That Is Not Dead

by Неизвестный

  “That Sogdian fellow again.”

  “An Hsi-kao?” he asked, though it could hardly be anyone else.

  “Yes, him.” The voice sounded relieved.

  “I will be with our visitor shortly.” First, Lu Lao-jia would wash his face. Then he would drink some tea. After that, his point would be made and a fraction of protocol would have been restored.

  Or at least that’s what he wanted to tell himself.

  “Your eminence,” the Sogdian began. His hands twitched and he kept glancing back at the Mikou statues. In truth, the hsiawei could hardly blame the little man. The statues were grating on his nerves as well.

  Unusually, no words followed this abnormally concise greeting. “Yes?” Lu prompted.

  An Hsi-kao shrugged then visibly surrendered to an inner struggle. “The Tai-Ch’in leader wishes to meet you.”

  Ah, protocol again. At least the little bastard had discovered brevity today. “Is he a hsiawei?”

  “No, he is only the commander of a company, your excellent eminence—a humble master of a hundred men, which in their barbarous tongue is called a centurion.”

  Lu Lao-jia reflected on the fact that he was also the humble master of a hundred men, despite his rather elevated rank and their reinforced numbers. As a hsiawei, he should have had a thousand men under his control, their spears glittering in the frigid morning sun as they were drawn up in their ranks, ready to strike fear into the hearts of all but the most foolish or puerile of enemies. He decided to sidestep that issue. There was no master of protocol, no array of courtiers and clerks to whisper behind their hands and carry tales to the eunuchs and concubines.

  A practical question occurred to Lu. “Do you speak the barbarous tongue of the Tai-Ch’in?”

  “No, no,” demurred An Hsi-kao. “But I do speak the tongue of the Anhsi, and so does this ‘centurion’ and some of his men.”

  “But they are not Anhsi?”

  “No, this is not to be borne. No Parthian army would be welcome in Samarkand.”

  Neither would the Chinese Army, Lu reflected.

  The Sogdian prated onward. “Barbarous these Tai-Ch’in may be, but they are still civilized compared to the Anhsi. Your respective glorious empires have more in common with one another than they ever possibly could have with those savage Anhsi, who live only to provide trouble for one and all of those unlucky enough to be their neighbors.”

  Lu ignored the political commentary. “So, this man composes his thoughts in the tongue of his birth then speaks them in the foreign tongue of the Anhsi. This tongue is also foreign to you, which you then speak once more in Chinese—again, a tongue foreign to you. He might well intend to ask me about the health of my dogs, and after all of that speaking and relaying, I might well hear a request to consume horse meat.”

  “Well, yes,” admitted the Sogdian. “But unless you propose to spend months learning his tongue, or for him to spend months learning yours, we can hardly improve the situation. Why, here in Samarkand there are slaves who speak a dozen tongues each, whose hire in the marketplace for facilitating trade keeps their masters swimming in cloth-of-gold and nubile girls from the Arab lands.”

  Lacking both cloth-of-gold and nubile girls in his current situation, the hsiawei was not inclined to be sympathetic to this line of reasoning. “Where is this centurion now?” He managed to barely stumble over the unfamiliar word.

  “Out. Outside your tent, noble general. I believe he is staring down your Sergeant Ching.”

  “And doubtless assessing our numbers and battle readiness.” Lu Lao-jia had a great deal of respect for sharp-eyed company commanders, and he had no doubt that anyone the Tai-Ch’in emperor had entrusted with the duty of marching this far east along the Silk Road—on the wrong side of the territory of the enemy Anhsi, from their perspective—was a canny fellow. There was no purpose in being vexed now. “Guards,” he called out loudly.

  The two fellows outside his tent flaps stumbled in as An Hsi-kao shrank in visible panic.

  Lu ignored that. “I want two more men in here right now, swords drawn. Quiet men. Get Fat Chao and Ping Kuo. They know how to keep their mouths shut. Tell them to bring more charcoal on the way in. I want the fires in these braziers built up higher so this place will be warmer.” An impossible task, to be sure, but he didn’t want to meet his visitor like some beggar hiding half frozen in a winter lean-to. “After they are here, you two will take up your posts outside. When the fires are ready, we will signal you to tell Ching chun-hsi to bring the foreigner in.” He glanced at the Sogdian. “You will be here to translate, of course.” The Mikou statues drew his eye. He wished he had something to cover them up—a few bolts of brocade silk would do nicely. Lu then wondered if An Hsi-kao could be paid to take them away again.

  The terrible things were really getting on his nerves.

  The foreign soldier boasted an iron helmet with cheek guards, a fine but timeworn mailed shirt, and a heavy red skirt over heavy boots that Lu would guess were not part of the original uniform. He carried a blade that was either a very long knife or a rather short sword. If he’d borne a spear and shield, they hadn’t entered the tent with him.

  Lu nodded precisely. The warmth in the tent was beginning to make him sweat. It had never been this warm in winter before. What had happened with the new charcoal?

  The foreign soldier bowed with an obvious grudging acceptance of protocol then said something in Anhsi gabble.

  An Hsi-kao thought for a moment before translating. “Eminence, this man introduces himself as Centurion Gordianus of the Tertia Gallica Legion. This name means ‘the third army from Gaul,’ though his unit is stationed on the border of the Anhsi lands and not wherever this Gaul is to be found. I have taken the courtesy of explaining to him who you are, not hesitating to emphasize the majesty and power of the Celestial Empire.”

  “Very well. And where is this Gaul to be found?”

  A bit more gabble, then: “West. Much farther west. Beyond the edge of the world, it would seem.”

  How big is the world, Lu wondered then dismissed the thought. It was enough that China stood at the center. “What is his business with me?”

  Gabble and more gabble. Centurion Gordianus nodded, managed to look even more serious, then somewhat unexpectedly laughed.

  An Hsi-kao shifted his weight and stalled while framing his translation. “He says, most excellent general, that he has been sent beyond the edge of the world to ask questions. In you and your men he has found answers enough to send him home satisfied that there are more empires beyond the borders of the horizons than even his emperor’s soothsayers and haruspices have dreamt of. This Gordianus only wished to meet his counterpart—to see the face of distant power before he turns his men to face the west and marches home again.”

  The centurion added something unprompted that caused the Sogdian to wince. “He also says that he finds your taste in statuary somewhat different than what would be considered suitable at home.”

  Lu was fairly certain that whatever Gordianus had said was considerably less polite than that. Even as he was contemplating a suitably diplomatic yet firm reply, the centurion turned and thumped one of the Mikou on what was probably its chest.

  The statue moved.

  Despite himself, Lu shrieked. Gordianus stepped back two paces, drew his knife, and bellowed something in the Tai-Ch’in tongue. An Hsi-kao simply grew wide-eyed and froze in place.

  The Mikou opened up its arms—appendages, whatever they were—and slowly snapped the vast, horrid claws.

  Lu hsiawei recovered his voice enough to bellow for Ching chun-hsi. “Bring men, sergeant, and now!” He grabbed a brazier and tossed a burning charcoal at the now-living statue.

  Gordianus shot him a look that might have been respect before advancing with his blade up, again yelling in his own tongue.

  Fat Chao swung his own sword at the Mikou, which responded by snapping the unfortunate man’s head off with one of its claws. Ping Kuo scrambled back alo
ng the tent wall, as if trying to shrink into the heavy fabric.

  Meanwhile, the hot coals didn’t seem to trouble the Mikou at all. In fact, it appeared to quicken in response to the flames. Sparks leapt to the tent walls, while other statue also stirred. A foul stench infused the air within, enough to revolt the stomach and distract the mind. A humming so low as to be inaudible made Lu’s bones grate.

  What were these horrors?

  “The tufan warned me,” the Sogdian cried. “Not these, they said. I tried to tell you.”

  Outside, shouts rose amid the sound of weapons clashing.

  “No fighting out there,” screamed Lu. “Get in here and fight!”

  Gordianus called out something that must have been a similar instruction before lunging at the Mikou with his knife extended. Lu Lao-jia picked up his own sword—the jade ball and silken tassel at the end suddenly felt ridiculous—and charged the other Mikou, which lagged its brother slightly in animation. “With me,” he shouted at Ping Kuo, who was still trying to become as one with the tent furnishings.

  His sword bounced off the Mikou‘s arm. The claws moved fast enough to crimp the tip. The stench was becoming overwhelming. The hsiawei had an impression of cold, dark depths yawning before him, as if teetering on the edge of a chasm filled with stars. The moving statues began chanting in a language so cold and strange as to make Gordianus’s Tai-Ch’in seem like Lu’s own mother’s cooing.

  Ching came stumbling through the tent flap, followed by two more of Lu’s men and a pair of Gordianus’s men as well. Lu then noticed that the tent wall was on fire. A swirl of swords and spears erupted as both the Chinese and the Tai-Ch’in immediately identified their true enemy. Ping Kuo found his lost courage and stepped up to have his skull split open. The Mikou was distracted by the soldier’s still-warm brains, which gave Lu an opening to land a sweeping cut with his sword on one of the monster’s lower appendages.

  That produced an enraged bellow of pain that was ear-splitting.

  There were no forms of combat in this battle. All he could do was strike and pray and be as fast as he could on his poor cold feet. Lu closed in for a follow-up strike that nearly shattered his sword blade. He stepped around a rippling series of jabs from the Mikou‘s feet to find himself with an opening at the other Mikou‘s back. A long cut took of the doubled wing on the creature’s left. The Tai-Ch’in officer gave him a grateful nod, and for a moment Lu Lao-jia felt a strange, battle-borne kinship with this western barbarian. Then he was facing his own opponent again, though both of Gordianus’s men had engaged it as well.

  After that, it was all flames and blood and knifework, with cursing in four different languages—three of them human. The hsiawei fought for his life and the lives of those around him. He did not even feel the snap of the claws that took his sword arm off halfway to the elbow, only realizing the loss when his next swing seemed oddly light as blood sprayed into the flames behind the Mikou like red, red rain in a garden bright with dawn.

  Lu Lao-jia sat on a stone that chilled his buttocks and wondered how he would manage without his right hand. The thought seemed as distant and cold as the frozen, dusty hills that surrounded Samarkand and their encampment. Ching, who had somehow survived with nothing more than singed hair and a few burns from the acid blood of the Mikou, had tied the hsiawei‘s arm off above the elbow before applying a burning brand to the stump. Lu could smell his seared flesh. It was oddly mouthwatering. The pain was hiding somewhere nearby.

  He would pay that debt soon enough, he knew. Then he’d pay it again and again for the rest of his life.

  Gordianus had lost three fingers on his left hand, and he’d taken a Mikou spine in the face. That wound was already a purple, swollen ring. Lu would not have bet much on the man’s survival. Still, he was here and talking after the battle. Lu had lost six men, while Gordianus had lost three of the four men who had originally accompanied him to the Chinese camp. An Hsi-kao had survived as well, though the endless streak of words seemed to have finally been burned out of him.

  At the moment, they were drinking hot tea. It was a ridiculously ordinary thing to do, in light of what had just happened. The sharp scent of the brew was like a letter from home.

  “What will you tell your emperor?” Lu asked idly, wondering what he himself would say. More to the point, what would the centurion tell his own sergeant to tell the Tai-Ch’in emperor? He found himself regretting the man’s likely death. Gordianus had been a worthy ally in their moment of greatest need, and likely he would have been a worthy opponent, had it come to that.

  The Sogdian muttered a halfhearted translation into the Anhsi tongue.

  Gordianus took a while to answer. When he did, his words were slow and careful and pained. An Hsi-kao also took his time translating it back into Chinese.

  “That there are monsters in the mountains at the edge of the world, he will say. He will counsel that his people look no further, lest those ill-starred creatures follow them home.”

  “I believe I shall make use of those very words in my own reports,” Lu muttered.

  His eyes met Gordianus’s. The two of them stared across the little fire on which more the tea warmed. For a moment, they were two officers with a shared purpose—brothers in bloodshed but also something far greater than that. Lu hsiawei felt their common responsibility to both their men and more importantly to their respective empires. A chasm had opened in the world, deep and cold. Darkness had crept in, and they both knew it could never be banished from their hearts.

  Both he and this foreign centurion had to keep their peoples from being drawn into that darkness.

  “You can have one of the skulls to take home,” Lu offered in an impulsive moment of generosity.

  An Hsi-kao looked at him a moment, as if he’d lost his mind, before translating it into the Anhsi tongue. Gordianus simply seemed tired and pained at the words. His answer came back swiftly enough: “No. Some things are best left to the imagination.”

  Lu thought that over. “Some things are best never imagined at all.”

  The Sogdian didn’t bother to translate.

  Lu Lao-jia knew they had proven that day that good men could triumph, but in his heart he also knew the despair that counseled this would not always be possible. Cold, wounded, exhausted, the three of them drank their tea. Each wondered when the Mikou would next return and whether they would be fortunate enough to be dead before that time.

  Palestine, Asia Minor, and Central Asia; Late Eleventh and Mid Twelfth Centuries AD:

  Come, Follow Me

  Darrell Schweitzer

  “I long for Christ!” the man cried. “I long to see my Savior!”

  He was delirious and near to death, but at least we could save his soul. Some patrolling knights had found him on the road from Damascus and brought him to our hospice, which was a station for travelers and pilgrims bound for Jerusalem. And at times, it was truly a hospital, a place to bring the dying.

  “Brother physician, you’d better see this one at once,” one of my fellows said, and I came. At the sight of the small wooden cross I wore, the patient sat up on the stretcher and waved his arms so wildly he had to be restrained as he cried, “My only hope is in Jesus! My only hope!”

  It was all we could do to get him into a bed. Then all the strength seemed to go out of him, and for a moment I feared that the life had departed from him, but then he opened his eyes again—that mad, terrified stare I shall never be able to forget.

  “I must see Jesus,” he said.

  “Jesus is with all of us,” I replied, “but only saints see him in this life. Be patient, my friend.”

  From his sobs, from the pained look on his face, I knew I had said the wrong thing. I was being condescending, as if explaining something to a simpleton or a child.

  Then he said something that troubled me deeply.

  “If only I could still believe that Jesus is anything more than a tiny speck in the blackness of the abyss! You can’t possibly understand. You have
not seen what I have seen.”

  “Just pray,” I said under my breath. “Pray for the gift of faith.”

  All the while, my hands were working. The brothers and I got the man’s clothes off—filthy, shapeless things he had probably worn for years. He raved. He blasphemed. We whispered prayers and tended to him as best we could. Comfort his body first. Then we could try to heal his soul, for it was evident that he had suffered not only physical injury but also some grave spiritual hurt.

  He wouldn’t give me his name. I couldn’t tell how old he was, so old and haggard he seemed, so ravaged. Worse yet, he was covered with hideous, stinking wounds of a sort I couldn’t account for, as if some monstrous creature—an enormous spider, perhaps—had pierced him with a dozen poisonous limbs. His hair was clotted with foulness. We had to cut away most of it, and then we washed him and this only revealed bizarre, putrescent wounds all around the sides of his head, as if the top had somehow been sliced all the way off and put back again.

  I and the other brothers crossed ourselves, knowing that we were in the presence of something demonic.

  But still we worked, applying such ointments as we had, even if we knew that his physical body was very likely beyond healing.

  By the time darkness had fallen, I was alone with him. The other brothers had gone to tend to other duties. I sat beside the newcomer by the light of a single candle, praying softly. It was all I could do.

  Therefore, I alone heard his story. His lips had been moving for a while before I was even sure that he was speaking, and it took a while for his voice to rise like the subtle susurration of a tide, slowly forming actual words. It was as if he had been telling the tale for some time and I had only come in on it.

  “And can you imagine how it was for us then, surrounded by pagans like that, Turks as far as the eye could see, their campfires as numerous as the stars in the heavens? Oh, yes, on that hill we fought them for days, and every evening when the fighting stopped and we fell down exhausted, there were fewer of us and fewer still who had any hope. Great were the feats of arms, I am sure, but no one is going to make any songs about them…Only blood and shit and the screams of the dying…Terrible thirst, such that some of us lowered rags into the sewer in the ancient, ruined fortress and tried to drink the foulness that dripped …