The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (30 page)

“He hasn’t, Zhou,” the Emperor responded. “He has delayed and wounded. If he wanted to stop us being there, a more concerted effort on these paths would have sufficed. Placing the majority of the army up here would have slowed us down enough so when the Emperor appeared, it would just be Yángwū who was present. No, he needs us there.”

“Enough talking,” Jing Ke said. “We need to see this through. The time is close. I can feel it on the air.”

Zhou saw the other three nod and exchange glances.

Jing Ke’s
jian
cut through the neck of the Mongol warrior to Haung’s left. Blood sprayed from the wound and a flap of raw, pink flesh drooped from the dying Mongol’s throat. The immortal
Taiji
continued to move, sliding and stepping through the thick wall of Mongol soldiers that blocked the last gateway to the plateau.

Haung, deep in the quiet, flicked the point of his own sword out, past the guard and into the eye of the soldier who faced him. The man staggered back, a hand clasped to his face, and Haung planted the heel of his boot into the soldier’s sternum. The crack of bone was audible, even over the sound of battle, and the Mongol flew backwards into those behind. Haung stepped forward, into the gap created, slicing left and right, killing two more of the enemy troops.

The others followed behind the two
Taiji
. Without turning, Haung knew they were there. The quiet let him hear and see beyond the battle. Shadows dancing on the walls, breath and whispers, scrapes and footsteps all combined in his subconscious, creating a constantly updating picture of the battle around him. The ebb and flow of the battle, the subtle changes, were clear and without thought he reacted. Another Mongol died, red, blue and purple intestines spilling from the rent in his stomach.

More death, more blood. There was something in the techniques, the skills and physical actions that Haung enjoyed. To be good, better than the rest, was uplifting, but to kill so many was anything but. Visions of Wubei, of dead children hanging from rafters, of mothers weeping and men, fighting to protect their families, dying in their hundreds, continued to intrude upon his mind. They were not distracting, had they been so the quiet would have fled and the image upon which he built it would have shattered. No, they were a reminder of his younger self, a cautionary tale to never revel in the glory of battle.

The number of Mongol soldiers was reduced, but they fought on in the cramped corridor. Haung’s sword slid through ribs, sliced exposed flesh, and none of his attackers came close to harming him. Beside him, Jing Ke was more efficient, more deadly, calm and controlled, no motion wasted, no energy spent without effect. Even as the bodies fell and cluttered the floor, a gust of cold wind fluttered down the corridor clearing the stench of blood and bodily fluids from Haung’s nostrils.

The last soldier dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands raised in supplication. A boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, stared up at Haung, terror filling the soldier’s eyes. The sharp edge of Haung’s
jian
sword halted the width of hair from the skin on the boy’s neck. A twitch of his hand and the sword would take another life. Haung paused, struck by the fear in the young soldier’s eyes, the depth of terror and the palpable sense of loss. A mother’s eyes stared back up at him, up at the bodies of the children hanging from the rafters, and his sword retreated.

Jing Ke’s did not. It punched through the boy’s neck, entering one side and emerging from the other. The boy’s eyes widened in pain and shock, his mouth opened in a scream that would never be heard. The sword withdrew and the light in the boy’s eyes dimmed, darkness filling them. Haung watched the last spark rise to the surface in a desperate lunge for life, only to be swallowed by the tide of emptiness.

Haung stood still, his sword in his hand, gazing at the small body at his feet. In battle, the armour and axe had given the warrior bulk and height. In death, they accentuated the slight frame, the hairless chin and the thin wrists. He sighed, a bitter exhalation.

Beyond the boy, the corridor opened onto the plateau and there, not far from the entrance, stood a lone figure. It raised a hand and beckoned them onwards.

“Don’t kill him,” Biyu said.

“We need the ritual to go ahead,” Sabaa added.

Haung glanced back at the two women, nodded, but did not sheath his sword. He settled for flicking the blood from the blade and, with Jing Ke at his side, started forward. His fellow
Taiji
kept his own sword bared, the boy’s blood dripping from the tip and forming tiny circles of dark, glistening fluid on the stone.

The archway opened out onto the plateau, stunted pine trees provided the border and what Haung had thought first of as boulders, as he came closer, were revealed as eleven stone chairs that surrounded a round table. The first flakes of the winter snow drifted to the ground like cherry blossoms as he stepped out into the cold air.

“Welcome, friends, welcome,” the heavily robed figure called to them. “It is certainly a good night for it.”

Haung gripped the hilt of his sword tight, the desire to leap forward, to run the blade through the robes and the flesh beyond was strong. Behind, the others stepped into the frigid air. The robed figure waved them forward again.

“Biyu,” the figure said in greeting. “It has been many, many years. You haven’t changed.”

“I’ve weathered, Yángwū, but you’ve changed.” The old lady stomped past Haung, who reached out a hand to hold her back. He was almost dragged along in her wake as she shrugged off his grip.

“Life is change,” Yángwū countered.

“Not for the rock,” Biyu said, coming to halt by one of the stone chairs, letting her hand rest upon the short back rest. “It does not change. It endures the ages.”

“Unchanging, unmoving. Progress does not come from the rock.” Yángwū moved around the chairs, choosing one not far from the small, sharp tongued old lady. “I see you have brought others with you. Enough for the ritual, do you think?”

“Well, old man, you finally did it?” the Emperor, Dà Lóng, stepped free of the group and marched towards the stone chairs, the three-section staff folded and held in one hand.

“I bear you no ill will, Apprentice,” Yángwū said. “You followed the laws, such as they are, of our people. If you had let my research continue, there was much the Wu could have done to make the Empire a safer place.”

“You corrupted the mountain and the spirit. There were no choices.” Dà Lóng stepped around the table, his hands brushing the stone chairs and stopped four away from Biyu and only three from Yángwū.

“There are always choices,” Yángwū spat the words, anger imbuing them with spite.

Haung took three quick paces forward, his sword rising and his mind diving into the quiet. The Emperor raised a hand of his own, halting Haung’s movement.

“You took so much from me,” Yángwū said and the anger had gone, replaced with a deep sadness.

“Not me,” Dà Lóng responded. “The heart of the mountain took the link from you.”

“And what of the heart now?” Yángwū’s laugh sounded forced.

“It is protected and safe,” Dà Lóng said. “You cannot destroy it.”

“How did you find my forces, apprentice? Do you understand what I accomplished? All those people with access to the spirit realm. More with a deeper understanding of spirit and more of a chance for new Wu to arise. We are a dying breed. I gave us a chance. If you, if the heart had not taken my link, just imagine what I could have done to bring us back to our glory,” Yángwū said.

“There are new Wu.” The Emperor pointed towards the group and Haung watched as Zhou stepped forward.

“The little cat,” Yángwū said. “I am glad you survived, though your escape was most unexpected. I suspect another was to blame for that. I see you, Xióngmāo. You helped him escape, I know you did. The Mongols reported the tomb was opened. Only you could have done that. It is a strange feeling to know that I sent men to kill you and yet be happy you survived.”

The small woman stepped forward and bowed to the robed figure of Yángwū. “Honoured Grandfather, it is my wish that you do not carry on with your plan. There is still a chance to come back to us, to your family.”

“He is your grandfather?” Zhou’s voice was full of anger. “That man is the reason my wife and child are dead, my city destroyed. Grandfather?”

“A name, an honour, little cub,” Yángwū said, waving the title away and directing his gaze at the Queen of the Mongols and Princess of the Empire. “He has a lot of anger in him. I would have thought that any apprentice of yours would have long since learned to control their emotions.”

“Boqin trained him,” she said, taking two steps forward. “And he has reason to be angry.”

“Do not come too close, little one. The chairs are only for those who carry the immortal spirit. Any others that come too close risk losing their mind or worse.” Yángwū raised his hands and pushed the hood back from his head. The face revealed, stubble covered chin, bald head and dark, cold eyes, smiled for just a moment. “Won’t the others step forward and claim their chairs? Even here, time passes.”

Sabaa, her dark robes swaying in the wind, slid forward. On her cheek, the tattoo was glowing, illuminating the snowflakes that fell upon her and melted. She chose a chair between Biyu and Yángwū.

“No others?” Yángwū questioned. “The Jade Emperor will be disappointed.”

Zhou fought to contain the burning anger that threatened to set his mind on fire. The urge to leap across the intervening land and wrap his hands around the fat man’s neck was strong. Within his mind, the spirit of the panther wanted to do the same, but he held it back, Yángwū’s warning enough for him, at present, to remain in control.

The four immortals, each stood behind their respective chairs, were staring at each other. None had made a move to sit or spoken a word.

“A mere four of us,” Yángwū said. “Actually, five.”

“Five?” the Emperor asked.

“Yes, five. I should curse you for what you did. Destroying my link to the spirit, but I had already found out much and you could not take away my knowledge. I travelled, Dà Lóng, travelled the whole world. There is so much more out there than you could envisage. Lands where snow covers the land for the whole year and people make a life hunting strange animals that breathe the air, but live in the seas. Great forests, more dense than the bamboo forests of your Empire, where the people live amongst creatures so venomous and poisonous that death is an ever present threat, yet they survive. Kingdoms of islands where the people raise great stone statues along the coast to guard their lands and their spirits.”

“And the lands of another empire, where great cities to rival your own have been built and the people dress in long robes of white and their armies march across the lands further west. Should they turn their gaze here, you would be hard pressed to defeat them. Your academics and historians think that they understand the extent of the world, but they do not.”

“I found, in the land of ice and fire to the far north, a barbarian people who dress in fur and leather and worship strange gods. They believe in a great god with only one eye who battles gigantic creatures of ice with a sword of fire. A cruel race, as cruel as their winters. They sacrifice animals and people to their gods by cutting open their chests and pulling back the ribs into great wings. The people celebrate as long as the victim’s heart keeps beating, sometimes till the next dawn. One of the immortals lived there, of the realm of fire. He taught me, during many degrading years of slavery, his magic. In return, I killed him and stole his spirit.”

“I came back to the Empire and travelled the lands. I wanted more magic, more power, knowing that I would need it to fulfil my purpose. In the land of the Mongols, north of your vaunted Wall, I found it. Their magic is something the Empire has always shunned, but even in death there is beauty. I learned to prevent the souls of the dead from leaving this realm. In a few years, I could make them do my bidding, reanimate their bodies, drink blood, eat flesh. An army of dead creatures were mine to command and I found I didn’t need them. The Mongols were happy to invade and once I had taken the spirit of their immortal, they were mine.”

“You should never have refused trade with them. They’re a simple people, brave and fearless, with access to lands and kingdoms beyond the desert and mountains. Trading with them could have made the Empire even richer, but you view them as barbarians, not fit for good company. You feared them for their magic and warlike ways. They hated you for that. They just want to be as rich as you, to have the same things as the Empire, but you turned them away with threats. Yet they are loose in the Empire now, killing and burning, destroying and stealing.”

“They will be defeated,” the Emperor said when Yángwū paused for breath.

“There are six,” Jing Ke stepped forward. Surrounding the
Taiji
was a palpable aura of stillness, calm, of quiet.

“Welcome,” Yángwū said, spreading his arms and bowing. A mocking gesture. “Which realm do you claim?”

Jing Ke moved up to the chairs and placed his hand upon the back of one. There was a moment when Zhou thought the man might sit down, but instead the warrior shook his head and moved round to the right. Like the others, his hand brushed the stone seats as he walked. Passing the chair that Biyu stood behind and that of the Emperor, Jing Ke stopped at the chair almost directly opposite the archway entrance to the plateau.

“This is my chair,” Jing Ke said.

“Well, well, well,” Yángwū said, “and I thought the
Taiji
had withdrawn from all interaction with the world. So few of you left. I had your Shifu under constant watch. You’ve no idea how much it cost to bribe guards and noblemen to report his actions, or lack of. I must assume you are his son, the terrorist and outlaw, the assassin and killer. It is strange company the Emperor keeps these days.”

“He taught me, but I am not his son,” Jing Ke spoke with a bitter tone in his voice, turning his gaze to Xióngmāo.

“I really must get my money back,” Yángwū said. “The information supplied by the families in the Holy City seems woefully incomplete. My congratulations, Little Cub,” he bowed in her direction, “a mother now as well. Does this mean he is, along with being this realm’s immortal, a Prince of the Empire? Quite a family reunion this is turning out to be.”

“Whatever you have planned has failed,” Dà Lóng interrupted the sardonic voice.

“Failed?” Yángwū laughed. “It has not even begun. You have still not mastered the Xiangqi board. I often think that along with being the best student I ever had, you were also the slowest. Boqin would have made a better immortal. Protective and fierce. Not much of a thinker though.”

Zhou took a sharp breath, the cold air rushing into his lungs and out in a cloud of mist. Xióngmāo’s hand wrapped around his wrist and held him back.

“If Boqin was here,” Dà Lóng said, “you would be dead already.”

“At which point the oaths and rites would all come to nothing.” Yángwū shook his head. “You know better don’t you. All that teaching when you were young, the battles you two fought with each other. Not brothers, but closer than siblings by the end. It must have hurt him to banish you from the mountain, much as you banished me.”

“I understand his reasoning,” Dà Lóng said.

“But you didn’t explain it to him did you.” A statement, not a question. “Poor old Boqin, he was always a bear at heart, even before he found his spirit.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Sabaa said.

“Of course not, my dear,” Yángwū said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Forgive us, so much to catch up on. You know how it is when you don’t see family for a while. We are here, six of us, yet there should be ten if the rite is to go ahead properly.”

“Six is enough,” Biyu said.

“It will be a hard thousand years for the Jade Emperor with just the power of six to sustain him. I wonder where the others can be?” Yángwū made a show of looking left and right. “Oh yes, I remember. The dreamer from
Àodàlìyǎ
is still asleep, dreaming of gods in a land of poison and pain. The
Měiguó
met an unfortunate accident some years ago and his successor sadly could not join us. I believe the chains that bind him to the rock have sadly refused to break. It is just the six of us.”

“
Step forward.”

The voice in his head pulsed green. Zhou looked around, echoing Yángwū’s gesture of a moment ago.

“
Go to my chair,”
the green voice said.

“How?” Zhou spoke aloud, drawing the attention of the others.

“Zhou?” Xióngmāo said from his side and Haung turned a quizzical glance upon him.

“
Hold the staff tight in your hands and walk forward.
”

“I will be killed.”

“
I will protect your body and spirit,
” the voice spoke calmly and in a reassuring tone. “
Walk forward, Zhou. I have looked after you so far. Trust me now.
”

“Zhou, stop.”

A hand grabbed at his shoulder as he stepped forward. He shrugged it off and held his spirit close, the blue thread pulsing strong in his mind. Wrapped around the blue flame, twisting and turning, entwining and shielding it was a sheath of crystalline green.

“Zhou,” Haung shouted and his hand gripped Zhou’s upper arm.

The
Wu
looked down at the hand and then up, into Haung’s concerned eyes. “Let me go, Colonel. I know what I am doing.”

The hand fell away, but the look in Haung’s eyes spoke of uncertainty and worry. Zhou lifted the staff in both hands and gave the
Taiji
a tight smile.

A few steps and he was at the stone chairs, the eye of every immortal upon him. The weight of their gaze almost brought him to halt. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and stepped up to the chair.

“
Not this one. Move around.
”

He followed the path the others had taken, passing Sabaa and Biyu. He stopped at the next chair and reached the staff out towards the stone.

“
No. Not this one.
”

Zhou took another step until he was at the chair next to the Dà Lóng, the Emperor. He held the staff out towards the chair and felt it twitch in his hands as if it was suddenly alive.

“
This one,
” the voice said, a sense of joy washed through his mind. “
Plant the staff into the soil at the base of the chair and move away.
”

Zhou lifted the staff high, taking a two handed grip at the top and brought it down with all his spirit-enhanced strength. The wooden staff sank into the earth and Zhou’s weight drove it further.

A wave of green swept out from the half-buried staff and Zhou backed away, his eyes never leaving the weapon that he had carried for over a year, the one that had assisted him against the Duke of Yaart.

A second wave erupted from the staff and this time a bright shower of sparks rose into the air, tracing lasting arcs of green in the snow laden sky. Shadows danced across the plateau as the green fountain grew taller and taller.

Zhou took another step back, lifting his hand and shielding his eyes. Around the table the others did similar. The staff swelled and grew wider, spewing forth more green sparks that were, if anything, even brighter than the last. The sparks flowered into flames and the light they trailed became solid and permanent. Verdant lines that spread and branched out, becoming smaller and more numerous as they did so. At the tips, they became rounded and buds formed, the petals parting and seeds spiralling to the floor where they melted the fresh fallen snow and sprouted.

The tree continued to grow, clearing the snow from around its base, but the light dimmed and settled to a subtle glow that emanated from the trunk, branches, leaves and buds. It was at least twice Zhou’s height and the trunk wider than his arms could encompass.

“Zhou,” Xióngmāo called to him, “back away.”

He complied. An unconscious act his body took to preserve his safety. His mind was awash with a flood of green. It poured down the link to the spirit realm and fed the tree that continued to grow, more slowly now as the leaves turned towards the sky, seeking the sun.

All thought was scattered by the sea of green that swamped his awareness. He fought towards the surface, trying to gain control, to make sense of the changes, to have a coherent thought. Each time he surfaced, the green dragged him back under. Zhou grasped and paddled, clawed at the green with the fingers of his mind, pulled and dragged himself upwards towards sensibility and the world beyond.

He was aware of the figures around him. The immortals. Their spirits pulsing in the cacophony of light he glimpsed whenever he broke above the waves of green. Blue for the Emperor, bright and vibrant, beating in time with his racing heart. Grey for Biyu, a slow oscillation as if the seconds held no meaning and days were the blink of an eye. A purple light that swirled in gusts, blowing the flakes of snow in spirals around the form of Sabaa. The figure of Yángwū was wreathed in fiery red that flickered up from the ground around his feet, yet between the flames the steady emptiness of white shone through.

Between one breath and the next he saw the stone chairs behind which they stood all carried a glow of the same colour as the figure. Those chairs without an owner still glowed. Little feelers, vines, of colour reached out from them. Bright, eye-searing pink from one. Deep, unfathomable black from another. The chair next to the Emperor gave forth a rainbow of colours. The last empty chair, the other side of the multi-hued chair was dark. Not black, Zhou noticed as he began to sink once more. It was more an absence of colour. Had it not been for the other colours suffusing the chairs the absence of light from that one would have remained unseen.

The green swathe rose above his head, but this time he felt something steady him, take hold and lift him.

“
Breathe and calm,
” the voice said. “
Steady and centre. Take hold of your spirit and let it guide you.
”

He reached for the blue thread and took a firm grasp, letting the spirit fill him once more. The world steadied, the lights remained, muted and dull compared to a moment before, and the ground under his feet was firm once more.

Between him and the chairs a great tree rose from the earth and spread its branches over the table in the centre.

“Zhou,” Xióngmāo called.