by Justin Hill
Shulien sipped the tea and set her cup down. “No, he is not mad. He comes from Hades Dai, that is certain. But he is only young. He is little more than a boy. Not all he said made sense to me. But one thing is clear. Hades Dai will soon learn that his thief has failed in his task, and he will either send more and better warriors, or he will come himself. That is what I fear.” She idled her cup. “If he comes . . .”
“Hades Dai will eat your livers!” the thief had said to her. “You only have until the waning of the moon!” Shulien did not want to alarm her host. “How many men have you here?” she said. She tried to sound nonchalant.
“Just those you have seen.”
“Where are the others?”
“My father used to command a hundred martial warriors. I have only half that number now, and all but ten are gone. When I heard of all the men who had been killed across the kingdom I thought I should reinforce them. I sent them out into the world. They are all on the Iron Way to subdue the bandits and terror-mongers.” He sighed. “I fear also that my father was too successful. He maintained peace for too long. Our blades have gathered dust. We took too much to wine and poetry and the gentle arts, and now we have need of skill and speed and violence.”
“What about this girl, this Snow . . . what is her name again?”
“Snow Vase.”
“Yes. She can fight, it seems.”
Shulien nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I will keep her close. I want to keep my eyes on her. But still. We will need more.” Sir Te refilled the pot once more. The brew was still green but it had lost its fragrance now.
He pursed his lips and waited.
“I suppose we could summon swordsmen. There might be wandering men who would come and help if the son of Duke Te asked them.”
Shulien set her cup down. She forced a smile. It seemed a desperate move. “Why not?” she said.
She watched as he paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together, as if washing them. He stopped and put a hand to his head. He seemed heartened. “I will send notices out tomorrow.”
Sir Te seemed glad to leave the sword with Shulien.
“Will you be all right?” he asked as she walked him to the doorway of the courtyard.
She nodded.
“Oh good,” he said. “If there is any problem . . . I suppose you will be fine. Yes?”
“I think so,” she said.
That night Shulien sat alone. The sword lay on the table before her: unsheathed. It glowed in the light of the candle. She traced the cloud patterns in the steel until she lost herself. She had thought never to see this sword again, had hoped not to see it. But now she was here, alone with it and the candle, which was slowly burning itself out, and she found the presence of the sword almost comforting. She shut her eyes and she could feel it, and if she tried just a little she felt she could feel Mubai’s ghost as well.
He was standing just behind her, in the long scholar’s robe he liked to wear. It showed his accomplishment in fighting that he could best others without breaking a sweat, often with one hand behind his back. She remembered watching him fight with Green Destiny once, and he did not bother to unsheathe it.
“I feared for you,” she had said to him and he’d stopped and looked at her in a puzzled, almost pained way.
“Why?” he had said.
“I thought they might best you.”
He’d cleaned the sheath and cupped the sword in the crook of his elbow and walked toward her.
“Of course not,” he had said. “It is not my destiny to die at the hands of men like those.”
He had been so confident, so full of life and quiet power and energy that she had believed him. Believed him even when he had gone out to fight with Jade Fox. But it was the poison that had bested him, not her fighting skill, and that day they had both learned the hard way that there are some foes more powerful and deadly than even the greatest warrior.
“Hades Dai is seeking it.” She almost surprised herself to hear her own voice speaking aloud. She kept her eyes shut, and imagined him walking to stand before the table, arms behind his back, half turned toward her, half turned away: one half lit by the candle flame, like the moon.
He cannot have it, Mubai’s ghost said simply.
There was a long silence. Shulien breathed slow and deeply. She waited for the ghost to speak again.
You must stop him, his voice in her head said. Just as I stopped Jade Fox.
She opened her eyes suddenly, as if she might catch his ghost before it fled.
But the room was empty, except for the sword and the candle, which had started to drip. She was tired. She knew many warriors who could out-fight Hades Dai, but all of them were dead.
Now she did not know any warrior living who could beat him.
Not even herself. Once, maybe, she thought. But not now.
You must stop him, the words echoed in her head.
“I will stop him,” she said, more confidently than she felt.
I4
Next morning the broad streets of the poor southern quarters of Beijing were bustling with the early trade. All along Pig Market Street and Grain Market Street peasants squatted behind their spread of herbs and vegetables, arranged on scraps of sackcloth or wicker mats. Gangs of camel drivers just returning from the long and dusty Russian tea routes, their faces dark with sun and wind and sand, paused in the shade of Lama Temple. They traded banter with those who were getting ready to set out, brought tidings of favored watering holes, dangerous stretches, the movement of hostile tribes and bandits.
There were old mothers with baskets buying green clumps of coriander, lotus root, and small pieces of pork from the fat meat seller who waved the flies away. Traders, scholars, civil servants, poets, all mixed in busy crowds, and standing a little way apart was a man dressed in simple black clothes, stained with dust.
His hair was unbound and fell around his face in a wild mane. His chin low, he looked around him with eyes that were hard and small and threatening. Men kept away from him if they knew their business, and everyone knew their business that morning.
The warrior pushed himself off from the wall and strode slowly and purposefully across the street to where a crowd had gathered to read a poster that had been nailed to a gibbet post in the shade of a black-tiled old temple, grass growing from the eaves, the Ming Dynasty brickwork still straight and even.
Mule drivers and rickshaw men moved around him. The crowd parted like a knife through soft fruit as he stopped before the poster, and the people looked at him, not the poster. There was a weight to his steps that was at odds with his lean appearance, and when he set his feet shoulder width apart, it was like a tree being planted into the yellow earth.
The man was tall, with a hard face, deeply lined by weather and the years. There was a bitter air about him as he ignored the thronging people and stared at the poster so hard it was as if he were looking through it to a meaning beyond. His eyes followed the black characters descending from left to right. Men of the Iron Way wanted at the House of Te, the poster read.
The people were trying to work out what it meant. The stranger let out a snort of derision, reached up and tore the poster down, crudely folding it into four and shoving it inside his jacket. He turned and looked at the crowd around him and they averted their eyes and hurried on their way.
A day’s ride from the capital was a gateway where two tall cedar trees grew, their long-hanging needle fingers combing a low hiss from the breeze. The path ran through the arch the trees made, and inside was a wide courtyard, and a sprawling teahouse, named the Chan Li Inn.
It was a place shunned by peace-loving men and women. It attracted all the wrong sorts: sing-song girls, crazed herbalists, and wushu warriors who came here to exchange news, or to find a master, or pupils willing to study and learn. There were sleeping halls to east and west, and across the north
of the courtyard was the inn itself: a broad building with a tiled roof and a faded Imperial flag fluttering on top.
The second floor was full of private rooms where the sing-song girls entertained their guests. The bottom floor was a wide room, ringed with wooden cubicles, while the center of the space was devoted to round tables and pots of tea and rice wine. The inn was busy these days: abuzz with the news of Duke Te’s death and the killings that had happened.
In the middle of the room sat Black Tiger.
He and his men had arrived the night before, the sing-song girls had been singing all night, and now he was on his third pot of wine and was shouting and bullying, throwing his prodigious weight around the place.
The rest of the inn was giving him a wide berth as Black Tiger clapped his hands and called for more meat.
“Beef!” he shouted, and pounded his fat fist on the table until the innkeeper brought a plate of cold roast beef slices, piled with coriander leaves and sprinkled with red chili flakes and drizzled with sesame oil.
Black Tiger glowered down. “There’s too much coriander,” he shouted, “and too little chili!” He picked a slice of beef, dabbed off the coriander, chewed slowly. “Too much five spice!” he shouted. “Too little salt!”
The innkeeper’s daughter came out a few minutes later. She carried a plate of cucumber fried with egg. She slammed it down on the table. “Too much egg,” she said. “Too little cucumber.”
Black Tiger’s eyes narrowed. Ever since he had tried to kiss her she had been like this. His scowl deepened and darkened, like the sky when a storm is brewing.
“More wine,” he said at last.
She took the empty pot and sashayed off. She was a lovely little thing, he thought. Plump, hard-working, feisty. Just the kind of woman his mother had warned him against.
“The best stuff,” he shouted. “And ten catties of dumplings.”
“Beef or mutton?”
“Mixed,” he said. “With cabbage.”
Black Tiger chomped through the plates of dumplings as he heard the clatter of a horse approaching. The clip-clop grew steadily louder, right up to the door, the shadow of the horse darkening the entrance.
The stranger dropped lightly to the ground. His hair was unbound, his chin was low, and he strode silently into the room with all the menace of a mountain tiger. He reached inside his jacket and took out a rough scroll of paper, unfolded it, and used his knife to pin it to the beam above the bar.
Men of the Iron Way wanted at the House of Te, it said.
Some men watched the stranger, others watched Black Tiger.
Black Tiger scowled. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was eating. He didn’t like to be disturbed, he didn’t like strange horsemen, and he didn’t like them putting posters up on the Chan Li Inn wall. He shoved in one more dumpling and pushed the table back as he rose. “Who are you?” he shouted.
The man ignored him.
“I said, who are you?” Black Tiger growled. His voice was so deep and resonant it made the teacups tremble on the tables.
The stranger continued to ignore him and turned to face the room. “The House of Te is fearful. They have called for warriors to come and help them.”
The stranger had a quiet voice but it carried across the silence, and the whole room stopped and looked up.
“Help them against what?” Black Tiger demanded.
The stranger looked at him for a moment, and then turned to face the rest of the room. “They want warriors, not eaters.”
There were a few chuckles from the far reaches of the room. Black Tiger’s round face darkened. He strode into the middle of the room, right before the stranger. “You want warriors. I am Black Tiger. I lead thirty warriors. I will come and help this Te man for twenty ounces of silver each man.” He belched a mix of garlic and mutton.
The warrior looked at him. “How much in total?”
Black Tiger tried to work it out, but he was better with his club than he were with numbers. “Seven hundred ounces,” he said, as if he were bargaining in the market.
“Does that include your food?”
The laughter was louder this time.
Black Tiger pushed up his sleeves and showed fat forearms bound with vambraces of black leather, studded with brass. He drew himself up, and took up a fighting stance.
The stranger did not respond. He looked at the fat warrior posturing before him. “There was a time when warriors used to fight for honor,” he said. “Not silver.”
“Was,” Black Tiger said, and belched again. He thrust out his belly. “Not now.”
“That is sad.”
Black Tiger forced a laugh. “Go home and cry then.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Black Tiger!”
“I have heard of you. Men spoke more highly of you once. I had not known you had sunk so low.”
“You have insulted me twice,” Black Tiger said. “Which is twice too many.”
He put out a hand. One of his men passed him his club. It was a thick piece of polished wood with a large brass cannonball lashed onto the end.
“Speak your name, stranger!” he boomed. “Before I send you to meet your ancestors!”
The whole inn was filled with the rattle of teacups and plates as men scraped back their chairs and created a wide space in the middle of the room. The stranger seemed unmoved. He wore high Mongolian boots, a dusty black leather jacket and a belt of woven thongs. “My name is Silent Wolf,” he said.
Black Tiger snorted and stood up. He was dressed in a long gown of black silk, frayed and weathered around the hem. “Impossible. He is dead.”
The stranger did not move.
Black Tiger stomped forward. “Who are you to take his name? We shall soon see if you are real or a pale imitation.”
“I am no forgery,” Silent Wolf said. He spoke quietly, but his voice was full of menace.
Five of Black Tiger’s men stepped up about their leader. “Show him the road,” Black Tiger told them.
As they reached for their weapons, Silent Wolf was a sudden blur. With his sword still scabbarded he struck each man only a single blow, but each blow perfectly precise, striking vital pressure points that left them writhing on the floor.
“I thought you were showing me the road,” he said. “It seems I showed your men the floor.”
Black Tiger’s eyes narrowed. He clicked his fingers and the other twenty-five of his warriors stepped forward.
“Let us see how one does against twenty-six of us,” he said, and rolled his shoulders to warm them up.
“Not against one,” a voice called out. “Twenty-six against two.”
One of the men in the inn stepped forward and bowed. He was a tall skinny man with gray at his temples, and a slight, almost elfish look to him. His belt was hung with throwing knives and spiked stars. “I am Flying Blade of Shandong. I will serve with you.”
Black Tiger’s face grew even darker. “Twenty-six against two it is,” he growled.
“Not two, three!” another voice called out.
A short gruff man came forward, put his fist to his palm in a martial salute. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was like two hammers banging together. “Thunder Fist Chan! Famed in Zhejiang! I will fight with you.”
“Five!” called out a third voice.
A slender, cold-eyed woman stood as well. Her stool fell over as she rose. She kicked it away with one foot. She had an embroidered cloak over her shoulders, which hung heavy around her.
“I am Silver Dart Shi!” she said. “And this is Iron Turtle!”
Iron Turtle was a short fat man with a giant turtle shell shield on his back. He saluted, pulled the shield from his back, and pulled the sword from inside the shield.
Silent Wolf bowed at his new companions. “Thank you, friends, though please
do not stand with me for fear of my safety. It shall not take me long to deal with these village brawlers . . .” Silent Wolf turned to Black Tiger and the bristling crowd of his men. “Are you sure you still want to fight?”
Black Tiger growled at him. “You mock me, little one!”
Silent Wolf smiled: a thin, unfriendly smile. “Shall we?”
Black Tiger roared as he came forward, his gown fanned out like a cloak, and the civilians fled screaming as the fight began.
I5
Through the Chan Li Inn a whirlwind flew, scattering chairs, tables and thrown warriors. The center of that storm was Silent Wolf: a blur of movement, lightning strikes and the low grunts of impact. Black Tiger’s warriors dived into the storm and flew back out again, like sparks from a spinning whetstone. Silent Wolf knocked them back with split kicks, jumping kicks, front and back, and double kicks. And throughout this he did not draw his sword. He did not like to draw a blade unless it was necessary. Blood was messy, a real warrior did not need to kill, for the true warrior the body was steel.
Silent Wolf’s face was set, his pursed lips slightly open as he sucked each breath in and punched it out again with explosive force.
He did not fight alone. Ten of Black Tiger’s men howled with pain as Silver Dart, her teeth in a tight clamped grimace, swung her spike-sewn cape and a hailstorm of missiles flew out. Iron stars swirled from Flying Blade’s fingers, almost hitting Silent Wolf.
Iron Turtle grunted as he tried to keep up, pulling a heavy saber from the scabbard on his back and driving away with great whooshing swipes a few of Black Tiger’s men who had got around Silent Wolf’s back.
“Ya!” Iron Turtle shouted again, and Silent Wolf ducked.
“Careful!” he warned, in a low voice.
“I was going for the man on your back!” Iron Turtle said.
“I had him covered.”
It took only moments before Silent Wolf double kicked the last two fighters, who came at him from both sides at once. Iron Turtle laughed. The inn was carpeted with the groaning and wounded warriors who had followed Black Tiger.