The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (16 page)

The light faded and the sound of stone grinding on stone echoed in the entrance hallway. He blinked the tears from his eyes and stared as the door parted in the centre and swung open. Beyond the doors, darkness.

“The doors haven’t been tended for a long time,” Xióngmāo said, shaking her head. “I’ll see to that before we leave.”

“The key, you have kept it all these centuries? Is it magical?”

“I take my responsibilities seriously, Zhou. You should know that by now,” she said and took a step into the darkness.

“But you killed him?” And he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Given the chance to snatch them out of the air, he would have done without a second’s hesitation.

She stopped, one foot in the tomb of her dead husband and one outside. “Responsibility can be a heavy burden. I came here to find out about the man and to assess the threat to the Empire, such as it was then. I was faced with a decision and I made one, Zhou. I cannot regret that, though I may regret his death. Had he lived, the Mongols would have ravaged the Empire. They would have torn down the cities and the culture I was tasked to protect. It was not easy, but I cannot change that decision nor would I wish to. He was a great man, with dreams larger than the world. Who knows, in the end, life for everyone might have been better if he had lived and succeeded, but we do not live in a world of ‘what ifs’, do we? Life must go on, Zhou. You above all people must learn that.”

He saw her unknot the leather strap and place the stone in a slot on the left hand wall. The ceiling began to glow with a white light.

“You did well, Haung,” the Emperor said from his seat on the throne.

“Thank you, my lord.” Haung paused, took a deep breath and then continued, “I must report, however, that we lost the Wall to the enemy.”

“I know. I sent you there as an observer, not a general and yet you became one. You held on to the Wall for as long as you could and retreated when you should. You saved a lot of lives in the process.”

“But now the Mongols have access to the whole of the Empire. The flooded pass will not stop them, my lord. I have looked at the maps.”

“There are those here,” the Emperor stood from his throne and looked down upon the gathered generals and administrators, “who, no doubt, think they could have carried the day.” The Emperor’s raised hand cut short any comments. “However, the incredibly reliable evidence and information I have, from a source I would trust above all others, suggests that the battle was lost before you assumed command. Indeed, the traitorous actions of the
Fang-shi,
which prevented the use of the magical defences, defences built into the Wall especially for such situations as you faced, created a situation where holding the Wall was all but impossible. Again, my information on this is beyond question. The
Fang-shi
,” he waved a hand towards the table of seated magicians, “have conducted their own investigations and their findings tally with mine. There is no fault to fall on one man’s shoulders, Colonel Haung. You did what you could and the defence of the city that held back and diverted the invading army has bought us some more days to prepare. For that, we are in your debt.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Haung began, avoiding the topic of the source of the Emperor’s information. He had his suspicions, but if the Emperor wanted to tell him, or anyone, he would. It was not Haung’s place to divulge secrets or suppositions. “However, the bulk of the victory on the city walls must go to my second-in-command, Gongliang. It was his actions and plans that led to the flooding of the valley. He is the hero of Liulimiao.”

“You are generous to say so, Colonel. There are many in the ranks who would claim that victory for their own and ignore the contributions of others.” The Emperor stepped down from the raised dais on to the same floor upon which Haung stood. “I am given to understand that Gongliang died in defence of the city?”

Haung nodded, not trusting himself a spoken word.

“Then his honour must fall upon his family. I decree that the family shall receive three times the pension due to Gongliang and that payment shall begin immediately. Further, the family of Gongliang shall be raised amongst the nobility of the realm and his children shall carry that rank in perpetuity. All academy fees are to be waived and, once the current conflict is over, a statue shall be raised in the city of Liulimiao to honour his sacrifice and his saving of the city.”

There was silence amongst the assembled generals, magicians, administrators and servants.

“Thank you, my lord.” Haung bowed his head low to the floor. “I will tell his widow this evening.”

“And you must see your own wife and child, Colonel Haung. They will have missed you and be glad you are alive,” the Emperor said.

“I will, my lord.”

“Haung,” the Emperor said, closing the distance between them and lowering his voice, “I understand that you have someone amongst your ranks, one whose name appears on the list, a man called ‘Enlai’?”

“Yes, my lord,” Haung nodded. “He was exceedingly helpful in the defence of the Wall and city.”

“I am sure he was,” the Emperor’s voice was now barely above a whisper, “take care with him.”

“He is a
Taiji
, my lord. One more trained and practiced than I. I wish to introduce him to Shifu tonight,” Haung said.

“That will be an interesting meeting, Haung. I think you have little to worry about, and nothing to fear from this ‘Enlai’, but I would counsel caution. He has not always been the most... stable... of people, though his skills are, I understand, much in demand across the Empire.” The Emperor smiled, an enigmatic smile that was at once reassuring and cautious. “Enjoy the time you spend with your wife and child. I expect you back here tomorrow morning to receive new orders.”

“Yes, my lord.” Haung bowed low as the Emperor swept away.

# # #

The gate swung open and the familiar screen of the
siheyuan
, the courtyard house where his Shifu lived, confronted him. Haung smiled at the sight, one that normally meant he would soon be putting his body through all sorts of punishment, but today he was here for a different reason.

“Are you coming?” Haung said.

“This is not a good idea,” Enlai replied.

The
Taiji’s
mood had not improved since the he had come to the capital. If anything it had worsened. The army general that had relieved Haung of his command, by the simple fact that Haung was only a Colonel to his General, had brought orders from the Emperor. It had felt strange, a kind of sadness mixed with disappointment, to no longer be in charge of his army, to no longer be responsible for his men, but it was also a relief. Opening the scroll, in the general’s presence, had been a requirement of the handover and reading the instructions within had not come as complete surprise. Haung had been ordered back to the capital and to bring the walking wounded with him. He was also told to bring Gang and Liu, and to ask, not instruct, not order, but to ask Enlai to accompany them.

The conversation had been difficult for reasons Haung could not fathom. Enlai had resisted at first, preferring to head off into the countryside and reclaim his former life. What that former life actually was, Haung could not discover. The information he did have made little sense. In the end, after a lot a cajoling Enlai had agreed to come to the capital, but had added the proviso that as soon as he had seen the Emperor he was leaving.

“Why do you want me to meet your wife?” Enlai asked.

“You can tell her of my bravery and strongly hint that I kept out of all the really dangerous situations, just like she told me to.” Haung tried a smile. Enlai did not return it.

“Gang or Liu would have been better for this.”

“Gang would have told them I had dived into every fight, putting myself at risk all the time. Then he would have eaten all the food, drank all the alcohol and fallen asleep. Liu seems a little, I don’t know, reserved. I am not sure he would put things quite as they need to be.”

“You think your wife does not know what you are like?” Enali said, raising an questioning eyebrow.

“She warned me.” Haung raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Also, you have no place to stay. We can put you up in our home.”

“I could find a place to rest the night. I do not intend to stay in the capital.”

“The Emperor is seeing you tomorrow,” Haung said.

“And then I will be gone.” Enlai looked down the street. A small crowd of people moved back and forth. No one paid them any attention.

“Stay with us the night. It is the least we can do for all your help. My wife and son will be happy to meet you.”

“One night, then I am gone.”

“I promise, one night.” Haung waved the man forward.

They stepped around the screen and into the outer courtyard. The stone floor, a simple design of dark stones forming a cross with lighter stones in the four corners, was worn smooth by feet and meticulously clean. Surrounding the courtyard were the high peaked, tiled roofed rooms for guests and family members. These rooms, Haung, knew were unoccupied. Opposite the screen a long building divided the outer from the private inner courtyard. The doors were closed, but the sounds of activity from the hidden courtyard climbed over the roof and down into Haung’s ears. They were the sounds of fighting, the clash of metal on metal, the muffled cries of effort.

Haung reacted before Enlai, drawing his sword and settling into the quiet as he raced towards the doors. The sound of footsteps behind were evidence enough that Enlai was following. He slammed through the doors, leapt the ceremonial meeting table in the centre of the room before crashing through the screen doors on the other side and out into the inner courtyard.

His sword raised before him, he took in the scene. In the quiet of his mind, all the world seemed slow. This courtyard was set out similar to the first except here the corners were ponds and plants. The centre of the courtyard was the site of the battle. Haung readied himself to leap into the fray, concern for his wife and child pounding through his frame. The two combatants in the courtyard broke off and turned to stare at him.

“Did you leave the doors on the hinges?” Shifu asked him.

Haung lowered his sword and looked in confusion from his teacher to the other fighter, Jiao.

“What?” he stuttered, the quiet fleeing.

Enlai landed next to him, sword similarly drawn. “Fuck.”

And now it was the turn of Jiao and Shifu to look confused. Silence reigned for a second.

“Who?” Jiao said.

“You,” Shifu shouted.

The old man swept back into a fighting stance. All anger and emotion left the man’s face as he settled into his own quiet.

“You didn’t warn me,” Enlai said.

Haung tore his gaze away from his wife’s confusion and looked between the two men, both
Taiji
and both seemingly ready to fight.

“Stop,” he shouted rushing down the steps to put himself between the two men. “Wait.”

“Step aside, Haung,” Shifu’s voice was devoid of all emotion. There was no inflection, no hints of anger, rage, sadness or even humanity. His teacher, Haung knew, had slipped further into the quiet than he had ever seen.

“Haung,” Enlai’s voice echoed that of Shifu, “this is not your fight. Step aside, and look after your wife.”

The mysterious Enlai stepped down from the raised walkway onto the stones, his eyes never leaving Shifu’s. Haung was caught in the middle, but neither man was looking at him. They were each totally focused on the other.

“Haung, do as he says. This does not concern you,” Shifu said.

“Haung,” Jiao called, there was fear in her voice.

He looked away from the two men towards his wife. The fear he had heard was mirrored in her eyes and he could see the fear was for him. He was caught. The desire to protect Shifu and Enlai, the loyalty to both warring within him, but overriding it all was the necessity of protecting his wife and child.

Keeping hold of the quiet, and his sword drawn, he stepped out of their paths and over to his wife, placing his body between her and the two
Taiji
.

Zhou stepped into the now lit corridor. On his left, the place where Xióngmāo had put her stone was an alcove and in that a statue. It was life size, taller than Zhou, and painted to look alive. The skin was a deep tan colour, the clothes coloured and textured to look like fur and wool. The eyes of the statue were an emerald green, not the dark of the majority of Mongol warriors he had fought and killed on the Wall, and the hair was painted a striking red. In its right hand it held a long curved Mongol sword, but in the left hand was not the shield, bow or reins he had expected. Instead, the statue held a bowl in the palm of a hand that was missing two and a half of its fingers.

He moved closer and peered at the hand and bowl. The fingers had never been carved for the statue, he guessed, the stone was smooth, not broken. The bowl held six white stones. Each was a slightly different size, but each conformed to the same general shape.

“Finger bones,” Xióngmāo said. “The Mongols tie their magic to the realm of death. When a leader dies, each of his wives receive a bone from his finger, a symbol that they both have a hold on each other, even past death. The magicians for this tomb, and a few others I suspect, made the finger bone the key. It will only work for me.”

“Why are there six others in here?”

“The other wives,” she explained. “They have their tombs here too. There is one set aside for me.”

“That’s just...” Zhou could not find the words to finish.

“When they are of an age, when they feel the time is near, they would have come here and opened the tomb. Their children would have brought them and looked after them. At sunset on the day they died, the tomb would have sealed itself. The magic of the bones and the link would pass over to the realm of death.”

He paused for a moment, trying to find the words for the question he wanted to ask. Memories of his own wife, his child and his home clear in his thoughts.

“Do you, did you, have children with him?”

“That would have been foolish, Zhou.” There was a catch of sadness, or disappointment, he could not tell which, in her voice.

“What if the Mongols take the bones out of the bowl, would the door close?” He asked, attempting to change the track of the conversation away from things he desperately wanted and yet did not want to know.

“Try it,” she answered.

Zhou stretched out a hand towards the bowl only to find a barrier that prevented his hands from touching it. He tried to touch other parts of the statue, but found the same result. It was impossible for his hands to come into contact with it.

“The door will only close if I die or remove my key,” she said. “Come on, we need to prepare. They will not want to rush in here, but their orders will eventually force them to, or we will have to entice them in.”

“How?”

“By killing a few of them outside is probably the best answer,” she said.

They moved deeper into the tomb. The long corridor led to a single door. Along the walls were more carvings. At the entrance, just past the statue, the friezes showed star-lit skies, Mongol tents and camps, people sat around fires and horses at rest. As Zhou walked further down, the images changed and now people were cooking meals and setting up their tents. Next were carvings showing a Mongol tribe riding the steppes, nothing war-like or aggressive in them, an ordinary day in the Mongol way of life. Next to the single door the relief showed the rising sun and Mongols preparing for the day ahead.

“We could fight them outside,” Zhou said. “You don’t have to go in there.”

“Zhou, I have spent centuries looking after this tomb, though I have been back much less in the past two than I would have preferred. There is nothing in here that frightens me or upsets me anymore. It is a reminder of a past life, one I have come to terms with. I carry the responsibilities of it still and the memories, but I am not haunted by it.” Xióngmāo pushed open the simple wooden door and stepped forward without hesitation.

A heartbeat later, he did the same and entered a larger circular room that must have been hewn from the rock by hand, the walls were covered by hanging tapestries and rugs. In the centre of the rug covered floor was a stove. It was set to be lit at any time. The small door was open, a pile of logs close by, and layer of charcoal already lain inside. A pot, ready for cooking, rested on top of the round stove. Between the stove and rug covered walls was an impressive selection of colourful furniture. A long chair, wide enough for two or three to sit comfortably, a chest of drawers inlaid with yellows and blues, a few stools made of highly polished wood, and a deep chest with a bronze clasp decorated in geometric swirls of bright blue.

“He would meet his generals and subjects in a place like this. The furniture comes from his tent. They recreated it here,” Xióngmāo said.

“What is through there?” Zhou pointed to another wooden door opposite the one they had entered through.

“The tomb itself,” Xióngmāo made no move towards the door. “He is buried in there, as are my sisters.”

“Sisters?”

“The other wives,” she said. “We lived close enough to each other consider ourselves sisters. We fought, back-stabbed and were nasty to each other at times, and at other times could not be prised apart. We were a family, all at once immensely loyal and hating each other with the passion you can only feel for someone you truly love.”

“And you want to fight in here?” He let his tone carry the surprise he felt.

“Not particularly, but I can see few other options. We have to stop them and this provides a defensible position. They will not set a fire or try to damage this sacred site. That gives us the advantage. They will be surprised that the tomb is open, fearing tomb robbers, I hope. I have responsibilities, Zhou, to my past and my future.” Xióngmāo pointed to the chest. “In there you will find weapons and armour, if you want to use it.”

Zhou looked at the chest. Armour was a temptation, anything to stop an arrow or sword blade. It would make him feel safer and protected, but it was her husband’s. It would feel wrong, like grave robbing, wearing a dead man’s clothes.

“I have enough,” Zhou said.

She turned her eyes upon him and gave him a measuring. “I understand.”

A shout rang down the hallway, bouncing and echoing from wall to wall.

“They’re here,” she said, before calling back in the Mongol language.

Zhou did not understand a word that was said and his puzzled look caused Xióngmāo to pause and translate.

“They are telling us to come out. We have desecrated a sacred tomb. Technically, I haven’t, but they will have a hard time believing that, even if I wanted to explain it to them. I’ve told them to come in and make us,” she said.

“What will they do?”

“Probably talk about it for a while then make some more threats.”

“Can you make those lights go out?” he asked and she shook her head. “And if we try to run up that corridor they will just use their bows and we’ll be dead.”

“You could make it,” she said. “Remember your spirit is a hunter, fast and stealthy.”

“There is not a lot of room to dodge arrows along that corridor,” he said.

“You don’t need a lot,” she replied. “Trust in your spirit. There is still so much you have to learn and once you do, you’ll be amazed by what you are capable of.”

Another shout came from the doorway at the end. Xióngmāo listened and spat back a reply.

“Seems they want to wait us out. They know a larger group is behind them and they think they can keep us in here for another day. They’re right, unless we draw them in.”

Zhou stared at her for a moment, words and plans tumbling around his head and all coming to nothing. “Is there another way out?”

“No.”

Zhou peered around the door, looking back up the corridor towards the dark square that marked the entrance. The white glow illuminated the corridor, but also prevented him from making out much beyond the light. There was a solid thunk and an arrow quivered in the wooden frame no more than a hand’s breadth from his head. He ducked back.

“They have us pinned in here,” he stated.

“Yes,” she said.

“I am not running up that corridor, no matter what you say.” Zhou shook his head. “They are too good with those bows. That arrow only just missed.”

“We need to bring them to us,” she said and moved.

Zhou watched, too surprised to react as she stepped out into the corridor in full view of the Mongols. The arrows came immediately and Xióngmāo clasped her shoulder, spun around and collapsed to the floor. The flight feathers of an arrow sprouted from her upper chest. The successful arrow was followed by a whooping noise and the Mongols began to race down the corridor towards Zhou and the injured Xióngmāo.

He called to the spirit, letting it fill his being and suffuse his body with its speed and power. Zhou reached down and dragged the wounded
Wu
away from the entrance. Her hand was clamped hard around the arrow that had struck her and there was no time for him to determine how bad it was. The Mongols were coming.

Ducking round the doorway to see how much time he had was an action rewarded by two more arrows. They both missed and the clatter of their impact on the stove and furniture was accompanied by the sound of more running feet. In a few moments they would be in the room with him. He risked a look down at Xióngmāo and saw her face calm and serene. Surely the arrow could not have killed her, but she had not screamed in pain nor was she writhing on the floor in agony. He let the anger rise and the world lost its colour, turning to shades of shadow.

The first Mongol round the corner had dropped his bow and drawn a curved sword, similar to the one the statue carried. It did not help. Zhou grasped the Mongol’s wrist as the man swung the sword and twisted. The snap of the man’s bones as they broke were drawn out. The warrior’s face changed from anger to surprise and to agony. The final expression was lost under the impact of Zhou’s staff as it crushed the Mongol’s nose and cheek bones. He let the body fall to the ground and stepped into the doorway.

A second sword arced in his direction. Zhou ducked, letting the sword pass over his head, and stepped forward at the same time. Inside the range of the sword, he grabbed the warrior and lifted. The power of the spirit flowed through him and the Mongol shouted in shock as he was slammed against the wall.

The next sound was that of meat being struck by a weapon. An arrow sprouted from the back of the Mongol in Zhou’s hands. Poorly timed and aimed, the arrow stole his kill. He let the body fall and moved backward, out of sight behind the doorway, but not before noting the rushing approach of two more Mongols.

A second later, the first of the two came into view. Zhou drove forward, under the warrior’s arms and into his chest, using all the power in his legs to push the warrior away from Xióngmāo and across the room. Three strong steps and he threw the Mongol into the wall, the rugs and hangings softening the blow. It was enough to cause the breath to explode from the man’s lungs. The Mongol let go of his sword and fell to the floor, onto his hands and knees. Zhou hit him across the back of his head with the short staff and the Mongol collapsed.

He turned to tackle the last of the Mongols he had seen rushing down the corridor to find the man had already been taken care of. Xióngmāo rose above his body, two bloody daggers in her hands.

The anger drained from Zhou. “I thought you were dead.”

“Sorry,” she said, a small smile on her face. “I wanted them to think they had killed, or at the very least severely injured, one of us. Mongols are predictable to a degree. Give them a scent of blood and they will attack.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I could have. I said I am sorry, but it made them attack us in a place where their bows were mostly useless. On the steppes, we would have been forever dodging arrows until there was one we couldn’t.”

“There are still two left,” he said.

“Guarding the horses, I’d guess,” she replied, cleaning the daggers on the fur armour of the Mongol she had killed. “We had best go take care of those now, before they realise something is wrong.”