The times were indeed strange, pockets of sanity in a world gone largely mad. Power was now stolen by sword edge, and human worth measured by the accumulation of material wealth. Both the world and the universe, however, exist in a constant state of shifting balance. The dry dust settled, and the sounds of daily life returned quickly and filled the silent hollow left by the military passage. Hawkers again cried out to pitch their wares, and the sounds of animals mixed once more with human speech. The timeless noise of children playing and laughing soon echoed freely along the city streets. Life moved all around him. The coins in the brass bowl drank up the sunlight and were enough. It was his time to move on.
To those that study simple things the act of walking is a straightforward one. It requires a decision, a direction, and little more. It is the steady and continuous process of releasing and regaining balance, a methodically controlled free fall.
Very few acknowledged his arrival, presence, or passage. His awkward gait caused people to look away uncomfortably, rather than look closely or empathetically. The blackness of his filthy garments set him apart, so different yet so perfectly invisible. With concentrated effort the beggar swung his frame into an uneasy forward direction.
None saw this man, none saw this bird, and none saw the many pockmarked scars that littered his ancient parchment skin.
The Needle Points North
An emperor does not retain power by being uninformed, and so in high imperial circles information has always been a commodity of extreme value. One high-ranking minister in particular had the emperor’s ear. This man was a kind and gentle soul and was always in the company of his eldest son. This boy was being groomed for life within the imperial court; he would follow naturally in his father’s footsteps. The generational passage of cyclic power would continue.
The minister was honest and above reproach, and he held nothing back as he shared his true opinion with his emperor. It was not malicious or self-serving. It was a warning of the most serious kind. Ambition is a plow with two edges, outwardly it is promoted and rewarded, and inwardly it is distrusted and feared because the fruit of ambition is power, and it grows and wanes throughout every dynasty. The wise emperor, like a skillful gardener, keeps it closely monitored, and finally must decide whether it should be nurtured or nipped in the bud.
The grounds of the military wing of the imperial capital were a safe and familiar place for the armor-clad commander. A young page took the reins of his lathered stallion and led the beast away to be brushed, fed, and rested. Moving quickly into the training yard, the commander scanned the men engaged in combat exercises. A few turned to acknowledge his presence, but none risked a long or lingering stare.
Groups of fifty were overseen by a master-at-arms. These overseers shouted commands, stopped action, gave advice, and demonstrated the physical meaning of their words. Inactivity and lack of concentration were not tolerated and usually had direct and severe repercussions. Often a man would leave to nurse a broken rib or injured limb, the pain a better lesson than any words an instructor could provide. It was easy to tell the seasoned from the novice. The difference lay not in the sophistication of the techniques practiced, but in the soldiers’ confidence in their ability to apply them properly.
Still unsettled by the bold stare of the old beggar, the commander sought an outlet. Passing by the arena of wooden blade, he walked directly into the intermediate field of live blade training where steel rang out against steel in the sounds and motions of parry, thrust, and cut. Immediately he saw what he had been looking for in the form of a young soldier whose demeanor spoke loudly of preferring to be anywhere else. He would be a fitting target for the day’s lesson.
In a matter of minutes he was standing in front of the reluctant enlisted man, and in much less time than that, the youth had fully registered the peril he was in.
Fear is the mind killer, in battle or in training. The commander’s eyes ordered the young man to attack. It was clumsy and halfhearted; the clang of metal on metal rang out and the commander’s foot found the boy’s unprotected abdomen. In pain the young man stood up and tried to gather himself, urged on by the barking and jostling of his peers, wild dogs tracking the scent of blood.
His next attack was at best a confused step forward. The monk blade wielded by the commander bit deeply into the soldier’s upper leg. The finishing strike was already in motion and would have found its home had the disabled youth not been brought to his knees by the kindness of gravity. Composure regained, the commander shook and sheathed his dripping blade and left the wounded man to be dragged away by the instructors.
With eyes averted and with as few words as possible, the young page approached the commander and spoke. “Sir,” he began, “the Emperor wishes to speak to you.” The summons received, the commander marched past the archery fields and into the lavish inner quarters of the imperial palace.
Three times from both knees his head knocked on the stone floor, and on one knee he waited to hear the words of The Son of Heaven, still wishing he had taken the young man’s life.
“In the far north there are still those that do not bend to my compassion,” the emperor intoned. “You have always been the faithful hammer that shapes the steel around the anvil of my purpose.” This situation required ruthless abandon, and his sources of information indicated clearly that this commander was the right tool for the job.
“My Lord,” the commander began,” with four battalions at my disposal I will travel north, for the protection of the empire and enforcement of your divine will.” Even on bended knee the cold heart of the commander was grateful, knowing that he would once again be free to kill, and that he would enjoy the work.
The emperor was, in turn, pleased to have found a use for the commander’s unspent rage and dangerously idle fury. Even a small rebellion if not crushed promptly can spread like fire. He understood clearly that while his power waned, the influence of his disfigured commander was on the rise. With the insight of his trusted advisor, he gave his orders thinking he would at least for now, be rid of him.
The Supreme Commander left the city with four thousand soldiers. They marched out through the main gates with all the pomp and ceremony that protocol allowed. He and his men were headed one thousand li north in the service of the emperor. The orders were clear, and the intentions of the Supreme Commander were as crystal. There would be death and blood, and much of it.
In the wake of the massacre at the temple mount, he had reevaluated the merits of direct confrontation, and had, in fact, begun to study the virtues and methods of siege warfare. This campaign could well be a lengthy one, and although his body traveled northward, his mind wandered from arid desert frontiers to rugged southern landscapes.
Despite the direction of mind or body, conflict raged within the darkest corners of his being. The very life of this monk still mocked him with its every passing breath and heartbeat.
The Bear
The army trekked with mechanical precision and morale was high. The veterans were once more happy for a chance to prove their worth, and the young were anxious to apply the lessons learned in training. Supplies were fresh and plentiful, and night encampments had an atmosphere of celebration rather than serious military campaign. Through night’s haze the commander could hear the drunken revelry of his men, the piercing laugher of the camp whores, and the music of flute and drum that occasionally sounded from around the dark night fires.
Four thousand men, fully half on horseback, traversed their way through peaceful valley and along simple winding roads as faithfully and steadily as the north pointing needle of their navigational compass. The trail they left behind was littered with refuse. It was picked clean by the scavengers that followed them, some animal, some bird, and some quite human.
Mimicking many good leaders the commander remained aloof and spoke very little. There was no need. The men knew the task at hand and where they were going. During the nights as the men relaxed, he would fixate on finding the last m
onk and the company he now kept, but that was a mission for another day. For now he would just drink himself into a state of bitter oblivion and wait.
Both terrain and mood changed rapidly over the next few weeks. The novelty of the new mission was beginning to wear off, replaced now by the monotony of mindless military routine. The quick pace that was originally set was slowed by the difficult terrain of the highlands, as wide road was replaced by narrow mountain paths. The day-to-day drudgery was punctuated by the occasional rockslide or the loss of man or beast over a steep edge. They were entering the lands of the long winter, and supplies, while not yet dangerously low, would soon be rationed.
Hamlets were raided as required, and any weak pack animals were consumed. The drunken night parties were more subdued. By full moon’s light the howling of unseen wolf packs cried that this was their domain, and that all others were intruders.
The imperial troops met no direct resistance along the way, for that would have been a blessing. Men in numbers if not productively occupied can turn on themselves. On one particularly slow day, the commander summoned his page and snarled his orders, “Bring me sword, bow, and quiver.” He watched the boy painfully avoid eye contact and continued, “and summon my generals.”
The generals quickly assembled, curious yet leery of their commander’s unexpected summons. Terse orders were given. “Hold here while I scout ahead, I will return in two days.” The generals acknowledged the order and tried to hide their confusion. The commander was not a man who did his own scouting, nor one known to venture out without guards. In truth, however, his purpose was twofold. He sought a selfish escape from the monotony of the mission and thought to show all that he still firmly held the reins of power.
Less than a day hence, alone and for now content, he found tracks in the new fallen snow that drew his interest. He followed the large, fresh paw prints of a moon bear. He was careful not to be taken by surprise, and paid close attention to the nervousness of his battle-tested horse. The tracks led eventually to the mouth of a cave.
Tethering his steed to a leafless stunted tree not far from the cave opening, he climbed quietly to a rocky outcrop twenty-five feet high and directly above it. The plan was a simple one, and one that he had seen executed many times as a boy. He sat in patient silence and watched his exhaled breath fog in steady bursts, as it mixed with the cold, crisp air.
The image of the blackened beggar and his bowl filled his mind. He sat like him, but instead of a bowl he cradled a forty-pound rock in his frost covered lap, and to his left he laid carefully his war bow and quiver. The wait would not be a long one.
Already his horse whimpered and tugged skittishly at reins that secured him like a lamb tethered for slaughter. The commander could feel the heat rise from the opening as the large grey head appeared below him and sniffed the air cautiously. Hunger has a powerful pull, and his wild-eyed horse as if on cue began to panic. As the huge grey shag shoulders cleared the entrance, the commander dropped the boulder and let gravity do his dirty work.
It landed square where the bear’s neck meets the shoulders and crushed the spine. While the bear roared in shock and agony, the commander reached gingerly for his bow and full quiver, firing arrow after arrow until the bear was finally silent and lifeless. A crimson blanket stained the powdered snow. Satisfied that the animal was now dead, the assassin’s heartbeat and breathing slowed closer to their normal rhythm. He climbed down, sword in hand, as he approached the steaming carcass.
This bear was surely a Great Bear, a throwback to the times when ice covered half the world. The commander jumped at the animal’s last death rattle, and listened coldly to the cries of the cubs that remained deep in the dark cavern. He first removed the arrows some as deep as the feathered flights. From around his neck he removed his talisman of pain. Methodically he wrapped its icy metal links several times around his wrist until the shard of broken blade rested firmly between thumb and index finger. Looking down, he saw the edge that took his life, and the chain that held him bound. In the cruel bite of new winter’s day he began the process of skinning, picturing once more the monk upon the mountain.
The first cut cleaved the white lunar crescent on the animal’s powerful chest neatly in half and tore right down to the pelvis. The bloody work continued until separated from the body the hide stretched upon the open ground, like a dark and greasy carpet. Six hours later the last remaining bits of flesh and tissue had been scraped off, while mountain winds cried their soulful mourning. Ironically, for at least this night, his trophy would protect him from the elements. In the falling darkness the wolves howled as if grieving the dead, and in the morning horse and rider started back to where the troops were waiting.
By the afternoon he rode proudly into the encampment. The result of the two-day sojourn made a deep and lasting impression on all. The commander, usually garbed in meticulously polished armor, was now dressed in blood.
His helmet was covered by the skull of the bear, and his mangled face stared out from a visor of jaw and fangs. The right claws of a once mighty paw were flung over his left shoulder like a barbaric cape, held firm by the chained sword tip encircling the leader’s neck. The large hide flowed down and over the horse’s hind quarters. The rear claws as long as a man’s fingers draped down and dangled on both sides of his horse’s flanks, and the stallion’s well-muscled legs twitched at their each and every touch.
The soldiers stared wide eyed and open mouthed. Hushed whispers flew around the compound, each man’s imagination filled in the fantastic details of what might have transpired. What was true was far less powerful than what was imagined, and this was fitting, for both truth and reality were beginning to flee the commander’s grasp. The young page led away the terrified steed as the commander retired to his tent. He was, at least in his own eyes, more than a man, more than just Supreme Commander, perhaps even more than the Son of Heaven himself.
Alone again and safe, the commander drank himself once more into the blind and guilt-free numbness of the living dead.
Entrenched
The final leg of the army’s campaign was by far the most difficult. The snows had come early and their northern climb had steepened. The weather and terrain had formed a united front, as if nature herself had turned against them. They had cut deeply into rebel territory, but neither the commander, nor his generals, nor his men, ever saw the face of their enemy. Instead their presence was felt like a mist. It enveloped all but could not be touched; it could be seen but not seen through.
It changed from ethereal to solid when least expected. On treacherous mountain conduits, stones materialized from the mist and dropped down from above. Random showers of arrows and bolts came in the night with the wind, piercing the dark and finding their mark in beast and man. By journey’s end the imperial forces had lost thirty-seven men and sixteen horses, but what they had lost in confidence and courage could never be tallied.
When the walled rebel city was at last in sight, the men were as nervous as their horses. In bitter cold the commander’s cloak of bear skin hung stiffly from his broad shoulders and still carried the lingering odor of death and putrefaction. On horseback and out-of-arrow’s range, he rode a circle around the fortress and took survey of its defenses. While from the high wall the staid rebel leader silently took survey of him.
The city was ancient even by the standards of the capitol. It was the former jewel of a much older dynasty’s crown. Double walls of brick and quarried stone stood higher and thicker than the strongest man could hurl a spear. Slotted ramparts lined the top, and a pagoda tower stood protectively at each of her four corners.
One imposing arched entrance marked the middle of the south facing wall. It was built just low enough to restrict the full gallop of horse and rider, and fortified from above by the large archery tower. This solitary entrance was blocked by doors of oak sandwiched between palm-thick and ornately decorated cast iron. This was a city that had been built to stand a thousand years and launch a million
lifetimes.
The leader watched the commander with intense conviction. There was no secret about the slow, steady approach of the imperial force and no mystery about what the rebels were up against. The stronghold’s reinforcement had been as methodical and relentless as the army’s northern journey. North and south had matched each other step for step.
For four months the rebels had been arriving at the enclave and had swelled its population to thirty thousand strong. The surrounding farmlands were now abandoned and fallow, and although fear was not unreasonable, it was held in check by the will of these brave people. Life went on within for the civilian population, but its direction had shifted from production to survival.
The business of stockpiling food, water, livestock, and weapons had not been ignored. Throughout the fortress vacant buildings now stored grain, unused vessels now held water, and idle courtyards now housed animals. For four full moons, the normally dark and quiet nights had been lit up by the fires of forge, and filled with the steady beating of hammer upon steel, until every household could draw a blade. A triple ring of sharpened wooden stakes now encircled the square fortress, the final parting gift from the summer’s short-lived abundance.
Everything that could be done had been done; everything that had an edge to be sharpened had been honed. The leader had organized and supervised the work through every stage. He knew by name the elderly, the women, and the children that called this place their home. He knew they were not fighting for glory, power, or wealth, this was simply a battle for life. The leader’s actions had been meticulous with regard to the protection of his people, and now he would wait.
In heart he knew that no quarter would be given by the southern troops, and in sorrow he knew that no matter how much had been done, it would not be enough.
The Oracle Speaks
Raven's Warrior Page 7
