Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Saint-Germain could see from the tightening of her shoulders that Chih-Yü was suddenly very upset. He hastened to her side, putting one small hand on her arm. “What is it?”

  Her voice was choked with anger and despair. “Mongol cash.”

  “I won it!” Jui Ah protested.

  “When? Where?” Chih-Yü asked. She signaled the men to set the plank down once more, which they did with horrified slowness.

  “I don’t remember,” he said crazily, licking his lips between each word.

  “This much cash and you don’t remember?” Chih-Yü said, holding up the leather cord. “Who among you would forget winning this much money? There are brass and copper coins, but most of them are silver.” She looked from one militiaman to another, and read the shame in all their faces. She lowered the string of cash, turning the coins over in her hand. “Jui Ah, where did you get these?”

  “I won them, I won them,” he shouted wildly, retching as his broken collarbone shifted.

  “Yet you don’t remember when, though the silver is hardly tarnished.” The coins jingled in her hands as she shook them again. “What man here would take Mongol cash, no matter where he got it?”

  One or two of the men started to boast and were quieted by their comrades. Jui Ah lay back on the plank and set his face.

  “Shih Ghieh-Man,” Chih-Yü said contemplatively, fingering the coins she held. “What would you do, if the choice were yours?”

  “About Jui Ah?” He dreaded this question, for there was nothing he could say that would not alienate him further from these soldiers. He was aware that Chih-Yü was making a point with her men, and he knew that she was relying on his support. “I would search him.”

  Chih-Yü nodded once. “Search him,” she said to Ling, and stood back while two of the militiamen bent to carry out her order.

  Jui Ah was cursing softly between ragged breaths as his clothes were systematically and none too gently removed. His color was bad now, and his thoughts were muddied by the relentless, grinding agony of his broken bones.

  Ling had drawn off Jui Ah’s leggings and was reaching for the boots when he noticed a scrap of paper in the seam of the leggings. His eyes went to Chih-Yü’s. “There’s something…”

  “Give it to me.” She held out her hand for the paper, glancing at it when it was unfolded. Her whole body felt cold as she examined the drawing, which showed the two protected ways to approach the Mao-T’ou stronghold from the steepest side, and gain entrance to the keep. Convulsively her fingers closed on the paper.

  “What is it?” Saint-Germain asked quietly.

  Wordlessly she handed the crumpled sheet to him and stood beside him, her face vacant from shock as she realized the immensity of her Captain’s treason.

  “Is this the only thing you have provided the Mongols?” Saint-Germain did not raise his voice or assume a threatening attitude. He looked down at Jui Ah and deliberataly hooked his toe under the Captain’s broken leg. “Well? Is it?”

  “Desecrator of family graves!” Jui Ah spat, then wailed as Saint-Germain moved his foot.

  “Is this the only thing you have provided the Mongols?” he repeated reasonably.

  It was some little time before Jui Ah could answer. “Despoiler of—” He did not finish. A shuddering groan passed through him as his leg was lifted by Saint-Germain’s toe. “Stop him!” he demanded of Chih-Yü.

  She came to stand by his head. “You should be grateful to Shih Ghieh-Man, Jui Ah. If it was left to me to deal with you, I would have your other leg broken as well.”

  Saint-Germain repeated his question three more times, and each time Jui Ah gave no information. “I don’t think it will do any good to try longer,” he said to Chih-Yü, hating himself at that moment. “He’s bleeding again, and…” He turned his palms up to indicate the futility of their efforts.

  By now the militiamen were silent, all of them touched by the monstrous act of their Captain. Most of them watched what was being done, a few with wolfish satisfaction in their eyes, some with impassive condemnation. The others stared distantly, refusing to acknowledge the questioning that was taking place.

  “Yes,” she said. “It will accomplish nothing.” She clapped her hands sharply. “Get Ki-Djai.”

  A sigh passed through the militiamen at this name: Ki-Djai was the executioner.

  Before the sun set there was another body hanging from the trees below Mao-T’ou stronghold in silent warning to Mongol scouts and raiders.

  Text of a dispatch from the Warlord Tan Mung-Fa of Shui-Lo fortress to the District Magistrate Wu Sing-I in the town of Bei-Wah.

  On the fourth day of the Fortnight of the Fire God, the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, to the Tribunal of the Shu-Rh District.

  Word came today from a messenger sent by the Warlord Kung Szei, informing the Warlord Tan Mung-Fa that the holdings of Warlord Kung have been overrun by Mongols, and at the time the dispatch was sent, all buildings in Kung’s protectorate were afire and burning or had already been destroyed. Warlord Kung has indicated to Warlord Tan that the loss of life was staggering and that only those who fled into the hills have escaped the Mongol warriors.

  Warlord Kung wished to warn all those in the Shu-Rh District that much larger numbers of the enemy have massed and are intent upon occupying all of this District before the autumn rains make battle difficult.

  The messenger who brought the report from Warlord Kung has succumbed to his wounds, which were grievous, and for which the Warlord Tan’s surgeon could find no remedy. The messenger, before his death, informed Warlord Tan that he had seen the Warlord Kung fall in battle, transfixed by enemy lances and bleeding from numerous wounds.

  The Warlord Tan wishes to inform the Tribunal and the Magistrate Wu Sing-I that aside from the messenger, no one has reached the Shui-Lo fortress from any of Warlord Kung’s holdings.

  It would seem prudent, then, to prepare for a significant increase in Mongol assaults. The Warlord Tan earnestly entreats the Magistrate Wu to submit this dispatch at once to the Military Secretariat for immediate action.

  By the hand of the secretary Hso-Yi, verified by the chop of the Warlord Tan Mung-Fa.

  10

  Mao-T’ou stronghold was unnaturally silent. Torches that were usually alight had been extinguished and the men who patrolled the walls greeted one another in whispers. No lamps were lit in the hall or the rest of the keep, no conversation came from the militiamen’s sleeping quarters.

  Chih-Yü paced her study restlessly. All the shutters were open and what little light there was came from the half-moon that sailed in the rumpled clouds. She paused at the window, looking down, and was grateful to see a figure in black waiting below. Though she could not speak, she waved to him, indicating he should come up to her. Until that moment, she had not realized how intensely she wished for his company. It was an effort of will for her not to rush to the door and hold it open, waiting for him.

  At last the rap came, quietly, and a voice so low it could scarcely be heard on the other side of the door said, “Chih-Yü.”

  She longed to fling herself into his arms as she drew the door back cautiously, but held her need in check. There were other matters, more important now. “Shih Ghieh-Man,” she murmured as she made certain the latch was secure.

  He was dressed in his Frankish gear, requiring only a mail shirt to ride to battle, which she had forbidden him to do. Though the men of Mao-T’ou stronghold respected him, they would always regard him as an interloper and would not be willing to admit him to their ranks.

  “I have considered the weapons you have offered me,” she said as she moved away from him. “Tan Mung-Fa has brass cannon, and has been censored for possessing them. The officials do not like district Warlords to have heavy arms. There have been too many rebellions that sprouted from just such seeds as that, and the current Emperor is not a stupid man.”

  “Isn’t he?” Saint-Germain asked, though he knew she would not agree.
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br />   “He is perhaps foolish. That is not the same thing as stupid.” She had locked her hands together and stared at her interlaced fingers.

  “That’s worse,” Saint-Germain insisted. “A stupid man cannot learn, an ignorant man has not had the opportunity to learn, but a foolish man is able to learn, has the opportunity and does not do it.” He felt exasperated with the man in yellow, whom he had never seen, because he feared for T’en Chih-Yü. “There’s no point to this,” he said abruptly, unwilling to argue with her. “What have you decided about the weapons we’ve discussed?”

  “The long arrows are most acceptable. The men will use them and trust them. The black powder canisters are illegal, and the men regard them as ill-omened. The other…”—she drew a slow breath, recalling Saint-Germain’s description of the weapon—“my men have not seen in use, though they have heard of it. Most of them feel that such a weapon comes from demons and will dishonor them.” She turned to him, seeking his comfort and understanding. “It may be all that you say, but I must refuse it. If these were army men, it might be different. Militiamen don’t like burning weapons.”

  “Arrows, then; no powder canisters, no Greek fire.” He looked down at her, troubled. “The Mongols will not care about whether or not the weapons are demonic.”

  Chih-Yü did not answer at once, for this was the very issue that had haunted her most of the day. “My men,” she said slowly, “would not fight bravely if they believed that their weapons were accursed. They would fear to kill a foeman because his angry spirit might fasten on their souls after death.”

  “You realize that you are outnumbered?” There was accusation in his words, coming from his worry. “You have seen the Mongols in battle. You and Tan and Kung and Shao have faced them, and you have seen what they do. Isn’t there any way to convince your militiamen that these weapons might make it possible for you to stop them, but otherwise they will be fighting against truly impossible odds?”

  Her face was still, and she said with remote clarity, “I do not expect you to feel as they do, as I do. You are a foreigner, Shih Ghieh-Man, and our ways are not your ways. I have given my oath, as my father gave his, to defend this stronghold and its lands, and this district. If I suborn my men’s integrity, I will violate my oath, and will be deserving of the death that will come to me for abusing their faith.” She stood near him now, her palms toward him, entreating him to accept what she told him.

  He took Chih-Yü’s hands and carried them to his lips. He said nothing.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  “It is a mark of homage in the West.” His dark eyes rested on her with sadness. “You merit homage.”

  She made a swift gesture to silence him, pulling one of her hands away, though she stepped nearer to him so she could hear him speak to her. “I haven’t been tested,” she said, then closed her eyes a moment. “It will be tomorrow, I think.”

  “And I.” He took her into his arms, his hands spread wide on her back as if to provide her with additional armor against her enemies.

  “I will give my orders before dawn. We might have the advantage of surprise if we are concealed in place before their scouts arrive.” She was not able to imbue her plans with much confidence.

  “How many men were in the company seen yesterday morning?” Saint-Germain inquired gently, drawing back so he could look at her face.

  Miserably she recalled the horrified face of Ling as he had ridden through the gates of Mao-T’ou stronghold, his horse lathered and sobbing for air, his gear in total disorder. “Ling estimated two hundred, perhaps more.”

  Two hundred, Saint-Germain repeated inwardly. There were less than half that number of militiamen at Mao-T’ou stronghold now and only fifty-four horses for them to ride. The enormity of the danger went through him like cold steel, and it was with an effort that he restrained himself from shaking Chih-Yü. His hands grew rigid as he held her, and his compact body was taut.

  Suddenly and silently she began to weep, and though shocked by these wretched tears, she was powerless to stop them.

  “Chih-Yü, valiant Chih-Yü,” he said, just above a whisper, as he held her, moving gently, rocking her. “Cry, elder brother.” One hand stroked her hair, the other braced her back, lending her his strength so that she could replenish her own. He did not kiss her or caress her—for the moment they were as brothers or fellow-soldiers, and the comfort he offered was uncolored by desire.

  A while later she gulped, sniffed and turned in his arms so that she could wipe her eyes on the hem of her sleeve. The anguish that had overwhelmed her was gone, jettisoned in the quiet tempest of her weeping. Her breath caught once in her throat, a last resurgence of her torment. Gradually she became aware of the concern in his whole demeanor, of the steadfast composure that had sustained her. She let herself lean against his chest, feeling serenity touch her for the first time in months. “I didn’t mean to be so foolish,” she said in an undervoice, and feared for an instant that she would have to endure a second bout of tears.

  “You aren’t foolish,” he promised her as his hand tipped her head back. “A fool would deny the danger and make light of the risk.” He recalled what he had said of the Emperor.

  “There is great risk, isn’t there?” she asked, and did not need him to answer. “Actually, it isn’t a risk at all, but a certainty.” Now that she had said those ugly words, she discovered that they had lost much of their power. “Well, I told you there was no choice once, didn’t I?” She caught the inside of her lower lip in her teeth, holding it while she mastered herself.

  Saint-Germain tightened his hold on her. “You’re brave, Chih-Yü. Nothing I say or do will protect you from that bravery.”

  Her attempt at laughter was a failure, and she pulled out of his arms. It was difficult to speak only in whispers, but she managed to keep her voice soft. “They will go into the valleys, I think. They know we’re defended here, and will want to take the valleys first, so they can starve us out. A pile of corpses here and there will be demoralizing. Most of the militiamen come from one valley or the other. They will be distraught by what they see. It will not work to our advantage to let this happen.” She had worked out her strategy over the last two days, being as realistic as she could be.

  “If the Mongols had information from Jui Ah, they may well know where the traps have been laid around the fields,” Saint-Germain warned, unperturbed by her change in attitude.

  “I realize that, and I’ve tried to take it into account while making plans.” Her hands closed together, flexed and closed together. “I have assumed that they will come in from the northeast, and cut off the road to Bei-Wah, which will not only prevent us from sending out a messenger to ask for aid, but will give them a strong position to deal with any reinforcements that might arrive. They will have to come through the millet fields, or risk crossing marshy land, which might be dangerous. There are four sets of traps along the boundary paths of those fields, and one or two of them may help. I hope they will, even if the Mongols have been warned of the presence of them.”

  “Those traps are pitfalls, aren’t they?” he asked her.

  “Most of them. There are four or five trip-lines, which I think might be more successful.” She was frowning now, reviewing in her mind the defenses that had been established throughout the So-Dui valley.

  “Do the farmers know what to expect?” He thought fleetingly of the inn at the head of So-Dui valley where Hsing had gone when she married. That lovely girl, he recalled, who had been puzzled but satisfied to be his concubine, now in the path of the most ruthless enemy. Was there a way, he wondered, to get her away before morning?

  “They know that it will be deadly fighting and that they can expect no quarter whatever from the Mongols.” She looked up, staring out at the wan light of the moon. “We Chinese have a bloody past, but nothing like this. They destroy everything in their path, the Mongols. Houses, farms, men, it is all one to them.”

  Saint-Germain had
no soothing words to contradict her. “They want space to graze their herds, not houses and farms and men around them.” It was part of the explanation, but not all of it. He decided to turn her mind from this fruitless reflection. “What about the shepherds and foresters? They’ve been alerted, haven’t they?”

  “Yes. I send messengers tonight, immediately after dark, to the farms and the inn to tell them to send the children and old people into the hills. The shepherds will take in a few, they have promised. The others will have to fend for themselves, but it will get them away from the fighting. That way those who remain will not be distracted with worry for them.” As she crossed the room the old floor squeaked, and she froze, like a thief in an unfamiliar building.

  “No one heard but me,” Saint-Germain assured her as he followed her, his light step awakening another such sound. “There. You see how quiet?”

  She nodded automatically. “I ordered all of Gei’s people into the hills,” she said after a moment. “The inn can’t be saved, so I have ordered that the building be filled with barrels of pitch. Four men took the barrels down yesterday, and carried Gei and all his family away, concealed under sacking. The barrels were old meat and grain barrels so that if there were men watching, they will have seen nothing remarkable.” She studied him shyly. “Hsing is gone.”

  “Thank you,” he said, relieved for the girl, but more moved by Chih-Yü’s generosity.

  “Then you do care for her,” Chih-Yü declared with an unexpected flash of jealousy, which confused her. She told herself sternly that had she married, she would have shared her husband with other women. But a husband would not have stirred her as Saint-Germain did, would not have freed her close-held desire.

  “So do you, or you would not have sent her away,” was his kind response. “Naturally I have been fond of her. I cannot treat her as I did and not experience some sort of tie. But you know yourself that her pleasure in me was mild. Of necessity, then, I felt the same mildness for her.” He was standing behind her, and he put his small hands on her shoulders, drawing her back against him. “There is nothing mild between us, Chih-Yü,” he said in a deeper voice, uncannily echoing her own thoughts. “If you had wanted it, you could have had that from me—a pleasant satisfaction, a dream of easy gratification, nothing more. Hsing never understood what passed between us, either from her sensuality or her fear. Oh, yes, in part she was afraid of me, though I tried every way I know to ameliorate it.”