The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (14 page)

Sword leading, Haung leaped forward, parrying Gongliang’s arms and crashing into the man,
Jiangshi
, he corrected, and knocking it backwards. The former officer, stumbled a pace or two and, righting itself, moved forward again, both arms reaching for Haung.

He ducked beneath them and span on the ball of his foot out of the way, Jian blade rising, cutting into the tendons on the back of Gongliang’s elbows. The
Jiangshi
’s arms flexed, rising and curling up as the strong muscles of the upper arm were slow to react to the wound. Continuing to spin, drawing energy from the arc of the sword, Haung cut down at the back of Gongliang’s legs.

The
Jiangshi
fell forward, unable to balance on severed leg tendons and muscle, prevented from using its arms by similar cuts. The empire soldier that followed Haung raised his axe, ready to bring it down upon the undead’s skull.

“Hold,” Haung shouted.

The soldier paused, even as the
Jiangshi
at his feet continued to try and move forward, to crawl, and attack. Haung stepped quickly over the creature that had been his second-in-command, blocking others from attacking. The battle flowed around him, soldiers pushing past on either side to engage more of the
Jiangshi
.

“Get some rope,” Haung ordered.

“You can’t save him,” Enlai said as he joined Haung. “He died earlier tonight. This is not him.”

The
Taiji
sheathed his second sword, a blade of green and gold with a flowing script rising from the hilt towards the tip in two rows. Enlai kept his other sword in his hand, a more practical blade of silver steel, free of adornment.

“He might be able to tell us something we can use,” Haung said, backing up as the creature moved towards him.

“He is dead,” Enlai stated. “The kindest thing, the best thing, we can do now is kill the creature that has taken him over. You’ve been trained as Jiin-Wei, you know the basics about the realms. You’ve met a few Wu as well. Both you and they draw your powers from some realm or other. Well, the Mongol magic is the same, but judging from the effects, they use the realm of the dead. This creature is not Gongliang, it is something else. Kill it.”

Haung looked out across the lake between city wall and the remnants of the Mongol camp on his side of the river. Torches still burned and though it was too far and too dark to make much out, he was sure that people still moved in amongst those tents.

He looked down at the creature, at the animated body of Gongliang, at his feet. “I can’t kill it.”

“I can,” Enlai said and without a pause slashed down with his sword. The blade parted flesh, bone and muscle without effort. The creature stopped moving, a last sigh of air escaping lungs as all tension left its frame. “We did him a favour.”

“Maybe,” Haung admitted. “See if you can find Gang and his friend, bring them here. I am going to find our Master Yu. I want an end to this.”

“How?”

“Magic relies on the magician,” Haung said, pointing at the tents. “Kill the magician, kill the magic.”

The search was over quickly. Gang and Gan Ji had been battling not far away and Master Yu had taken up position on one of the high towers, his arrows hampering and hindering the
Jiangshi
whenever possible. Haung gathered everyone on that tower.

“Gan Ji, can you hit those tents with a ball of fire or something?”

The thin magician peered through the darkness and then shook his head.

“Master Yu, can you?”

The small archer did not even turn to look. “Too far.”

“What if you work together? Can you bind something to the arrow? Use the arrow’s energy to push the spell further? Do something to disrupt whatever is going on in those tents?”

Master Yu shrugged. Gan Ji moved his head in rapid, short, little jerks looking from wall to tent and back again.

“Wave,” he said.

“Sorry?” Haung said.

“Wave,” the magician said again and made a motion with his hands like a snake undulating over the ground.

“Of water?” Gang interrupted.

Gan Ji smiled and nodded, appearing happy that someone understood.

“A wave, is that it?” Haung asked.

“Let him do it.” Gang puffed his cheeks and gave a big sigh. “He seems to be able do a lot more than he can say, and he thinks strangely.”

“It can’t hurt,” Liu said, the man’s axes hanging from his hands.

“Right.” Haung shook his head. “Gan Ji, do what you can.”

The thin, strange, and incomprehensible magician dragged the archer to the wall and with a series of gestures indicated what he wanted the man to do. In turn, Master Yu looked confused, perplexed and then resigned. Gan Ji nodded at him throughout his instructions.

At last, when both men seemed satisfied, Master Yu handed Gan Ji a single arrow. The magician drew forth paper, brush and ink. In a flurry of activity, the Fang-Shi wet the ink, scribed a series of letters and words upon the paper, wrapped it around the arrow and then spat on it. The paper, soaked by moisture, clung onto the arrow, just above the sharp arrowhead.

Gan Ji did a little dance with his feet and pointed at the water. Master Yu nodded, drew the arrow to the bow, bent his arms and let the missile fly. Not at the tents. Not high into the sky, but on a shallow trajectory towards the lake below.

Leaning over the battlements, Haung saw the effects. The arrow trailed bright red and orange sparks as it flew, marking its passage. It struck the water not as an arrow might, with a small splash and float back to the surface to bob upon the ripples it had created. It struck as if a castle had fallen into it. It entered the water at an acute angle creating a fountain of water that rose as high as the city wall and that rained down upon the lake like hailstones.

In front of its impact, a great wave rose. The water did not ripple, it folded and crashed down upon itself, gathering height and energy as it raced towards the Mongol tents which rested on the only bar of land that still stood proud of the rising water.

The wave tore through them as if they were toys. Wood, fabric, leather and skins were shredded by the power of the water. The few torches and fires that had lit the camp went out and darkness obscured Haung’s vision. He could hear the snapping and rending, the screams and the shouts of alarm and fear, the panicked neighs and whiney of horses, and the sound of the wave collapsing in on itself.

“Haung, the wall,” Liu said in hushed tones.

Haung looked down to the base of the city wall. A few ripples, the backwash from the impact, rose against it. They were too little to do any damage and he returned his gaze to Liu, who pointed along their own battlements.

Everywhere he looked, the empire soldiers were lowering their weapons. The battle no longer raged. Undead no longer attacked the troops. The
Jiangshi
were gone, only the truly dead remained.

“A new standing order,” Haung said. “From now on, we cremate the dead as soon as possible.”

“They are still there,” Zhou said.

“The light is failing, it will be dark soon,” Xióngmāo said in reply.

“Do you think that will stop them?”

“Not now they have seen us.” She turned in her saddle to look back the way they had come. “Their blood will be up and they’ll push on to close the distance.”

Zhou could see the moving smudge of their pursuers on the horizon as they descended one of low hills. The hint of pursuit had first appeared just after the midday stop and in the hours since, they had closed the distance bit by bit. There was no place to hide and nowhere to escape. The flat steppe held no advantages. The low hills had shrunk even lower until they were mere wrinkles in the green sheet of grass.

“Is there anywhere better than this to hide or fight?” he asked.

“The grass plains are just what you see here,” she said. “We will have to camp in the open and tonight, when it is full dark, it will be time for you to go hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“To hunt them.” She got her horse moving again, setting a slow pace not willing to waste the horse’s energy. “See if you can dissuade them a little. Mongols are a superstitious people. Their magicians rule with power, fear and stories. If you can scare them, make them think again, we might get a little further before the others arrive.”

“How?”

“Use your imagination, Zhou.”

They continued on for another hour before the lack of light, grey clouds covering the sky and blocking out the moon and stars, made it too dangerous to risk the horses legs. A stumble down a hole or over a hummock of grass could lame one of the animals and after that the journey would be much more arduous.

They choose a spot to camp. It looked no different than any other area of the steppes except, maybe, it had a few more lumps and bumps. Between those, Zhou and Xióngmāo could sleep and their shapes would be broken by the terrain. It would make them a little less easier to spot. However, the horses would still be large lumps in the landscape.

“I thought horses sleep standing up?”

“They do, sometimes, but when they have been ridden or travelled a long way they need proper sleep. Ours need that kind of sleep if they are going to be fresh for tomorrow and if they don’t want to, we will have to make them. There is not a lot of cover out here, so we need to lower our profiles as much as we can.” She moved to the packs, selecting a little food for her horse to supplement the grass it was munching on and then some for herself. “Eat and drink, get some life back into your legs, then head out and see what you can do.”

“Why me?”

“Zhou, you’re the cat, the hunter. I am the Panda. You know what Panda’s eat?”

“Bamboo shoots,” he answered.

“And did you ever see bamboo shoot hide, run away or fight back? No. Cats are hunters, so use your spirit and go hunt. Once you’ve eaten.” She threw a rice cake at him, which he caught.

“Do you have answer for everything?”

“I’ve lived a long time, learned a lot of things. So, yes. Yes, I do.” He saw the small flash of white as she grinned at him. “Satisfied?”

Zhou grunted and bit into his rice cake. It crumbled and sucked the moisture from his mouth, he had to work his jaws to bring more forth and make the cake palatable.

# # #

It was happy. He could feel the pleasure rumbling through its frame in one long purr. In truth, it was hard to separate his joy from the panther’s. The leap along the blue thread, the inviting of the panther’s spirit to the physical world, the energy and power seeping into his bones, muscles, it made him complete. He was whole again.

The only downside, and one he could ignore, was the sodden nature of his
Ku
, the loose trousers he wore, and his leather shoes. The tall grass was wet and seemed happy to share this with him. The panther part of him relished the feeling whereas city-born Zhou was less than excited by it.

It had taken around three hours, by his reckoning, to cover the distance between his camp and that of the Mongols. The spirit had flooded his body with energy and he had used it to cover the ground as fast as a horse might run, the eyes of the panther seeing better in the dark than his own. His augmented vision, that of the spirit, saw the world around him differently. Gone were shades of grey and black that night provided. In its place should have been the subtle hues of blue, but instead there was red overlaying it all. The red plain stretched forever into the distance, and there, back along the path they had come, on the horizon, was the red flame.

At his feet, the red was held back by a resurgence of blue and green. The two realms of spirit and of life shielding him from the red realm of fire. He was a moving island within the sea of crimson and ahead were the Mongols.

Zhou stayed low to the ground and watched for a while, counting, inspecting and thinking. There were twenty-seven, nine humans and eighteen horses. The beasts were either munching on the grass or had already fallen asleep, lying down. The Mongols were clustered around a fire, away from their horses, and they were eating. A small pot hung from a frame over the fire and the men were dipping spoons into it, retrieving whatever was inside and putting it in bowls of their own. A few had already finished and appeared to be asleep.

Downwind, he sniffed the air. The scent of horse was strong, as was that of the men, unwashed and sweaty. The aroma of the cooking pot mingled amongst those and his stomach threatened to rumble at the waft of meat that flickered across his nose and tongue. Underlying it all was the scent of the land, the grass and mud.

The fire would rob the men of their night-vision. The bright flames, the rising sparks and the grey smoke floating up towards the sky, the pools of dark shadow dancing across the ground and the aura of yellow light that spread from the fire would confuse them, create visions where there was nothing. It would hide his presence, even if he moved in closer. They did not expect to be attacked. They were the attackers, the chasers, the hunters. This was a situation they felt in control of. The tension and excitement was cut through with an odour of confidence and relaxation, of safety. It was misplaced.

Zhou tracked left, around the fire, staying out of the glow, careful not to let the horses catch his scent, inspecting each man in turn. None of them were magicians or anything other than Mongol warriors. In the centre of their bodies, their spark shone out. Even if it were pitch black, he would still see those sparks. They were blue shot through with taints and tendrils of red, followers of the flame, of Yángwū and his crusade, but still just men.

Now he needed to scare them, to break their circle of safety and make them worried. Xióngmāo had directed him to use his imagination, but how?

Zhou watched them a little longer, thinking. Chasing off the horses was a possibility, but in doing so he would expose himself to the Mongols. Killing a warrior was an idea that appealed, but the same problem arose. If he rushed in to kill and then fled, they would know a man had done it. It was the fear of the unknown, the fright that the imagination could conjure up that held the most power and that is what, he decided, he needed to use. So he waited.

And was rewarded. One of the Mongols stood from the fire and walked out of the circle of light to relieve himself away from the camp. Zhou prowled around on silent feet, calling on the panther, using the great cat’s hunting instincts and knowledge to keep his presence hidden. His heart beat slow, his pulse was regular, the target clear in his vision. He could smell the man, an acrid scent of urine on the air.

The Mongol stood, legs a little more than shoulder-width apart, both hands in front of his body, one holding his clothes out of the way, the other directing the urine towards the ground. The man was mumbling to himself as he relieved the pressure in his bladder.

Zhou crept up behind him, between the aura of light from the camp and the Mongol, sticking to the shadowed area between the two. He let the strength of the cat flow into his arms and legs as he rose from a crouch, biting down the growl that threatened to well up from his chest. This is what hunters do, he thought, they seek their prey, sneak up upon them, lay in ambush, and then strike at the opportune moment.

His left hand reached around the Mongols neck at the same moment his right hand grabbed the man’s hair. Zhou pulled, squeezed and twisted, lifting the warrior’s feet from the ground and cutting off the ability to scream or speak. There was dry snap and the Mongol’s body went limp. Hands that had been scrabbling at Zhou’s arms stopped and fell away. Feet that had been kicking at the air stilled.

The only sound to escape the murder was that of the Mongol’s neck snapping. A noise not dissimilar to that of piece of wood in a hot fire. Within their circle of safety, the pool of light, the Mongols carried on eating and sleeping.

Zhou dragged the body away from the camp. The little spark of spirit, usually held in at the centre of the body, had been extinguished. Necessary, he thought. The unknown fear, a man that does not come back? It was not enough and soon his friends would start to call and then to search for him. A broken neck could be put down to a fall in the darkness. It needed some more, something to increase the fear, to create the worry.

He took a deep breath and forced his dispassionate, cold, human side to come to the fore. Young cats played with their food before eating it, learning to hunt and what to do with their prey. Adult cats, hunters, killed and ate their fill. The idea of eating a human filled him with revulsion and he had no intention of doing that, but making the others think an animal had attacked, in silence, and killed their friend might be enough.

The sharp knife slipped free of its scabbard on the dead Mongol’s belt and Zhou set to work. It would not take long, slices here and there to suggest claws, ragged cuts to suggest bites and chunks of flesh missing, each edge jagged and untidy might suggest consumption. It was bloody work carried out quickly and he was left with, after cleaning and sheathing the knife, a small pile of flesh to carry away.

Movement and calls from the camp were his clue to slip away and he did, arms full and clothes covered in the fluids of an eviscerated corpse.

An unknown animal, a fear from the deepest part of their imagination.