The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3)

by G R Matthews

  All around, Mongols rushed forward. The few arrows that had sped their way were blown out of the air by Sabaa’s magic and the nature of the corridors meant that their bows were not useful weapons. The initial glimpse that Zhou had taken as he charged into the battle told him that there were at least five Mongols for every person in Zhou’s group.

  Another soldier stepped up to face him. The curved sword was raised high over the Mongol’s right shoulder and the man shifted his weight forward. Zhou stepped in, his left forearm rising and blocking the down-swinging arm. He drove the butt end of the staff into the Mongol’s chin. Teeth flew from the soldier’s mouth and bright red blood followed. As the Mongol staggered back, Zhou followed up with solid punch to the man’s armoured chest which sent the soldier to the floor.

  The two Taiji worked in tandem, as they had on the Wall. Where one blocked or parried, the other lanced or slashed the enemy soldier. Both sword masters wore blank, uninterested expressions on their faces and this was far more unsettling than the speed and precision of their swords.

  Xióngmāo and the Emperor fought side by side. The small woman’s daggers lacked the reach of her father’s three-section staff, but her skill made up for it. One dagger deflected or redirected the sword blows and the other struck out in quick jabs and slashes.

  The Emperor’s flexible staff trailed blue sparks as it was twirled around in great arcs and tight circles, clearing the space around him. Between spins, one end or the other would lash out to break the arms and wrists of his attackers.

  Sabaa fought the Mongols who bypassed Zhou. Her own curved sword slicing through their armour and strong gusts of wind picking others up, sending them flying across the corridor to crash into the walls with bone-snapping force.

  Biyu had ignored all the swords, arrows and attacks of the Mongols. Every blade that struck her skin broke, snapped, or shattered. She did not move quickly, but the Mongols gave her a wide birth, throwing themselves into battle with the rest.

  Another Mongol leaped at him, sword extended like a spear. Zhou swayed to the side, letting the sharp tip of the sword pass him by. He drove the blunt end of the staff into the soldier’s throat, crushing the larynx and bringing the man to sudden halt. The sword dropped from lifeless fingers and Zhou stepped aside as the soldier followed his weapon to the floor.

  “Push forward,” the Emperor called over the noise of battle.

  “Easy to say,” Zhou muttered and stepped forward.

  Another soldier fell to the staff before a wave of cold passed over him. The fine hair on his arms rose in response and the air in his lungs chilled. He gasped, falling back a step, reflex bringing the staff up and parrying a Mongol sword away. His legs felt numb, the energy draining from them and the staff grew heavy in his hand. In his chest, his heart fluttered. Zhou fell back another step. The Mongol grinned and raised his sword again.

  Around him the others were falling back, even Biyu had ceased moving. A moment later his feet were too heavy to lift and his arms hung limp by his side. The spirit was dimming, the blue thread that normally pulsed bright in his mind was a pale shadow. It was all he could do to move his eyes and watch the Mongol’s sword reach the apex of its arc and begin to descend. Every thought and nerve screamed at him to move.

  The sword fell like a swooping hawk towards the juncture of his neck and shoulder, aimed at the slight gap in his armour. Zhou willed his feet to move, to slide backward, and for his arm to lift the staff and block the sharp edge. Half of him welcomed death. A chance to see his wife and child again, to be with them and keep them safe. The other half sang of life and chance, of opportunities and new horizons.

  New strength flowed into his arms, a scent of summer in his nostrils, and the staff rose to meet the sword. Too slow, too late. Metal cut into his shoulder, the leather armour parting beneath the sharpened edge of the sword. The flesh beneath opening and dark blood flowing. He screamed.

  And it stopped. The staff collided with the sword and forced it back upwards, away from his shoulder. The motion reversed and the staff swung round, striking the Mongol across the jaw and the soldier spun around, falling to the floor.

  A wave of energy rippled out from the staff. Like a pebble in a pond, breaking the mirrored surface and destroying the illusion of stillness, the green wave dispelled the tiredness. Muscles, once heavy with fatigue and exhaustion, now flowed with life and vitality. Thoughts of death, of giving in, letting go, were swept away.

  The pain in his shoulder remained. Blood still flowed from the rent in his flesh. The tang of it on the air, mixed with the aroma of a damp forest floor and the scent of prey drew a growl from deep in his chest and he gave himself over to the spirit.

  A flicker of double vision, dark shadows overlain with blue, the grainy texture of night replaced with the crystal clarity of the cat’s sight. Air moved over his face, a caress of movement, and he launched himself forward, staff leading the way.

  Amongst the Mongols, he struck and moved. They were blades of grass on the savannah, to be swept out of the way as he hunted his prey. From the top of the stairs, the steepest yet in the city, an odour of decay drifted down to him. It was tinged with burning and flame. The perfume of Yángwū.

  “Zhou,” a voice called, “stop.”

  He put a paw on the step and already the scent was fading.

  “Someone stop him,” said another voice.

  Another paw, and drop of blood fell onto the stone. His blood. He growled.

  “Zhou,” said the first voice.

  He shook his head, whiskers detecting the movement of the air and people around him. The scent was there, but weaker. Blood pooled on the step below his foot, his paw.

  “Zhou,” said the voice and hand rested lightly on his haunch, his shoulder, the uninjured one. “You’re hurt. Come back to us.”

  “Go back, little cat,” someone said in his mind.

  Yángwū was ahead. The one who had killed his mate and his cub, his wife and child. My wife, my child.

  “Zhou,” said the calm voice again. “Let it go, come back to us. You’re hurt.”

  He turned his head, shoulder muscles bunched, ready to leap ahead, and saw the small woman’s dark eyes staring back at him. The pain in his shoulder drew a gasp, a growl, from him.

  “Zhou, let go. Rest a moment,” Xióngmāo said.

  The world flickered. Blue covered the people around him. Dark shadows where the bodies lay, bright blue in the living. The sharp clarity of the cat’s vision faded and the dim light of the rock light returned.

  “He is up there,” he said, sinking to the stone floor. “Yángwū is up there.”

  “Death magic,” Biyu said. The old lady stomped over the Zhou and grabbed his chin to twist his head. “Nasty cut. Leave a scar. Something to tell the women, when you’re old enough. Sabaa can you clear the blood out of the way? I reckon my hands are still steady enough to stitch it up.”

  “We need to move on,” the Emperor said. “If he is ahead of us then we don’t have much time.”

  “We have time,” Biyu said. “He needs to be treated. Children need looking after. A lesson you could do with learning.”

  Zhou saw the Emperor take a step back and flick a gaze towards Xióngmāo, then at Jing Ke.

  “Don’t take too long,” the Emperor said, cleaning the blood off his three-section staff and walking away.

  “Impatient,” Biyu whispered. “Another thousand years will beat that out of him. Now, where did I put that needle and thread.”

  # # #

  Stairs and steps, up and up. A ramp, at first a relief, but still a slope to be climbed. Each step jolted the stitches in his shoulder, sending a barbed needle of pain through his neck and down his back. A whistle of air escaped his clenched teeth.

  A few more small skirmishes on the way up. Delaying tactics. No more than five or six Mongols who loosed arrows at the party and faded back up the stairs. The narrow corridors made advancement difficult and frustrating. Jing Ke abandoned patienc
e first. Zhou watched as Haung followed, their swords flowing through intricate patterns, cutting arrows from the air.

  When they stopped next, turning into a small room where Haung took up position near the door, Zhou sunk to the floor. Armour no longer covered his shoulder, having been ripped away to treat the wound, and the material of his undershirt was red with blood. Thankfully, the bandages were dry and he lifted his arm, testing the stitches and binding. He winced in pain.

  “Of course it is going to hurt. Silly boy,” Biyu snapped. “I suggest next time you get out of the way.”

  “Yes, Biyu,” Zhou responded. It seemed the safest way to avoid another telling off for being stabbed by a Mongol sword. “How far?”

  “We are near the top,” the old lady said and beckoned the others in close. Haung remained by the door. “There are a few more flights of stairs and a ramp that leads out onto a plateau near the top of the mountain. This is the meeting place. It is the place where the Jade Emperor stood and wrenched the realms apart, broke the hold of the universe upon us and set us free.”

  “Is there a likely spot for an ambush?” Jing Ke asked.

  “Once we are on the plateau, we will see everything. There are no places to hide,” she said.

  “And before that?” the Emperor said.

  “Before that there is what you see. Steps and corridors.” Biyu directed a withering look at the supreme ruler of the Empire. “It would be a good idea to deal with any intruders before we reach the plateau.”

  “Yángwū?” Xióngmāo checked the bindings on Zhou’s shoulder.

  “He will be on the plateau, I think. Waiting for us and for the Jade Emperor,” Biyu said, climbing to her feet.

  “One man we can deal with,” Haung said from the doorway.

  “One man with the power of two realms and intimate knowledge of a third.” It was Sabaa who spoke. A calm, deliberate voice speaking the Empire language as if born to it. The strange accent was the only clue that she had not spent her whole life in the Empire. Though the tattoos would have marked her out as something different. “He strikes me as a man who has planned many things. A cautious man who is willing to take the time needed to ensure his success. In my country he would be a powerful chief and have many wives.”

  “You admire him? Do you know what he has done?” Zhou shrugged away from Xióngmāo’s attention, turning to face Sabaa. “My city is destroyed. Its walls torn down. The homes of the people just dust and embers. My wife, my child, are dead because of him.”

  “Zhou,” Sabaa said, her voice unchanged. “I do not doubt the pain of your loss, nor agree with the things that have been done to you. I merely point out that he has planned all of this, to bring us here. Even now we give him time to prepare. All along the way he has sought to drain our strength, to injure us,” she nodded towards Zhou’s shoulder, “and succeeded. We are weakened and tired. He is fresh and strong. The battle below took much of our combined power to bring to a stalemate. We hoard our lives, he spends his without a care. For your losses, I am sorry. Losing a child or loved one is a pain that never truly leaves. I have lost many, but what we do here is more important. The promises and oaths must be taken tonight. The power must be given and granted.”

  “Zhou,” Biyu said, when Sabaa paused, “before the Jade Emperor, humans were just like the beasts in the field. We ate, lived and reproduced, but we were going nowhere. The universe is order in all its perfection, stagnant and unchanging. The wars set us free. Free to change, to learn, to adapt, to become more than we were. To do that, we sacrificed order for a measure of chaos, of challenge. It let some people, men and women, do evil, but even that inspired many more to do good. Medicines, writing, music, architecture, all the accomplishments of your Empire came at a high price, but it was worth paying. Tonight we reaffirm that fact. Without the power we grant the Jade Emperor from the realms we represent, we would lose all that we have gained. The universe would reassert its control. Over the years, order would take charge once more and progress would end. Given time, our race would slide back into the beasts we were once. It is something we could not survive.”

  “Even more reason to see him dead,” Zhou said.

  “But there is our problem.” Sabaa gazed at him and he could see the empathy in her eyes. “If we kill him before the power is granted and returned, we risk putting the world in peril. We must wait until after that part of the meeting is complete.”

  “The Jade Emperor will not permit the murder of an immortal,” Biyu said.

  “And when the meeting is complete, he will be at his most powerful. All his energy returned and bolstered for the next thousand years,” Sabaa continued.

  “But so will yours,” Zhou countered.

  “And such a battle would destroy the mountain and the meeting place. The spot upon which our world and future turns would be gone. The ceremony could never be completed again and we would be in the same position as if we had killed him before.”

  “He does not want us, you, at the meeting any way. Yángwū has done everything he could to stop you being there,” Zhou said, meeting the eyes of the four immortals.

  “He hasn’t, Zhou,” the Emperor responded. “He has delayed and wounded. If he wanted to stop us being there, a more concerted effort on these paths would have sufficed. Placing the majority of the army up here would have slowed us down enough so when the Emperor appeared, it would just be Yángwū who was present. No, he needs us there.”

  “Enough talking,” Jing Ke said. “We need to see this through. The time is close. I can feel it on the air.”

  Zhou saw the other three nod and exchange glances.

  Chapter 42

  Jing Ke’s jian cut through the neck of the Mongol warrior to Haung’s left. Blood sprayed from the wound and a flap of raw, pink flesh drooped from the dying Mongol’s throat. The immortal Taiji continued to move, sliding and stepping through the thick wall of Mongol soldiers that blocked the last gateway to the plateau.

  Haung, deep in the quiet, flicked the point of his own sword out, past the guard and into the eye of the soldier who faced him. The man staggered back, a hand clasped to his face, and Haung planted the heel of his boot into the soldier’s sternum. The crack of bone was audible, even over the sound of battle, and the Mongol flew backwards into those behind. Haung stepped forward, into the gap created, slicing left and right, killing two more of the enemy troops.

  The others followed behind the two Taiji. Without turning, Haung knew they were there. The quiet let him hear and see beyond the battle. Shadows dancing on the walls, breath and whispers, scrapes and footsteps all combined in his subconscious, creating a constantly updating picture of the battle around him. The ebb and flow of the battle, the subtle changes, were clear and without thought he reacted. Another Mongol died, red, blue and purple intestines spilling from the rent in his stomach.

  More death, more blood. There was something in the techniques, the skills and physical actions that Haung enjoyed. To be good, better than the rest, was uplifting, but to kill so many was anything but. Visions of Wubei, of dead children hanging from rafters, of mothers weeping and men, fighting to protect their families, dying in their hundreds, continued to intrude upon his mind. They were not distracting, had they been so the quiet would have fled and the image upon which he built it would have shattered. No, they were a reminder of his younger self, a cautionary tale to never revel in the glory of battle.

  The number of Mongol soldiers was reduced, but they fought on in the cramped corridor. Haung’s sword slid through ribs, sliced exposed flesh, and none of his attackers came close to harming him. Beside him, Jing Ke was more efficient, more deadly, calm and controlled, no motion wasted, no energy spent without effect. Even as the bodies fell and cluttered the floor, a gust of cold wind fluttered down the corridor clearing the stench of blood and bodily fluids from Haung’s nostrils.

  The last soldier dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands raised in supplication. A boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, st
ared up at Haung, terror filling the soldier’s eyes. The sharp edge of Haung’s jian sword halted the width of hair from the skin on the boy’s neck. A twitch of his hand and the sword would take another life. Haung paused, struck by the fear in the young soldier’s eyes, the depth of terror and the palpable sense of loss. A mother’s eyes stared back up at him, up at the bodies of the children hanging from the rafters, and his sword retreated.

  Jing Ke’s did not. It punched through the boy’s neck, entering one side and emerging from the other. The boy’s eyes widened in pain and shock, his mouth opened in a scream that would never be heard. The sword withdrew and the light in the boy’s eyes dimmed, darkness filling them. Haung watched the last spark rise to the surface in a desperate lunge for life, only to be swallowed by the tide of emptiness.

  Haung stood still, his sword in his hand, gazing at the small body at his feet. In battle, the armour and axe had given the warrior bulk and height. In death, they accentuated the slight frame, the hairless chin and the thin wrists. He sighed, a bitter exhalation.

  Beyond the boy, the corridor opened onto the plateau and there, not far from the entrance, stood a lone figure. It raised a hand and beckoned them onwards.

  “Don’t kill him,” Biyu said.

  “We need the ritual to go ahead,” Sabaa added.

  Haung glanced back at the two women, nodded, but did not sheath his sword. He settled for flicking the blood from the blade and, with Jing Ke at his side, started forward. His fellow Taiji kept his own sword bared, the boy’s blood dripping from the tip and forming tiny circles of dark, glistening fluid on the stone.

  The archway opened out onto the plateau, stunted pine trees provided the border and what Haung had thought first of as boulders, as he came closer, were revealed as eleven stone chairs that surrounded a round table. The first flakes of the winter snow drifted to the ground like cherry blossoms as he stepped out into the cold air.