Tzoa Lem voiced his glum agreement, then paused to consider the matter. “If we turn now, we will reach the fork in the road before night is completely upon us. Then, in the morning, we may start up that other trail, if that is what you decide we must do. If it is what you wish to do.”
“Why should I not wish it?” Saint-Germain asked, brows raising.
“There are many reasons.” The guide would not look at his employer.
“You said the way was steep. That is hardly a deterrent, you know.” He was aware that Tzoa Lem was being evasive. “What is so wrong with the other trail? Is it haunted? Are there highwaymen? Do they collect extra tolls?”
“Well,” Tzoa Lem said, relenting, “that is the way to the old Chui-Cho fortress. It guards the pass. It’s been there hundreds of years. Warlord Mon Chio-Shing has it now. He’s one of the descendants of the Sui nobles.”
“What is it that makes this Chui-Cho fortress so terrible?” He had heard various rumors of rapacious Warlords, but none of them naming the Warlord Mon Chio-Shing.
“Old Mon is not a concern.” Tzoa Lem snickered uneasily. “He’s fifty-eight years old. No, it’s not Mon.”
Saint-Germain was getting exasperated with the guide. “What is it, then?”
The answer came in a rush. “They say the place is defended by an ogre, and that everyone who fights against him is defeated.”
“An ogre.” Saint-Germain rubbed his face with one hand. “Tzoa Lem, though I have never before been in these mountains, yet I have seen much of the world. In my travels I have heard tales of giants, monsters, chimeras, basilisks, phoenixes, gryphons and dragons who have been said to guard everything from the most fabulous treasure to a hillside spring. I say I have heard of them, but never have I seen them. No,” he corrected himself. “Once, I did see giants. It was in a land you have never known, which was called then Mauretania. I saw some men there, warriors of a distant place, who were half again as tall as I am, or very nearly that. They were lean as vines and had skins of tawny black.”
“There are no such men,” Tzoa Lem declared, glaring at Saint-Germain.
“That is precisely my objection to your ogre.” He dismounted with care, for the path was very narrow, just wide enough for a heavily laden pony to pass if he walked on the outer edge of it.
“They say that this ogre kills and eats people,” Tzoa Lem insisted.
“Yes,” Saint-Germain nodded. “They usually do.” He gave a signal to Rogerio and looked back at Tzoa Lem. “We’ll have to turn the ponies individually. There’s not sufficient room here to do this any other way.”
One at a time, they unhitched the animals from the lead connecting each pony to the pony ahead and behind him. Though patient and surefooted, the Spiti ponies were nervous, and the three men had to work with great care, soothing the squat animals with the spindly legs as the turns were made. While they were working on the fourth pony, Rogerio slipped, and for a moment he teetered on the crumbling edge of the trail. But Saint-Germain caught his arm and pulled him back to safety. Neither Saint-Germain nor Rogerio said a word, and so Tzoa Lem was silent as well, though he watched Saint-Germain speculatively from time to time.
It was quite dark when they at last reached the fork in the road. The wind was moaning, demented, along the walls of the gorge, and from the smell of the air, they knew rain was near. Tending the ponies and seeing to their barley gruel filled more than an hour, so that the night had settled darkly around them by the time Rogerio busied himself with a campfire and Saint-Germain worked with Tzoa Lem to put up their night shelter.
Saint-Germain kept night guard perched on one of the three large chests containing his native earth. He was armed with a Byzantine long sword, one of two blades he had brought with him when he had traveled into China many years ago. It was a handsome weapon, lighter and slightly longer than the European broadsword, and having better balance. The hilt was unornamented, with a functional crossbar and quillons to protect the hand. The tapering blade was made of Damascus steel and was razor-honed on both edges. He wore the scabbard across his back, and it dangled against the trunk, for it was thick, somewhat flexible camel leather. When at last the storm broke, Saint-Germain wrapped oiled cloths around the sword and scabbard, but he did not seek shelter himself. He let the rain drench him, welcoming the discomfort, for it kept his mind from turning to Chih-Yü and the revenge he had visited upon the Mongol warriors for her death.
He was silent in the morning, and the drizzling tail of the storm did not encourage the other two men to speak beyond the few necessary words as they broke camp and loaded up the ponies.
That night they made camp on a ridge, and in the morning they were surprised by a small herd of golden takin browsing in the rhododendron bushes growing in the lee of the ridge.
“What are they?” Saint-Germain asked as he watched the animals.
“Takin,” Tzoa Lem said. “There are others like them: the serow and goral. It is most unusual to see them.”
Rogerio looked at them with unabashed amazement. He turned to his master. “They look like antelopes that were crossed with goats.”
Saint-Germain only nodded. “I have seen the tahr goats—are these related?” He had an affection for the tahr, for though it was less impressive than many wild goats, it was sturdy and steady-tempered. Twice, when traveling the Silk Road, he had encountered the russet-haired tahrs and had enjoyed them.
“No, you cannot capture these. The tahr will accept a goatherd, but the takin will not,” the guide answered.
The voices had disturbed the unusual animals, and at last an old bull raised his head, made a strange gurgling bugle, and the herd bounded away through the brush.
“They are thought to be good omens for travelers—it is said that the takin keep away rain and rockfalls.” Tzoa Lem gave a shrug to show that he did not subscribe to the belief, but did not wholly discount it.
Rogerio had already begun to untie the skins from the shelter poles, and he remarked, “A better omen for travelers would be to get packed properly and on the road again.”
“True enough,” Saint-Germain agreed, and gave his attention to the Spiti ponies.
It was slightly past midday when they first caught sight of the Chui-Cho fortress. It was an imposing building of tall, squared towers topped with sloping tile roofs. The stone walls were almost smooth, with few windows. The ramparts were high, notched for archers and faced with more tile.
“The gate,” Tzoa Lem explained with forced nonchalance, “is on the other side and cannot be approached without passing under the archers on the walls.”
“But is there another road on the other side?” Saint-Germain asked, assuming that there was not.
“A small path that one of the wild goats might find challenging. It must be scaled with rope ladders. They say that once a rival Warlord sent his men here, and ordered them to attack by the rope ladders. The fighters of Chui-Cho sat at the top of the ladders and killed the invaders one by one.”
Saint-Germain could not refrain from comparing Chui-Cho fortress with Mao-T’ou stronghold. Whereas this huge stone building was virtually impregnable, Mao-T’ou had stood open, more as a guard post than a deterrent to passage. Chui-Cho was made of tall, thick stones; Mao-T’ou had been almost entirely wood. Chui-Cho was certainly capable of housing four or five hundred fighting men, their families and their equerries. Mao-T’ou was crowded when more than one hundred fifty people occupied it. Chui-Cho was clearly the most important building on the road for many li; Mao-T’ou had been less important than the two valleys it overlooked.
“How old is it?” Rogerio asked Tzoa Lem.
“It is believed that it was built in the years of the Han Emperors, but I do not know if that is true or not. Any ancient building is rumored to have been built then.” He looked at the fortress. “The ogre is said to defend that little outbuilding there at the bend in the road.”
The structure indicated was not really very small, but the towers of Chui-Cho dw
arfed it. It was a Z-shaped building, two stories high, fortified with stone and huge standing logs. “Appropriate for an ogre,” Saint-Germain observed, and tapped at his pony’s ribs to start the animal forward again.
“You’re not going to challenge him, are you?” Tzoa Lem asked, urgency driving his pitch up several notes.
“As I understand it, one of us must challenge.” Saint-Germain reached over his shoulder and felt the pommel of his Byzantine long sword. There was also a small francisca tucked into his belt. This Frankish ax was not used for striking, but for throwing. Saint-Germain had carried it with him many years, but rarely used it. He was not certain that it would be of any value to him now, but his hand closed on the steel ax head where it joined the leather-wrapped oaken haft. He hesitated for a moment, then dismounted and began to walk up the trail toward the inhospitable ogre’s house.
An outraged warning shout broke through the morning. Saint-Germain stopped, holding his hands out to the side to show that they were empty. It was difficult not to look back, but he knew that it was more important for him to pay attention to what made the sound than to see how his companions were reacting to it.
When the sound had finished echoing down the cliffs, another noise, the awesome note of a large hammered bell, rolled through the air, as powerful as a storm-driven sea.
Archers appeared on the walls of Chui-Cho fortress, and the sound of battle drums began their insistent beat inside the high stone walls. None of the archers lifted their weapons, though one of them did throw a ruined shoe at the little party on the trail.
A ram’s horn was sounded on the battlements, and at that signal the archers readied their bows, but did not loose their arrows: they stood silent, waiting.
Saint-Germain had learned to appreciate these formalities of battle, and could not entirely dismiss the impression this preparation was making on him. It would be useless to pretend that he did not recognize the threat this display represented, and realized that for a great many travelers, this alone would be sufficient to turn them back, or cause them to pay large sums of money for the privilege of leaving the shadow of those walls unscathed. His right hand closed on the hilt of the long sword as he made sure the upturning quillons would not catch on his clothes if he had to draw the long blade quickly.
The cacophony of the drums and ram’s horn grew worse, until the rocky faces of the mountains rang with the sound of it. The noise was nerve-racking: even the steady-tempered Spiti ponies grew restive from the onslaught.
A moment before Saint-Germain would have strode forward himself to bring this bombination to an end, there was a crash, as of falling trees and breaking rocks. In the next moment, an oddly armored figure rushed into view.
He was not an ogre, Saint-Germain realized at once, but he was a formidable warrior. He had seen such armor only once before, and that had been many years ago, before Pei-King had fallen to the Mongols. Then the forces of a visiting foreign noble had worn similar accoutrements. His body armor was made of what appeared to be mats of wood and metal woven tightly with heavy cords. He carried a long, slightly curving sword in an ornate scabbard. Around his brow was a band of plaited and gilded leather which Saint-Germain at first mistook for a coronet, and then realized that the upstanding stellations were in reality the handles of more than a dozen tiny knives.
“What is he?” Rogerio called to Saint-Germain as he watched the warrior hurry forward.
“I think he’s from those islands to the east of Korea. One of them is called Honshu, if I remember correctly,” Saint-Germain answered calmly, though he did not take his eyes from the strangely armed man.
The fighter took up a stance and shouted in gruff and atrociously accented challenge, “Fight for your honor, for you will die!”
“Commendably succinct,” Saint-Germain remarked dryly as he reached over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword.
As the other fighter deliberately drew his weapon, he taunted Saint-Germain. “My katana will make ribbons of your entrails.” The steel blade glowed in the light, the sun winking jewellike on the edge.
Saint-Germain knew that his blade was perhaps two hand-spans longer than this fighter’s weapon, but he was cautious. He had heard tales of the swords made on Honshu, so keen that they could slice a man from neck to hip without slowing the speed of their descent. Several of the alchemists he had known in Lo-Yang vowed they had seen such demonstrations, and he had very nearly believed them. Now that he saw this weapon, he understood how the reports might be true, for the slight moiré pattern that glinted on the steel could only indicate a fine layering, a complex laminate tempered many times with salt and leather and blood.
“No man passes me!” the warrior announced, assuming a posture as deliberate as a dancer’s. “I am Saito Masashige, grandson of Taira Kiyomori, the hero of Gion and Dan-noura; great grandson of the scourge of the pirates, Taira Tadamori. My father distinguished himself at the Battle of Uji and his valor gained him much favor and recognition. I was honored by my ruling lord and sent as a pledge of mutual respect to the great Warlord Mon Chio-Shing at the behest of the Emperor of the Middle of the World, and have been decorated by that August Hand at the Imperial City in K’ai-Feng. It is a privilege to meet death at my hands.” The words were ritualistic and obviously required a reply.
With a sardonic smile, Saint-Germain said, “I am Francs Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, son of a King, initiate priest, alchemist, magician. In the Empire of the Middle of the World, I am called Shih Ghieh-Man, and was not given the name lightly. The history of my blood is long indeed, and I will not recount it, for it goes back three thousand years. It is fitting that my opponent is so great a hero, for I do not wish to sully my hands with lesser men.” He held the long sword in one hand, a considerable feat.
Saito Masashige gave a growling laugh, not unlike the sound of a cat hissing. He held his sword at the ready. “Son of a King, you call yourself, foreigner, and yet you hang back.”
Saint-Germain moved two steps nearer, but not far enough to stand on the gravel of the road. It would be folly to try to fight on such unstable footing. “If you are a great hero, then come to me, Saito Masashige.” Now that he knew he would fight, he had to control the reckless anticipation that wakened in him. It was so tempting to throw himself into the battle, to take needless risks for the exhilaration of it, and the possible true death that waited in the katana’s lethal touch. The fury and despair that had smoldered in him sought the oblivion of destruction.
The other man grimaced as he stepped to the side of the gravel. Now he was somewhat closer to Saint-Germain, though there was still too great a distance between them for any real combat.
Too late, Saint-Germain realized that he was being maneuvered so that he would have to fight with the sun in his eyes. A few more paces and Masashige would be with his back to the sun. “If that is your game…” Saint-Germain said quietly, then took a few short steps, then leaped over the gravel to land on the same side of the trail as Saito Masashige stood. It took him a moment to recover, and in that time, the other man had reached up to the knives in his headband and flicked one at his opponent. The sting in his shoulder told Saint-Germain what had happened more than what he had seen, and at once he knew that if he allowed himself to be distracted, even to look at the little weapon lodged just below his collarbone, that the katana would flash down, cutting effortlessly through bone and muscle, bringing with it the death that had eluded him for so long.
“Ha!” Masashige cried out, his katana snapping as it turned in his hand to allow for a backhanded slice.
Saint-Germain was already out of range, moving his longer, heavier, less wieldy sword from his right to his left hand. Few men were capable of swinging the weapon with both hands, let alone one, and Saint-Germain saw Masashige hesitate for the flicker of an eyelid before moving toward him, the sword rushing like an extension of his arm toward his adversary.
The rashness which had threatened to overcome him now faded as Saint-Germain
jumped back and brought his long sword around in a horizontal arc. He was fully aware that when the point of the blade was at the farthest extent of its swing that he would be vulnerable to attack, and would not be able to bring the sword down quickly enough to stop the katana from sliding through him. He let the weight of his weapon pull him around so that the momentum was not interrupted, lunging forward as he came out of the turn.
Masashige was startled by this maneuver, but made sufficient recovery to take one cut at Saint-Germain’s back as he spun with his long sword. He was not close enough to reach his target, and did not have time to move closer before the long sword was whistling toward him, driving him back as Saint-Germain attacked.
Steel rang on steel, once, twice, and then both men stepped back, the points of their weapons slightly lowered as each regarded the other.
Saint-Germain saw now that the negligent way with which Masashige held the hilt of his katana was deceptive. That loose right hand, above the small guard—for the katana had no quillons—was part of the man’s formidable skill. He had seen other men with that curious ease with their weapons, and knew that inevitably those were the most formidable fighters. The left hand, behind the right, was firmer on the hilt and the marked sinews in his arm gave mute testimony to his strength.
“We cannot fight here!” Saito Masashige called out, a little short of breath. “There, the ground is firm underfoot.”
“Yes.” Saint-Germain looked where the other man pointed, though he knew he risked being struck with another of the little knives. “It is no honor to kill a man because he lost his footing, is it?” he asked kindly, but his face was hard.
“You are not like most of them,” Masashige said, as if it were an explanation.
“No.”
The area Saito Masashige had indicated was fairly near the fortress walls, a wide expanse of hard, dry earth. The flat space was oblong, and for an instant Saint-Germain was painfully reminded of the Roman circus. This was much smaller, and there were fewer spectators, but it had the same deadly feel of that long-vanished place.
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