Shallows of Night - 02 (30 page)

Ronin leapt at the thing, grasping its wide shoulders, attempting to wrest it away from Tuolin. The head swiveled and the jaws gaped, snapping at him. He raised his sword but he lacked the room to use it and he could not step away and attack the warrior for fear of cutting the big man.

The creature’s head snaked forward while he was thus debating and caught the blade in its mouth, the teeth gripping it so that Ronin could not pull it away. Still the warrior heaved on the chain and Tuolin sagged, choking on his own exhalations as his lungs vainly strove for air. His knees buckled and the deathhead warrior pulled mightily on the chain, the grinding sound of the links tightening unnaturally loud in the night.

Only Ronin’s left hand was free, his right was trapped on the hilt of his blade and he dared not let go. He brought the hand up, using the thumb at his opponent’s neck, pressing in through the small space under his horizontal sword. Just above the base of the neck, he located the triangular soft spot and lunged inward, puncturing the throat. Fetid gas swirled at him and he gasped, turning his head away, ripping upward along the stalklike neck with his thumb. The long teeth rattled against the smooth metal of his blade and the grip of the powerful jaws loosened as the thing tried to regain its breath. He drove inward then, using the full weight of his body through his right hand, and the keen edge of his blade swept before him, unstoppable, shearing through the warrior’s skull.

Ronin slammed the corpse aside, working frantically on the chain still tightly bound around Tuolin’s throat. The bony hands refused to relinquish their hold on the links, though the body was half slumped over the side of the bridge. And Ronin pried at the fingers, staring into the rikkagin’s pinched face. His skin had a blue tinge around the eyes.

Kiri was there, then, using a small curved knife to slash at the clenched bones, shearing through the knuckles until one by one they came apart. With a harsh grate, the links slid back slowly as Ronin forced the chain from around the big man’s neck. He caught him as he fell.

It had begun to snow, the large white flakes sheeting down obliquely, dusting the corpses on the bridge, their faces white masks already, sparkling in the flickering glow from the encampment. They hissed in the flames and Kiri shuddered, thinking of the spinning fanged globes.

She turned, holding her left arm to her side, tucked in, using her hipbone as support for the weight to ease the pain in her shoulder.

Ronin sheathed his sword and scooped Tuolin into his arms.

“Now, Kiri,” he called, pushing her before him. They sprinted across the remaining expanse of the bridge and onto the high road stretching uphill to Kamado.

They were met by soldiers who escorted them to the towering walls, calling to the guards at the postern. The metal-bound gates creaked open just enough for them to slip through. Then they swung shut with an echoing clang.

There was an immediate tumult around them. Ronin delivered up the rikkagin into the hands of his men, his neck torn and black with terrible marks, his shirt and leggings dripping blood; they bore him away to his barracks. Ronin followed, his arm around Kiri as she struggled against unconsciousness. He declined the soldiers’ aid but when he stumbled they took her from him and two of them lifted her up the barracks steps and through the entrance. Ronin sank down on the steep steps, too weary to go any farther.

After a time a man came out of the barracks and sat down beside him.

“He almost died.”

He was tall and wide-shouldered, with graying hair and a full but close-cut beard. His nose was long and curving; his eyes were black.

“T’ien’s own physician is inside if you need attention.”

“I am tired,” said Ronin. “That is all.”

“Perhaps he had better see you anyway.”

He called for the physician, who came out and grunted when he saw Ronin. He was the one from aboard Tuolin’s ship. While he worked, the other said, “Good for us that he did not die, eh?” Then, more softly, “What is your name?”

“Ronin.”

“I am Rikkagin Aerant.”

Ronin leaned his head against the wooden banister. The ancient gods of war, carved into the columns, looked blankly out at the darkness.

“You saved his life.”

“What?” There was a stinging along his shoulders.

“Tuolin told me that you saved—”

“Do you always call him by his other name?”

“We are brothers.”

Ronin turned his head. “You hardly look it.” The physician finished tying the bandages. He went back inside.

“We had different fathers.”

“I see.” He thought of nothing.

“I can help you.”

Ronin ran a hand over his face. “How?”

“Tell me what happened.”

Rikkagin Aerant nodded his head as Ronin related the events in the encampment.

“Best that Wo is dead, truly. His mind was closed to this war; he was so used to fighting Reds and the northern tribes that he could not see that the war had changed.”

“How could he explain the warriors who do not bleed?”

Rikkagin Aerant shrugged. “The military mind can rationalize any situation. He lacked imagination.” He brushed at his leggings. “Pity. He was a fine leader.”

“He was unprepared for that attack.”

“Yes. I would dearly like to know how they got through the perimeter so easily.”

“Tuolin told you—”

His face was bright in the torchlight. “Yes. I have seen this thing which you have fought.”

“You told Wo?”

Rikkagin Aerant laughed shortly. “I told no one but Tuolin and even he—” His eyes were like cool crystal, they were open and keenly intelligent. “You know, even brothers do not love each other all the time.”

“He wanted to go with me.”

“He will not have that now.” Several sentries ran by, their boots echoing against the wooden walls. The snow had ceased for the moment, but the sky was low and the air felt heavy and damp. “It is best that way.”

“Do you wish to go?”

Rikkagin Aerant turned his head away. A dog barked along the next block of barracks. “I do not know. But it does not matter. I am needed here. I will send you two Reds. They were born in this region.”

“All right.”

He stood up, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared down at Ronin.

“Perhaps you will return.”

He went off down the muddy street.

Snow fell quietly along the ramparts, dampening the scrape of the guard’s high boots against the stone. It pattered about him, obscuring the last dying embers sparking in the ashes of the encampment, a wan carpet humped along the earth, hiding the bodies of the fallen combatants.

It was still in Kamado save for the crunch of an occasional group of soldiers on patrol. Soft voices floated up to him for a moment, then were gone in the hissing of the snow. He pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders. The pain there was lessening. He willed his mind to be blank, not wanting to anticipate.

He saw Kiri walking along the ramparts, searching for him. He called wordlessly to her.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked.

“Better.” She sat beside him. “The bone was knocked out of the socket. He is very good.” She meant the physician.

He nodded into the night.

She put a hand along his arm, ran it upward. “There is room in the barracks.”

“I do not think so.”

“I will return to Sha’angh’sei at dawn. I must talk to Du-Sing. The Greens and Reds must unite now.”

“Yes.”

“And you must go into the forest at first light.” Her breath ran in warm white puffs against the side of his face. “Why not?”

He looked into her face. “You have changed.”

He did not know what he expected to see there but he was surprised. She looked humiliated, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Of course. Matsu is dead. I am half a person now, not fit to be with.” She got up and went away from him, along the white escarpment of the high rampart, disappearing down the steep stairs.

Dawn was a blood-red smear, burning coldly through a long rent in the massed gray clouds, pink-edged and pearled now in the east where the bloated oblate disk of the sun rose with agonizing deliberation.

He watched the light come into the world, atop the southern rampart where he had stayed all the long night. The snow had stopped falling just before first light and this day seemed somehow more natural than the last.

Ronin stood up, breathing deeply the chill air, and stretched his cramped muscles. He peered southward along the barren trail, completely white now. Higher up the snow was pink. He could pick out no imprints and the sparse foliage and his angle of elevation made it clear to him that the way was clear back to Sha’angh’sei.

He went down to the barracks. Two short men with long queues and black almond eyes waited patiently for him. A soldier came down the steps with a steaming cup of tea. He took it gratefully and sipped it, savoring its warmth and spice. He declined the bowl of rice.

Kiri was already at the stables. She saddled her luma silently, running her hand constantly down its flanks. His luma snorted and beat its hoofs against the earth as he came in. Straw floated through the air.

She mounted the animal and it pranced in its desire to be away. She pulled hard on the reins to keep it in check. It called to the roan, a plaintive farewell touched with the exultation of the wind and the road, and Kiri pulled again on the reins.

She took the luma out from the stable, Ronin at her side. They went along the quiet streets, the mount’s clop-clop muffled by the carpet of snow. The luma’s head bobbed as it sniffed the cold air, plumes of smoke shooting from its wide nostrils. Its ears twitched and Kiri spoke to it softly, a singsong litany.

At the southern postern she drew up and he pulled her down to him, kissing her cheek.

“Kill it,” she said in his ear with a sob. “Kill it before I return.”

And she dug her boot heels into the luma’s flanks, rattling the reins, and it leapt through the parted gates, a saffron streak, out from the citadel, onto the long white road home.

The silence was like a clap of thunder, lapping at his eardrums with an unnatural proximity. Deep in the forest, the snowfall was but a light dusting because of the canopy of thick branches overhead. He was struck by their austere beauty, frosted white across their interlacing upper surfaces, the spreading undersides a deep green shading into black among the blue shadows.

The quietude was extraordinary. If he ceased to move, he could hear the hissing of his own breath and, somewhat farther away, the inhalations and exhalations of the two Reds.

With a shivery rustle, a miniature snowslide fell from a branch and Ronin instinctively looked up. The wide green bough with its sweet-smelling needles bobbed and a flash of deep scarlet flew off in a flutter.

They were in a minute clearing but even so the sky was entirely obscured. Within the tall stands of pines, beds of fragrant brown needles cushioned the forest floor. The frozen earth was hard near the ancient twisting oaks with their entwining networks of branches and the profusion of oval leaves.

They moved deeper into the forest, Ronin carefully imitating the Reds’ slow, deliberate movements, creating a minimum of disturbance. The way was so entangled that more often than not they were forced to go single file, turning their bodies sideways in order to move through the narrow gap between the trees.

He became aware that they were on an incline and, as the way became steeper, granite outcroppings began to appear. Soon they crested the rise and the forest floor fell away from them. Off to their left, they could make out the clatter of a stream. Black birds flew among the laden branches, calling in shrill staccato cries, sending occasional showers of powdery snow onto the earth about them. There was little underbrush, only green moss and a grayish-blue lichen which clung to the rock faces.

They saw no tracks that morning and Yuan, one of the Reds, sent his companion off on a tangent.

“Perhaps we will have better luck this way,” he said to Ronin.

They went ever north, the forest unchanging in its denseness. Once Yuan halted and pointed to their right. Ronin saw a red fox, long tail sweeping the ground as it ran from them.

Just past noon the Red signaled to him and, crouching, he moved from tree to tree as silently as he was able until he was next to the kneeling man.

Yuan whispered in his ear and Ronin looked through a stand of thick oak. There was movement and he inched closer, changing his angle of vision. On the other side of the trees were perhaps a dozen of the gaunt deathhead warriors, shields on arms, fanged globes swaying at their hips as they marched. Beside them strode a score or more men with straight black hair combed back into a queue. They had black almond eyes. They were armed with the single-edged curving swords and short-hafted axes identical to Yuan’s. Another man came into view and he started. Eyes like stones magnified in still water, long drooping mustache. He would not forget that face. Po, the embittered trader who had walked out of Llowan’s dinner party.

Ronin touched Yuan on the shoulder and they moved back from the oaks.

“Who are the men with the tall ones?” Ronin asked softly.

“Reds.”

“Why are they with the enemy?”

“They hate the Greens. That is an old hate. The tall ones promise them power in Sha’angh’sei where the Greens are supreme in exchange for their aid here in the north.”

“They would battle their own kind; join forces with those that are not men?”

“Power is strange, is it not?” said Yuan.

“Yet they will die along with us, if this enemy is victorious.”

The other stared at him. “Do you think that you could convince them of this?”

Ronin thought of Po’s outburst. He shook his head.

The afternoon waned as they searched vainly for any trace of the Makkon. Near dusk they gave it up and Yuan led them back to the clearing where they had arranged to rendezvous with the other Red.

“We can only trust that Li had better luck,” said Yuan.

The clearing was darkling when they arrived, the snow blue, the shadows bluer still. Across the small open space a tree loomed in the dusk, lumped and misshapen. Yuan went and stood in front of the tree. Ronin went slowly after him, his eyes raking the shadows.