Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The militiamen spurred forward, their unmounted companions taking up positions with powerful standing bows which were set up horizontally on a tripod, being too long for a tall man to hold and fire. There was a flurry of activity as the remaining farmers rushed forward with the extra arrows for these huge bows, then the loading of the weapons began.

  Chih-Yü leaned over her sorrel’s neck, holding him firmly so that he would not bolt to join the other horses now racing toward the fierce men rushing down on them. She had to hold the apex or the other men would be endangered by the gap in the line.

  One of the Mongol leaders shouted an order and reached for his lance. He was grinning with delight as he spurred straight toward the nearest militiaman, pulling up only when he had to tug his lance from the militiaman’s body.

  The line of militiamen held for a brief time, then sagged, bent and scattered as the third and fourth ranks of Mongols rode round behind it and attacked the defenders from the rear.

  Shouts, groans, cries filled the air as the men of Mao-T’ou stronghold were spitted and hacked by the now-battle-frenzied Mongols. Horses squealed and screamed as they were cut down with their riders.

  Saint-Germain could no longer make out the progress of the battle, and for that he was grateful. His hands were white as they gripped the rough planks of the stockade. The fighting was more than a li distant, and he could still smell the carnage on the air.

  “Master,” said a voice at his shoulder, and he turned to see his servant beside him. “I have taken the liberty of preparing your cases. It might be wise not to remain too long.” There was almost no expression in his middle-aged face, but as he looked down, his eyes widened.

  “They won’t hold out another hour,” Saint-Germain said quietly, with dreadful certainty.

  “And then?” Rogerio asked.

  “Probably the next valley. I don’t think they’ll take this place until the last. What is there to gain here?” He stood back from the wall, letting his hands drop to his sides. “There are men to be killed in the valleys, and farms to be burned. That’s much greater sport than ransacking this place.”

  Rogerio glanced down to the confusion and slaughter at the foot of the promontory. He blanched, and Saint-Germain saw that his hands were shaking. “How long can that go on?”

  “Perhaps an hour, two at the most. And then the Mongols will get into the next valley.” He steeled himself to stare down the slope again. The line of militiamen was in complete disorder. There were horses running in panic, men screaming. Two of the Mongols had caught one of the militiamen, had tied him between their horses and were trying to pull him apart.

  One small knot of militiamen had gathered at the entrance to the gap to Oa-Du valley and were fending off the invaders with lances and swords. Even as Saint-Germain watched, one of that valiant band went down as a Mongol sword sliced through him and his mount.

  “I have a goat cart, Master,” Rogerio said thickly. “I will load it at once.”

  “It might be wise,” Saint-Germain said slowly. He felt the uselessness of it, the waste of the land and the lives. The folly of it sickened him, and he turned away.

  Rogerio was glad to leave the ramparts. “I don’t think I could bear to see much more of that.”

  “No,” Saint-Germain agreed. “But we don’t have to. Think of the men down there with Chih-Yü. What a vision to have at the end of life.” He put his hand to his forehead, then straightened up. “About this goat cart…”

  “I had it from the gatekeeper. There is room enough in the cart for three cases of earth and your Roman case. The rest will have to be left behind.” He walked beside his master, talking quickly in order to block out the sounds that rode with the stink of burning on the wind.

  “Left behind,” Saint-Germain repeated dully. “Perhaps I should be grateful to that pirate of a Magistrate who took the Byzantine mosaics. At least they have a chance of surviving this invasion.” His acerbity faded as soon as he had spoken. “Yes, I should consider that. Something will be salvaged, though it’s only a few pieces of colored stone on wood.”

  Rogerio said nothing. He opened the door and allowed Saint-Germain to pass into his quarters. Here the noise did not penetrate, and except for the three large cases and the Roman chest in the center of the room, there was little to indicate that the stronghold was in the throes of defeat.

  “Where did you put the yellow bottle?” Saint-Germain inquired after he had opened the Roman case and found only the barest equipment.

  “It’s in the laboratory,” Rogerio answered after a pause.

  “Get it.” He would brook no opposition.

  Rogerio started to protest, then caught the lambent glow of Saint-Germain’s dark eyes, and wisely fell silent. He went to the laboratory, and with great care removed the large yellow bottle from its protected niche in the biggest cabinet. Gingerly he carried this back to the receiving room and with great care set it on the floor.

  “How full is the bottle?” Saint-Germain asked as he tugged off his black dalmatica and rummaged in a lacquered pigskin box for his metal-studded long-sleeved cote of close-fitting black leather.

  “I would say three-quarters,” Rogerio answered, his tone full of disapproval.

  “Have we got a supply of ceramic containers for it?” He flung the silken garments away and pulled the leather over his head.

  “There are a dozen or so in the laboratory.” Rogerio could not contain himself any longer. “My master, I have never wished to oppose you, but…”

  Saint-Germain chuckled unpleasantly.” … but you are worried about using Greek fire. If it’s any consolation, I share your concern.” He had kicked off his thick-soled felt boots, and pulled calf-high Byzantine ones from a shelf under his Persian wardrobe. “Have you put earth in the soles and heels recently?” He lifted the boots so that Rogerio could see them.

  “Not lately,” was the cool response.

  “Would you attend to that now, while I finish dressing?” His tone was matter-of-fact, and he tossed the boots to his servant, not looking to see whether he caught them. “Then, when you’re through with that, you can help me prepare an amusement for those demons in the valley.”

  There was a subtle alteration of expression in Rogerio’s faded eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  Saint-Germain paused in the middle of pulling on leather leggings. “They have killed Chih-Yü.” He did not have to explain to Rogerio how he knew this. “They have killed her, and they will be made to pay dearly for that.”

  “But Greek fire…” Involuntarily he glanced at the yellow glass bottle.

  “What else can I do?” he asked coolly. “You and I alone cannot stop them. Chih-Yü would not allow me to ride beside her, though she was grateful enough for my horse. At the most, there are thirty Mongols dead down there. How else would you propose we stop them? Would our deaths, our true deaths, avenge her, if the Mongols triumphed in the end?” He stood up and drew on a long belt. “They will triumph, but not now, and not here.”

  “I’ll get proper aprons,” Rogerio said with curious distaste. “How shall we arrange this? Throw the containers down on them, and then flee before the fires can spread?”

  “No. I promised Chih-Yü this morning I would see her properly interred.” He paid no attention to Rogerio’s sudden protest. “I will do that. After Oa-Du valley is burning.”

  Rogerio started toward the laboratory, distress filling him. He stopped in the door. “And how do you know that she did not fall in Oa-Du valley?”

  “I know,” Saint-Germain said quietly, and began to arm himself.

  By the time he emerged from his quarters, it was nearing sunset. As he stepped into the courtyard, he knew that Mao-T’ou stronghold was deserted. The men and women who had been there when the battle began in the valley below had left. He turned to Rogerio. “The goat cart?”

  “I will bring it to the fork in the road near the spring.” His face was expressionless. “I will wait until dawn, and then, if
you have not come, I will set out toward the west.”

  A faint smile came into Saint-Germain’s eyes. “Thank you, my old friend.”

  Rogerio made a quick, brusque sound. “Don’t thank me. You know I think you are mad to do this. But after so many years…” He broke off. “The cart is ready. I loaded it while you were preparing your weapons.”

  “Excellent. Go carefully. Those highwaymen may be in the woods, hoping to pick off stragglers.” He had heard little of the band of robbers in the last few months, but Chin-Yü had assured him that they were known to be in the area still.

  “Highwaymen are minor difficulties.” He looked up and through the smokey haze the sky was red.

  “But you are armed,” Saint-Germain said, almost amused.

  “Certainly.” Rogerio hesitated, then said in a great hurry, “I realize that you will not change your mind, but don’t expose yourself to any more than you must.” Before he could say anything else, he turned away from his master and stalked across the empty courtyard.

  Saint-Germain watched Rogerio go until he entered the stable; then he stepped back inside his quarters and brought out a large, heavily padded box about half the height of a man. There was a crude sort of harness attached to the box, and this Saint-Germain fitted around his shoulders, securing the crossing leather belts on his chest. He pulled the door of his quarters closed for one last time, feeling a moment of the most profound regret. This he deliberately set aside, putting his mind on more pressing matters as he crossed the courtyard for the unguarded gates.

  Many of the farmers in Oa-Du valley had been unfortunate enough to be taken alive by the Mongols, and were now being used by them for cruel and ghastly amusement. One man, a militiaman, judging by his boots, for the rest of his clothing was in tatters, had been tied around the chest and dragged behind a galloping pony while eight mounted, drunken men chased after him, trying to slice him with their swords when they came near enough to lean out of their saddles. The militiaman was hardly conscious and had stopped screaming some time before.

  Another party had taken a dead horse, gutted it and sewed three farmers inside it, and were now roasting the terrible thing over a slow fire. Not far from a smoldering barn, a young man, a farmer’s son, was being mutilated by three Mongol warriors. Most of the Mongols stood around a bonfire, laughing, eating and drinking, and occasionally tossing a severed human limb onto the blaze, commenting on how well this leg or that hand burned and crackled.

  Saint-Germain had kept to the edge of the fields, but his night vision made the whole grisly scene unmercifully clear. Rage welled in him as he watched and searched for a vantage point.

  He came upon an old barn, fallen into disrepair and quite deserted. With caution he approached the building, and when he had satisfied himself that the rickety place was safe, he crouched low and ran with uncanny swiftness to the barn, huddling there while he loosened the buckles over his chest.

  The riders chasing the militiaman came down the field at a disorderly run, their shouts high in the air.

  Saint-Germain listened, waiting, as he reached so very slowly into the padded box he carried and drew forth a ceramic cylinder. It was meticulously sealed, but using a small dagger, he peeled away the hard wax from one end, and in the next moment, he had hurled the container directly at the Mongols.

  The rush of air ignited the substance in the cylinder, and the container exploded with a muffied sound no louder than the bursting of a pine cone in a fire. Flying bits of eerie, gold-burning material fell in tendrils through the sky, beautiful to see. One of the Mongol warriors pulled up his pony to stare at the long, splendid rags of light as they drifted toward him. A scrap of the stuff dropped onto his shoulder, soft and graceful as thistledown, and where it touched, it clung and burned.

  Almost at once the others screamed out as the Greek fire wafted among the mounted warriors. Pieces that fell in the grass set it alight, and in a very little time a quarter of the field was in flames.

  Satisfied, Saint-Germain took up his padded box and moved back into the shadows of the trees at the edge of the field. No one noticed his swift, silent passage away from the abandoned barn.

  The next container was flung not far from where the farmer’s boy writhed under the ruthless Mongol knives. Screams and imprecations burst from the three torturers’ lips, but before others could rush to their aid, another cylinder burst apart above the bonfire. Now there was so much chaos that none of the Mongols was able to take charge. Men rushed blindly, tearing at the vinelike material that seared garments and flesh equally with scorifying heat that seemed to devour even bone. It was useless to try to dislodge the deadly fibers, for they held fast everything that touched them. Men shrieked in agony as the Greek fire consumed them with a rapacity greater than any they themselves had shown in battle. Horses reared and ran and burned, mouths and flanks foaming. Even the steadfast Mongol ponies were filled with terror and rushed aimlessly through the blazing night until a filament of Greek fire would bring them down.

  Saint-Germain did not like killing the horses and ponies. It was only the Mongols he hunted. Yet he threw two more cylinders before he was certain that the invaders would not live to see sunrise. He took little gratification from this, for his hatred was hot as his Greek fire, not calculating and frigid. He knew beyond all doubt that this was an empty gesture, an act of defiance that would go unnoticed in the horror of the invasion. He was also aware that this would not restore Chih-Yü. She was beyond any act of his. Yet, now that his first task had been completed, he turned to the second and more difficult one.

  So-Dui valley was an abattoir. Parts of the ground were caked hard with blood. Insects had converged on the loathsome feast: things that scuttled, that crept and flew and buzzed. It had begun with flies in the afternoon, before the last of the battle. Now there were many more varieties going about their scavenging work.

  Repugnance threatened to overcome Saint-Germain, but he thought with goading irony that he, of all men, should not be distressed at the sight and scent of blood. He stumbled over a headless trunk, and wondered how many of the militiamen had been beheaded. It was a common Mongol practice to place piles of severed heads near their battlefields. He had hoped that they would wait until the next day, when the killing and feasting were finished, to assemble their hideous trophy.

  Because many of the corpses had been decapitated, Saint-Germain went slowly among them, feeling his way. He could see far more than he wanted to, but not enough to distinguish the one female body in this charnel field. Cold, stiffened men were tumbled with their fallen mounts. Bodies and parts of bodies had been tossed into a heap at one place. With all his senses deadened, so that he worked with mechanical efficiency, Saint-Germain picked his way through that abhorrent tangle without finding Chin-Yü.

  When at last he found her, it was by the sheerest accident. He had been following a drainage ditch that ran beside one of the fields, and at the edge of a deadfall was what appeared to be a heap of filthy sacking. He almost passed it, when he recognized the brass insignia on a dented piece of armor. Slowly he touched the material, and felt metal under the blood-matted cloth. His chest grew tight and hot as he turned the body over.

  He told himself that he was pleased that the Mongols had not cut her head off, but the dire expression that was frozen on her face was harrowing to see. A broken lance was still clutched in her cold right hand and her scabbard was empty. He tried to brush the caked blood from her face and found that half the skin had been sliced away from the side of her head. He was incapable of weeping, for that had been lost to him when his essential nature changed, long ago, and so the sound that tore through him was more like a howl than the beginning of tears. He pressed the dangling skin back into place and held it there. He dared not move his hand for fear the wound would gape once more. With difficulty he used his other hand to get out of the harness that kept the padded box on his back. When that was done, he removed the last of the Greek-fire cylinders, setting the box on the grou
nd.

  For some time he worked at putting her into the box, his mind resolutely shut to the grimness of the task. Once, as he pried her fingers from the shaft of the lance, he recalled with overwhelming intensity the way that hand had touched him the night before, and her promise, that if she survived the day, she would share blood with him this night. He staggered away from the box, his hands covering his face until he mastered the despair that transfixed him.

  When he was finished, the night was far advanced, but the Warlord Ten Chih-yü lay in a grave that had been dug as a deadfall, Saint-Germain’s padded box serving as her coffin. Her name and rank had been carved into the side of the box, and the date and manner of her death. Instead of laudatory verses, Saint-Germain had put the one-character “valor” to recommend her to her ancestors.

  Shortly before dawn, Saint-Germain trudged up the path to the fork in the road where Rogerio waited with the goat cart. He was sickened and weary from the appalling night, yet he was grateful that he would have to go far that day, for his fatigue numbed him, and he was grateful for that numbness.

  There was the brazen clunk of a bell, and then Rogerio stepped out of the shadows. He said nothing as Saint-Germain pointed up the hill and away.

  A letter from Wu Sing-I, Shu-Rh District Magistrate, from the town of Bei-Wah, to the Secretariat of Defense at K’ai-Feng.

  On the eve of the Festival of the God of Hearths and Furnaces, the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, to the Elevated Officials of the Defense Secretariat in the capital of K’ai-Feng:

  This most unfortunate Magistrate must inform the Officers of the Secretariat of the latest disaster which has befallen this most unhappy district. Without doubt some of your number are aware that this most unworthy person has, in the past, beseeched those in high places to see that we in this District were adequately protected from our foemen. At such times as the Elevated Officials deigned to answer this unworthy person’s requests, it was to assure him that there was no danger whatever to Shu-Rh District. When this unworthy person took it upon himself to provide information to the contrary, it was ignored or set aside for the more pressing business of reclaiming Pei-King. This most unworthy Magistrate was not accorded the courtesy of aid, and the plans to send a military inspector to this District were set aside when some of your number decided that there was not sufficient reason to do so.