The dawn rays shed their blistered light onto a door at the back of the vault. There it was. The one he’d seen in his dream. He crawled over to it. The tide was lapping over the lip of the vault, so he had to paddle across towards it. Covered in seaweed, the floor was as slippery as the magistrate himself. All that defined the ‘door’ were three seams – two vertical and a horizontal – in the rock. Bolin was neither a competent magician nor a sorcerer and had no idea how to open it. He ran his hand around the seal, but there was no way to prize it open.
He heard a shout from above.
“Come out, give yourself up.”
The voice sounded familiar. It had a slight Mongolian twinge: Major Renshu. The major shouted, “Whoever you are, there’s no escape.”
The next thing he knew, a coil of rope hung down from the wall and flapped in the wind against the nose of the dragon. They were coming for him. Damn. Caught trespassing on sacred soil, he would be tattooed on his forehead and exiled to Szechwan or some other remote province. The mark of shame would kill his parents, who would be blamed for his crime. The dreadful consequences unfolded before his eyes. At least Renshu didn’t know who he was – for the moment. If only he could open the door of the vault.
He laid his shoulder into it. It didn’t move. He heard the sounds of scraping against the rock face above the vault. A foot appeared, wearing a soldier’s boot, dangling in the void of the vault opening.
Dawn was bathing the vault in shadows. In his dream, Wing had led him to the vault in shadows and shown him the door to the Jade Chamber with the chrysanthemum emblazoned on it. He examined the door again, expecting to see a ‘Ju’, a chrysanthemum. Nothing – only the grain in the stone.
Think. Ju. The Golden Chrysanthemum. He whispered the word ‘Ju’ to himself.
The door shimmered, like vapour rising from the ground on a scorching hot day.
He couldn’t believe it. He spoke the word out loud, this time like he knew what he was doing.
“Ju.”
Heavenly mists blurred his vision and the next thing he knew, the door had disappeared into thin air. How? Whatever had happened, where the door once sat, there was an opening into the Jade Chamber, itself swathed in darkness.
He edged over the threshold.
In a flash, the door reappeared and ‘closed’ behind him.
CHAPTER 47
The Wolf Pack
You are better off as grass by the roadside,
Than wife to a soldier at war.
LAMENT OF A CHINESE SOLDIER’S WIFE
Gang did not sleep a wink. After interrogating the imposter Feng, he had returned to the Yamen roof and played his bamboo flute for the rest of the night. Like the sun, the great Yang Master, he had brought light where there was darkness, heat where there was cold and conjured fire from the embers. The scene was like watching a continual funeral pyre, where the corpse was the body of religion. What glee, what ecstasy, to be me! He would not want to be anything other than who he was, Gang – no imposter he, but the silent assassin, the stalker, the killer of dreams, a life like no other. It was by the far the best night of his life, with the promise of more to come.
My, he had enjoyed witnessing how Altan pulled on the strings of Heaven. What a marvel of nature. What symphonic glory. What unadulterated delight! How did he do it? The shaman was at the pinnacle of his powers. The dawn or ‘breaking yang’ watch heralded the ceremonial opening of the city gates. Pointedly, the commandant ordered the Zhendong Gate bolted and the drawbridge left firmly up.
By the time the sun had traversed the celestial sphere, Gang and Altan’s plan would reach fruition. Soon, Sheng and Qiang would transport the explosives from the shed in the alley to the Zhendong Gate. Until then, Gang could relax, as he sipped his morning tea and munched on some sweet pastries.
Gang called for his sedan chair and the porters took him to the Zhendong Gate, where Tung was haranguing his beleaguered troops. The commandant looked as pale as the winter snows on the Yanshan Mountains.
“What a night – the temple ablaze,” Tung complained. “You know anything about how it started?”
“No, why should I?” Gang said defensively.
“I just wondered. Besides, I’ve more pressing concerns,” Tung murmured, pointing at the Mongol camp fires on the horizon.
“What are their numbers?” Gang asked.
“Thousands,” Tung replied. “And it appears they have brought up reinforcements during the night.”
The sight of smoke rising from the hundreds of fires into the still dawn air drew from the commandant a weary sigh. That was excellent. The commandant was already exhausted.
Tung explained his dispositions, “Along the east-facing front line, there are five towers of battlements, the Zhendong at the centre. Clustered around each of them, I have posted several hundred armoured soldiers clutching pikes and swords, a unit of archers and various ballistae.”
Gang was pleasantly amused. Tung seriously believed that these defences were going to withstand the might of Altan’s spectral army.
“Yesterday,” Tung said, “my troops were assaulted by invisible blue wolves, fashioned out of thin air. While they fought valiantly, their morale is fractured. They could do with some supernatural help. They prayed that Abbot Dong would provide them with protective amulets. Now that’s not possible.”
Gang pitied Tung – almost. As far as he was concerned, Tung could station the combined might of the prince’s armies there; it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome.
He said with as much sincerity as he could muster, “You are to be commended, commandant. The troops are prepared for battle and we’re bound to win.”
In his mind, he could hear the haunting flute melody he’d played on the Yamen roof. What a conflagration. The temple fires were still bleeding embers into the day’s sombre clouds. Once Altan had weaved his spell and Big Qiang had blown the Zhendong Gate to pieces, the Mongols would swarm into the fortress. The Chinese would capitulate and the Mongol army would re-occupy the Zhongguo. That would be the pinnacle of his life’s work. Before that, there were tricks-a-plenty to play.
A guard of the Zhendong Gate shouted, “Ai yi yi!”
Everyone peered over the battlements. Even Gang felt a twinge of fear. It was a hideous sight. They were wolves, a pack thirty or forty strong, racing down the coast road towards the Zhendong Gate. Their bodies seemed translucent in the rays of the pale morning sun,. It was as if they were there, but they weren’t there. They were an incandescent, shimmering blue.
They weren’t ordinary wolves. They were spectral; half bound in Heaven, half on earth. That was why, Gang assumed, that everyone could see them. While he waited, he suppressed a smirk.
“It’s another Blue Wolf attack. Men. Stand firm. Have no fear,” Tung said, his eyes loaded with dread.
Gang was going to enjoy the carnage. “So it is,” he replied, as he watched the sublime work of the master spell weaver.
They watched in frightened awe as the wolves approached, hell bent on fury. Even Gang expected the rampaging pack to pull up on the edge of the moat and there raise a clamour. That was its purpose – to hold back the enemy and keep the garrison safe from attack. Wasn’t it?
“Archers. Take aim,” Tung shouted from where they stood on the gantry, his voice hoarse with fright. Their arrows were cocked, their aim steady. Would the spectral wolves succumb to mortal weaponry?
“Unleash the fury!” he yelled.
The bowmen unleashed a volley of arrows, as the wolf pack raced towards their appointment with death.
CHAPTER 48
The Jade Chamber
Go out with awe.
Come back with fear.
THE SHI KING (BOOK OF ODES)
Black. Not a hint of light. Bolin was breathing heavily. Then his head screeched. Ai yi yi, he’d had headaches before, but thi
s was like someone had smashed a hammer against both temples.
He turned around, his hands reaching for the door. What door? It was a wall. In a panic, he’d forgotten it had closed behind him. He banged his fist against the rock. Ouch. This was karma. He had wanted to breach the Jade Chamber and he had succeeded.
There was an odour. My, it was rank. It smelled of decay, pungent and acrid. It was so obnoxious, he almost fainted. This was ten times worse than when he had swilled out the school latrines.
He needed light, any light. From his girdle, he pulled out a candle stub, a piece of wood and a borer. After several attempts at grinding the borer into the wood he gave up; both wood and borer were too damp after the crossing in the rowing boat. They would dry out after a while and so would he.
Until then, all he could do was explore the chamber. He flattened his back and palms against the door and edged sideways to his left, crablike, feeling along the chamber wall. It was smooth as glass. The ceiling was the same. And the colour bottle green with black berry and yew green veins ran through his mind. The floor was composed of the same, dense, smooth stone.
Reaching the first corner, his left foot struck a small, hard object.
“Pick it up,” a voice spoke to his soul. It was like a whisper, like when his father would encourage him after he had tripped and fallen. So he wasn’t alone in the chamber. Wing was nearby and helping him. He puffed out his cheeks. Stuck in the dark, he obeyed.
As soon as he touched it, his temples started pounding like the drums in the Bell and Drum Tower. He saw images of a man on a horse, charging full pelt at an opposing army, his scimitar cutting them to shreds. He saw more death, the same warrior cutting the heads off a thousand men, stripping the skin from their heads and piling the skulls in a pyramid as high as the Great Pagoda.
Bolin was holding a piece of metal in the shape of a ‘u’ – a horseshoe and judging from its rusty, uneven surface, an old one at that. As soon as he dropped it, the visions stopped.
Coupling that with the piercing head pains, he guessed it made of was iron. Why was there an iron horseshoe in the Jade Chamber? He had no idea. He carried on exploring the chamber. What was iron to do with? He tried to remember, but his senses were pitching like the rowing boat on the Bohai Sea.
From the first corner of the chamber, he followed the second wall. Now that the initial panic had subsided, he grew accustomed to the livid darkness and his yin-yang senses activated. There was an invisible entity in the chamber that felt imprisoned. As he sensed it, he felt as if it was watching him, which in any other circumstance would have been very strange. Also, it was peculiar that he felt he was with an old friend. Was that Wing? He guessed it must be.
Reaching the second corner, his foot brushed against another horseshoe. The first one wasn’t there by chance. He wondered if there were horseshoes in all four corners. Why would someone do that, anyway? If only he could recall what Jin had told him about iron.
He turned again, working his way along the back wall. Then his left ankle touched something on the ground, this time not metallic. He felt along its rough, curved surface. It was made of woven fabric. Pacing it out, it was eight steps in length – a rolled up carpet. Well, he wasn’t sure what he expected to find in the Jade Chamber, but two horseshoes and carpet weren’t high on the list.
He tried the borer and wood again and this time a small spark leapt out of the ether onto his candle wick. Yes. Light. How light changed everything! Amidst the flickering shadows, he saw the walls were a deep green jade with black serpentine-like veins.
This was the famous Jade Chamber.
In the middle was a rectangular altar. He brushed off a fine layer of dust and discovered a golden candlestick and candle, a glass jar, sealed at the top, a low bowl containing a clod of earth and an empty silver cup. The four objects seemed to glow with an inner light as he picked each one up, cleaning them with his sleeve.
The objects were arranged in a square, with a fifth golden, heart-shaped container in the middle. Its raised centre held a small, spherical object, like a pearl. These must be sacred ceremonial items.
What was the rolled-up carpet doing there? It was more than incongruous, it was suspicious. Unrolling it revealed part of the pattern; there were a shock of greens and browns in the background and on the foreground, some animals claws – a bear or a tiger or a dragon – attached to the end of a leg, a blue animal’s leg. Blue.
Wait. There was something solid in the middle of the folds. With his heart pounding, he felt around it. There was silken fabric… a gown. Inside it, an arm… or what remained of one. That was the source of the pungent smell. The limbs were cold, stiff. A body.
He backed away in shock. Vaguely, he could hear Renshu and his men beating against the outer door, trying to gain entry. He felt numb, empty inside. Without looking, he knew it was Wing’s body. He had solved the mystery of his disappearance. Why him? Was it karma?
Like dragons dancing on clouds, thoughts flashed through his mind. Now he understood the cries of ‘release me’ and the feelings of intense compression and bludgeoning suffocation. Dragon Master Wing was talking to him, to Bolin.
He opened the rest of the carpet. The silver claws and blue paw belonged to a Blue Wolf. He should have known. The carpet was full of the beasts; claws bared, mouths wide, leaping out of the fabric like demons out of Yama. So, Wing had had his last breath squeezed out of him by a rampant pack of Mongol blue wolves, albeit embroidered on a carpet. Bolin shed a tear, not for Wing, but for the terrible way in which he’d lost his life.
Bolin had remembered that the Mongols disposed of their nobles by suffocating them in a rolled-up carpet. This was a Mongol mercy killing which left the body intact, with no external marks. Whoever did it twenty years ago was steeped in Mongol ways, yet respected Wing. Who then? Renshu? As far as Bolin knew, the major was only a decade older than he was. That made him too young. The mystery of Wing – and Cheng’s – killer remained. But he was closing in on them. He’d bring them to justice. Heaven demanded nothing less of him.
This was… a dragon’s lair.
Oh my! The thought struck him hard. He wasn’t alone in the chamber – he was with the Laolong. With his yin-yang eyes, why couldn’t he see the beast? The candlelight cast a shadow on the corner of the chamber where he found another horseshoe. So there were four. Then he found four more, one each around the corners of the elemental altar. That made eight in all.
Then he remembered. Iron horseshoes warded off the spirit worlds and weakened the power of dragons. This chamber was a prison… for no less a captive than a dragon. The Laolong was present, but dispersed in the spirit worlds, like salt in the ocean.
He was trapped in the Jade Chamber with a dragon and Wing’s dead body for company and no way out.
CHAPTER 49
Blue Heaven
In the heat of the attack, words can’t be heard – so cymbals and drums are made.
In the smoke of the battle, visibility is poor – so banners and flags are made.
Use cymbals, drums, banners and flags to focus and direct people’s ears and eyes.
THE ART OF WAR
Gang could not believe it. Nor could the commandant and the soldiers. The arrows passed straight through the wolves and thudded into the frozen earth behind them. Far from halting or even slowing their rapid advance, the arrows seemed to spur the pack onwards towards the Zhendong Gate. The arrows had failed to pierce raw flesh, leaving not a scratch. How was that possible? He glanced at Tung, whose face was a picture of awe and panic, but mostly panic.
The rabid pack closed on the fortress. The drawbridge was up but that didn’t deter them, as they dashed across the empty space over the moat, paws on a bridge of air, and right through the drawbridge. Momentarily, they disappeared from view in the arched tunnel beneath the gate.
The commandant had lined up his bravest troop just inside the
inner gate, but they had not been expecting a spectral attack. From the battlements where he and Tung stood above the gate, Tung yelled at them, “Men. Stand firm! The blue wolves are coming!”
There was a strange hiatus in the moments before the pack reappeared on the other side of the tunnel. The men seemed to visibly wilt; shoulders slumped, heads bowed. Some shuffled on their feet, fingering their lances. Many looked to Heaven for mercy. Gang could have sworn that two of them stood in their own pools of urine. It would make no difference to their fate. Altan had conjured these beasts from Heaven – or was it hell?
The macabre pack scudded out of the tunnel and leapt like missiles at the phalanx of soldiers, who slashed at the fiends. Their cuts made a swishing sound as their swords swept right through the spectral beasts. Others stabbed at the ghostly wolves with sharp daggers, their weapons as useless as paper knives.
Snarling and pawing with tooth and claw, the wolves landed on top of the men, throwing them backwards onto the cold stone. The brave soldiers thudded to the ground clutching the terrible beasts, in some horrific lovers’ embrace as life danced with death. Arms punching and legs kicking the air, it was the most bizarre sight, like some ghoulish synchronised grovelling.
Neither sword, nor pity, deterred the rampant wolves.
It was as if the air itself wielded subtle knives, cutting the men, slicing legs, arms, hands, ears and noses. The wolves gnawed at the soldiers’ throats, blood spurting everywhere, their silver-blue coats stained in the crimson of the victims, rendering them grotesquely visible in the pallid daylight.
It was fierce and deadly. The troop of valiant men lay on their backs, carved into a deathly sculpture of blood and gore. They lay next to their own ghosts.
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