The Path

by Rebecca Neason

  Nasiradeen hoped MacLeod’s time in Tibet had not made him soft. The Gurkha was tired of conquest without fitting battle. He had hardly unsheathed his sword since they crossed the mountains; the villages his army had destroyed had not been worth the effort.

  But tomorrow, he grinned into the night, tomorrow he hoped for better things. First a Quickening—and then Lhasa.

  Nasiradeen turned back to the camp behind him. With strong, purposeful strides, he reentered the circle of firelight and called for wine. Men scurried to serve him, returning not only with drink but with a platter of hot meat carved from one of the yaks they had taken from a village.

  He squatted by a fire and his men clustered around him, eager for anything he might say. Looking at their faces, Nasiradeen knew that not even the gods held as high a place in their hearts as he.

  And he accepted their devotion as the fitting tribute a mortal must pay. He grinned at them in the dancing firelight.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we dine in Lhasa.”

  To a man, they cheered him, their cries slicing the silence of the Tibetan night.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was a long hard night for Duncan MacLeod. The sleep he needed came only in fits, and then without rest. Xiao-nan was there every time he closed his eyes; there in memories of her smile, her laughter, her touch, of the warmth of her body beneath him, around him…

  Of her body cold and still in death…

  Of blood. So much blood…

  Dreams of longing twisted into anguish and loss, into sweat-drenched wakefulness that brought no relief.

  The nightmare was real….

  Xiao-nan was dead….

  Xiao-nan…

  Finally, two hours before dawn, Duncan rose from his bed. To remain there was not only futile, it was exhausting his spirit even more than his body. If he was going to survive, he needed to clear his mind of everything but the day ahead.

  He sat on his knees in the darkness of his room, legs wide, weight balanced, hands resting lightly on his thighs, and began deep focused breathing. At first he could not concentrate past the gaping hole that had once—was it only yesterday?—been filled with hope and love. But he knew he must; of all the battles he had fought, with sword and body, this one fought without movement, fought in the darkness and silence, was his most important—and the most difficult. The prize was the future and possession of his soul.

  He breathed in and held it, picturing the air as a stream of light flowing down to his tant’ien. This was his center, the place of his ch’i. He exhaled, breathing out the turmoil that still coiled within him, wanting to drag him down into the deep abyss of despair.

  Slowly, breath by breath, he backed away from that chasm. True healing, he knew, was a long time away; the scar of his loss, perhaps, would never heal. But as he breathed he found the strength to face the future.

  He rose from his knees and began to stretch, muscle by muscle, moving out of stiffness, releasing the tension. He went from stretching into kata, and there in the movements he met himself again; he found balance.

  His body warmed, and Duncan knew it would be folly to push himself further. He lit one lamp and dressed, then retrieved his katana from the corner by the door where he had placed it to wait in readiness. As his hand closed around the hilt, feeling the familiar grooves of the intricate carvings fit themselves into the calluses of his palm, he was flooded with the surety of his life come full circle. There were things worth fighting for, worth killing or dying for; all a man could do was choose his causes carefully and walk the path his heart told him was right.

  Dawn was now less than an hour away. Duncan still wanted to walk through the city and check that the defenses were in place. He needed to talk briefly with Brother Michael—then Nasiradeen would be waiting.

  Duncan paused at the door, turned, and looked around the softly lit room. On the morning of Hideo Koto’s death, the samurai warrior had composed a Haiku, a poem of gratitude for the life he had lived. After reading it to the rising sun, he had peacefully faced his death. Duncan did not know if death awaited him this day, but his own poem was carried in the beating of his heart.

  We are one, Xiao-nan, it said, now and for all the lives to come.

  Duncan walked the halls of the Potala with swift, long steps. Through many campaigns such a pace had eaten up the miles. This morning it took him quickly through the halls of the great monastery and down its steps. He did not see a single monk.

  His mind was elsewhere, but his feet took him toward the main gate. He made only one detour along the way. He stopped for a moment outside Xiao-nan’s home and put his hand silently on the door.

  “Good-bye,” he whispered to the still and lifeless body of the woman he loved, to the family he had hoped to call his own.

  Then he turned away and strode toward whatever destiny lay ahead.

  When he neared the city gate, torches set into the wall flickered in the darkness before dawn and in their light what Duncan saw both relieved and saddened him. Brother Peter, young and innocent, squatted among a group of Tibetan women. He was helping them tear apart firecrackers left over from the celebration and pour the gunpowder as well as nails and bits of metal into small libation jars and twist cloth into wicks. A pile of filled jars was already stacked in the center of the circle.

  Duncan looked up and saw fires burning at intervals along the top of the wall, with small cauldrons set in the heart of the coals. MacLeod did not have to look to know they would contain oil that could be poured in hot, sputtering agony on anyone below. Brother Thomas stood amid a group of young men, giving instructions to those who held bows and cloth-wound arrows that could be quickly ignited by the fires beneath the cauldrons.

  All along the top of the wall, men clustered as if trying to give each other courage. There were so few—maybe thirty in all—yet more than Duncan had hoped to see. Some of them held long knives, others had sharpened poles in their hands. All of them wore grim and frightened expressions. Brother Michael walked back and forth among them, offering a word here, a clasp on the shoulder there—a commander to his men.

  Duncan’s glance slid over the scene quickly. He knew that all that could be done was here. He started to turn away when two figures caught his eye. Mingxia and Yao-hui stood together, father’s arm around his remaining daughter’s shoulders. They clutched short poles like clubs, poles that might have once been table legs, things of beauty in a peaceful home. Their faces wore the same look of determination overlying grief.

  Duncan started toward them when Brother Michael noticed him and descended the ladder.

  “Xiao-nan’s family should not be here,” Duncan said as the monk neared. “They have already paid too dearly for this city’s defense.”

  “I could not deny them the right to fight for that which Xiaonan gave her life. Her mother sits vigil over her body. These two stand here to honor her as well. I could not turn them away.”

  Duncan knew Brother Michael was right. “When the fighting starts—” he said.

  Brother Michael nodded, understanding. “I will try to keep them separated from it,” he promised.

  “Thank you.”

  Brother Michael paused for a long moment. “My friend,” he said at last, searching Duncan’s face for the sign of hope MacLeod knew was not there. “I have seen an army so dispirited by the death of its general that it tucked its tail between its legs and ran like a dog. I have seen others fight like demons to avenge a fallen leader. Is this battle you go to wise?”

  “Wise or not, I must go to it.”

  “I feared you would say no less. Then, my friend, may God go with you.”

  Duncan accepted the monk’s blessing with a single nod. For one more moment, the two men’s eyes locked, each understanding what the other did not say. Duncan turned away. He strode toward the city gate, leaving the monk behind.

  At the gate, Father Jacques waited. The priest stood alone. His head was bowed and shoulders slumped even more than usual, as
if he carried a great burden. Duncan knew he blamed himself for the treachery of his false companion.

  Duncan went to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. It was all the comfort he had to give.

  “Father Jacques,” he said. “I have something to ask of you—a favor.”

  “Anything, Monsieur MacLeod.”

  “Xiao-nan’s family—when this is all over, take care of them for me.”

  The priest nodded silently. MacLeod’s fingers tightened briefly on his shoulder. Then Duncan dropped his hand. He turned slowly and let his eyes sweep over the city, saying goodbye to what this place had been to him, to who he had been while he lived here and to all he had hoped to be.

  As he turned back toward the gate, Father Jacques called out to him. “Is there nothing more we can do for you, Mr. MacLeod?”

  “Bar the gate,” Duncan replied. “Pray, if you will,” he added softly.

  Duncan walked through the city gate. He stood until he heard the bar drop into place behind him, then he strode toward the rise to the west where Nasiradeen—and the Game—were waiting.

  Over the rise and down into the hollow between the hills; the Gurkha Immortal was waiting. He was an impressive sight, standing statue-still, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his long curved sword as the first light of dawn washed the air in gray and gold.

  He was taller than Duncan had thought when he had seen him on his horse yesterday, and his long arms would give him the advantage of reach—but, Duncan hoped, not of speed or of agility. Duncan silently raised his katana in salute; Nasiradeen smiled and did the same. They both dropped into ready position.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Duncan said as they began to circle each other slowly, each instinctively taking the measure of the ground and his opponent. “Leave this land in peace, and neither of us has to die.”

  Nasiradeen laughed. “For three centuries I have worked toward this,” he said. “I’ll not walk away from it now. Are you afraid of death, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? For that is your destiny this day—just as mine is to conquer, to rule throughout time.”

  Arrogance was one weakness, and if there was one, there might well be others; all Duncan had to do was find them.

  “There is no destiny,” Duncan answered. “Nothing is written.”

  Suddenly, Nasiradeen lunged. As he moved, he dropped his left shoulder, telegraphing his action. Duncan parried; he spun to the right. Nasiradeen brought his sword around in a sideways sweep, but Duncan was ready. His katana arched up and back, stopping the curved blade’s slice. As the swords collided, Duncan kicked, catching the Gurkha in the stomach and sending him staggering backward.

  But he kept his feet. He grinned again at MacLeod. “Good,” he said. “Very good. A worthy battle at last.”

  Duncan did not answer. He kept his stance low as he watched Nasiradeen’s body for any subtle signs of attack.

  The left shoulder dropped again and turned slightly, allowing Duncan to prepare for the upward slice that came at him. He parried and spun. This time his sword cut deeply into the Gurkha’s bicep.

  He heard Nasiradeen’s gasp of pain. The grin was gone now from his face. His sword swung; Duncan caught it, parried, swung his own. Metal to metal, they flashed in the growing sunlight.

  The heat and power of battle swept over Duncan; necessity and training kept his arm from feeling the weariness of too little sleep and too much emotion.

  The Gurkha’s curved blade arched toward Duncan in a disemboweling sweep, blood-grooves on the blade whistling their deadly melody in the morning air. The uneven ground beneath Duncan’s feet made balance uncertain as he dropped his stance and let the blade swing through the empty place where his body had just been.

  Your hand might hold a sword, May-Ling had once said to him, but what of the rest of your body? Learn to use all your weapons.

  Duncan rolled, crouched, whipped one leg around in the move called iron-leg. It knocked Nasiradeen’s feet from under him. The big man went down, but he, too, rolled and was up almost as quickly as Duncan.

  Again they circled each other. Yes, this Gurkha is good, Duncan thought as he prepared himself for the next onslaught. The blows were barely a breath of time in coming. Duncan could not stop them all. His own blood poured down his chest as Nasiradeen’s blade sliced, cutting through cloth and skin.

  Duncan staggered but did not fall. The wound would heal; he had not time to let the pain of it penetrate his concentration as he strove to find the weaknesses that might bring him victory—that meant his life.

  There… he saw again the drop of the left shoulder before a slice or lunge and the slight shifting of balance before a diagonal cut. They were so subtle, so quickly covered by attack, that a few years ago Duncan would not have seen them. It was only his training in the martial arts of Japan and China that alerted him. Silently, MacLeod thanked Hideo Koto and May-Ling Shen for all they had taught him.

  Duncan knew he would have to bring all their training to bear if he was to prevail.

  Still the fight went on. Lunge, slice, parry cut, high, low—entries sought, barely blocked. Nasiradeen had size and strength, and though he was quick, he was a fraction slower than MacLeod. And he was too confident. That, most of all, MacLeod could exploit.

  He gave a calculated stumble and watched the arrogance, the certainty of success, flash across the Gurkha’s face. With it came the opening Duncan had been waiting to find. Nasiradeen’s sword swung wide; Duncan spun inside and drove his elbow into the Gurkha’s face. With a half turn, the razor edge of his katana laid open the Gurkha’s arm and slid into his side.

  Nasiradeen was not stopped. His sword flashed again, bit deeply into Duncan’s thigh. Duncan fell, but used the fall to turn. He sent all the strength of desperation and survival through his good leg, out into his foot. The bones of Nasiradeen’s knee shattered beneath his heel. The leg bent backward, and the Gurkha screamed with agony as his leg went out from under him.

  Duncan rolled again and was up again in an instant, ignoring the blood and pain in his thigh. His blade whipped to Nasiradeen’s neck. “If I let you live, will you take your army and go—leave this land in peace?” he asked one last time.

  “No,” Nasiradeen growled. “If I live, this land is mine.”

  “Then you leave me no choice,” Duncan said.

  “Shiva will welcome my soul.”

  “Then go to Shiva,” Duncan said as his katana swung, sliced—and was free.

  The first mist of the Quickening swirled around Duncan’s feet before the body hit the ground, thick as fog on a winter night. Mist became fire, bathing his body with elemental heat. Power gathered, struck, swept through him like lightning from a cloudless sky; the lightning from Shiva’s hand.

  Of their own accord, Duncan’s arms lifted. His katana pointed to the sky, balancing him, keeping him on his feet as Immortal energy surged. And in the light and thunder, the fire and mist, came Nasiradeen. All he had been flooded Duncan in an unstoppable wave of knowledge and power. Duncan saw each twist and turn that had blackened the Gurkha’s soul; felt the disdain that he now knew had covered a heart too long without love.

  Sorrow piled upon sorrow, loss upon loss. Duncan’s own soul shattered with the pain of it and fell back in ill-fitting pieces.

  Then it came to him, soft as laughter carried on the wind, gentle and cleansing as the early-spring rain. A voice, more felt than heard, whispered his name as invisible arms wrapped around him.

  We are one, the voice said; beloved, it saved him.

  Now and forever; he was not alone.

  And for all the lives to come; Xiao-nan was with him. She would always be with him.

  The lightning ended. Duncan fell, spent, to his knees. He felt the ground solid beneath him and knew the chasm had closed, the blackness had receded.

  He had survived.

  The body of Nasiradeen lay in a crumpled mass a few feet away, and his head was not far from his body. As Duncan waited for the effects of th
e Quickening to pass, for his strength to return and his wounds to complete their healing, he knew what he must do next.

  Slowly he stood and crossed the distance. He bent and picked up the Gurkha’s head, ignoring the expression of shock and surprise that was now Nasiradeen’s death mask. Then he turned toward the Gurkha camp and the waiting army.

  The massive cluster of men were waiting as Duncan crested the rise. Five hundred or a thousand strong—Duncan did not know their number, but they were an ocean of armored warriors staring at him in wide-eyed terror, they had seen the lightning that was their leader’s death. Duncan smiled in a grim, unrelenting expression. He wanted their fear. It was, perhaps, Lhasa’s best hope of survival.

  Blood-covered, his hand wound into the hair of Nasiradeen’s severed head, Duncan marched forward. He changed his face into a wild and savage snarl. He looked like a demon from the darkest depths of Hell as he neared the camp. The men nearest him struggled and stumbled into one another as they scrambled to back away.

  Duncan raised his arm and swung. He let loose the head he carried and watched it arch upward, a hideous missile against the brilliant blue sky. Within the mass of men before him, an opening cleared as, pushing and shoving, they moved away from where the head must fall.

  It landed with a sickening thud and lay there, sightless eyes staring upward, all arrogance gone.

  Now Duncan raised his sword. He brandished it before him like a bright flame of victory.

  “The way into Lhasa lies through me,” he shouted. His voice sliced through the morning, sharp as any sword. “Who will fight me now?”

  No one answered. Duncan waited a moment more, then he continued, “This invasion is over,” he shouted. “You will trouble this land no more. Take the bodies of your dead and GO. I will be watching. I stand ready to do battle with anyone who defies these words.”

  With that, Duncan turned back toward the city. He kept his head high, his body tense and erect as he walked. He would not—could not, for the sake of the city below—let the army see his weariness. Although the battle was over for now, shock and fear would soon fade, and there was still the chance that someone among Nasiradeen’s troops might find the strength to rally the army for one last attack.