“In time for what, Yao-hui,” Duncan asked sharply, the uneasy feeling within him focused into a flood of dread. “What has happened?”
“One of the monks who attended the Kalachakra ceremony has returned with his robes bloody and torn. Now there is talk of closing the city gates.”
“What happened to the monk? Do you know?”
Yao-hui shook his head. “I know nothing for certain. He is at the Potala now, speaking with His Holiness the Dalai Lama. But there are whispers of an army on its way toward Lhasa.”
Duncan knew he must return to the Potala at once. He pulled Xiao-nan into his arms for one quick embrace.
“You stay here, in the house where it is safe,” he told her. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Xiao-nan nodded. Duncan did not like to see the fear that suddenly filled her eyes. He ran a fingertip down her cheek.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said softly. Then he turned and began to run toward the Dalai Lama’s palace.
He met two monks from the Potala on their way to close and bar the city gates. From them he learned the rest of the news. There was indeed an army marching toward Lhasa; its arrival could come at any time. The injured monk and his companions had been set upon as they walked toward their home monastery. Though they were unarmed, they were attacked mercilessly. Only this one monk escaped. He had hurried back to warn the city as fast as his wounds would allow. A messenger had been dispatched for help from the Chinese Emperor, in accordance with an agreement that had been signed many years ago. It was the Dalai Lama’s hope that by barring the gates, Lhasa could withstand the army until such help arrived.
Duncan’s frown deepened as he heard this last part. He doubted the inhabitants of Lhasa had any idea what it took to withstand a siege or how to fortify their city against the coming attack. But, Duncan thought as he headed once more toward the Potala, he did—and he knew where he would go for help. If he was any judge of men, Brother Michael had been a soldier before taking the cloth. There MacLeod hoped to find the aid he needed.
He raced up the Potala steps, taking them two at a time. Once inside the great building, he hardly slowed his pace down the long corridors to his room. His only thought was to retrieve his katana and return to the city.
He found the monk, Gaikho, waiting at his door. “His Holiness has sent me to find you,” the young monk said. “He requires your immediate attendance.”
Duncan shook his head. “Not now,” he said, “but I’ll return soon.”
He stopped, wondering how to make Gaikho realize the urgency. But no, there was nothing in the monk’s experience to make him understand—nor, probably, in the Dalai Lama’s, for all his incarnations. Duncan knew he must act now and explain it to them later, when there was time.
“Tell His Holiness I’ll return as soon as I can,” he told Gaikho. “Shortly after sunset I hope. Right now there are too many things I must do.”
The monk opened his mouth to protest, but Duncan pushed past him and into his room. Gaikho was still there when he emerged a moment later carrying his katana. The monk backed away at the sight of the sword. Duncan saw the shocked and fearful look on his face, but took no time to stop and reassure him.
MacLeod ran back down the corridors and out the great doors, his mind already turning over various options he had seen work in battle. He would go first to Xiao-nan’s house to make certain the family was safe, then he would find Brother Michael. Duncan was certain that between them, he and the monk would find a workable plan.
When he reached Xiao-nan’s house, he found her mother and father waiting for him. “Xiao-nan has gone to find her sister,” they told him. “Mingxia went to help old Huilan earlier today, but when we sent for her to come home, she was no longer there. Xiao-nan said we must wait here and tell you where she has gone. She said she would start looking for Mingxia at the city well.”
Damn the girl—why couldn’t she have been where she was supposed to be just once? Duncan thought as he rushed off. He had to find Xiao-nan—and now Mingxia—or he would not be able to keep his mind on anything else.
The area around the well was deserted when Duncan arrived, unnaturally quiet without the bustle of women chatting and children playing. It was like the silence that came upon you at sea just before a storm.
And the storm was not long coming. Duncan felt the sound before he heard it, rising up through the ground and into his bones—the tramping feet of a marching army, the heavy thud of horses and men coming to attack.
More terrible still was the woman’s scream that pierced the city’s silence. Duncan’s heart seemed to freeze at the sound, but not his feet. He was running even before the thought could form.
He ran toward the city gates that had been closed and barred against invasion. But no—one side stood open to the road. And in its frame played a scene from the mouth of Hell.
The bodies of two monks, the servants of the Dalai Lama Duncan had passed such a short time ago, lay limp and lifeless on the ground. The maroon and saffron of their robes was stained with the wet crimson of fresh blood. Duncan’s eyes slid across them almost without seeing, their deaths paled by the other horror, the moving horror, that he saw.
Xiao-nan, creature of love and tenderness, sweet, gentle Xiao-nan, struggled with a man. His upraised hand gripped an odd-shaped sword; even from the distance Duncan could see the blood upon the blade. With all the strength of her slender body, Xiao-nan was holding against him. She fought him for her city, her home, for the people she loved.
She fought against—
Father Edward.
Icy fingers gripped the base of MacLeod’s spine. They reached into his soul as all his half-formed suspicions coalesced.
Duncan knew the man for what he was.
He screamed Xiao-nan’s name, to warn her away—Oh God, she should not be here. She should be home where she was safe, where he could keep her safe—just as the spy’s free hand whipped out hard across her face. Xiao-nan stumbled back, but she did not let go. She struggled to keep her feet as she pulled her enemy with her.
Away from the gate…
Outside, off of Holy Ground….
Again, Edward raised his hand and struck at Xiao-nan. Even from a distance, Duncan could see the blood on her face, pouring from the cuts to her lips—lips Duncan knew to be so gentle, so soft. Anger, hot and primitive, erupted in him. He pushed his body to its limit and beyond, but they were still so far away—too far away.
The man who was no priest looked straight at Duncan. An odd smile twisted his face. Suddenly Duncan knew what was to come.
The cry began down in the pit of his stomach. Two hundred years of civilization fell away to the sound. The war cry of his clan, a sound as untamed as the hills that gave it birth, poured from Duncan’s throat. He screamed; he roared as Father Edward raised his makeshift sword an inch higher, turned it, brought it down.
The pitch of Duncan’s cry heightened; the false priest’s hand hesitated, but only for a second. Not long enough. He stabbed, piercing Xiao-nan’s body. Duncan felt it in his own as he lunged, throwing himself onto his enemy. But too late.
Too late.
Xiao-nan crumpled to the ground as Duncan hit, taking Father Edward with him. The Nepalese man scrambled frantically to gain his feet, but for all his fantasies he was never a match for Duncan’s size and power.
Duncan could not draw his sword. He did not need, did not even want a weapon for this first blow. He needed to strike, to rend, to wound with his bare hands. Eyes nearly blinded by the red haze of rage and pain, Duncan’s arm shot forward. He felt his fist connect. Facial bones smashed beneath his fingers; blood spurted across his flesh and his opponent went limp. Duncan tossed him away like a rag doll and crawled quickly to Xiao-nan’s side.
She lay with one hand covering the wound of her stomach. Blood stained her long, delicate fingers. Once more, Duncan felt the pain of it in his own body, though it was his soul that bore the cut. He gently brushed the hair away
from her face; her skin was growing ashen, the blush of life draining so quickly away.
Her eyelids fluttered open with his touch. Her eyes were still so serene, so full of love.
“My Duncan,” she whispered through her swollen lips, now so pale—lips that only hours before had been so warm and sweet with passion.
“Xiao-nan, don’t move,” he said urgently. “I’ll get you home. I’ll get—”
She raised her other hand to his lips. He ached to feel the cold already seeping through her skin.
“Shh,” she said. “I am glad of today, my Duncan. We are one now. And forever.”
Her voice was growing weaker. But Duncan heard her clearly. With his heart.
“And for all the lives to come,” he answered her.
A little smile moved her lips as her hand caressed his cheek. Gently, a bare flutter of a touch. Then her eyelids closed again and the hand dropped. She lay still.
A single sob filled him, rose, caught in his throat. It cut off his air; he could not breath around the pain. He felt as if his soul had shattered.
“Duncan,” came a scream behind him. Instinct moved him now as he whipped around. He looked up and saw Mingxia crouching, half-kneeling, in the opening of the gate. Her arms were clasped around her middle; her face was bruised, yet white with the shock of what she saw.
Duncan had not time to go to her. Father Edward was up, rushing at him with sword raised. Blood streamed from the man’s broken nose, and his face twisted into a mask of hate.
Duncan should have been vulnerable kneeling beside Xiao-nan’s body, no time to come to his feet. But for this he had trained, to kill by any means, and by his training he survived. Gathering his power into his legs, he waited for the moment to strike.
Two more steps; Father Edward was almost upon him. Duncan took his weight on his arms, muscles rippling as he put all his force into the kick. His legs snapped out, turning Edward’s own momentum against him.
The Nepalese man flew backward. He hit the ground and rolled. Duncan stood and followed him, sword in hand.
Edward leapt to his feet, holding his homemade weapon out before him. They circled each other, measuring movement and strength. Duncan saw what weapon his opponent carried and knew it was no match for the perfection of his Japanese steel. Another man he might have let escape certain death, but not this one.
Xiao-nan, his heart cried in anguish. Duncan pushed his grief away. Not yet. He could not feel yet. He covered his pain with anger.
“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Why did you kill her? She couldn’t have hurt you.”
“She tried to stop me. It doesn’t matter—my master will soon be here, and you will all be dead.”
“And so will you,” Duncan growled.
Duncan attacked, his steps quick and sure. The false priest parried, but his weapon had no balance and threw his weight to the wrong side. He could not bring it back before Duncan’s katana slashed deep into his arm. He screamed as the blood gushed, but he did not stop.
The spy lunged—Duncan spun away and brought his blade in a straight cut behind him. He felt it connect, slicing across his opponent’s middle, biting deeply into flesh and viscera.
Father Edward dropped his sword. He fell to his knees, his hands clutching at the long wound of his stomach. Blood flowed out through his fingers, turning the black of his cassock crimson. He looked up at MacLeod with a surprised expression.
“You were not supposed to win,” he said in wonder as the light began to fade from his eyes.
“Xiao-nan was not supposed to die,” MacLeod answered, unmoved as the body fell forward, lifeless.
Xiao-nan.
Duncan was vaguely aware that the sound of the army’s approach had ceased. He turned to find a single rider nearing. With him came the one feeling Duncan did not want to feel: the searing presence of another Immortal.
The rider stopped a few feet from where Duncan waited. “You have killed my tool,” he said, “and he was useful to me.”
“He deserved death,” Duncan answered, quickly assessing the Immortal’s size, his dress, his speech, the way he sat his horse. Here would be no easy victory like the one just past.
“He no doubt did,” the Immortal replied somewhat dryly. “But I do not like my tools ill used by anyone but myself. I am Nasiradeen Satish, leader of the Gurkhas, and we have business together, you and I.”
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you’ve only to dismount for our—business—to begin.” Duncan raised his sword to the ready.
“Come now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you know our battles are not for mortal eyes.” Nasiradeen looked around then pointed to the west. “My army will camp where they are and they will obey my orders not to disburb us. Let us meet over that rise at dawn. Spend this night praying that whatever gods you serve will welcome you, for tomorrow Shiva will drink the blood of your sacrifice.”
“Or yours,” Duncan said, still not lowering his sword. Nasiradeen laughed as he turned his horse and rode back to his waiting men.
Duncan watched him go, not lowering his sword until the Gurkha commander had reached his men and Duncan saw them move out of attack formation. Then it was as if a fist closed around his heart. The pain of it made it almost impossible to breathe. To live.
Xiao-nan…
was…
Dead…
Dead…
Dead…
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mingxia was kneeling by her sister’s body when Duncan turned again toward the city. Nearby, back through the gate, the bodies of the monks lay limp and twisted in death, but Duncan could spare them only pity. The world swam, swirled around him as his eyes focused on the one sight his heart wanted to deny.
Oh God, Xiao-nan…
Duncan’s step faltered once. At the sound, Mingxia turned her tear-streaked face toward him. Duncan saw more clearly the deep bruise upon her cheek, the cut lips, and that one eye was starting to discolor. He knelt beside her.
“Tell me what happened,” he said. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she sat trembling while she talked.
“I went to old Huilan’s,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “She needs help with her garden, and I had not been there in two weeks. But when the order came to close the gates I knew I should return home. I left almost at once. I was not far from Huilan’s house when he came hurrying down the street—Father Edward. He laughed when he saw me. He grabbed me and kissed me. It was horrible. I tried to pull away from him, but he hit me. I screamed, and he hit me again. Then he kissed me again and began to pull me with him. I tried to get away, but he was too strong.”
Her breath was coming in big gulps and trembling shook her body. Duncan tightened his arm around her.
“Shh,” he said. “You’re safe now. What happened next?”
“We reached the gates. The monk who was guarding came hurrying toward us. He told us to go home. Father Edward laughed. He drew his sword… I screamed… I tried to pull away, I wanted to go home. He threw me against the wall… I hit my head… I couldn’t…”
Mingxia’s voice shook with tears and shock, making it difficult to understand her words. She took a deep breath and ran a hand across her face, wincing at the pain of her own touch as she tried to collect herself enough to go on.
“The other monk was on the wall, watching for anyone who might still need to come inside,” she continued. “He hurried down the ladder. Father Edward started to open the gates. The monk tried to stop him, but the sword… it went right through him… I saw it. He screamed… I screamed, too. I tried to get up, but my legs would not work.
“Then Xiao-nan came. She ran to him and grabbed his arm, his sword. She tried make him stop. He hit her… he… killed her….”
A sob tore up from Mingxia’s throat, and she turned her face into Duncan’s chest. He let her cry until the worst of her tears were past. He wanted to cry, too. He wanted to rage against the heavens for the death of his love, but h
e could not. Not yet.
Xiao-nan…
Father Jacques came running toward them, hair and cassock in disarray. He stopped, his face white with shock at the vision of grief before the gates of the holy city. Duncan saw him cross himself before he took the last lasting steps toward them.
“Blessed Jesu. I heard—” he said. “What has happened here? Where is Father Edward?”
“He was no priest to be called Father,” Duncan snapped. “He’s dead. Over there,” Duncan gave a curt gesture with his head, not caring to even look in the dead man’s direction.
Father Jacques started to turn. “I must go to him. Shrive him—”
“Leave him,” Duncan ordered.
“But he must be shriven, no matter what has happened Prayers must be said for his soul.”
“Leave him, I said,” Duncan let his grief turn to anger. He welcomed it; it was a safer emotion for now. “He was a spy for that army out there. Let his own kind deal with his body.”
“A spy?” Again Father Jacques crossed himself. “Oh, Dearest God, forgive me. This is all my fault.I should have seen, should have listened to my suspicions. But I wanted to believe… Oh, I should have stayed in France studying plants, not people.”
“Stop it,” Duncan snapped. “What should have been done doesn’t matter. There are living souls that need your help now.”
“Yes… yes, of course,” Father Jacques said quickly. “What can I do?”
“Help me with Mingxia. We have to send word to the Potala about the monks—and we have to take Xiao-nan’s body home.”
Duncan’s voice cracked on the words. Oh God—Xiao-nan… The black abyss of grief opened, threatened to pull him down. No, not yet. He could not give in yet.…
Duncan stood, bringing Mingxia up with him. Her sobs were quiet now, though silent tears still ran down her cheeks. Duncan knew there would be tears in her household for a long time to come.
He gave her over into the priest’s waiting arms, letting her be comforted as he, himself, could never be. As they turned away toward the city to wait by the gate and close it when Duncan has passed through, Duncan knelt again beside Xiao-nan.
The Path Page 20