The Dragon's Gate

by Barry Wolverton

  Barrett turned to Yaozu. “There must be an exit from the park to the outer city.”

  He consulted his diagram again. “This way.”

  Mouse took the lead again, finding the exit tunnel opposite of where they had come in, but for once her uncanny instincts failed her. The passageway turned out to be a dead end.

  “It’s a maze,” said Sean. “I only hope there’s no Minotaur waiting at the end.”

  Mouse walked up to the rammed earth wall, putting her hand against it.

  “No,” she said. “This is the way,” and she moved to where the two walls met and began to brush away dust and loose dirt until the rest of them could see the seam of a doorway.

  “Mouse, have I told you how much I love you?” said Barrett.

  “Door still doesn’t open,” said Yaozu.

  “Trust me, I’ve never seen a lock Mouse can’t pick,” said Bren.

  Yaozu leaned forward, studying the door intently. “Do you see a lock?”

  “Maybe it goes up and down,” said Sean. “Like a castle gate.”

  Yaozu turned and said something in Chinese to the Society, and two of them disappeared back down the passageway toward the park. When they returned, they had a long bronze rod—the leg from one of the bronze cranes, in fact.

  “Eureka!” said Bren, smiling. The others gave him a funny look. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Eureka? Archimedes? Discovered the lever? That’s what you’re going to use that for, right?”

  “He discovered the lever for Westerners,” said Yaozu.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Barrett. “Who discovered the lever for your people?”

  “I do not know,” Yaozu admitted. “But I am sure it was long before some Greek man.”

  “Merciful heavens!” Sean blurted out. “I joined the navy so I could drop out of school. Can we just wedge this thing open and get on with it?”

  They cleared room for two members of the Society to wedge the bronze leg under the door, while four more then depressed the lever, causing a slow, grinding movement along the seams.

  “It’s working!” said Bren.

  When the door was just high enough, another group of Paper Men squatted beneath it, using brute strength to push the door the rest of the way up.

  “Will it stay?” Bren wondered aloud.

  “Perhaps,” said Yaozu. “Perhaps not. Bring the lever to this side, in case.”

  When they were all safely through, the men holding the door moved from beneath it, and the door stayed put. Bren breathed a sigh of relief and then turned to behold an open courtyard of sorts, about half the size of the town square in Map. Opposite the door was another wall, this one with two doors spaced evenly across. He took one step forward and tripped.

  Bren landed with a great clatter on a pile of rocks, or sticks, he wasn’t sure. He just knew it hurt. He held up a stick poking him in the ribs and realized it was a bone. He threw it aside and scrambled to his feet, stumbling and flailing.

  “Are those human bones?” he said.

  “This is a tomb,” said Barrett, picking her way through what were the remains of at least twenty skeletons. “Remember that the histories say the workers were sealed inside?”

  Bren did remember. “Yaozu said almost a million people helped build this place. Are we really going to find that many skeletons down here?”

  Yaozu was shaking his head. “The tomb took thirty years to finish. Made mostly by prisoners and debtors, who would have died during their hard labors, or been executed or imprisoned when they were done. The craftsmen—those who finished whatever mechanical devices or other secrets—were many fewer, and were supposedly sealed inside the inner tomb. These men here I suppose were among the last, and tried to escape.”

  “That must be the inner city wall, then,” said Bren, and he began walking past the pile of bones, across the open space.

  “No!” said Yaozu, and immediately one of the Paper Men leaped ahead of Bren, blocking his way and swiveling his head left and right, as if he’d heard something.

  “There is a reason for our friends to be here,” said Yaozu. “They will take the lead.”

  “Sorry,” said Bren. “I forgot.”

  “Do you really think the place is booby-trapped, or was all that written to scare potential grave robbers?” Sean asked.

  “The latter is possible,” Yaozu agreed. “But as you have seen, the emperor took his burial seriously. He believed in the need for a properly equipped tomb, so I would not assume otherwise.”

  The shuddering thud of a door slamming shut made the whole group spin around. The gate of the outer wall had closed, but that’s not what made Bren’s heart drop into his stomach. Standing there was a siege of larger-than-life-size bronze cranes, the upper and lower parts of their long, sharp bills scraping against each other. The one in front was missing a leg.

  “Go open the door to the inner city,” said Yaozu, his expression set. “We will deal with this.”

  “Which door?” said Sean, looking from one to the other. “Is one a trap?”

  “What does it matter?” Yaozu replied harshly. “We have already sprung a trap.”

  “They’re just birds,” said Sean. “Probably a mechanical trick. Meant to scare—”

  Before he could finish, one of the cranes stretched its wings like a pair of rusty hinges and flew directly at Yaozu. A Paper Man lunged in front of Yaozu just as the crane attacked . . . the bronze bird jabbed at the man’s face as if it were spearing a toad from a pond, plucking an eyeball right out of the man’s head.

  Sean didn’t have to be told twice.

  “Pick a door! Pick a door!”

  They rushed forward to the inner wall, toward the door on the left, dragging Mouse along while the eerie sounds of brass cranes fighting Chinese spies roiled behind them. In a matter of seconds Mouse had unlocked the door and they were pushing their way through.

  All except for Barrett. She had drawn her sword and held it out, half brandishing it like a normal sword, half holding it up like a wizard’s wand. It seemed to have no effect on the fighting that was going on behind them, but Bren did see the one-legged crane stretch its wings enough to glide over to where Barrett was standing.

  The crane landed with a clank and stood there for a moment, tilting its head one way, then the other, as if examining the sword. And then it lashed out, clutching the blade in its bill and wrenching it out of Barrett’s hands.

  “Let’s go,” said Yaozu, grabbing Barrett’s arm as he ran toward the open door. The Paper Men did their best to fight off the violent metal birds, and eventually they all made it to the other side, except for perhaps a half dozen of the spies, who either couldn’t make it or felt bound by duty to hold off the birds so the others could retreat inside.

  “I guess the Tamer of Beasts doesn’t work on magical animals,” said Barrett, leaning against the now-shut door and breathing heavily. “Sort of ironic, when you think about it.”

  “Where are we?” said Sean. The room they were in was dimly lit by the same ever-burning lamps or whatever had lighted the park and the courtyard. It was the length of a ballroom, and along the walls were swords, spears, battle-axes, scimitars, shields, crossbows, dagger-axes, and halberds.

  “An armory,” said Barrett.

  “For what soldiers?” said Bren, who began to feel tiny legs of fear crawl along his arms. He stopped before a jagged, three-foot-long shield. The wood showed no rot, and its surface was painted a brilliant red, green, and white that had not faded. Nearby was a military drum with a leather head and fine red lines painted around the body. There were also silk and linen textiles folded neatly on a stone seat, looking as if they had been woven only yesterday.

  “Do you think some of the Eight Immortals might be in here?” said Bren.

  “Possibly,” Barrett replied, “although except for the sword, none of the artifacts resembles a weapon.”

  Bren went to the opposite wall, where he stood before a large crossbow. He had read of crossbow
s being used in ancient Greece and Rome, but he was still amazed to see evidence of one so old. It even appeared to be in working order. As with the shield, the wood was not rotted, and the bowstring was intact and unworn. He couldn’t resist: he reached up and lifted the device off the wall, nearly dropping it. He couldn’t believe how heavy it was.

  “Yaozu, did the Chinese actually use crossbows this size? Or is this just for show?” He braced the bow with his foot and pulled the string back with both hands. It cocked beautifully. “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded,” he said, when he saw the horrified look on Yaozu’s face. “I don’t even know where the bolts are.”

  Yaozu turned his head toward the eastern wall, as if listening for something. Then Bren heard it too—the scrabbling of boots on hard stone.

  “Where is that coming from?” said Sean.

  “Beyond the outer wall,” said Yaozu. “We must have triggered an alarm.”

  “Everyone grab a weapon!” said Barrett.

  The Paper Men obeyed immediately, and though Bren had a crossbow at his feet, he knew it was too heavy for him, so he dropped it and took a saber from the wall. Yaozu chose a halberd—sort of a cross between a spear and a battle-axe—Sean, a pair of dagger-axes, and Barrett another sword, to replace the one that had been plucked from her hands. Only Mouse chose the shield, which was nearly as tall as she was, though Bren had no idea how she planned to carry it.

  “The tomb chamber should be on the far side of this armory,” said Barrett. “They must be planning to cut us off, and they’ll likely surround the inner city as well. Even if we make it to the tomb, we’ll still have to fight our way out.”

  There was another screeching of stone, and a door they hadn’t noticed opened at the end of the long room. Soldiers began to file in two by two, dressed in purple tunics with reddish leather armor over their torsos, each carrying a heavy bronze sword. Behind them were more purple-clad warriors carrying spears and scimitars, and others with weapons of brute force: clubs and hammers.

  But these weren’t like any soldiers Bren had ever seen. Their faces were expressionless. Their black eyebrows and facial hair stood out in stark contrast to their pale pink faces, but there was no movement. It was as if they were all wearing masks, and this was just some eerie form of theater. Except this wasn’t playacting, and the Paper Men did not wait for anyone’s orders—they attacked at once, charging at the soldiers, weapons forward. The Chinese army met them with force, and the armory was suddenly filled with the clashing of bronze and iron swords and axes. One of the Paper Men stood with his back to Bren, who jumped back in horror as the sharp point of a spear came through the man. Bren forgot he was holding the saber—he felt helpless watching the chaos of two hundred men entwined in the fury of battle.

  Mouse had crouched down behind her shield, but not from cowardice. She was holding the jade eye in the palm of her hand, and her lips were moving silently.

  “Mouse, what are you doing?” said Bren.

  He had broken the spell, if that’s what it was. She looked up at him. “Trying to call the dragon. You saw the silver river back there.”

  He nodded and looked up just in time to see a soldier charging straight for him. His first instinct was to duck, which he did, but remembering a story he’d read, he dove to the side and swung his saber as hard as he could at the man’s shins.

  What happened next Bren wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it himself.

  His bronze saber struck the man’s legs with a crack, and they shattered into a dozen pieces, one hitting Bren square in the face. The soldier immediately pitched forward, and when he did, his nose struck the hard dirt floor and smashed to pieces like a dropped vase.

  “What the . . . ,” said Bren, but he couldn’t finish, the acid taste of fear and confusion coming up his throat. He queasily picked up one of the pieces, expecting to see bloody bone and flesh; instead he realized it wasn’t bone, it was clay! A shard of reddish brown terra-cotta with a man’s nose and right eye painted on one side.

  Bren rushed to where he had dropped the crossbow, frantically looking for a bolt. He found a quiver of them, loaded one into the crossbow, and using all his strength, he took aim and fired. The brass bolt shot with stunning force toward one of the Chinese soldiers, striking him in the chest. There was a thunderous crack, and the soldier fell to pieces.

  “They’re made of clay!” Bren shouted. “We have to smash them.”

  He loaded another bolt into the crossbow, but his excitement got the better of him. His aim was off, and his heart sank as he saw one of the Paper Men move in front of a Chinese soldier just as Bren fired. The bolt struck the Paper Man in the back, stopping him in his tracks, and seizing the advantage, the clay soldier swung his scimitar at the man’s head, taking it off clean at the neck.

  That’s when Bren got another serious shock: the Paper Man’s headless body hit the floor, the crossbow bolt sticking out of his back, but there was no blood. His head lay five feet from him, but there was no blood there or at the neck, either. Only confetti and feathers.

  “Yaozu,” said Bren, but he knew it wasn’t loud enough for Yaozu to hear him. Everyone else was discovering for themselves what was going on, and the room was filled not only with the sound of clashing weapons but of clay smashing against stone.

  Bren fumbled with another bolt and clumsily loaded the crossbow again. This time he steadied himself, taking aim at a clay soldier who was hoisting a huge battle-axe over his head. Bren fired. The brass bolt struck him square in the chest . . . his torso shattered, his raised arms fell to the floor, breaking to pieces, sending the battle-axe sliding across the floor . . . his bodiless legs teetered there a moment before tipping over and adding to the pile of shards.

  “Bren, look out!”

  Bren turned in time to see a scimitar coming right at him. He ducked, and the curved sword struck the dirt wall, wedging there. Before the clay soldier could react, Bren summoned all his strength and swung the crossbow at him, smashing him against the wall.

  He turned back to the battle, where the terra-cotta warriors and Paper Men were going at each other. Bren could see Barrett and Sean slowly coming to the same realization—these “men” Yaozu had summoned weren’t men at all, but some sort of animated illusion. He watched as a clay soldier thrust a spear through the gut of a Paper Man, only for the weapon to shred right through and plunge into the back of another clay warrior, shattering its back. This happened over and over, the clay army slashing and spearing at the paper one, only to destroy themselves. Meanwhile Bren and company could shield themselves and attack from behind. Yaozu had summoned the ultimate army—bloodless drones who absorbed the enemy’s attacks and tricked them into attacking themselves.

  The problem was, the clay warriors kept coming. Yaozu had said there were rumors of thousands buried nearby. They didn’t have enough Paper Men to stave them off.

  “We have to block that door!” said Barrett.

  “We can’t!” said Sean. And he was right. They couldn’t fight their way to a passageway that was filled a mile deep with fresh warriors. They had to either leave the way they came in or find the door to the inner tomb. And fast.

  CHAPTER

  23

  THE TOMB OF QIN

  Either there was no exit from this room, other than the door where they came in or the one the clay soldiers were marching through, or the door was hidden. And based on what little he had seen of the burial complex, Bren guessed it was the latter.

  He dragged Mouse to the south wall—the direction the actual tomb should lie if Yaozu and Barrett were correct—and the two of them began to check for any signs of a secret mechanism. A crack, a seam, a lever . . . anything. But their frantic scrabbling against floor and wall gave back nothing but dirt.

  “Bren, we’ve got to go back!”

  It was Barrett, and apparently they were out of time to find a secret way into the tomb. Bren spun around to see Barrett, Yaozu, and Sean all retreating toward the door to the ou
ter city. There were few Paper Men still standing, on a floor littered with shards of pottery and shredded tissue, and clay warriors were beginning to surround them now, flowing out into the room like bees from a hive.

  Bren didn’t think he and Mouse could make it to the other door in time. They were trapped.

  He tried to get Mouse’s attention, but she was staring into the mass of warriors, apparently paralyzed with fear. At least, that’s what Bren assumed just before she pointed into the crowd and said, “Him. Kill him.”

  From across the room Barrett, Yaozu, and Sean exchanged looks with Bren. He looked away from them and tried to follow where Mouse was pointing.

  “That one,” she said again, and Bren suddenly realized who she meant: a figure no taller or shorter than the others, with the same purple robe and leather-brown tunic, but with a headdress different from the rest: a red piece tied up like the swooping horns of an antelope.

  Before he could think about how foolish he was, Bren picked up his saber and ran straight for him, charging into the throng of warriors. He bulled right into two of the remaining Paper Men, pushing them into the wall of warriors like a battering ram, and then when he was close enough, he thrust the saber through the back of one, impaling him but also striking the one Mouse wanted square in the breastplate.

  The warrior didn’t shatter. In fact, he didn’t even crack. The saber tip had only chipped the surface of the clay, and Bren was surrounded by warriors about to strike.

  Something darted between Bren’s legs. Suddenly Mouse was between him and the warrior, holding one of the bronze crossbow bolts in her fist. She struck at the warrior’s abdomen as hard as she could.

  Bren thought he heard a crack . . . for a moment everything went fuzzy, as if time had both stopped and sped up somehow, and then he saw the spidering fissures radiate across the front of the warrior’s body.

  The battle-axe he was holding clattered to the ground. Others followed . . . weapons of all kinds suddenly dropping from the hands of the warriors to the floor. The wounded warrior’s painted eyes remained fixed and lifeless, and yet Bren thought he could see something like fear there, and the warrior’s hands went to his fracturing chest, vainly grasping for the falling pieces.