The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom

by Dickson, H. Leighton

  Major Ursa Laenskaya said nothing.

  “Hopefully, we will meet you by sunset,” said the Shogun-General. “If not sooner.”

  He bowed to them all, fist to cupped palm before turning and heading for his horse, the Alchemist and the dog at his heels.

  ***

  The Temple of Eyes was empty, save for two candles, the skull of a yak and a circle of rusted metal in the center of the room.

  The Bear swung around, grabbing the throat of the villager and lifting him high into the air.

  “Where is the Oracle?” he growled. “Where is the Oracle?”

  “The circle,” gasped the man, his feet swinging above the floor. “A gift from the Ancestors. Stand on the circle, Lord. Stand on the circle.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Tsakhiagiin Yisu, Lord.”

  Long-Swift and the Bear exchanged glances before the Khargan swung the villager around, releasing his grip.

  “You stand on the circle, Yisu.”

  Long-Swift could almost hear the man’s teeth chattering as he stepped first one boot, then the second onto the rusted metal plate. Immediately, a railing began to rise from the floor and both Khan and Irh-Khan stepped back. Yisu wrapped his hands around the railing and the temple was filled with an unnatural hum. There was a jerk, then a start and suddenly, both circle and villager began to descend through the floor into darkness.

  Long-Swift swallowed, peered down through the hole. There was candlelight and the odor that wafted up was an assault on his nose. The Bear growled where he stood.

  They waited for several long minutes until sounds began to echo up from the depths, along with the rising of the circle. Sounds of bootfall, frantic and fast. Sounds of mountains moving underground, sounds of snakes slithering and slapping, and voices. Three voices, one sharp as a crow, one low as thunder, one whose pleas grew progressively louder until they became a scream, silenced as the metal circle slid back into place.

  The Bear turned to the three behind him.

  “Give us the count of one thousand. Then follow.”

  The men nodded as their leader reached over his shoulder, drew ala’Asalan from his back and stepped onto the circle. Pulling his curved sword, Long-Swift did the same and stood back to back, weapons at the ready. Together, they began their descent into darkness.

  For several long moments, the platform shook and groaned until finally came to a lurching end. They remained on the circle for several moments while their eyes adjusted to the darkness. The air assaulted them. It was old and smelled of blood and excrement and oil. The room was vast—one chamber opening onto another in the distance and moss grew down the walls in black slicks. There were flames dancing in trenches along the floor and cables swinging from the ceiling and the Irh-Khan could tell in an instant that this was no natural place. It was a cave of the Ancestors.

  There were eyes everywhere. Old, decayed and shriveled, eyes lined the oily floor. Eyes sat in nooks in the pocked walls, sat on urns, sat on rocks. Eyes dangled from the cables, attached by the veins and tendons and hooks. Symbols of eyes were carved into the stone of the walls, the floors, the posts and beams of this crumbling Ancient cavern. It was almost impossible to walk without having to step over them.

  Long-Swift shuddered. This was a nightmare.

  To their left, there was a shape moaning on the ground. It was Yisu, curled up on himself in the shadows. Long-Swift crossed carefully to where the villager lay, writhing on the floor. He rolled him over with the toe of his boot and immediately, Yisu’s hands sprang up to cover what was left of his face. It was a caricature of horror, mouth frozen wide, tongue stiffly protruding to one side. Breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and there were bloody holes where his eyes had been.

  Long-Swift swung his sword downward, pressed the tip onto Yisu’s chest.

  “You should never bed a girl without her father’s consent,” he said. “Not even your eyes will absolve you of that.”

  And he drove the razor-sharp point down, ending the man’s flailings.

  “I see you,” hissed a voice inside his head and he swung around, gripping the sword with both hands. There was no one but the Bear.

  “I am Khan Baitsuhkhan,” called the Bear into the darkness. “First Khan of All Khans, Son of the White Wolf, Father of the Jackal. Ruler of all Peoples of the Earth. You may call me Bear.”

  “Bear cub,” hissed the voice inside their heads. “Rat-ling.”

  “I am here for an Oracle, if one exists in this pathetic excuse for a hovel.” The Khargan turned in a slow circle, his Lion Killer gleaming deadly in the oil light. “Show yourself, Little Needle.”

  “Little Needle…”

  Laughter now like the rumble of distant thunder and they could see a shape rise in the darkness. Long-Swift swallowed as a creature twice the size of the Bear began to move. From another corner he saw a second shape, this one small and distorted and shining in the oil light. It dragged itself toward the bigger, the palms echoing as they slapped along the floor. It reached the mountain shape and began to climb, heaving its skeletal body up and up, before sliding under the skin of the massive shoulders, home. The mountain turned and trudged toward a pit made of bones. Slowly, he waved a large hand and fire erupted in the hearth.

  Long-Swift and the Khargan exchanged glances before moving cautiously around the fire. They were astounded at what they saw.

  It was the biggest dog Long-Swift had ever seen. Easily the size of two Khargans, with pelt the colour of ink and arms the size of men’s torsos. His ears were cropped to tiny points, his muzzle blunt with many layers of folding, swinging jowls and his long rotting tail dragged on the floor as he moved. He wore little clothing and watched the fire with one small, drooping eye.

  Over his right shoulder, the hideous pale face of a hairless dog whispered in his ear. It also had only one eye, large and bulbous, and an appalling lack of teeth. The lower half of its body was gone, sewn into the back of his companion.

  The Eye of the Needle and the Eye of the Storm. Two oracles. One body.

  Long-Swift glanced at the Khargan. There was no way even a man like the Bear could stand against such a mountain.

  “We know why you are here,” came the voices together, almost as one. The Storm was a half-beat behind the Needle and it created a disparate, echoing effect as they spoke.

  “Why are we here?” asked the Khargan.

  “You fear the Khanmaker and his Army of Blood.”

  “I fear no one, Needle and Storm. Not even you.”

  “You need Magic. We have Magic.”

  “You will serve your Khan with all your skill. It is your duty.”

  “We have no duty, only pleasure and pain. How will you pay us?”

  “You have already been given two eyes,” growled the Khan. “I will give you none of mine. I do not need you that much.”

  “You need us more.” The hairless dog shifted in its cradle of flesh, held out his bony hand. Two eyes swung from his fingers by a measure of tendon and vein.

  “We will accept these, then, as down payment on your debt. Two prophecies for the Khan of Khans of Ulaan Baator, Son of the White Wolf, Father of the Jackal. Ruler of all Peoples of the Earth.” It cackled like a crow. “Muunokhoi Gansorigar of Gobay.”

  The Bear’s birth name, known only by Long-Swift and the Bear himself.

  With a flick of a bony wrist, one eyeball was tossed into the fire. The flames hissed and the Eye of the Needle began to convulse.

  “The fall of Ulaan Baator,” he moaned and the Storm swayed slowly with him. “The fall of Ulaan Baator at the steel of Ulaan Baator. The girl has seen it. The eyes have seen it. The head of the Head of Ulaan Baator falling at the feet of Ulaan Baator on the Deer Stones of Tevd.”

  The cavern echoed with the groan and hiss and then silence for a very long time. Finally, the creature called the Needle wheezed and pushed the second eye into its empty socket. It squealed and howled, the Storm a heartbeat behind.


  “And you, Swift Sumalbayar, son of Swift Sumalnagar, also of Gobay. What would you give to see your Khan victorious?”

  “My life, Oracle,” said Long-Swift. “But not my eyes.”

  “Swift as swift, but one is swifter. Singer of Songs caught by the Lover of the Lover of Lions. On the Field of One Hundred Stones, a Khan rises, a Khan falls and an Abomination sleeps in the gar of the Khanil! It is Abomination! Aaaaah!!!”

  The Eye of the Needle shrieked, clapped a hand over the new eye and slowly, as if in a trance, the Eye of the Storm did likewise.

  “No eyes, the Magic will betray us all. Ancestors and bones rise from the ashes. A trio of dragons race through the skies. The world ends in ash and flame at the feet of Ulaan Baator and Blasphemy will rule the day. The Khanmaker and the Magic and the Army of Blood! The girl has seen it. The eyes have seen it. The Kingdoms of the World will fall on the Deer Stones of Tevd.”

  It was several long moments before the Oracle grew still and took a deep breath, and then another. It sounded like the breaking of ice. It sounded like an avalanche.

  The Needle pulled the second eye from its socket. This too was tossed into the flames to the smell of burnt hair.

  “We accept,” they said as they raised their ghastly faces to the Khan. Black tears were running down the cheeks of the Needle. “We will help the Khan of Khans defeat the Magic of the Enemy. For a very small price.”

  “And what would that be?” asked the Khan.

  “The eyes,” they said. “Of the Khanmaker.”

  Shar Ma’uul

  There was a small crowd gathering around the screens as all the duty staff of the lab had gathered to see. Even a few from the Compound and Medicore had shown up, although the fetus wasn’t due to be harvested for days yet. They were waiting on Persis Sengupta, the linguist, to decide whether the writing was in fact, a form of Chinese or merely the anxious scratchings of a terrified animal. Stranger things had happened in forty-five years since they had been awake.

  The animal herself had finished her writing and was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She had dumped all the pink jellied food pellets in order to use the tray and had placed them all back after sniffing each one and making a face. Her mouth was moving now, eyes closed, and it seemed she was singing to herself. The small crowd was enthralled and for some reason, Dell felt a wave of relief. If the staff liked this new addition, it might mean better treatment for her, perhaps a reprieve from display in the Compound. Animals never did well when they were on display.

  “May I see?” came a voice and the staff parted as a tall elegant woman came through the lab. Persis Sengupta paused to study the screens and she smiled at Dell. He could not bring himself to smile back. She was so very elegant and he was only a junior keeper.

  “Is there a way for me to speak into that cell?”

  “Yuh,” said 6 and everyone in the lab held their breath as he raised the volume.

  The sweet sounds of singing floated up from the screens and now Dell allowed himself to smile. Only birds sang so sweetly, birds and human sopranos, and this animal was no bird.

  “Zǎo ān,” said the linguist into the speaker and the animal looked all around.

  “Hello?” she said. “Zǎo ān! Ni shi shui?”

  “This changes everything,” the linguist said softly and Dell nodded. “Wǒ de míngzì shì bǎo sheng. Nǐ jiào shénme míngzì?”

  “Wǒ de míngzì shì Fallon Waterford-Grey, Huánghòu fǎyuàn xuézhě.”

  “Empress?” Persis shook her head. “I must be translating wrong…”

  The animal rose to her feet, stared up toward the speaker in the ceiling.

  “Wǒ yǒu wǒ de yīfú?”

  “She wants her clothes…”

  “Wǒ de zhàngfū?”

  “Her husband…”

  “Hé yī dà bēi de chá?”

  “And a big cup of tea.” Persis Sengupta turned to look at 6. “I need to speak to someone in security. This is not an animal. It is a weapon of war.”

  ***

  The jaguar slid off his horse to stare at the most unnatural sunrise he had ever seen.

  He had traveled all night in the darkness and with very little moonlight, he had trusted only the goodwill of his horse to keep from falling. They were very high up and normally, his heart would be in his throat but for some reason, he felt nothing at all. Even the thought of plummeting to his death down the mountainside wasn’t so bad. He had fallen before and survived. Perhaps a fall from these peaks would do the trick. There would certainly be no Alchemists or physicians to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. No one to stitch him together or bind his broken bones or feed him broth through a waterlily reed.

  He sighed and looked out over the gorge, eastward where the strange sun was rising. The sky was yellow, as yellow as his mother’s eyes and the sun hung like a brilliant white lantern suspended from a golden ceiling. Behind him, the Great Mountains shone purple—mighty and regal and very, very cruel but here, as the Lower Kingdom lay before him, he was surprised to see it flatten into hills and valleys and rocky plains. It didn’t seem possible but there it was, almost friendly and certainly easier for horses. The gateway to the Lower Kingdom lay across this one last gorge.

  There was another bridge.

  Wide, flat and Ancestral, it spanned the gorge on iron legs and he wondered how long it had been there. It looked much safer than the rope bridge across the Shi’pal but then again, he could see places where the railings had rusted through and others where the square grey stone had crumbled away. He didn’t care. It could fall out from under him and he would be dead from either the fall or the vast crushing weight of the stones on top of him. But his horse would die too and that would be a loss. It was a good horse.

  He could hear the owl swooping from above and he reached out a hand, catching a chiwa that dropped from the sky.

  “Thank you,” he called and the owl arced a wing and soared over the gorge and for the first time in his life, Yahn Nevye wondered what it would be like to be a bird.

  He turned to the horse.

  “Do you want this? I don’t like chiwa. It’s too stringy.”

  The horse snatched the rodent out of his hand, tossed its head several times to break the bones, and dropped it to the ground. Holding it down with a hoof, it began to tear the furry body with its fangs.

  Nevye sighed again and looked back over the strange yellow plateau of the Lower Kingdom.

  “Shar.”

  “Yes,” he said to the horse. “Yes, that’s right. That’s the word for yellow. Shar.”

  “I find you, Shar.”

  Now, his heart did leap into his throat and slowly, he turned to see the Oracle appear from the trail behind him. Everything he had ever believed in the world was changed in that instant.

  He caught her as she ran into his arms.

  ***

  They left the village of Lon’Gaar before the sun’s brooms had swept the sky but it was easy to follow the trail. While the night’s snowfall had covered Nevye’s tracks, it recorded the Oracle’s perfectly and Kirin was hopeful they would meet up before long. The girl was at most three hours ahead of them, the jaguar perhaps six. Kirin shook his head. Her brother, Naranbataar, was on foot once again, still refusing a horse even after one was offered. He seemed tireless and Kirin wondered if it was the stamina of dogs that made them such fearsome enemies. But they were brutal as well and he vowed that, no matter what he had promised the Seer, he would never forget that simple fact.

  The morning grew bright very quickly, the sky as clear as a summer’s day in Pol’Lhasa and the sun was warm on their backs as they followed the mountainside north. In fact, Kirin was surprised at the sunshine. He wondered how high they were, higher likely even than Sha’Hadin or the Inn at the Roof of the World. The air was thin and it required many breaths to fill his chest, and he wondered if that was why dogs had longer noses, to breathe more air.

  The terrain was far less harsh than he had expect
ed. It seemed the mountains were flattening, as if their Good Mother were stretching her arms thin over this land. Peaks of purple could be seen in the distance but for the most part, the land was gray and gold and rolling. Sandstone, he knew and he wondered if the dogs mined these mountains for ore. He couldn’t imagine it, not dogs and not with these roads. They were little more than goat paths for it was well known that in the Lower Kingdom, there were no true cities, only tribal villages, trading posts and Ancestral ruins. Nothing that could be truly called civilization, not like the Upper or Eastern Kingdoms. Indeed, thought Kirin to himself, he wondered if there was little more than wilderness, shale and snow.

  He shook his head, knowing it was his pride talking. The road through the eye of the needle would be a long one for him.

  The Alchemist was riding at his side and he tried not to look at her. It would be his undoing. She still held a power over him and he would be hard pressed to resist. He prayed they would return to the Army before nightfall. He still had Ling’s letter tucked in under the yori. He hadn’t read it yet and he wondered why that was.

  Sherah looked over at him as if reading his thoughts and smiled.

  “Thank you for letting me accompany you,” she said.

  “I needed a translator. Nothing more.”

  “Of course.”

  Naranbataar had paused on an outcropping of rock and Kirin watched him as he breathed the thin air, sifting the scents. They reined their horses in to wait. Finally, he left the rock and joined them. Traveling freely alongside, young aSiffh tossed his head and snapped. The dog laid his ears back but Sherah said something to him and he grunted. Kirin thought it sounded like a laugh.

  He shook his head again. Easier for a khamel, the Seer had said. He would never understand his life.

  “Ask him if all of his land is like this?”

  “Like this?” said Sherah.

  “Yes. Flat, hilly, rocky.” He swept his hand toward the terrain before them. “Bleak.”

  She spoke and the dog answered.