by Mark Morris
Feeling an urge to break the silence, William nodded towards the boiling river and the distant jade mountain. “Will they be coming back?”
His voice sounded eerily loud on the now-silent battlefield. It was the blue-armored crane commander who answered.
“Yes.”
William fixed his gaze on her. “Soon?”
She nodded.
Pero roused himself from his semi-stupor, though his words were still a little slurred. “Tao Tei. What does it mean?”
This time it was the little strategist who answered. “The Beasts of Greed.”
The big, bearded commander in the black bear armour muttered something to the crane commander, who nodded.
“General Shao says he believes you now, and that you fought well. You have earned his praise.”
William acknowledged the General’s compliment with a nod of thanks. “Your army fights hard as well,” he said.
Eyeing the young black-armored bear warrior who had frozen in fear during the battle before recovering to save William’s life, Pero muttered, “But I’m guessing they haven’t had much practice.”
“Once a lifetime,” the little strategist said.
William looked at him questioningly.
“Some never have the chance to fight,” the strategist elaborated. “The Tao Tei rise only once every sixty years.”
William blinked in surprise, and was about to ask a question when the young black-armored warrior cried out and ran forward. William wondered what was happening, wondered if he was about to be attacked, but then he realized that Pero, squatting beside him, was toppling forward, sheer exhaustion finally having got the better of him. Before Pero could land face-first on the stone floor, the young soldier caught him and lowered him with surprising gentleness to the ground.
Pero was muttering in Spanish. “Que… estoy… bien… estoy…”
General Shao barked an order, then turned and marched away.
The crane commander regarded William with her dark eyes, her expression softer now. “The General has ordered me to take you to the barracks,” she said. “To find you a chamber in which you and your friend can rest.”
7
Strategist Wang hurried through the bustling interior corridors of the fortress behind the Great Wall, his mind whirring. He dodged and weaved between the bodies of the injured and the exhausted; between soldiers with dented armour and haunted expressions; between those who were sitting against the wall or groaning in agony or lying still and dead on stretchers, their terrible injuries concealed beneath thin white sheets.
The aftermath of the battle was terrible, and tending to the dead and wounded would be a gargantuan task. But callous though it sounded, those who were still able-bodied enough to fight would have to rally quickly. They would have to fall back on every ounce of their training and discipline to recover their senses, re-mobilize, and focus on the task in hand. The Tao Tei would attack again, and they would do so sooner rather than later; there was no question of that. The men and women who dwelt within the fortress and fought on the Wall would be permitted to mourn their fallen friends and comrades—but not until the Tao Tei threat had been repelled, if not extinguished, for another sixty years.
Leaving the post-battle chaos behind, Wang bustled now along quieter corridors—corridors so quiet, in fact, that the atmosphere here was akin to a monastery, or an institute of learning and contemplation. He was nearing the Hall of Knowledge when, from behind a pillar in the corridor ahead, stepped a young man in green robes, his sleek black hair pulled into a topknot, his long face wearing an expression that was somewhere between shy and sulky.
Although the young man tried to look nonchalant, even arrogant, it was clear to Wang that he had chosen to hide here during the battle, no doubt crouched and quivering like a craven mongrel. Wang chose to overlook the young man’s cowardice, however. There was nothing to be gained in antagonizing the imperial liaison officer.
“Ah, Shen,” he said, as if the man had appeared at his bidding, “I want you to do something for me. Nine centuries past—the Year of the Horse—I recall an account of an incident at the Southwest Tower on the third day of the siege. Could you find it for me?”
Shen looked at first as if he was about to refuse, and then jerkily he nodded.
“Thank you,” Wang said. “Oh, and Shen?”
“Yes?”
Wang smiled magnanimously. “Calm yourself. All is well.”
* * *
The room was spartan. It contained little more than a table and two straw mattresses with a lantern on the stone floor between them. Peng Yong and another soldier carried Pero over to one of the mattresses and carefully laid him down. Stepping back out into the corridor and pulling the door closed behind them, Peng Yong saw the man who called himself William standing in front of one of the many long mirrors that were propped against the corridor wall. These mirrors were replacements for those on the Wall, should they get damaged—which of course, today, all of them had.
Peng Yong looked at William curiously. The man was gazing at his reflection, open-mouthed, a stunned expression on his face. Suddenly he noticed Peng Yong and the other soldier watching him, and turned towards them in a daze.
He looked undone, almost embarrassed. When he spoke he did so in a quiet, faltering voice. Although Peng Yong didn’t understand what he had said, he could guess. It was there in the man’s expression, his body language, his tone of voice.
Clearly, coming from a primitive country, he had never seen himself before, had never seen what he looked like, and was ashamed of his appearance. Peng Yong was not surprised. Brave though the foreigner undoubtedly was, he looked like a beast. He was caked in blood and filth both new and old, his clothes were a patchwork of disgusting rags, and his hair and beard were matted and dirty. His face, raw from the heat and cold, was ingrained with dirt, his eyes were bloodshot and his lips were dry and chapped.
He smelled too. He smelled very, very bad—and not only because of the fresh Tao Tei blood that stained his skin and clothes.
Nevertheless Peng Yong, having witnessed the courage of this man and his companion on the battlefield, had developed a great respect for them.
Cupping his hands he said, “Thank you for saving my life.”
The foreigner—William—looked at him for a moment. And then, as if he understood what Peng Yong had said, he smiled and nodded, his teeth very white in his filthy face.
* * *
Fires burned on the watchtowers all the way up and down the line of the Great Wall. Lin Mae, too restless to sleep, prowled the parapet, making a midnight inspection. The fires, evenly spaced, stretched out on either side of her as far as her eye could see. The furthermost ones were nothing more than sparks winking on the horizon, but she knew that there were more fires, unseen from here, that stretched further still, that many more thousands of soldiers were manning the Wall for miles in both directions, all of them knowing what had happened here today, and all of them ready and nervously waiting for a Tao Tei attack.
Right here, though, directly opposite the Gouwu Mountain, which glowed a sickly green in the darkness, was where it had always been thought the Tao Tei would make their first incursion—if not concentrate their entire offensive campaign—and so, up to now, it had proved. Several hundred soldiers of the Nameless Order had been maimed or killed in the battle today, but already reinforcements were being drafted in from other Corps regiments to fill the gaps.
Lin Mae had known many of the dead personally—had grown up with them, trained with them, eaten with them, laughed with them—but for now she was keeping her emotions in check. While the Tao Tei were a constant threat, she had no time to mourn. That would come later, when the war was over and the enemy had been vanquished.
That didn’t mean she could sleep soundly, though. She had tried—her body felt exhausted enough—but each time she had closed her eyes the memory of the battle had been there waiting for her, the clamor and horror of it seemingly magnifi
ed in the darkness, threatening to wriggle insidiously into her very core and devour her from the inside out.
And so finally, giving up on sleep, she had decided to walk the parapets, to occupy her mind with more than her own thoughts. The minute she had stepped out into the cool night air she had known she’d made the right decision. Because despite what had happened out here today, she felt instantly becalmed. She sought the still point at the center of her being, and was gratified to discover it remained intact.
For now, at least.
Already the evidence of that day’s battle had been erased. The dead had been taken below to lie on cold stone slabs in special chambers that had been constructed underground. The blood had been sluiced away with gallons of water, which had then arced from drainage slits to spatter on the sand hundreds of feet below. Now, having been baked by the last of the day’s sun, the stone ground under Lin Mae’s feet was dry again, as was the desert sand at the base of the Wall.
As she walked she passed soldiers on guard, many dozens of them, their tense eyes fixed on the distant valley where the jade mountain glimmered like something diseased. The soldiers worked in groups of three, on rotational shifts, each one standing on guard for two hours, then resting for the next four until their turn came around again. Behind each soldier, with some of whom she exchanged brief nods, were therefore another pair of soldiers, stretched out on thin mats on the hard ground, sleeping beside their weapons. Some of them twitched in their sleep. One or two moaned, their faces creasing in horror or distress. Many, she knew, would be suffering nightmares tonight. Even though the Tao Tei had departed for now, the night was still full of teeth and claws.
Lin Mae rounded a bend in the Wall and halted at an unexpected sight. There, sitting cross-legged in the shadows, his back against a buttress, was the large, dark figure of a man, curls of steam shrouding his face. The steam was rising from a dainty china bowl that he held delicately in one huge, gnarled hand. Lin Mae moved closer and the man looked up. Despite the shadows and the steam, she could see that his bearded face looked drawn, haggard.
“General Shao,” Lin Mae said gently. “You should be resting.”
Shao took another sip of tea. “I’ve slept enough in my life.” He turned his attention back to the Gouwu Mountain glowing poisonously in the distance. “Strategist Wang was right. He told us the Tao Tei would change. His warnings went unheeded.”
Lin Mae sat beside him. She wondered about placing a hand on his arm, a touch of reassurance and support, but decided against it.
“We were ready,” she insisted. “You prepared us well.”
“We were prepared—we are prepared—for the enemy of sixty years ago. Pray that that’s enough.” His eyes flickered towards her again. After a moment he said, “You should know, Lin Mae, the Emperor’s Council has done more than just doubt Strategist Wang. Forcing me to fight to keep him as my advisor… Sending Shen to spy on us…” His features hardened in distaste.
Lin Mae’s face hardened too, in sympathy with her commander’s. Decisively she said, “We will prevail as we have always done.”
Shao smiled at her spirit. Then his expression grew somber again. “Keep the foreigners close. Make them comfortable. We will take what they can offer… but they must never leave here alive.”
There was a beat of silence between them. Then Lin Mae cupped her hands in a sign of acceptance and obedience.
* * *
William flew awake, sensing danger. It was not something he had trained himself to do, but something that came instinctively to him after decades of sleeping among cutthroats, brigands and mercenaries.
And as always, his instincts were proved right. On the other side of the stone chamber, his gaunt features glowing a jaundiced yellow in the lamplight, was the wiry Westerner, perched on his haunches like a cat about to spring.
The Westerner did not flinch or jump back. Instead he regarded William coldly.
“You don’t smell like heroes,” he said.
His voice was a gravelly drawl, but it was enough to pluck the softly snoring Pero from sleep. He came awake as William had done—suddenly and violently. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed for the non-existent knife at his belt, calling out a challenge in Spanish.
William raised a hand. “Calma,” he said.
The Westerner shuffled closer, reaching out a sinewy arm to prod at the equipment heaped on the table—their travel bags, their swords.
“They’ve given back your weapons. That’s a most positive sign.” He looked both impressed and mildly surprised. Then he fixed his darting, bird-like eyes on them and began to tell them his story as if they had asked him for it.
“I came with mercenaries. My caravan. Twenty-five years ago. I had four of them. Not a scrap of diplomacy between them. They didn’t last very long. Doesn’t play around here. They don’t waste their resources.”
He stared at them again. His stare was unnerving. Then abruptly he rattled off a string of Chinese.
William and Pero stared back at him blankly. William shrugged.
The Westerner grunted, his expression not quite a sneer. “No, I thought not. I’m Ballard. I don’t take you as learned men, so I don’t expect you to instantly warm to the light of my reputation. But my name, although faded in memory, was known from Antioch to Cumbria.” He looked at them with a hopeful, needy expression. “Ballard. You’ve not heard of me?”
William shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Ballard was silent, though his lips hardened into a thin line. Once again he extended a long-fingered hand and began to poke idly through their belongings.
“The beasts…” Pero said.
Ballard glanced up. “What of them?”
“What are they?”
Ballard’s lips peeled back in a skeletal grin. William watched him warily. The man looked amused, but also annoyed about something.
Suddenly he hissed at them, “You were supposed to be here six months ago! This was all supposed to be over by now.”
William blinked in surprise. It was clear that Pero too had no idea what the man was talking about.
Then Ballard, scowling, said, “Where is Bouchard?”
Pero’s mouth dropped open, which was how William felt too. Recovering more quickly than his companion, William said, “He’s dead.”
“Drowned,” added Pero before William could say anything more.
Ballard’s eyes danced between them, his expression giving nothing away. Then, tightly, as though biting off the words and spitting them out, he said, “They think I’m squirrely. You understand? I play the fool. But I am not a fool.”
William glanced at Pero, decided to take the gamble. “We came for black powder.”
Again Ballard’s thin lips curled into a ghastly, clench-toothed smile. “I bet you did. And Bouchard drowned, did he?” He regarded them thoughtfully, then abruptly changed the subject. “They’ll draw a bath for you. You saved the west turret. That was extremely diplomatic.”
William shook his head. “We weren’t being diplomatic. We were trying to stay alive.”
Ballard snorted. “You’re very handy, but you smell like animals. Clean yourselves up and they’ll feed you.”
Picking up his lantern, he slipped out of the door like a shadow without another word.
When he had gone, Pero looked at William with eagerness in his eyes. “He knows where the black powder is.”
“Then why is he still here?” William wondered.
“He needs help getting out?”
William pondered on this for a moment, and then nodded. “Right. We play our part, get the powder and go home.”
Pero sighed. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. But mainly the monsters.”
William grunted and gave a wry smile. “There are a lot of them,” he said.
8
After her talk with General Shao, Lin Mae had finally managed to catch a few hours sleep. Or to be more pre
cise, it was sleep that had caught her. She had gone back to her quarters to mull over the General’s words, but as soon as she had laid her head back on her thin mattress she had fallen into a place that was deep and black and without dreams.
Now she was in the Great Hall, eating breakfast with hundreds of other soldiers and officers. Not surprisingly the atmosphere was different this morning, oddly brittle. Some of those present were silent, staring into space, their faces still etched with the trauma of the previous day. Others seemed to be celebrating their survival with almost hysterical abandon, laughing and joking as if their lives depended on it. There was a sense of desperation about their glee, and Lin Mae felt her muscles tensing as their shrillness filled the room. Looking around she saw splints and bandages aplenty, faces marked with bruises and cuts. One of her own Crane Corps warriors had a dressing covering up one side of her face, where a Tao Tei talon had gouged a groove from her temple down to her upper lip. It was still uncertain whether the girl would regain the sight in her left eye. Even if she recovered fully she would be scarred for the rest of her life.
Finding a spare seat, Lin Mae began to work her way stolidly through her breakfast of sweet dumplings and rice porridge. She was not hungry, but she needed to fill her body with as much energy as possible—she might well be in need of it later. She had been eating for several minutes when she became aware that the chatter around her was beginning to dribble into silence. She looked up from her bowl to see that every head in the room was turning in the direction of the north-east entrance door. She looked in that direction too. Her eyes widened.
There were three figures standing by the door, having just entered the room. In the lead was Peng Yong, the young Bear Corps warrior who had mislaid the keys to the stockade before yesterday’s battle—a misdemeanor for which he was still to be punished. Behind him were the two foreign prisoners who had been intended for the stockade, and whose imprisonment would surely have resulted in the fall of the west turret, not to mention a great deal more bloodshed and death, possibly even her own. But the astonished silence that had befallen the room was not due simply to the arrival of the prisoners, but to their appearance. Bathed and shaved, and wearing clothes that had been cleaned and repaired, they had been utterly transformed. Now they no longer looked like beasts, but men. More than that, they looked like soldiers.
