by G R Matthews
“Get away from me, girl,” Biyu snapped as Xióngmāo moved to inspect the wound. “I’ll live. Hardened my heart a long time ago and the stupid fool gave me enough time to stop the knife. Won’t lie to you, hurts like a demon’s claw, but I’ll live. Gave him a start when he appeared here, trying to steal my power. Rock doesn’t change quickly, but when it moves it is with all the shaking and destruction of an earthquake.”
“You killed him?” Zhou asked.
“No, boy, but I’ve got him trapped for the moment. I’ll let him go when I’m good and ready, not a moment before. Now, listen clear, whilst he’s here his power is reduced. If you’d gone to the Realm of Death first, whilst he was still fighting the others you’d have stood a better chance, but children don’t always do like they should. And I’d appreciate it if you dealt with him quickly there, then I can do what needs to be done here and get back to my body. I might not be dying, but it hurts. Now get along and don’t take your time about it.”
Haung swayed back from Biyu as the old lady waved an imperious hand at them.
Chapter 49
The press of bodies was almost worse than sliding through the rock. He had to battle the urge to lash out, to strike down those who crushed in upon him, to tear at their throats with clawed hands. They did not attack, made no hostile move or sounds. It was deathly quiet. Only the subtle susurration of feet sliding over the earth. A whisper of movement despite the multitude of people that crowded him.
“Zhou,” Xióngmāo called from somewhere off to the left.
It was impossible to determine exactly where her voice was coming from.
“Xióngmāo,” he called back and, with an effort, raised his arm above the crowd to wave.
“Zhou.” This time it was Haung’s voice. Looking in the direction it came from, Zhou saw another hand above the crowd.
“Xióngmāo, go to Haung,” Zhou shouted and began pushing his way through.
It was hard work and, for the first time, he looked into the faces of the people he was pushing aside. None wore an expression other than blank disinterest. They did not complain at his rough treatment nor did they smile. If they were aware of each other, they did not show it.
He barged and shoved, slipped into gaps created by the shuffling of the people. The odour of sweat reached his nose and made him realise there was no other scent or taste on the air. Zhou closed his eyes and drew the spirit close, a task harder than it had been in the physical world, but it came bounding along the blue thread in his mind.
Opening his eyes again, he looked about. The spark that normally resided in the centre of each person was absent. In its place, a white sphere, hard and reflective, letting nothing in and nothing out.
The three of them came together, creating a small island in the creeping ocean of people. The slow moving current of bodies broke around them and Zhou had the sense that eddies of this disruption rippled out across the endless ocean of people.
“Where is he?”
“Where they are heading,” Xióngmāo said, using a small gesture of her hand to indicate the soulless people around her. “Or at least in that direction.”
“Then that is where we have to go.” Zhou stared at them both. “Biyu told us to have this done quickly, but it would be too easy to get separated here. If Xióngmāo leads the way, I’ll hold onto her and, Haung, you hold on to me.”
When they both nodded, he pushed a few people aside, letting Xióngmāo move forward. He grabbed at her belt and felt Haung do the same to him. The small Wu was less gentle than he had been, her spirit augmented strength pushing people out of the way without a care.
“They’re dead,” she explained. “They cannot feel anything except whatever it is driving them forward.”
The crush grew stronger and it was harder to force a passage through even with Xióngmāo’s methods. After a few minutes, the three changed their tactic, adopting a triangle formation. Now all three of them could force a passage. Grabbing those ahead and pulling them backwards, diving forward into the meagre space they had created. It was tiring work, but soon they found a rhythm and made faster progress.
A sound grew as they moved. A wail of voices, cries of hope dashed, screams of disappointment. The more they pushed forward, the louder the wails became and soon even those around them were starting to echo the sound. It started small and low, each vacant stare beginning to regain a hint of focus. A breath escaping their lips that increased in pitch and volume. Before long, all the dead that surrounded the three were screaming and wailing.
And the dead began to move. Not just forward, but their arms started to twitch, hands opened and closed. Twenty or thirty steps later and the dead were beginning to resist Zhou’s efforts to move them aside. Not fighting him in particular, but rather battling everyone else to make progress. Hands scratched and clawed at him as he fought forward. The same hands yanked and tore at the people in front.
Zhou found he was having to pull the hands off of his clothes and armour. Cracked fingernails scraped at his eyes and he was forced to turn his face away. In front, Xióngmāo was doing the same and Haung, to the side, had resorted to more extreme measures, twisting and snapping the arms that grabbed him. Progress was slow, but they kept moving forward, pace by painful pace.
Zhou grabbed another shuffling body by its shoulder and yanked it out of the way, moving quickly into the gap and found he had all the space he could wish. The crowd of shambling people broke from the chaotic sea and were forming themselves into queues that led towards dark pits. He watched as figures in white robes moved between the queues, dragging people from one queue and shoving them into another. There were no complaints, no shouts, just the constant wailing.
In the centre, between the queues and pits, a square pyramid made from many steps and levels, each a little smaller than the one below. On top, a throne. Yángwū leaped up from his seat, the long white robe he wore billowing around him.
“You can’t be here,” he shouted and waved his arms forward, commanding the figures below. “You will not stop me. Get them.”
The servants of death ceased moving the people around and raced towards the three, drawing swords of pristine white metal from inside their white robes.
Zhou drew his spirit closer, letting the panther fill his body with its strength, its speed and its desire to hunt. He roared as he charged, the deep growl cutting through the high pitched wail.
The first servant to reach him swung a horizontal arc with the sword. Zhou halted his race forward and let the sword pass him by, catching the servants wrist and twisting hard, snapping the bones in its wrist. The follow up punch went into the shadowed cowl the servants wore. There was a crunch and crack, a feeling of warm wetness against his knuckles, and the servant dropped to the floor.
Another came at him from the side, the straight white sword stabbing out towards his stomach. It was an easy move to dance around the blade, turning on one heel and striking out with the flat of his palm. The servant caught the blow on the side of its cowl and joined its predecessor on the floor.
Xióngmāo, seen from the corner of his eye, had already dealt with another of the servants and was running down one of the queues towards Yángwū. Close behind her, Haung had managed to pick up one of the servant’s swords and was fighting three at once, keeping them away from the little Wu.
However, these were not men, concerned with their own lives. They abandoned any thought of defence against his blade and rushed onto it. The first took a sharp edge across its chest and had staggered to its knees. A second shoved the fallen aside and Haung ran him through. As Zhou watched, the stabbed servant grabbed the blade in both hands and twisted itself around, ripping the sword from Haung’s grasp. The third aimed a cut at Haung’s head and the Taiji was forced to back away, his hands raised in defence.
Zhou raced across the open ground to grab the servant’s head in both hands and wrenched it around. The sound was the snap of dry wood and the servant dropped, boneless, to the floor. Its co
wl flapped open and Zhou was looking down onto a smooth skinned, hairless face. Two black orbs stared up at him and below them, a small flat nose. There was no mouth, just an expanse of skin between the thing’s chin and nose. Even in death it was, he felt, watching him.
“Come on,” Haung said, drawing Zhou’s gaze away from the corpse. The Taiji now held a sword in each hand and they began to chase Xióngmāo.
The woman was having no trouble with Yángwū’s servants. Her fists and feet flew faster than Zhou could follow. Every servant that came against her was turned aside or knocked down. Haung caught up with her before Zhou and the Taiji’s two swords sliced low, cutting at legs and tendons, robbing the servants of the ability to pursue them. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to Yángwū’s throne the greatest density of servants gathered, a wall of white.
Zhou angled away from Xióngmāo and Haung, choosing his own section to attack. The others did similar, giving themselves room to fight. He pulled more of the spirit to him, clinging hard to the thread with both hands and straining. The cascade of blue that suffused his mind almost overwhelmed him and the power swept him along. It flowed and surged to every part of his body. He felt more powerful than ever before and revelled in it, letting the change happen. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his legs beneath himself, claws digging into the soil and leapt at the wall of white, letting a loud roar he lead the way.
His front paws, covered in sleek black fur and sharp clawed, raked at the chest of the first servant. The cloth covering its body parted like paper and bright blood sprayed. He rode the body to the ground, feeling the creature’s ribs snap beneath his weight. Zhou swung his head, letting the passage of air across his whiskers augment his understanding of the battle, and bit down upon the arm of another servant. Thick and acrid blood filled his mouth, a repugnant taste of rotten meat and festering flesh. He shook his head from side to side, throwing the servant into its fellow creatures.
He batted aside the white sword that curved down at him and returned a swipe that nearly decapitated the servant. Zhou leaped forward, in amongst the servants, and brought his paws down upon the shoulders of two more, driving them to the ground. A pain in his flanks caused him to twist and bite down upon the head of the servant who had stabbed him. Sharp canine teeth punctured the skull and the servant’s head shattered.
More stings of pain and more dead servants. His snout was coated in their blood and his fur matted with it, but he did not slow. Anger and revenge drove him onwards over the mangled remains of the servants and up the stairs towards Yángwū, the man responsible for the death of his wife and child, the destruction of his city, the loss of the mountain. He roared and ran at the last of servants who raised uncertain swords against him. They died like the rest, torn apart, crushed and broken. The way was clear.
A lance of white, bright like lightning, flashed down at him. It scored a path along his flank, burning his fur and searing the skin below. Zhou did not stop or pause, but continued to ascend the stairs, ready to dodge the next, but Xióngmāo was there. Like Haung, she had recovered a sword from a fallen servant and she was using it against the immortal. Each cut drew blood, the red splashed clear against Yángwū’s white robe.
The assault distracted Yángwū and Zhou bounded up the stairs, desperate to help and protect Xióngmāo. He landed on the steps, gathered his muscles one more time and prepared to cover the distance between himself and his target. As he left the ground, he saw Yángwū reach out and grab Xióngmāo’s arm. The woman screamed, a soul piercing sound that stopped Zhou’s heart and sent a freezing wave through his body.
Xióngmāo, in the second it took to cover the distance of his leap, aged. Lines appeared on her face, her hair turned grey, her body bowed under the weight of years and she sank to the ground. The white sword dropped from her hand and clattered on the platform at the top of the stairs.
Zhou landed on his front paws, the shock robbing him of feline grace, and he skidded into Yángwū sending the man tumbling over his throne. His claws dug into the ground, seeking purchase as he tried to turn and go to the fallen Wu. Scrabbling, he managed to bring himself to halt and let go of the spirit. He needed his eyes, his hands and his voice.
“Xióngmāo,” he cried, half running, half crawling to her side.
She looked up at him with rheumy eyes, her grey hair falling out in clumps, and raised a trembling withered hand. He took it in his own, holding it carefully, scared that one wrong move would break the frail fingers that were wrapped around his own a feather weak grip.
“Zhou,” she wheezed.
“I am so sorry,” he replied. “We can fix this. I am sure we can.”
“Who?” Haung called as he breasted the platform, two swords still in hand, though his armour was torn and rent in places.
“Well, this is interesting.” Yángwū stood near his throne, the white wood spattered with red. “I’m sorry I had to do that, little one, but I cannot let you stop me.”
Zhou saw Haung flick his swords out to his side and charge at Yángwū. The first bolt of white energy ripped away Haung’s left hand sword, sending it flying over the side of the platform and down the stairs. The Taiji let the force of the attack spin him around, the remaining sword dipping low, then rising high over his shoulder as he jumped into the air. The sharp edge of the white sword cut down through Yángwū’s upraised arm and into his neck. Blood spurted in a long arc across the platform as Haung pulled the sword free.
The body of Yángwū fell to the floor, bouncing off of the throne as it did so to lay twitching on the floor. Within a moment, the flow of blood slowed and began to pool around him, soaking the white robes.
“Help me with her,” Zhou called to Haung as the Taiji wiped his sword clean.
They lifted her gently to her feet and held tight whilst she stood on shaky legs.
“That should be it?” Haung asked. “He is dead or captured in all of the realms. He is finished.”
“The Jade Emperor is safe?” Zhou said in return.
“We should have left, been thrown from here.” Haung’s tone was a mix of puzzlement and concern.
“We need to get Xióngmāo back to the Emperor and the others. They might be able to help her.” Zhou began to move her towards the steps and multitude of people below.
“You cannot kill death,” the voice behind them said, “not in his own realm.”
Looking over his shoulder, Zhou saw Yángwū climb to his feet all trace of the gash in his neck gone, and a new limb replacing the one Haung had severed.
“I can help you. Send your friends back, Zhou. Let’s work together. Draw on me also,” the voice of Shù said in his mind.
“Take her,” Zhou said to Haung and he stepped from under Xióngmāo’s arm, letting the Taiji take all of her slight weight. He placed a hand either side of her head and bent to plant a light kiss upon her brow. “Xióngmāo, go back to the world. Take Haung with you.”
“Zhou...” Haung began, but was stopped by a frail finger placed against his lips.
Xióngmāo, her eyes filmed with burgeoning tears, gave him a slow nod.
The Wu turned, the wild one, the father and husband, the diplomat and fighter, the lost one, and reached for the threads in his mind. The blue of the animal spirit, the panther that had been his companion and his hope, and the green of the life spirit that had guided and saved him numerous times. He grasped them both and pulled upon them, drawing their strength into his body, letting it fill him. Drowning in the combined power, he spread his fingers wide and the claws of the panther sprung forth.
“Go,” he growled around the four sharp canine teeth that had erupted through his gums.
Without looking again, Zhou raced forward. Yángwū’s first bolt of white caught him in the chest where it flared against the blue and green of his combined spirits. His armour and clothing rotted and fell away, the skin underneath turning a mottled grey. The discolouration lasted only the blink of an eye before fresh, young skin returned.
> In return, Zhou’s upward swipe of his claws ripped open Yángwū’s belly, four ragged rents in the fat man’s stomach revealing layers of fat, pink with blood, beneath. The immortal staggered, the force of the blow robbing him of balance, but already the wounds were closing.
Two quick steps and Zhou had grabbed the front of Yángwū’s robe, lifted the larger man from his feet and thrown him across the platform to smash into the throne. The back of the wooden chair snapped off as Yángwū went rolling over it and crashing to the floor beyond.
Zhou pressed his advantage, running forward and pouncing upon the downed man, wrapping both clawed hands around his throat and squeezing. The sensation of the claw tips puncturing the skin on the immortal’s neck was strangely pleasant and rewarding. Zhou leaned back and roared his success. Then, snapping his head forward, he bit down upon Yángwū’s neck. Hot, salty blood filled his mouth.
“Get,” Yángwū screamed, “off of me!”
A crashing wave of power lifted Zhou up and threw him tumbling through the air, over the throne and right to the edge of the platform. He tucked his body, completing a rotation, a somersault, before flattening out again and landing on all fours. Zhou stood, the rest of his clothes rotting and falling away in clouds of cloying, damp dust. Once more, his skin turned the mottled grey pallor of death and Zhou felt the chill in his bones.
“You cannot stop me,” Yángwū shouted as he too stood, wiping the blood from his neck and hands, no trace the wounds upon his body.
Zhou drew more power. He asked for it all and it was granted. Skin changed. Dark fur sprouted, covering his body and plates of bark formed on his arms, chest and legs.
On the opposite side of the platform, Yángwū lifted his hands and coruscating balls of bright white light were conjured into existence.
