The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (19 page)

He saw his hands, ash covered, nails split and blood dripping from cuts and scratches, dig through the charred wood and bricks split by the heat of an inferno. Around him the wooden supports and fallen rafters of his home still smouldered. Somewhere, underneath the remnants of his home, his wife and child.

Tears of frustration and anger tracked through the dirt on his face. With every brick he lifted and threw, the anger grew. Every burn he took increased the desperate worry that churned and twisted in his heart. Somewhere, underneath it all, his wife and child.

The rafter was heavy. Too heavy to lift, but that did not stop him. Jamming both hands into the too small gap between the wood and tiled floor, ignoring the pain of the sharp edges slicing deeper into his flesh, he braced his legs and lifted. Every muscle strained. His back screeched at him, it threatened to break under the weight of his attempt. He screamed alongside it.

Rage poured out alongside the scream, but where the air in his lungs was finite his rage was not. It burned in his stomach and throat, in his heart and mind, it seared the skin from his bones. Hotter than the fire that had consumed his home, his personal inferno consumed him.

The world faded into grey, into black and white, into shades of shadow and blooms of light.

The rafter lifted and in an explosive moment of strength he threw it across the ruins. The trapdoor, the one his wife and child had closed at the beginning of the battle for Wubei, the one he had depended upon to keep them safe, was visible.

He grabbed the iron ring, the pain of it burning his flesh ignored. It was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. Zhou ripped the door open and the shouted into the darkness below.

“The bride.” Zhou struggled to penetrate the darkness, something was not right. Those were not the words he had shouted. They clashed with the vision of the trapdoor and the darkness. This was not real, a memory turned into a dream. Asleep. The voice finished, “of Temujin.”

Awake.

A figure stood in the open doorway, shadowed by the bright lamps in the corridor and the weak flame of the oil lamp in the room.

“He knew you would come here,” the figure whispered, the voice from his dream, was a mix of awe and chill purpose. It took a step inside and Zhou could see a sword in its hands. “I will see you buried with the others.”

The sword went up, over the figures right shoulder and started to descend.

Zhou called to the Spirit and it was there. He moved, rolling underneath the falling blade and kicking out. The figure looked startled as Zhou’s heel caught him high in the chest and sent him flying backwards. There was a thump as the assassin hit the wall and fell to the ground.

Finishing the roll, Zhou came to his feet at the same moment the attacker did.

“Xióngmāo,” Zhou called as he moved forward. The Spirit’s eyes were taking over, giving him a clarity of vision his attacker would lack.

“She will sleep for a little longer,” the figure said.

Zhou stopped, there was the length of two swords between them, the door ahead and the sleeping Xióngmāo behind him. The assassin’s accent was familiar though he had not heard it in the Empire’s language before. Mongol.

“You should be asleep too.” The figure stepped left, into the doorway, creating more room to swing the curved sword. “There were enough herbs in that wine to knock out a whole herd.”

“And you should leave,” Zhou said, spreading his hands out to either side, stretching his sleep filled muscles. There was a heaviness in his limbs and fuzzy feeling in his head.

“It may not have worked as well on you,” the Mongol tilted his head a little, a feral smile appeared on its face, “but you are not as steady on your feet as you expected to be, are you?”

Zhou took a breath, deep and hard, pulling the air into his lungs. It was true, his legs were heavy, his heart was beating too loud in his chest and he could hear the blood rushing through his arteries. One man with a sword was not a threat that Zhou had been scared of for over half a year. With the spirit he was fast and strong, but at that moment he felt slow. He felt fear.

The Mongol smiled again and attacked. Sword slicing from right to left at chest height. Zhou swayed backwards, feeling the cool air of its passage across his bare chest. Before he could reverse his motion and attack, the sword came back the other way, scoring a faint cut on Zhou’s upper arm as he moved.

Now the sword went up and came down, right to left, shoulder to hip. Zhou was forced to step back towards the bed and the recumbent Xióngmāo. The Mongol stepped in and cut at Zhou’s neck.

This time Zhou was ready. He ducked under the swing and threw a punch at the Mongol’s stomach. His knuckles met the leather armour and strong stomach of the warrior. Though drugged and tired, he was a
Wu
and the spirit filled him. The punch knocked the assassin back, the sword flailing upwards, and Zhou sought to move with him, to take advantage, but his legs were too slow and too heavy to obey his commands.

The Mongol recovered his balance and control of his sword, sweeping it back and forth to ward Zhou off whilst he regained his breath.

There was no way through the steel barrier. Not for his arms or legs, Zhou thought, but for the spirit? He gathered his concentration and focused his spirit, siphoning off a little of its strength from his limbs, into a ball of incandescent blue in his chest. Zhou held his breath and pushed at the ball, willing it to be the missile he had used on the walls. Nothing happened. The blue flame shattered, tore itself apart, each filament flowing back to its original place.

“Cannot use your magic?” The Mongol grinned. On the last word, he jumped forward, sword arcing downwards.

Zhou moved too, forward into the leap, reaching up and catching the sword arm at the wrist, halting its movement. His free hand grabbed at the Mongol’s armour, and he attempted to shift his weight, to pivot on his back foot and throw the assassin to the ground, but he was too slow. The Mongol crashed into him and they fell to the floor.

The sword clattered to the floor and Zhou was forced to release his hold on the Mongol’s armour to rip away the hand that was wrapped around his throat. The weight of his attacker bearing down made that difficult and the strength in Zhou’s arms was ebbing away. He twisted and bucked, trying to dislodge the Mongol, trying to get free, and succeeded only in gaining enough room to drag in a new lungful air.

He fought on. Removing the hand crushing his throat and starving him of air was going to be impossible. To carry on with that tactic would mean his death. Above him, staring down with that self-same grin, now more a grimace of joy than an honest smile, was the Mongol’s face.

Zhou let go and stabbed upwards with fingers rigid and extended. Two met bone and crumpled inwards towards his palm, slowing down the strike, but the third finger of his right hand found the target. Resistance at first, soft and yielding, then none. A pop and a burst of fluid that coated his finger. A release of pressure and the finger stabbed deeper, up to the first knuckle before it met the hard impassable barrier of bone.

With instinctual self-preservation, the Mongol arched his back, away from the pain and Zhou’s finger, its reach no longer sufficient, slipped from the ruin of the eye.

Zhou pushed the Mongol off of him and pulled himself away from the writhing form, dragging precious, cold, gem sharp air into his lungs. His neck hurt and his whole body ached for sleep, for blessed unconsciousness, but not yet. He allowed himself two breaths and then stood on shaky legs. A check on Xióngmāo showed her still sleeping.

The door was open and he staggered past the man moaning on the floor and looked down the corridor. No one else was stirring, there were no shouts of alarm or inquisitive heads peering out of doorways. In a place like this, his oxygen deprived, drugged, brain told him, curiosity was likely to get you killed. Zhou closed the door, dropping the bar back into place, noting in a daze the thin wire that had been hooked under and used to lift it.

Sleep, his body told. Sleep, his brain seconded the motion. A moment. One task to complete. Two shuffled steps and Zhou bent down, wrapping a clumsy hand around the fallen sword. He dragged it into the air, held it above the Mongol’s chest. The man’s hands were clamped to his face. Blood and other liquids leaked between the Mongol’s fingers and there were moans of pain. He let the sword drop, his own weight behind it, adding the force.

A gasp and exhalation. The Mongol’s hands gripped the sword that now stood proud, rooted in the middle of his chest. A shudder ran through the man’s frame and his mouth opened in soundless cry.

Zhou looked down. Puzzled. The room swayed and the shadows grew. Darkness swam in his vision. He could no longer stand and instead, sank down next to the dead man. His back and head rested against the wall. It felt like the most exquisite, most expensive mattress, like falling into feathers or petals, the warmest of baths. He let go of the spirit and the darkness took him.

They made an early start the next morning. Liu was the first up and ready, waiting for them downstairs, already starting in on his small breakfast. Haung, wiping the last of the sleep from his eyes, joined him at the table and waved the waiter over.

By the time Gang staggered down the stairs, the wooden steps creaking as every heavy foot landed, Haung and Liu had finished their food and were sipping at their tea.

“Very entertaining,” Liu said as the large man sat down.

“What is?” Gang grumbled.

“All of your stories,” Liu responded. “The crowd last night really enjoyed hearing about your fight with the bandits.”

“Which one?” Gang placed his breakfast order by the simple expedient of shouting it across the room. The other patrons turned disapproving stares upon the group. Haung waved an apology, but Gang just glared back at them until they turned away.

“All of them,” Liu said. “The one where you beat five on your own, the one where you beat ten on your own and especially the one where you beat fifteen on your own.”

“All true.” Gang picked up the teapot and filled his cup, downing the hot tea in one long swallow before refilling the cup.

“I cannot help but wonder at something.” Liu sipped her own tea.

“What’s that?”

“Why do bandits always attack you in multiples of five? Is it some sort of law or bandit code.”

Gang looked up from his tea, his bleary, bloodshot eyes staring into Liu’s. The tall man just stared back, a small smile upon his clean shaven face.

“You’re too smart for your own good. Do you know that?” Gang said.

“It has been said before,” Liu agreed. “Mostly, if I recall, by you.”

“Funny.”

“Well, now you two have wished each other a good morning, it’s about time we saw to the horses and got moving,” Haung said.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” Gang said. “I’ll eat quickly.”

“In that case, I’ll get out of the way. The last thing I need is to be covered in the food that misses your mouth and splashes everywhere,” Liu said and stood from his seat. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Gang’s food order arrived and true to his word the big man dived right in.

“I’ll tell you what, Gang,” Haung said after a moment of wide-eyed watching. “I’ll meet you outside too.”

Gang mumbled something without looking up from his food. Haung stood and, after having the owner sign the expenses scroll, left the inn.

# # #

“Another inn?” Liu said, casting a sidelong look at Gang who, just like the previous day, was fast asleep in the saddle.

“We made better time than I thought,” Haung said.

From the top of the small hill, they looked down upon the port. The town was bisected by the river that flowed another half-days travel before meeting the sea. Both banks of the river were lined with ships loading and unloading their cargo into the warehouses. Beyond those were the smaller homes of the workers and the further from the river, the larger the homes became. Along the main roads on both sides of the river were the inns, shops and offices of the trading companies. It looked, from his lofty position, like a vibrant town, full of life and overflowing with money.

The reality, Haung knew, would be something quite different. From a distance, civilisation looks clean and desirable. Up close, the shine is dulled by self-interest and tarnished by greed. Down amongst those streets would be the hovels the dock workers truly lived in, the poorest of the poor eking out a living with day to day work. There would be high class inns, frequented by the rich and those whose tastes ran to the exotic. There would be low class inns, watered wine and women using all they had to make a living, if such it could be called. The shops would sell products from faraway lands at highly inflated prices and the poor would be sieving the waste for any trinkets that could be sold at prices way below the market value. Crime would be prevalent at all levels of society, those at the top would get away with it, those at the bottom would pay.

“We can find the harbour master and get the tide times,” Liu said. “Looks like the river is a little low at the moment.”

“You’ve been here before?” Haung asked.

“Not here, no. Been to other towns and ports just like it. Scratch away the gilding and it will be as rotten as every other one,” Liu said, his gaze upon the sprawl below.

“Gang,” Haung shouted causing the large man to startle in his saddle. “We’re going into the port. Try and stay awake.”

“Don’t worry about me, Haung,” Gang mumbled. “I’m with you. Right with you.”

Haung kicked his horse into motion and followed the road down towards the town of Zhigu. There were no walls surrounding this settlement. Probably, Haung surmised, because it was growing too rapidly, noting the low walls of courtyard homes being built on the outskirts. There were guards at the gate, but they could not be bothered to check Haung’s packs or any of his companions’ either. Their focus was purely upon the steady stream of carts and wagons coming and going. A tax collector sat at a wooden desk, the largest of the guards standing behind him, checking the documents of every cart owner and levying taxes.

Liu dismounted and went to speak to one of the guards, nodding at the man’s responses and following the direction of his pointed hands and gestures.

“Helpful fellow,” Liu said as he remounted. “Gave me directions to the harbour master and to an respectable inn.”

“Respectable?” Gang asked.

“That’s true,” Liu replied, looking the large man up and down. “I am not sure they will let you in. We’ll have to claim that you are our cousin from the country and have never seen a town before. That might work, or they might take pity on your obvious slowness of thought. We’ll have to see.”

“There are times,” Gang whispered to Haung, “when I really don’t like him.”

“He does seem to know how to get under your skin,” Haung said.

“Yes, been doing it for years. I’ve yet to win an argument, but I haven’t given up hope,” Gang said, a small smile upon the man’s face.

The streets stayed wide all the way to the dockside. Four channels ran down the stone covered roads. The width between two precisely matching that of a cart’s wheels. Even given that, there was room for Haung’s horse between the two separate sets of channels.

Gang sniffed the air. “They always smell the same. Rotting fish and spices.”

Liu nodded and Haung could give no answer. This was the first time he had seen any docks and the fact that the sea was less than half a day away was a great temptation. What must it be like, to stand on the shore and look to the horizon and see nothing but water? One day, he promised himself.

“The harbour master’s is that way.” Liu pointed and led them through the bustle of the docks, weaving between dock workers, traders, carts and sailors. Everywhere there was someone shouting at someone else and in a myriad of languages.

At the entrance to the harbour masters, they dismounted and tied up their horses. Haung opened the door and stepped into chaos. Men and women, every one of them with a piece of paper in their hands, were rushing around the room. The far wall had a set of square shelves, each with a label, and the paper was going into and out of those at a speed that was hard to follow. Desks and tables crammed the rest of the floor. Sat behind them were those who produced the paper. Above it all, on a balcony overlooking the floor, was the single man who controlled it all.

Haung picked his way across the floor to the stairs. Liu followed and Gang brought up the rear. The workers stopped for the larger man and Haung wondered if they should have sent him up first.

“Honoured guests,” the Harbour master sketched a slight bow in Haung’s direction, “how may I be of service today? As you can see we are very busy at the moment and expect to be all day.”

“Just two short questions and we will be on our way,” Haung said, returning a bow as slight as the one he was given. “We do not wish to delay you any longer than necessary.”

“Ask then.” The harbour master waved a hand in permission, redirecting his gaze to the activity on the floor below.

Haung felt rather than saw Gang take a step forward, and gestured for the large man not to react.

“What time will the tide be high enough to allow new ships to arrive?”

“You bothered me to ask tide times.” The harbour master gave Haung a look of ill-disguised contempt. “You could have asked anyone on the dockside and they would have told you. You’re wasting my time. An hour after dark is the answer. Ask your second question then leave me to my work.”

“Thank you, honoured harbour master,” Haung said, attempting to keep his tone neutral. “Could you tell us if the ship
Cāngyíng dōng máquè
is due in on that tide?”

The harbour master slapped the wooden rail he had been leaning on and gave a grunt of frustration. “Any information on the arrival and departure of ships can be found on the boards below.”

“I know,” Liu said, stepping forward. “However, that ship is not, and should not be listed on the boards. I looked, it wasn’t, so you are safe.”

The harbour master’s eyes narrowed. “If the information is not on the board then the ship is not due to dock here.”

“Yes, it is,” Liu said. “There is an empty space on the docking boards. A busy port like this would not have an empty berth at any time of the year and now, as we approach the winter season, the last of the ships are coming in at a pace. Every berth would be full.”

The harbour master gestured with one hand towards men at the back of the second floor balcony. They started forwards and as they entered the light Haung could see each man carried a weapon, a sword, axe or dagger. “I believe I have told you all I know. It is time for you to leave.”

“Colonel Haung,” Liu said. The harbour master gasped at the title and waved a desperate hand toward his guards. “Show the harbour master the seal and scroll.”

Just like the inn-keeper the day before, the man’s whole demeanour changed upon seeing the seal and information flowed from him like water from a burst dam on the yellow river.