by Rob J. Hayes
The day wore on, midday turning to late afternoon. "There's an inn not too far ahead," Zhihao said. The silence was oppressive, and only part of that was because it somehow contrived to make the crows circling above caw even louder. "I've stopped there once or twice. Excellent wine. We should stop."
"No." The woman seemed to use words sparingly, and always spoke in a damningly quiet voice, making Zhihao listen for her response.
"I'm hungry." Zhihao hadn't eaten since before he was dead, and no doubt she was now considering her own empty stomach. It rumbled to make Zhihao's point for him.
"Ein?" the woman asked.
The boy trudged along slowly, watching mud squelching between his toes with every step. "Eating makes me queasy. But I have to eat, I suppose."
"You are looking a little thin on the bones there, boy." Zhihao went to clap him on the shoulder and paused, remembering the last time they touched. He pulled his hand back and smiled instead. "Growing young man like yourself needs to eat. Build up your strength. A strong arm is the mark of a real man."
"You are my strong arm." The boy looked up at Zhihao, and his face was painfully pleasant. Zhihao couldn't decide if the lad was poking fun or deadly serious.
"Right. Well, then I need to eat. To keep up my strength." A compelling argument no matter which way they tried to sneak around it. The only problem was Zhihao had no idea who he was actually arguing with. It didn't seem right that the boy was in charge, but it seemed even more ludicrous to put a woman in the lead, even if she did know how to swing a sword.
"We'll stop there," the woman said, making it sound a lot like a royal decree. "Unless your friends have already burned it to the ground."
Zhihao laughed. "No chance of that. Flaming Fist does love to burn things." He pointed to the city behind them. "But never inns nor taverns on the road. You never know when you might need a warm bed and a warm meal. He doesn't take kindly to those who disobey either." Zhihao shivered at the memory, and had to admit he was glad, in part, to be free of the warlord.
To the north lay farm land, and Zhihao saw farmers and their workers tending rice paddies. Some of them looked up and watched the three travellers with wary eyes; others just ignored them. Some bandits took whatever they could from whoever they could, and Zhihao had seen the aftermath of such raids, but Flaming Fist had a tight rein on his men and farms were off limits. The cities and villages those farms supplied were fair game, but the world needed farms and farmers, and Flaming Fist understood that. Everyone needed to eat. Even creepy little boys, and half-mute women.
It fell to Zhihao to keep the conversation going and he did so, though it was a little one-sided. The boy occasionally joined in with the odd question or two, but the woman said little, occasionally snorting at Zhihao's more blatant lies. The boy seemed very interested in the tales of The Emerald Wind, and Zhihao was more than glad to embellish his escapades. He was a bandit, through and through, but he knew well how to make himself sound like a hero, and that seemed to appeal to the boy. He was regaling them with his version of the death of General Sitting Tiger, a rousing tale of leading charges and epic duels, almost entirely fictional, when the first of the bodies came into view.
Zhihao fell silent halfway through his story. Staked along the side of the dirt road was an old man. He had been stripped naked and his long hair was now matted into bloody clumps, or lying in the mud where it had been ripped from his head. He was dead, there was no doubt of that, and the stake had been shoved up his arse, pinning him upright like a morbid scarecrow. Only it clearly wasn't working as there were two crows pecking at the corpse, and they'd already been at the juicy bits. It was enough to make Zhihao lose his stomach, but there was simply nothing left in it to lose. So he averted his eyes, and kept walking. The woman stopped in front of the staked out corpse and knelt for a moment, saying a prayer in some language Zhihao couldn't be bothered listening to.
Scenes like this were rare. Hosa had no shortage of bandits or roving war bands, preying on the poorly defended, but few would take the time and effort to erect so grisly a spectacle. Flaming Fist, however, took matters involving his daughter quite seriously.
"What are those symbols carved in his chest?" the boy asked. "Are they some kind of spell or charm?"
The woman pulled the boy away from the body before he could start poking at the corpse, or try to bring the wretched thing back to life. Zhihao very much doubted the man would thank them for a second chance given his current state. Sometimes the afterlife, whatever it held, was simply the better option.
"I don't know," the woman admitted.
"It's old Hosan." Zhihao said, keeping his eyes fixed on the inn ahead of them. "It means kidnapper."
"So it is true? About his daughter?" the woman asked. Zhihao could feel her eyes on him. He didn't answer. He sped up his pace, moving past the others and keeping his eyes ahead. Some lies were too hard to tell, even for a man like The Emerald Wind, and he certainly wasn't about to tell them the truth.
The old man was the first of many stakes along the road side. Zhihao didn't bother counting, some things were best not knowing, but there were dozens of bodies in the distance leading towards the inn. Some were men, some women, but all received a similar treatment. All were dead, stripped to their skin and staked. It wasn't the first grim spectacle Flaming Fist had ever made, but it was certainly one of his worst.
There was movement by the inn and that seemed like a good sign. No doubt what was left of Flaming Fist's army had come this way, which meant Zhihao was following in deep footsteps. He had to admit, to himself at least, he was tempted to rejoin the warband. He'd done some horrible things with them, things that would give nightmares nightmares, but there was a camaraderie among killers, honour among thieves. And never once, in all of his time in Flaming Fist's service, had Zhihao ever gone wanting for a full belly or a skin full of wine. But first he needed to find a way to free himself of the boy.
The staked bodies continued right up to the inn, and it looked like no one had tried to take them down. Maybe it was that no one cared, or maybe no one wanted to get too close. Or maybe it was they were all too scared that some of Flaming Fist's men were still around, ready to punish those who thought to give the poor souls a proper burial. The woman stopped at every corpse, knelt and repeated her prayer to the dead, as though she owed them something. The few people they passed on the road waved a brief hello, but steadfastly refused to look at the grisly spectacles. Perhaps it was just easier not to see it.
Zhihao reached the inn just as the sun was dipping below the western horizon. He was a good distance ahead of the woman and boy. It was a large building, sturdy wooden planks nailed together and only a few spots of rot sinking in. It looked much the same as the last time he had visited it, save for the grisly scarecrows on the approach, and a new paper sign written in the common tongue: Safe Succour. The name made Zhihao smile; it was as much a plea to people like him, as it was an advertisement for weary travellers. A familiar stench in the air wrinkled the nose and tickled the back of the throat. Zhihao tried his best to ignore it, but he knew the smell too well. Unwashed bodies, the living kind, upwind, sour and stale.
The last of Flaming Fist's warnings before the inn was a very different kind to the others. There was far less of a body to this one. Instead of a stake, a hasty wooden sign had been hammered into the ground just outside the door to the inn. Nailed to the centre of the sign was a hand. The skin was wrinkled and grey; the cut end was torn bloody flesh. The hand still grasped a long, slender sword decorated with an ornate engraving of a dragon. Zhihao stared at the it for a few moments, and felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. Then he looked back up the road to where the woman and the boy were quickly approaching, having offered prayer to the last of the corpses. He considered kicking the sign over and hiding the sword, but they were close enough to see him, and that would just lead to questions. He was still standing there when they caught up to him, but he just about managed to wipe the smile from his
face before they saw it.
He half expected the woman to weep at the sight, but she didn't. She stopped in front of the sign, a grim set to her lips, and bowed her head. Then she took the sword from the lifeless hand with a care approaching reverence.
"Whose hand is that?" the boy asked, uncurling the lifeless fingers.
"It belongs to the man who killed me," Zhihao said, not quite managing to keep the good humour from his voice. "Sorry, belonged. I guess it belongs to the crows and the worms now."
The woman turned a hostile glare on Zhihao, and knelt in front of the sign, holding the sword in both hands like some sort of offering. She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
"What are you doing?" the boy asked, but she did not answer.
"Ignore her," Zhihao sniffed the air again and looked about. "She's probably offering a prayer for his safety or something. He's definitely dead you know. Hand hacked off like that... I've seen people bleed to death from less. Now then, let's find out who stinks shall we?"
The boy followed Zhihao closely as they walked past the entrance to the inn, ignoring the faces peering at them from the windows, and approached the far side of the building. Actually the boy was a little too close for Zhihao's liking, and every time he tried to step farther away the boy closed the gap.
A new smile broke across Zhihao's face when they turned the corner. A few paces from the wall of the inn, two men sat around a good-sized fire. They were laughing and drinking from a couple of wine bottles, occasionally taking turns to spit on the fire so it roared with flames. There was a single body not far away, slumped against the side of the inn. An old man with only one hand and no sword. He was dead, his sky blue robe stained red in many places.
"Ringan, Hufeng," Zhihao shouted as he approached, arms wide. "You can't begin to imagine how happy I am to see you two."
Ringan jumped up and away from the fire, fumbling at the sword attached to his belt, while Hufeng just frowned and took another pull from the bottle in his hand.
"I recognise you!" Ringan hissed, finally drawing his little sword and wiping a sheen of sweat from his grimy forehead. It did little to help, just spread the greasy sweat all over his face.
"Well, I should hope so."
"You're dead," Hufeng said. It sounded a lot like an accusation.
Zhihao shook his head, and stopped well clear of the little man's little sword. "Not at all. It was a glancing blow, knocked me a little senseless, but I'm still very much alive."
The boy grabbed Zhihao's hand and Zhihao felt that horrible stinging numbness up his arm again. He pulled away quickly and tried to put some distance between them, but the boy followed again.
"No. No, I remember it clearly. You were stabbed through the heart," Hufeng said. He was much larger than Ringan, both in height and bulk, and had a deep voice to match his size. He also carried a nasty scythe attached to a chain, but he wasn't whipping it about just yet.
Zhihao shook his head and offered a warm smile that only went as far as his lips. "Stopped by my trusty scale." He banged a fist against his dented armour, and winced at the pain in his chest.
"The blade went right through," the fat man said, a rictus grip on his wine bottle. It was hard to argue with Hufeng, given that over a dozen men, Flaming Fist included, had likely seen him die. "Kui said he even heard one of your fingers snap when he stole your rings, and you didn't so much as blink."
Zhihao raised his left hand and looked at his little finger. "That would explain the pain." He wiggled it a little and shuddered. The knuckle felt like it was full of broken glass. "But as you can see I'm definitely alive. Trust your own eyes, I always say, and not those of a thieving little shit goblin. Believe me, I'll be having words with Kui. Sharp words backed up by steel." Zhihao decided the best way to stop them from asking too many questions, was to ask a few of his own. He sat down on one of the logs near the fire and extended his hands towards the flames. The boy hovered just over his shoulder, fiddling with that little red scarf of his. "So where is everyone?"
"Back along the road a couple of days," Hufeng said, finally getting to his feet. "Been there a while now. Set up camp in the usual spot. Fist sent us out to look at the city, see if it's worth raiding again. Not that we have enough people these days."
"Again?" Zhihao laughed. "The fires have barely cooled from the last time."
"What?" Hufeng's hand reached for the scythe at his belt.
"Who's the boy?" Ringan asked, manoeuvring around Zhihao as though he were contagious.
Zhihao glanced back at the boy. His pale, anxious stare moved from one man to the next as he rubbed his red scarf between fingers. There was fear there, as well there should be. Zhihao had long ago learned it was wise to fear men like him. "I have no idea. He's been following me since I woke up at the river. Feel free to kill him for me."
Chapter 7
By the time Cho rounded the corner of the inn two men were advancing on Ein while The Emerald Wind sat by the fire, staring into the flames. The smaller of the two, held a short sword, and the tall, fat one had a hand on a scythe hanging from his belt. Ein backed away a step, tripped over a discarded wine bottle, and fell on his arse. Cho quickened her pace.
The big man yelled down at Ein. "Who are you? And why are you wearing—" He died mid-sentence as Cho drew Peace and sliced him across the body in one fluid, practised motion.
The little man yelped and raised his sword. Cho set Peace humming with a whispered word, and sliced down, cutting both the man's sword, and his body in two. It was all so quick and clean; both bodies hit the ground at the same time. Blood from the smaller man sprayed The Emerald Wind across the chest, and he leapt up, and danced away from the fountain of gore.
"Argh! Those two were about to do us both a favour." He shook his hands, trying to rid himself of the blood there, but to no avail.
"Are you unharmed?" Cho asked, and Ein nodded as he got his feet underneath him again. There was something close to panic on his young face. Cho turned a scathing stare to The Emerald Wind, but the man just shrugged and walked away towards the inn where a corpse lounged by the wall. He knelt down, wiped his hands on its robe, and then prised the gourd from its remaining hand.
The Emerald Wind sniffed the top of the gourd. "Yes! I can't believe they actually left the strong stuff with him." He pressed the gourd to his lips and drank deep. "Argh. Tastes off." Cho turned away, unwilling to admit the truth of what she saw until she knew Ein was all right. She found the boy looking up at her.
"Thank you. They were going to kill me."
Cho nodded, and felt her throat tighten. "You're safe now."
She looked at the corpse laid by the side of the inn, and suddenly the world seemed very distant, as though she were looking at it through a tunnel. The Century Blade, always so strong and vibrant in life despite his years, looked frail and worn in death. His eyes were closed, the skin of his face grey and sagging. Blood stained his blue robe and his sword hand was just a ragged bloody stump. He no longer looked like the greatest swordsman in all of Hosa. His hair was bloody and matted, his flesh sunken and thin as paper.
"Good riddance." Even The Emerald Wind's voice seemed far away. His comment should have angered her, but all Cho felt was an empty numbness. There was sorrow in there somewhere as well, bubbling beneath the surface.
"You're crying." Ein stood at her side, staring up at her.
"I'm sad," Cho whispered. "It feels as though some of the light has gone from the world."
"The sun is setting," Ein said, looking east instead of west.
The Emerald Wind laughed. "The sun rises over Wu and sets over Long, encompassing all of Hosa." He was sitting beside the corpse of the Century Blade and, Cho thought, looked very much like he belonged there.
"You say you know about heroes?" Cho asked Ein, her voice catching a little on her sorrow. She took a few steps towards the Century Blade and looked down on the body of her friend.
Ein followed her. "I had books about all the heroes of our
age. I read them all. I think, I used to hope I would be one, one day. I used to wonder what my name might be. How my deeds might earn it. I suppose that's all past me now."
"Did you read about the Century Blade?" Cho nudged The Emerald Wind with her foot and he shifted a little, then she gripped the Century Blade by his ankles and dragged him away from the wall of the inn.
"Yes."
"I would like you to tell me about him." Dragging the corpse was hard work. He looked so slight and small now life had fled him, but still the was heavy. And the fire behind made her swelter.
"Which story would you like to hear?" Ein asked, sitting down on the chest of the fat man Cho had killed. She thought it strange that he cared so little about the dead man. "About how he battled the great wind serpent, Messimere? Or how he and Light and Po broke the siege at Laofen? Or the time he climbed the Thousand Steps of ShinWo temple, defeating a different master on each one." The boy became quite animated as he recounted the many feats of the Century Blade.
Cho sniffled, struggling to find her voice. Her cheeks were wet, whether from sweat or tears she couldn't tell. "I'll let you decide. Choose one that will honour him."
Ein seemed to think about it for a while, biting his lip and staring into the flames. Eventually he looked up.
"In the Forest of Falling Swords," he began, "it is said the trees grow so tall they reach up to the stars." He spoke as if reciting the story from memory, exactly how it was written. "Some are so large they can take an hour to walk around, with branches so wide a dozen men could walk them side by side. It is said there are people living up in those trees, an entire civilisation that has never once touched the forest floor. And they do not look kindly on surface dwellers. Yet the tree people are not the only ones who call the forest canopy home. There are other things up there, older than Hosa, older than man, older than time itself. For there is a problem with reaching so high. The stars are distant for a reason. In the darkness monsters hide."
