A leopard was kneeling before him.
“Sir. The second watch has begun.”
“Thank you.”
With a deep breath, he roused himself. The coal brazier in the centre of the room cast long flickering shadows up the tower’s brick walls. His people lay scattered around it like living mats. Even his own leopards slept with them this night, as deserving of rest as the others, perhaps more so. The wind howled outside the tiny windows, but unlike those in Sha’Hadin, these had been wisely fitted with the thickest of glass.
Quietly, he padded over to the Major. She was awake, her sinewy arms wrapped around her knees, her hair all but covering her face.
“Major, have you slept?”
“No.”
“That is not wise. I told these men to wake us at second watch. They can be trusted.”
“Yes sir.”
“After this, you will sleep. I have no desire to be catching you when you fall off your horse in the morning.”
His attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. He knew her well, knew her shame of the other night and her fierce desire to prove her honor in the face of it. Her own Bushido, a warrior-way of a different nature. Still, he understood her well.
“Yes sir.”
He looked at the near-by form of the Seer, slumped against a warm brick wall, head in his arms, sleeping. He deeply wished that the falcon would bring them orders to come home, to return to Pol’Lhasa, or Sha’Hadin, and make things right. Armies and alchemists, these he could handle, but this journey into an angry man’s soul, this impossible search for a being that could not exist and finally, this murder of Ancestors, all this was indecorous to him. Dishonorable. But if it was demanded, it would be done. And he knew the way Bushido would demand he handle it. He would take the dishonor upon himself by killing the Ancestor, then restore it by killing himself. The Empress would be blameless. It was the only way.
He did not look at the Major.
“You will not meditate again.”
“Sir.”
She had hesitated before responding. This disturbed him, perhaps more than all. He was about to say more when there was motion beside him.
The Seer was shaking his head. Kirin leaned forward.
“Solomon?”
No response, just shaking.
“Solomon? It is the Captain. Are you there?”
“Go away.”
“Solomon, are you quite alright?”
“I said go away.”
“What is wrong?”
The Seer raised his head, tears streaking the sandy pelt of his cheeks.
“They’re all dead.”
“Major, leave us.”
He could feel her glance, the frosty chill of her eyes, but she obeyed, rising and moving out of earshot. Satisfied, he leaned in closer.
“Who, Solomon? Who is dead?”
“The stench. I couldn’t - it’s those god-awful rat-things. They smashed all the units, tore out bits and pieces, I couldn’t...”
Kirin gritted his teeth.
“There are others?”
“I got the power on. They scattered like rice, but it’s too late. Too late...”
The utter despair in that voice gripped him. He was grieving for a man he was bound by duty to kill. What could he possibly say to that?
“I’m sorry, Solomon.”
“Have you ever thought about killing yourself, Captain?”
“No,” he lied.
“Me neither. Until now.”
“Solomon...”
“I can’t talk, Cap, okay? Just go away this time. Just this once. I - I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Tomorrow. Promise me.”
“Yeah.”
The Seer dropped his head back into his arms but Kirin knew the connection had not yet severed for he was still shaking his head in mourning. He motioned the Major to return, and rose to his feet. With a deep breath, he moved to one of the windows, leaned his forehead on the cold pane. Outside, it was as Kerris had said. The sky was falling.
***
When snow breeds with rain, it becomes miserable. This is yet another proof for the integrity of the Pure Races. Even at its worst, snow is cat-like, having a certain nobility of form and even at its best, the dog-like rain is simply that. Rain. But breed the two and you have a recipe for anarchy neither Kingdom should ever suffer. So it was this mongrel sleet than rained down on them the next morning but even still, under Captain’s orders, they set out.
The Wall provided more of the same, rising with the mountain peaks, falling into the valleys. The altitudes were so varied that the architect of this section had chosen to build high, rather than broad, to level the way as much as possible. Therefore, across this section, a party could ride only two abreast and there were dangerous low dips in the geniculated cornice. In fact, it seemed that the mountain wind had ground many of the bricks smooth over the years since its construction and parts of the parapet were missing entirely. Soon, Kerris had assured them, they would be leaving the mountains for more hilly terrain but for the next few days, it would be like riding a great dancing dragon, never knowing when one might get slapped off and trampled or caught between its teeth. It would be, Kerris had assured them, a miserable few days.
The tower guards had provided them with wet-coats – thick leather cloaks soaked in oil and hand-rubbed with bee’s wax. They were heavy and smelly but with the hood laced tight, very effective in keeping pelts warm and dry. They did also stop the bite of the wind though not its force and the horses slipped and plodded and fought every step of the way.
This day, they did not stop for lunch but ate as they willed on the soup and dried fish they each carried. At one point, they were forced to concede however and stood their horses in a circle on one of the few plateaus, taking shelter from the wind. Kirin promised them they would finish early for the night, although that did little to cheer their cold, wet, buffeted spirits. It seemed they had grown numb to the world. They set out again.
So, it was with sluggish reflexes that Kirin noticed far ahead of him, at the base of yet another set of ascending steps, a strange unusual movement. Movement not coinciding with the steady plodding of horses or flapping of cloaks. Rather, a flash of red, a flare of black. It was something that should not have been seen on this narrow, climbing section of Wall.
Above the saddle of the Alchemist’s horse, the scarlet pouch, a symbol of unnatural, otherworldly things, was unraveling, and the Alchemist was reaching for it.
Not just reaching, but standing, twisting in her saddle even as her horse began lunging up the steps. Bending her long body, cloak flaring like a cobra’s hood, she stood in the stirrups to reach behind and over the horse, her inexperience deadly for she kept one hand on the rein.
“No!” the Captain shouted but his words were torn from his mouth. Directly behind her, the Major and Seer were doing likewise, trying to warn her but they too were deafened by the wind. He tried to urge alMassay faster but the stallion was putting every effort into simply moving forward. In horror he watched the mare’s head pull back, nose high in the air, mouth wide. He could see the white panic in her eye as completely unaware her rider was destroying her balance. To keep from toppling head-over-tail, the mare swung her haunches across the steep steps and into the Scholar’s mount, forcing it backwards toward the edge of the Wall. The Scholar’s horse took several steps back down the steps, reared and fell.
Fallon Waterford had been unprepared. Truth be told, she was completely elsewhere, awrap in thoughts of warm, sunny jungles and loving smiles and long walks through deep dark quiet green.
So when the saddle suddenly jerked and rose beneath her, she was thrown first sideways, then back and finally out of it altogether. Her knee wrenched, her ankle twisted and she smacked the stone of the step with her cheek. But only for a heartbeat, for she was caught by a foot in the stirrup and the horse was tumbling down the steps of the Wall, pulling her along with it.
Immediately behind was the Maj
or’s horse. Battle-trained and sure-footed, it reacted swiftly, executing a perfect capriole, gathering up on its hind legs and leaping over the thrashing form that was sliding downwards. But elevation and the bitter sleet were ruthless enemies, and it did not land cleanly. Hooves skidded and slipped, and it too went down. The Major sprang from the saddle before she hit, striking the step with palm and shoulder, pain shooting through her like arrows.
In many a cat’s life, there comes a point of decision, a junction or crossroad as it were, in which a choice is made and a path followed. It is called the ‘Broken Road’ by the more poetically inclined, as though life were a journey, unknown and unscribed, which of course, cats know it is not. It more often than not involves a measuring of self, of what is right against what is want. Often, these points of decision carry him(or her) down roads that, later, are regretted and even cursed. So was it with Sherah al Shiva that day. In less than a heartbeat, she saw the chaos, the danger to people she had come to know, a danger she herself had caused. She saw the Scholar pulled under her horse, the Major thrown off hers and the Captain bracing his for impact. But in that same heartbeat, the demon wind grabbed the pouch out of her grasp, its spider-threads unraveling like wool. She saw the people. She chose the pouch. She leapt out of the saddle onto the narrow parapet to catch it.
At the base of the stairs, the Captain had maneuvered alMassay into the falling horse’s path, swinging him sideways – a wall of muscle and iron-will. It hit like a boulder, that horse, legs flailing, head thrashing and Kirin fought against the wave of pain that swept up from his thigh. Instead, he swung from his horse and onto the other, throwing his wet-coat over the animal’s head. Its fall halted and unable to see, the horse grew quiet, its struggles ceased.
Eye for an eye. Life for a life.
As if hearing a voice very far long ago and very far away, Sireth turned his head slowly toward the wall, even as he was sliding from his saddle to help the Major. He could not believe his eyes and he watched in horror as the Alchemist clung to the worn parapet like a great black spider, cloak and wet-coat billowing behind her, longs arms reaching for the pouch, reaching...
She snagged it but the wind barked and pushed her over the side.
“Captain! Major!” he cried.
The others could not hear him, nor had they seen. In fact, he could barely see them through the sleet as they struggled with frantic horses on the steps below. He glanced back to the edge, caught sight of a flutter of black and abandoned his own horse to rush towards it.
She was dangling by the hem of her wet-coat, one clawed hand scrabbling at the bricks, the other clutching the pouch to her chest like an infant. He thrust his hand over the side.
“Here!”
She looked up, eyes wide in terror and sent her free arm shooting upwards toward his.
“Reach!” he shouted and she stretched like a serpent, legs swinging, tail lashing. Their fingertips brushed Let her go said Petrus Mercouri Let her go and save yourself the bruising
He froze.
Never before had he heard voices of the dead. It was not part of his, or any other Seer’s Gift. That was the realm of the Black Arts. He shook his head, reached for her again.
Let her go said Petrus You know what she is
“No! Woman, release that thing!”
But she would not, and tucked the pouch deeper to her chest, even as the hem of her coat began to tear.
“Release it!”
She has chosen a violent path One of death and fire and blood Will you do likewise
He felt the strain in his legs as he bent further over the edge. The Wall plummeted so steeply that he could not make out its base. Snow and sleet threw themselves all around, vainly trying to claim another soul for their Good Mother.
Let her go or you will not be able to stop what is coming Listen to me Let her go
There was a moment. He could pull back, do nothing, allow the mountains and the sinister nature of her craft to swallow her whole and no one would be the wiser. She had fed him blood. She deserved to die. For a moment, he was tempted.
In fact, there were two cats that day on the Broken Road. Two.
She lunged again and he grabbed her wrist.
The jolt almost pulled his arm from its socket but he held fast. She cried out furiously and with a kick of her long legs, propelled herself high enough for him to catch her with the other hand as well. Her boots scraped the bricks, searching for a toehold but finding none. Her weight was wild and swinging and he had no balance. She was pulling him down with her.
Very well It is yours to give Now find peace
He closed his eyes and was elsewhere, in a jungle far to the east and deep in the south, a jungle without bugs. Shakuri’s night-black hand in his, weightless as a leaf or a flower, yes a flower, he was reaching into the grass to snip a flower from its stem, lifting it, lifting a weightless little flower up up and onto the grass beside him, up and over and onto the Wall beside him. The Alchemist collapsed into a black-cloaked ball on the stones, clutching the pouch to her chest, weeping.
You are stubborn my friend But such is the dharma of choice It has begun You cannot stop what is to come
“Forgive me,” the Seer said wearily as he sank to the stones beside her.
The Scholar was not moving. The Captain had managed to free her foot from the iron stirrup and pull her out from under her horse. The Major was at its head, wrapping the wet-coat securely over its eyes and she threw him a grim look. The animal was on its feet but one hoof dangled like a pendant, bearing no weight. Ursa looked at the tigress.
“Is she dead?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, noticing for the first time the Major’s arm, cradled up into her ribs. It was the same one that had suffered the arrow, so many days ago. “You are injured.”
“No.”
“The Alchemist will tend you both.”
He gathered the tigress into his arms, paused when she slid open her emerald eyes, just a crack.
“I’m sorry, daddy,” she whimpered. “About the pheasants...”
He smoothed the white-tipped hair from her forehead.
“Hush, child. Sleep.”
And he lifted her from the steps. Kerris was bounding down them, ashen hair and night-blue cloak whipping madly. He was flanked by unfamiliar leopards.
“Battle-fort just up ahead,” he panted. “What happened, Kirin? I didn’t see—”
“I know. See to the horses.”
And he turned back to alMassay, laying the tigress across his saddle and beginning the long trek up the mountain.
***
Someone was stroking her hair.
It felt warm and familiar and she breathed in the scent of leather. Fallon opened her eyes to see the bearded face smiling down at her.
“Welcome back, Kallilah. You had us worried.”
She scrunched her nose and frowned, tasting the sharp tang of blood in her mouth. She tried to stretch for she felt knotted and cramped all over, but that only brought pain rushing up and around her body.
“Owww...”
“Lay still. You’ve had a bad fall.”
“It hurts...”
Another voice, and now a face, this one a beautiful butter-cream.
“Is there pain in your belly?”
“Um...” She tried to sit up, wincing as her muscles cried against the movement. “No, not pain really, just, just oww. You know? Just awful and owwy all over. But my foot—”
“Twisted, not broken. I have applied linement and bound it with strips of tanned hide. It will heal quickly.” The woman glanced up at Sireth. “It will heal.”
His expression was unreadable, but if anything, Fallon thought, a little sad.
“Yes,” he said. “She will heal.”
With ginger fingers, Fallon touched her face. Her cheek ached, and the soft tissue around her eye was puffy and tender. Likewise, her jaw hurt when she pressed against it, and she frowned again.
“I think my horse fell
... Oh, my horse!”
Suddenly, the room came into focus and she saw they were in a battle tower, the brick walls, small windows and charcoal brazier exactly as they had been in every tower along their route. At one far end, the Captain stood, hands on hips, staring out at the gale, his stillness heavy as iron. There was no one else in the room.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Sireth put a finger to his lips. He shook his head. Quickly, Sherah lifted a tea cup, the green-gold brew steaming and fragrant.
“Oolong,” she murmured, “With ginseng for strength, and tao-root for healing.”
Quiet descended on the little room for some time.
Steps echoed on the floor above them, then a pair of high white boots began to descend the pole-ladder. First the Major, then Kerris jumped the last few rungs to the floor. The grey lion flashed Fallon an appraising look before approaching his brother. The Captain did not turn.
“Sorry Kirin,” said Kerris. “The pastern is shattered.”
She could see him nod, take a deep breath and lay one hand on the hilt of his long sword. Kerris looked at the floor.
“I can do it if you wish.”
“No. We must redistribute the supplies and refit the last packhorse. That is your arena.”
He turned and started up the pole-ladder, leaving the heavy stillness behind with them.
“Do what?” asked the Scholar.
Ursa snorted, jabbing a finger at the Alchemist. She spat on the ground.
“It’s your fault. Kunoichi!”
“Enough of that, Ursa,” growled Kerris. “It’s bad enough we have to fight the weather. We don’t need to fight each other.”
“Do what? What does the Captain have to do?”
“You don’t need to think about that now, my dear,” said Sireth, but Kerris shook his head. He was chewing his bottom lip.
“Your horse has a broken leg. Shattered the bones in his pastern, in fact. That’s the sunken spot right above the hoof.”
“But Sherah can fix it?”
The Alchemist continued to stare into her tea and Ursa hissed again.
“Kunoichi. Nin’jaah. You sabotage our journey at every turn.”
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 30
