He stared into the darkness beyond the fire, but could see nothing. It was as if the world had been swallowed in a black void.
Suddenly, perhaps stirred into wakefulness by the night cry of the unknown animal, Rizzetti opened his eyes. His dry lips parted.
“Tell the story,” he croaked, looking at Bouchard.
Bouchard stared back at him silently. Since escaping the brigands he had kept himself to himself—sitting alone, not helping them hunt, find wood or tend to Rizzetti. William wasn’t sure whether the Frank’s mood was caused by the trauma of the brigands’ attack or whether he was simply sulking over the loss of his precious saddlebags. Perhaps it was a little of both.
“Tell me,” Rizzetti said, his voice desperate—as though Bouchard’s story was the only thing that could provide him with the impetus he needed to recover.
Bouchard sighed, then caught Pero’s eye, who nodded at him fiercely.
His voice flat and weary, Bouchard began. “North of the Silk Road… past Xian… north northeast… three hundred leagues north, there is a mountain of jade. Pure jade. And a… a fortress…”
His voice tailed off. He stared into the fire. He picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers.
“The powder,” Rizzetti said. “Tell us about the powder.” When Bouchard didn’t respond, his voice became harsh with anger, the warrior in him breaking momentarily through the fever that was weakening his body. “Tell us!”
Bouchard looked around the fire, registered the flinty gazes of the other men staring at him. Clearing his throat, he said, “The black powder is stronger than arrows. Stronger than siege walls. It is a weapon so powerful it can destroy a dozen men at once…”
As he began to speak, William saw a change come over Bouchard; saw that the Frank’s own words were galvanizing him. He listened to Bouchard’s heavily accented voice slowly growing stronger, powered by his own enthusiasm. An enthusiasm born of greed.
“It is an alchemist’s potion that transforms air into fire. A fire that reaches out so quickly that it blinds all in its path. A fire so loud that it makes men deaf.”
His eyes were shining now, his excitement growing.
“Two dozen men are all I need. Hard, blooded men to make a journey in this life of shit that is finally worth the gamble. Together we will find the fortress and the powder and make the world our own!”
He leaned over the fire, eyes aflame and teeth gleaming as he smiled his wide smile.
“Why risk your life for princes or priests who care not whether you live or die? Why wager your souls for gods you don’t believe in, in wars that prove nothing but making other men rich? Let us take hold of our own destinies, mes amis! Let us journey together to the hidden fortress of black powder and the fortune th—”
It was here that his spiel came to an end. Without warning, Najid’s arm swept forward and across, the blade of his scimitar flashing in the firelight.
The movement was so swift, so precise, that for a split-second William wondered whether he had imagined it. Bouchard was still kneeling on the other side of the fire, staring at them. Now, though, his eyes were bulging and his mouth wide open in shock.
Then a black line appeared across his throat. A black line that immediately began gushing dark fluid. The fluid spattered into the fire, making it sizzle and spark. The Frank’s hands fluttered towards his opened throat as he began to gurgle.
With shocking suddenness the life fled from his eyes and he keeled over, his body thudding heavily to the ground. His right foot twitched for a moment, and then became still.
William and Pero looked at Najid, who was staring sourly at Bouchard’s body. The Turk calmly wiped the blood from his scimitar and re-sheathed the weapon. Then he looked at his companions and shrugged.
“I’ve grown sick of his story. He has been telling it for six months now, and still we are no closer to finding this precious powder.”
Pero and William looked at one another, as if uncertain how to respond.
Then Pero said, “I want his boots.”
“I want his saddle,” croaked Rizzetti from his recumbent position beside the fire.
William saw Najid’s face harden, saw his hand straying once more to the hilt of his scimitar. Quickly he rose to his knees, hands upraised in a calming gesture.
“Fair plunder,” he said quickly. “Choose and challenge.”
There was a moment of tense silence, all eyes on him. Then Pero and Najid both nodded abruptly, and Rizzetti murmured his weary assent.
* * *
Bouchard’s possessions—those, at any rate, that he hadn’t lost in the raid or when the horses had been cut free—were strewn across the ground close to the fire. After much negotiation the choice items (the silver talents, gold coins and precious stones; the weapons and bags of seeds; the drawings of the Holy Land and the diagrams of medieval machinery) had been divvied up into four equal piles. Now all that was left were the personal items, a random collection of wax seals and copper eating utensils, a sewing kit, an ivory comb, a pewter flask.
Pero was perched on a rock close to the fire, one of Bouchard’s trading bags between his feet. Reaching in he said, “And now we come to the final item.” His hand emerged, clutching a lump of dense black rock. “The magnet. Who wants it?”
“Not me,” Najid said. “Too heavy.”
“Rizzetti?”
Weakly the Italian shook his head.
> “I’ll have it,” William said, and grinned at Pero. “Unless you want to fight me for it?”
Pero pursed his lips a moment, then tossed the rock in William’s direction. Instead of opening a hand to catch it, William simply raised his iron-gauntleted arm. The rock flew towards him, and—clank!—stuck hard to the metal. The magnetic attraction was so strong that William had to grit his teeth and pull hard, the muscles bulging in his arm, before he was able to pry it loose and tuck it beneath the folds of his tattered and grimy chainmail Hauberk.
“I’ll take the map as well,” he said.
Pero narrowed his eyes.
“Come on, Pero,” William said good-humoredly. “You know you can’t read. It’s wasted on you. Hand it over.”
Pero let out a ragged sigh, and then grudgingly reached into his new left boot—one of the ones he had pulled from the feet of Bouchard’s corpse—and extracted the map he’d secreted there. With the resignation of a man who knew he’d been out-maneuvered, he handed it to William, who slipped that too into his Hauberk.
“It’s a strong moon tonight,” William said, looking up at the fat white disc in the sky. “When the horses are fresh, we move.”
“To where?” Najid asked.
“North. If they keep after us we’ll kill them in the mountains.”
Pero glanced at Rizzetti, who appeared to be dozing again, and sidled closer to William. In a low voice he said, “Rizzetti won’t have recovered by morning. Force him to move and we’ll find ourselves dragging a corpse.”
William’s face was grim. “Well, that’s up to him, isn’t it?”
Pero frowned, which prompted William to add, “He’s earned the right to die where he wants.”
When Pero still looked unconvinced, William sighed and said, “Look, I’ve been left to die twice. It was bad luck.”
“For who?” Pero muttered.
“For the people who left me.”
William smiled, inviting his friend to join in, but Pero merely turned away and spat on the ground. “Bien,” he said, his voice flat. “It is your call.”
Before William could respond, a sudden, ear-splitting scream tore through the darkness. It was a hideous sound, like nothing he had ever heard before. Despite his experience of war, despite having witnessed the awful depths of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man, the sound chilled him to the core. He spun towards the blackness beyond the flickering firelight.