by G R Matthews
There was little to see and with no destination in mind he circumnavigated the tree a few times as he relearned to walk. At the base of the thin trunk, Xióngmāo had dug a pit and began to pull out a small selection of packs and saddle bags. Another circuit and the pit was being refilled with the excavated dark earth, her small hands pushing it back into the hole.
“That will not be easy to cover up,” Zhou said as he went around again.
“We are leaving a trail wide enough to follow as it is,” Xióngmāo replied. “There is nothing we can do about that. This though, this will be easy to hide. Watch.”
Zhou stopped next to her, rubbing his thighs with the palms of his hands, encouraging the blood to flow and the warmth to remain. Her final preparations were to stamp the earth flat with the sole of her leather shoes. Amongst the grassland, the deep black scar of the pit and freshly turned earth would be easy to spot. However, as he watched new green shoots appeared through the soil. They grew rapidly, reaching towards the sun, twisting, turning, and unfurling as they did so. A carpet of grass soon covered the bare earth and moments later it was impossible to say if there had ever been a hole there or not.
“How?”
“A friend of yours,” she said, holding his staff out towards him. “She wanted you to have this back.”
The short staff, barely reaching from the floor to the base of his rib cage, was just as he had last held it on the Wall. The polished wood was warm to the touch, the grain, mottled green, brown and flecks of silver-white, was smooth. No stubs of branches or twigs broke the surface of the wood, no knobs or knots to disturb a firm grip. The staff was straight, no curve, bend or warp. It was as if the tree had grown the rod of wood for the sole purpose of being a staff, a weapon.
And, Zhou thought, that is exactly what had happened.
There it was, the pulse of life beneath the exterior and it travelled through his hands, along the veins and arteries of his arms, into his heart. Warmth bloomed from the centre of his being, a new energy suffusing his body, washing away the pain in his legs and spine. Every beat of his heart sent a new wave through his body and, even through closed eyelids and dark clouds, the bright light of the sun shone yellow. He stretched his arms up towards it, feeling young and alive again.
In his mind, in that place where he had not been able to tread since the day of his capture, the tortured landscape turned green and verdant with life. From the imaginary sky above the ruin of his city, the ash covered graves of his family, a bright pillar descended. Where it touched the floor, grass and plants grew. Trees grew from sapling to full-grown in the space of a few heartbeats. Crowns spread and sheltered the ground below. Ferns grew on the shadowed ground and wild flowers burst forth in a multitude of colour wherever the canopy allowed a spear of sunlight through. New life wrapped itself around the ruins of the dead city.
“You do not have to exist here,” the voice said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Life is death and death is life. You cannot have one without the other. What would be worth striving for if not for the realisation that you have only a short time to accomplish your goals,” the voice persisted. “The tree knows it may live for two hundred years, but that each season is like a day for you, and it must compete for sunlight, for water and food if it is to succeed and procreate, if it is to ensure its immortality in the next generation. The animals that live amongst its branches must brave the thinnest to gather the fruit and to avoid predators. They know that it is a risk, but one that must be taken if they are to succeed, if they are to have young.”
“My child is dead,” Zhou said.
“We know,” said the voice. “Yet you live. You have more chances to succeed, to ensure your immortality. The good must have children to continue the fight against evil. Life is ever a struggle. Some win and some lose. The tree may not reach the sunlight, a great storm may rip it from the ground, but another will take its place in the struggle. The fallen tree will provide its goodness to the soil for the newcomer to use. Even in its downfall and death, it gives what it can to the struggle so that others may succeed. This is life.”
“I don’t want to have more children,” Zhou said. “The pain is too great. I cannot go through that again.”
“Then why do you go on?”
“I want to make the person who destroyed my city feel the pain I do.”
“You have already done that. You killed the duke in his castle. We helped you do that,” said the voice. “So, why do you go on?”
“The mountain,” he answered.
“Mountains rise and mountains fall. The world has its own struggles.”
“They took my home from me, from the others.”
“You want revenge,” the voice stated.
“Yes,” Zhou answered.
“You will not get it. Not as you think and perceive. That which you achieve will be nothing but more dust and ash. This is not the struggle. To defeat your enemies, we understand. To find a place of safety and security, we agree. The real struggle is afterwards. What then will you do?”
Zhou gazed around the green covered remains of his city. “I don’t know.”
“You have time,” the voice said, “but you cannot exist here forever. It will define you and influence everything you do, for good or evil. Pain only leads to more pain. Let it go.”
“No,” Zhou said.
“We understand.”
An explosion of light burst from the centre of the city, blinding Zhou. He raised his arms over his face, protecting his eyes, and crouched down, turning his back to the light. A warm wind passed over him, ruffling his hair. Not the searing heat of a dust and debris laden explosion, more the first warm wind of summer that promised a bright day and rain later.
Blinking the tears from his eyes, he regained his feet and turned back to the ruins in his mind. The carpet of green life had gone, the grey, fire scorched remains had returned. In the distance, the green pillar had shrunk to a thread that twisted and twirled around a the brighter blue thread.
“We were sorry to block your access to the Spirit when you needed it the most,” the voice said. “However, we could not permit the other one to access our realm or that of your spirit. We gave assistance to the one who rescued you to balance our act.”
Zhou drew an angry breath, but the hot words on his tongue stayed there. Instead, he reached out the fingers of his mind and grasped the blue thread. He climbed, hand over hand, faster and faster, the realms becoming a blur as he rose.
It was waiting for him. He poured his spirit into the panther and roared.
Chapter 16
The dam held back the water and the river began to rise. The process was slow and after the river cliff was blown apart to create the dam, the Mongols had retreated to their lines. An hour later, after they had reassured themselves that nothing further was going to come from it, they had renewed their attack. All the while the river brought new water to the dam. Some leaked through, but the flow had lessened on the downstream side.
Enlai had stationed himself with Liu’s section of the wall and managed to find some extra fighters who were certainly not part of the militia or army. Each new man was dressed in mismatched armour that, although it fitted them perfectly, drew Haung’s attention the moment they had come onto the wall. They also carried a wide selection of weapons from Tiger Forks, long staffs with three sharp points at the tip, to Hook Swords, wicked looking weapons with one sharp edge for cutting and a barbed point that curved back under the weapon. In the first battle after their arrival it was hard to deny their effectiveness. None had the grace or skill of Enlai or Liu, but they made up for it in savagery and dirty tricks.
One of the newcomers, a short man with long, lank, greasy hair that seemed to forever cover his eyes, prowled the back of the battle, darting in with his Bǐ shǒu, twin daggers, slicing at any exposed Mongol skin he saw. Any fallen enemy he was happy to finish off by cutting their throats as they lay helpless. That he would then rifle through their a
rmour looking for trinkets and jewellery was distasteful, but there was little Haung could do.
Gan Ji, the single Fang-shi the defenders had, would, at random intervals, throw fireballs or create clouds of noxious gases amongst the attacking Mongol army. He killed many, but there were many more to fill the gaps and the man was running out of energy, and Haung thought, sanity. No answering magical attack came back from the Mongols and there was the hope, shared by all, that their magicians had been unable to pass the Wall.
Afternoon wore on in an unending and exhausting battle. No break, little time to rest. The Mongols continued to push hard to gain the wall, attempting to overwhelm it with sheer numbers.
“How much longer?” Gongliang said during a lull in the battle on their section of wall.
“I do not think they are going to give up today,” Haung answered, wiping the blood off the blade of his Jian sword as he spoke. “The explosion and dam seems to have made them desperate to gain the wall.”
“By morning all the land in front of the wall is going to be a lake,” Gongliang said. “By midnight it will be too marshy to cross without getting stuck. They would never be able to approach the wall in concerted numbers.”
“Then that is your answer, midnight.” Haung looked over the heads of the crossbowmen who were loosing bolts down into the mass of Mongols at the base of the wall. “They will push us until midnight. After that we should be safe.”
“After that they’ll try for the dam.”
“I don’t think so. My conversations with Xióngmāo, before she left, made it clear that these people are happy on horseback and there is little reason, on the plains where they live, to learn to swim. Plus, we could pick them off with crossbows and archers if they tried to get to the dam,” Haung said.
“We can hope,” the engineer said.
The shout of ‘ladders’ went up from the empire soldiers, followed by the sound of wood striking stone and a renewed flurry of arrows from the Mongol warriors below.
# # #
Haung slipped down against the battlement wall, rubbing his shoulder. The normally light Jian sword was feeling heavy in his arms. Three times since the early afternoon the Mongols had gained a foothold on the walls and each time it had been harder to push them off. Now dusk had fallen and the Mongols had pulled back to their camp.
He accepted a cup of water from one of the soldiers and drank deeply before passing it back. The next soldier passed him a parcel of food, a baozi and small portion of rice. The plain food smelled like the greatest banquet cooked by the world’s best chef. Haung bit into the steamed bun, the sticky white flesh parting easily and the pork juices inside flooding his mouth. The memory of his last meal was a distant one. In fact, he realised, he could not remember the last time he had eaten. Breakfast surely? But what it had been he could not recall.
“Have you seen what they are doing?” Gang said as he slumped down next to Haung, his own meagre portion of food clasped in his hands. Gan Ji shadowed Gang’s move, though he looked down at the food in his own hands as if he had never seen its like before.
“You going to eat that?” Haung said.
“Now you’re starting to sound like me,” Gang laughed.
“What are they doing?”
“Packing.” Gang took a big bite out of baozi, the juice dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. At his side, Gan Ji took his own bite, copying, and made a sudden noise of surprise before taking another bite, then another.
“They’re leaving?” Haung said, incredulous.
“Tents are coming down,” Gang mumbled past the food cramming his mouth. “Reckon the water is reaching them now.”
Haung pulled himself up and peered through the growing gloom at the Mongol camp. Gang’s words appeared to be the truth. From the little he could see, the Mongols were taking down their tents and moving across the bridge. There were many more tents standing, but those closest to the river would be the first to feel the effects of the rising water.
“Be a good time to attack them,” Gang suggested.
Haung turned from the scene in front of the walls to look at Gang.
“Just saying.” The large warrior shrugged.
“They have more than enough men on this side of the river to mount an attack,” Haung said. “Gongliang estimates that this side, being flatter and lower than the other, will flood the most. Judging by the height of the dam his men created, the water will come right up to the wall.”
“What about the western valley?” Gang pointed with the last of his baozi towards the marshy valley.
“Unsure. It will flood more than it is, but an army on horseback could make it through for some days yet. Or they could go back north and choose one of the smaller valleys that run west and east. It would be tough on them, crossing the hills, but it is definitely possible.”
“So, the Wall didn’t stop them and this fancy flood will just divert their course for a few days?”
Haung nodded. “That is about it. We have bought ourselves and the capital a few days. I’ve sent a messenger south with a report to meet up with the Emperor’s army.”
“You still think they will be here tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” Haung said. “If the land floods as we expect it to, we will have blocked this path and saved ourselves, but then we will have to move on, head further south to meet up with the army. I don’t like the idea of leaving this city without much in the way of protection. The Mongols might yet come back to take it, especially if they know it is weakly defended. It would be a good base from which to block our army. It also becomes a weapon.”
“A weapon?” Gang said whilst absently resting a comforting hand on Gan Ji’s shoulder. The Fang-shi had grabbed Gang’s arm when Haung mentioned leaving.
“The dam. If the Mongols take the town they can breach the dam and send a massive amount of water cascading down the valley. The further away the less damage it would do, but imagine an army approaching from the south.”
“In that case, we leave some troops here to hold the town. It would not take too many and if we add Enlai’s interesting friends?” Gang said.
“My worry is that Enlai’s friends might end up running the town if there are too few soldiers and militia here. How many civilians will want to travel south to the safety of the capital? Especially now they have seen the Mongols first hand and know how many there are,” Haung said. “We would have to escort those who wanted to go. After all, there is an enemy force loose in the Empire.”
“In that case,” Gang paused, “we are back at the beginning, hoping the Emperor’s army arrives tomorrow.”
# # #
Dusk darkened to night. Amongst the Mongol camps fires sprang up and warriors with flaming torches moved back and forth between the few remaining tents. There was no sign of them massing for another attack, though it was difficult to be sure of anything in the gloom.
“Let’s get the shifts changed,” Haung said. “Give the men on the wall a chance to eat, drink and sleep.”
The engineer, his second in command, nodded. “You think it is over?”
“I hope so,” Haung said. “The flood will cut them off in the next few hours, then the city should be safe for the night. I hope no one is going to drink from this river downstream. It is going to run red for a while and the bodies will dam it further.”
“We will do something about that tomorrow. Once the Mongols have gone and it is safe to do so we’ll clear the bodies. Disease or plague is the last thing we need. But for now, you need to go get some food and sleep,” Gongliang said. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”
“Thanks,” Haung said and made his way to the steps. Now the city was safe, food and sleep were a good idea.
# # #
The scream woke him.
Haung scrambled off of the bed, throwing the covers away and grabbed his sword. He drew the blade in his right hand, keeping hold of the scabbard in his left. The cold night wind entered through the open window and rested its
chill hand on the exposed skin of his back and chest. He listened.
Another scream and Haung turned in the direction it had come from, the open window. Four quick steps and he was looking out across the city. The walls were lit by bobbling and dancing torches. The flames moved back and forth along the wall where they should have been still. The screams continued, but now, with his head out of the window they seemed to be coming from all quarters of the town.
There was nothing to be gained by staring into the dark, so Haung gathered up his tunic and leather armour. Running steps could be heard beyond the door, coming towards it and he rushed to do up the straps and toggles of the chest piece. His tired, still asleep, fingers and mind struggled with the task, fumbling loop and toggle, creating incomplete knots.
The door crashed open, smashing into the wall and Enlai stood there, sword drawn and a wild look on his face. The man’s eyes were wide and his teeth bared. Blood dripped from the blade of the Taiji’s Jian sword onto the floor.
Haung kept his eye upon his uninvited guest and reached out a slow, careful hand towards the hilt of his sword which now rested on the bed. “What is wrong? What’s going on?”
His fingers brushed the wound hilt and he dragged the sword towards him, watching as Enlai took a deep breath.
“Gongliang’s dead,” the Taiji said.
“How?” Now the sword was in his grasp he felt happier though he had no illusions of being able to defeat the more experienced Taiji.
“On the wall,” Enlai said, noticing Haung’s raised sword for what appeared to be the first time and then looking down at his own. The wild look left his eyes and he looked up at Haung with a sneer of disgust. “I’m not here to kill you, Haung, so put your sword down.”
“You’re sure?” Haung let the tip of his sword sink but did not release his grip nor withdraw from the quiet.
“I’m sure. I have rather high hopes for you,” Enlai said, flicking the blood off his own sword and sliding it into the scabbard on his back. “Gongliang was killed in the first few moments of the attack. Mongols climbed the wall and attacked the soldiers. It was a total surprise. They’ve never attacked at night before. Gongliang was cut down by one of the first over the wall. Liu tried to get to him, more came up and over the wall.”
