The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (31 page)

He glanced over at her, smiled and took step towards the tree, raising a hand to feel the bark. A small hand reached out of the tree itself, grasped his and pulled. Zhou startled, planted his feet and held steady.

A young girl, dressed in a flowing robe of green chased with brown and yellow, stepped from the tree and smiled up at him. He guessed her age at around seven or eight. Long, straight dark hair framed a face of smooth olive skin and eyes of a deep dark brown, flecked with brighter tones of green reminding him of the most expensive polished wood. Zhou found himself returning her smile.

“Hello, Zhou,” the girl said in a high, clear voice.

He let go of her hand and bowed, an instinctive gesture. “I am honoured to meet you.”

“You don’t recognise me?” she said and her smile grew broader. “Perhaps in this form?”

The small girl shone with a bright green and the scent of spring rose around her, the smell deepening to a warm summer’s evening as she grew in height. He took a step backward.

When the light dimmed, the waitress and owner of the inn, the woman who had given him the staff, stood in front of him.

“Lady Shù,” Yángwū called, “I was not sure you would be able to make it.”

The woman, Shù, put her hand on Zhou’s shoulder. “Thank you for carrying me all this time and for planting my seed in the realm of the spirit.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” Zhou returned and bowed once again.

Shù nodded and walked around her tree to rest her hand upon the back of the chair that shone with the green light.

“Yángwū,” she said, “I’ve had many seasons to curse your name and the city you had built around my tree. A prison of people and buildings, but I am here now and there will be a reckoning between us, Old Crow.”

“You seem to have a way of making friends,” Jing Ke said, focusing his gaze upon the older man. “I’ve only just met you and already I feel the urge to drive a sword through your ribs.”

“An outlaw, a rebel, an assassin? Jing Ke, your reputation precedes your dark deeds by only a moment. I would think that you were the least able to judge me.” Yángwū spat out his anger alongside the words.

“More an agent than an outlaw,” the Emperor said. “Running an Empire is not all black and white, good and bad. There are times when work must be done in the grey of dusk.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yángwū said. “There are still too few. My plans do not change.”

From the far end of the plateau a great gust picked up the snow and flung it at them like freezing cold arrows. Zhou turned away, protecting his face, feeling the snow strike his back and melt into his robe. Either side, the small pines bowed away from the wind, rustling and creaking even as the wind screamed.

The wind cut through Haung’s leathers, chilling him and raising goose bumps along his arms. He shivered, kept his eyes screwed shut and turned away, back towards the archway that was the entrance to the plateau. Next to him, Xióngmāo did the same, her hair whipping about her face as she ducked into a crouch.

As quickly as the wind had come, it died. Snowflakes curved and danced the last of their flurries, falling back to the earth. The world was quiet. Still and calm. There were no voices, no sounds, not even the beat of his heart or the whisper of breath leaving his lungs. More than silence. Deeper and older. A quiet from the beginning of time that welled up and drowned out every sound on earth.

Haung offered a hand to Xióngmāo, helping her up, and looked around. The stone table was unchanged and the immortals stood by their chairs. The great tree providing shelter for those there. Its branches, full of leaves, spread out across the table and chairs. At its base and next to the seat, a beautiful young woman in a green robe. Just before the wind had picked up he had seen her talking to Zhou, but he did not know who she was.

Another figure had joined them at the table. A tall man stood directly opposite the archway, his long finger-nailed hand rested atop the chair. There was something sad about the manner in which the tall man gazed at the empty chairs either side of him.

The lady who had stepped from the tree spoke to Zhou for a moment and the ragged looking
Wu
nodded before returning to stand at Xióngmāo’s side.

“Who is she?” He heard Xióngmāo ask.

“I am not entirely sure,” Zhou admitted. “I met her once, before I met you in the camp in front of Yaart’s walls. She owned an inn in a small town. Rather, she controlled the inn.”

Haung watched the confusion play itself out in Zhou’s eyes and across his face. The
Wu
raised his palms and shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you mean?” Xióngmāo said.

“It is hard to explain.” Zhou opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for the right words.

“Clearly,” Haung said, a small smile and a low chuckle. An attempt to lighten the mood a little.

The older man looked at him, half a smile racing across his face before the seriousness returned to his eyes.

“The inn was her, I think. It was a tree once, but she changed it into an inn. She is the tree and the inn. There was a whole system of roots and tunnels beneath the inn that she could control and shape.”

“Whatever she is, she is an immortal,” Haung said.

“Of life,” Xióngmāo said. “She is the tree of life. The source of every living thing. Her realm provides the energy that fuels physical life and the spirit, the realm of the
Wu
, gives it purpose.”

“You know them all?” Zhou asked.

“I know of them,” she answered. “I studied the realms when my father was on the mountain. Yángwū and he taught me much, but there is a lot I do not know.  My father represents the Spirit and next to him the Lady of the Tree is Life. The empty chair would have been filled by the immortal for the realm of death, but it seems Yángwū has taken that soul for his own. Biyu is Rock, but we knew that, and Sabaa represents the realm of Air. The empty seat next to her would have been for the realm of Water and then we have Yángwū, the Fire realm. Next to him, the Realm of Pain, for all existence must suffer and the separation of the world from the universe was a painful birth.”

“The other empty chair?” Haung prompted when she fell silent.

“The void, the gap between.”

“Where is the immortal for that realm?” Zhou asked as the immortals and the tall man took their seats.

“There isn’t one. There may have been thousands of years ago, but they stopped listening to the others and to the realm from where they drew their power. So sure they had it right, they ignored the advice and the cautions. Always be wary of someone who knows they are right.”

“The other one?” Haung nodded towards the tall man who, even sat down, towered over the others around the table.

“The Jade Emperor,” she said.

The group of three fell silent as the Jade Emperor began to speak. The accent was strange and the dialect, though the tongue of the Empire, was archaic. However, the man’s voice was deep, resonant and carried the weight of great age upon it.

“We stand, once again, as the guardians upon the spot where the war was ended. We seek to keep this world for the people, to allow life to grow and flourish.” The Jade Emperor spread his hands on the stone table, the fingernails clacking and scraping its smooth surface. “It is sad to see three of our number not here. I had hopes that this time, someone would have arisen to claim the soul of the space between. Alas, it seems this is still beyond their abilities. But of the others, who here knows why they have not arrived?”

“My Lord,” Dà Lóng spoke into the silence that followed, “we are informed by one of our number that they are unable to meet here this night.”

The Jade Emperor’s hands curled into fists and shudder ran through his frame. Haung took a step forward, but the hands of Xióngmāo and Zhou stopped him going any further. The immortals sat around the table all cast disturbed looks towards the Jade Emperor. Only Yángwū, Haung noted, did not. Instead, a small smile could be seen on his face.

“And why is it that you carry two souls?” The Jade Emperor twisted in his seat to face Yángwū.

Old, Haung thought, and tired. The tall man had not turned smoothly in his seat. Haung could see wrinkles around the Jade Emperor’s eyes, a lack of focus in the man’s gaze, and hair that he had first thought was a light brown or blond, like some of the traders who had visited Yaart when he was young, he now saw was grey.

“Do you need the energy, my Lord?” Yángwū said, no trace of fear and only the facade of respect in his address. “Let us begin the rite and we can learn of our absent friends later. I carry two souls and have brought them here to give the energy freely.”

Haung watched the figures who sat around the table. They were all focused upon the Jade Emperor who was sagging further in his seat as every moment passed. Even Biyu, her own face lined with age, appeared concerned.

“My Lord,” Sabaa said, “we should take care in this.”

“There is no time,” the Jade Emperor said, his voice softer than before. “Already I can feel the universe waking and, even half-asleep, its grip is tightening. Begin the rite.”

“My lord,” Yángwū said and the others nodded, though Dà Lóng’s face wore a troubled frown.

The wind that had, a short time ago, blown across the plateau, returned, but this time it was as if the mountain was drawing in a breath. The wind came from all directions and flowed towards the group sat at the stone table. Snow, whipped up from the ground, swirled around the immortals creating a circling wall of white. Even far from the locus of the gale, Haung was pelted with the cold, wet snow. His leather armour took the brunt of it, though the freezing wind still found its way in and chilled his skin.

When the wind died, he looked towards the table. In the centre a vortex, a tornado of snow rose from the stone, up towards the heavens above. The immortals had placed their hands flat upon the table and were staring at the rising pillar of snow laden air.

From Yángwū’s hands a red ribbon, appearing frayed at the edges by the dancing flames, snaked across the table and joined the column of air. As it reached the base of the snow tornado, the ribbon was torn to shreds and the sparks flew upwards, dancing amongst the snow adding an orange glow to the swirling pillar.

Violet gusts flew from Sabaa’s fingertips to join with the vortex of air. Its colour changed once more.

Next to her, the old rock priest, Biyu, drew forth mountains from the table’s surface. They grew to jagged peaks and sailed across the stone like the fins of hunting sharks. The twisting air ripped the mountains apart, millions of years of erosion and weathering occurring in a heartbeat.

A maze of bright green vines spread from Shù’s hands and wended their way across the stone surface of the table. Along their path, small shoots sprouted upwards into perfect, tiny flowers that bent towards the centre of the table. Unlike the other gifts of power, the vines were not ripped, torn or taken apart by the wind. Instead they grew upwards, around the vortex, steadying it and giving a solid shape to its form. They spiralled about the tornado as they grew upwards. A green sheath around swirls of red, violet, and grey.

Dà Lóng leaned forward in his seat, pressing his hands down upon the table and then arched his back, mouth opening in a loud roar that echoed across the plateau. From his hands, a herd of animals, each small and perfectly formed, poured forth and raced across the table. Above them, commanding them all, flew a dragon. Its wings flapped in time with the sound of the hooves, paws and claws that thumped, whispered and clacked over the stone. They joined with the rising column of snow and power, entering through gaps created by parting vines.

Haung felt a tug on his chest. A tiny itch, a bump and a pull at something deep inside of him. The temptation to step forward and place his own hands upon the table was strong. It spoke to him and promised unbridled power, the power to keep his family safe, to change the world, to do anything he desired. Step forward and lower his hands to the table’s surface was all it asked in return. He took a step.

“Haung,” Xióngmāo warned.

A hand gripped his arm, pulling him back and, glancing at the small woman’s face, he saw the same battle being waged behind her eyes.

“The desire is strong,” she said. “But the promise empty. You will not gain power, but sacrifice it and your life.”

He nodded and looked at Zhou. Tears ran down the man’s face and the look of tortured grief in the
Wu’s
eyes was heart-breaking. What was being promised to him that he could desire so much and yet resist?

On the table, Jing Ke’s hands twitched, yet no flow of power came forth, rather there was the sense, to Haung, that an essence of the power was being drawn to him and he was containing it within his body. Haung saw the
Taiji
reach out a hand towards the Emperor.

“No!”

Zhou screamed out the word as Yángwū rose from his chair. Every eye was upon Jing Ke’s hand as it reached towards the Jade Emperor. Only Zhou saw the old, balding, fat man draw a blade from under his robe and take the single needed step to drive it deep into Sabaa’s chest.

The tattooed woman was pressed back into her seat by the force of the blow, her mouth open in a silent scream. Zhou saw, through the eyes of the spirit, the spark of life within her stutter and begin to fade. Yángwū, keeping hold of the blade in the woman’s chest took another step and stabbed a second knife into Biyu’s body.

The old lady sagged in her chair and the line of marching mountains faltered, crumbling before they reached the green column and turning to dust which was blown away on the wind.

Zhou leapt, ignoring the pull of the stitches in his shoulder. The power of the cat driving him up and across the distance separating him from his prey. At the peak of his leap he crossed an unseen barrier, a wave of pain washed over him, threatening to bring him crashing to the ground, but his speed carried him through. From the corner of his eye, he saw the uninjured immortals begin to rise from their seats as the truth of the attack began to dawn. Only the Jade Emperor remained seated, looking older with every passing moment.

A flash of silver in his peripheral vision, half imagined, half perceived, and Xióngmāo’s long drawn out call reached his ears as he landed a few steps from Yángwū. Zhou stretched out with hands bent into claws, the desire to rip out the old crow’s throat flowing strong in his blood.

The bald man caught his gaze, a startled look upon his face and hint of fear in his eyes. Yángwū let go of the daggers embedded in the chests of the women and threw forward his right hand. A spear of fire crackled towards Zhou, who dropped beneath it, rolling once and coming to his feet. Now close enough, Zhou leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Yángwū’s throat, squeezing with all the power of the spirit.

The flash of silver returned, lengthening into the sharp edged blade of a
Jian
sword. The point pierced Yángwū’s chest, sliding through the robe and into the flesh beneath. Yángwū smiled and spoke despite the hands choking off his supply of air and the full length of Haung’s sword through his chest.

“You think to kill me,” Yángwū whispered.

“Yes,” Zhou growled, bearing down with all his strength upon the man’s neck.

“I have the power of four immortals flowing through my veins,” the old crow said, raising one hand to grip Zhou arms whilst the other went to the blade embedded in his chest. “I will be the Jade Emperor. There is no one who can stop me.”

Without seeming effort Zhou’s hand was prised away from Yángwū’s neck, the man’s smile never faltering. The flesh around Yángwū’s fingers started to feel cold and turn white. The chill spread down his arm towards his chest. His heart fluttered, stuttered and missed a beat. Zhou threw his head back and screamed, a mix of pain and rage.

Beside him, Haung did the same.

“They cannot help you,” Yángwū said. “All their power is focused on keeping the Jade Emperor alive. They know they have lost. Once you two are dead, they are next and there is nothing anyone can do.”

“You’re wrong.”

Zhou heard Xióngmāo’s shout and felt the passage of her spirit between him and Haung. A dart of blue that slammed into Yángwū, forcing him back a step.

At the same moment, Zhou felt a new strength flood into his body, steadying his heart and fuelling his rage. Xióngmāo was pouring her own spirit into his, the two of them fighting the chill of Yángwū’s death magic.

Another presence encroached on Zhou’s consciousness. One that had contained its anger and its fear. One that was still, like a the surface of deep pool, quiet like the air in a dark cave. It was the quiet and he let it shield him. The pain receded and focus returned.

“We can stop you,” Zhou shouted, reaching out with the combined power and spirits of Xióngmāo, Haung and his own. Driving it into the blue spark, shot through with violet, grey, white and red, that marked the centre of Yángwū’s life.

He fell, dragging the other two with him, into the immortal spirits the old crow had stolen.