The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (15 page)

Dawn fell like a hammer onto the anvil of Haung’s sleep deprived head. Thorns of light stabbed into eyes and brain.

“They are not coming back,” Liu said, the tall man’s soft voice slipping between the pain that throbbed through Haung on each heartbeat. “Go and sleep. Two days is too long to be awake. We’ve all taken our turn to rest, now you take yours.”

“I will sleep when the Emperor’s army arrives.”

“And you’ll embarrass yourself by falling at his feet and snoring,” Enlai said, his voice loud in the dawn quiet.

Haung winced at the sound and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They are still there.”

“Of course they are,” Enlai said. “There is a large lake between us and them, not to mention the city wall. The empire army is expected sometime this afternoon. Very soon, the Mongols will be staring at a host of fit, fresh and well-armed soldiers who will be staring right back at them. Neither army able to get to the other. Go and sleep, Haung. Sleep when you can, eat when you can, fight when you have to.”

“It is good advice,” Liu said.

“They might try something, a last attempt.” Haung moved to the edge of the wall, resting his hands on the stonework and looked across the lake. To his right, the sun rose over the hills and its light dipped into the valley.

“Haung,” Liu stepped up beside him, “go to sleep. It wasn’t your fault, you know. Gongliang died doing his job, defending the wall.”

“But they didn’t just kill him did they? They turned him into something else, something we had to kill all over again.”

“It is war, Haung. Get over yourself and realise that nothing in war is pretty, honourable or good. The enemy will do whatever it can, use whomever it can to win,” Enlai spoke without a trace of sympathy in his voice. “And you know what, so will we. All we can hope is that we win and that most of us will survive. You were involved in the destruction of Wubei. You know the truth about war, about killing. Gongliang is dead, but he did his job well.”

The words felt as sharp as a blade, as painful as the first ray of light into his tired eyes.

“Take your hand off your sword and go get some sleep, Haung,” Enlai said.

Haung looked down to find his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword. It was puzzling. He fought to remember the moment he had sent the command to his hand to grab the sword. There was no memory of it, and now, with conscious thought, he forced his fingers to relax and pulled his hand away from the sword. Raising his eyes, he met Enlai’s and read the concern in them.

“You’ll wake me if anything happens?”

“Yes,” Liu and Enlai spoke at the same moment.

“I’ll get some sleep.” Haung nodded to them both and stepped away from the wall.

# # #

The banging on the door woke him.

“Come in,” he tried to call, only to find his throat dry and the words coming out in a croak. He worked his jaws, bringing some moisture into his mouth and tried again. This time the words were clearer and the door opened.

“They are here,” Gang said. “You’d best make yourself presentable.”

Haung ran his fingers through his hair, broken nails catching on knots and dry crusts of blood, and looked through his bleary eyes at the big man stood in his doorway. There was a shadow behind the warrior, the ever present
Fang-shi
, he thought.

“How long?”

“How long what?” Gang answered. “How long have you been asleep? How long till the army gets here?”

“Both.” Haung swung his legs over the side of the bed and only then realised he was still wearing his armour.

“It is mid-afternoon, so you can work that out, and the army will be here in about two hours, just before dusk.” Gang paused. “You look awful, did you know that?”

“Thanks,” Haung said and was overcome with the impossible to resist desire to yawn.

“There is a bathhouse a couple of streets away.” Gang walked over to Haung and slipped a hand underneath the
Taiji’s
arm, lifting him onto his feet. “Come on, I’ll take you. It is time for my yearly bath anyway.”

“Clothes,” Haung managed to stammer out as he felt himself dragged towards the door, his feet barely keeping up with his forward motion.

“Gan Ji,” Gang said to his shadow, “find the general some clothes and drop them off at the bathhouse.”

The large warrior half-dragged, half-guided him through the streets of the city to a narrow lane lined with painted signs over closed doors. Choosing one, Gang stomped up to it and began knocking. He didn’t stop until the door was opened.

“Yes, boss,” said a short man dressed in a robe that looked as though it had been white at some point in the past but would never be again.

“Two to bathe,” Gang said.

“Of course,” said the man. “Please, come in.”

The door swung open, a waft of warm air passed over Haung and out into the afternoon sun. Gang waved Haung forward and they stepped into the bathhouse. The room they entered was larger than Haung had expected and contained some tables and chairs. To his right, a small kitchen area where the attendant was boiling something over the fire and ahead, another door.

“Please, sit,” said the man who had shown them in.

Haung edged over to a table and sat in one of the wooden chairs. Gang sat opposite, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Do we have time for this?” Haung said.

“It’ll be good for you,” Gang replied. “Wash the concerns, and blood, out of your hair. It will also get rid of the smell of battle, the mix of sweat, guts, fluids and sodden leather. You’ll be in a good state to meet the Emperor when he arrives.”

“Tea, boss,” the small man said, putting two cups of aromatic green tea down on the table. “Towels.”

The small towels, hot to the touch and giving off the faint scent of jasmine, were placed in their hands. Haung brought it to his face, letting the warmth soak into his skin for a moment, enjoying the luxury, before rubbing the damp towel over the rest of his face and hands, cleaning off the dirt he had slept in.

The tea was welcome too. It was hot, delicate with a hint of sweetness. Haung forced himself to sip the tea and not throw his head back and drink it down in one go.

“Food, boss?”

“
Congee
and
youtiao
,” Haung said.

“Bit late for breakfast, boss.”

“Not for me it isn’t.” Haung took another sip of the green tea as Gang ordered his to come with pork.

Soon after, two bowls were placed in front of the men. Haung picked up a fried bread sticks and dipped it into the white rice porridge, raising to his mouth and biting down. The bread had been lightly salted and, mixed with the creamy
congee,
it reminded Haung of breakfasts in the barracks when he was young. Gang used the clay fired, glazed spoon to shovel his dish into his mouth.

Halfway through the meal, Gan Ji arrived with two servants to deliver Haung’s clothes. Invited to join them, the timid
Fang-shi
shook his head and departed in a flurry of hands and rapid steps.

“Boss, ready to bathe?”

Their dishes were cleared away and they stood from the table. The servant opened the door to the bathhouse proper and indicated they should step through.

The new room was warm, heated by a large fire at the far end and stalls lined both walls. Above the wooden screens that separated the stalls from each other were small platforms that Haung saw being winched up by one of servants. On the platform was another guest’s clothing.

“Protects them from being robbed,” Gang said. “Get changed and let’s get properly warmed up.”

As the large man headed into one of the stalls and began to strip off his robes, Haung looked around. The air was misty, more so towards the ceiling, and it masked the other patron’s faces. He would need to be a lot closer to be able to recognise them. There were four pools, each large enough for five or six men to use without feeling crowded, and, between those and the fireplace, two rows of wooden slatted beds. The floor was tiled and, Haung noted with some surprise, so were the walls and ceiling.

He found an empty stall and started to peel his armour off. The toggles and straps were easy to undo, but the smell rising from his body when he removed the tunic was anything but pleasant. Without wanting to be in his own presence much longer, Haung rushed the rest of his disrobing, accepted another warm towel, a larger one, from a servant and hurried to one of the barrels at the end of the stalls.

The dipper, a long handled, large bucketed one, went into the water and he poured it over his head. The water was cold and the sudden drop in temperature caused a shiver to run down his spine. However, it was choice between temporary freezing or continuing to smell. That and the embarrassment of slipping into the warm baths and a thick layer of scum sliding off his body as he did so. Three more ladles full of water went over his head before he was satisfied that he had done enough to minimise his embarrassment.

Wrapping the long towel around his cold body he walked across the wet, slippery floor with as much care as possible and stepped into the pool. The towel soaked up the hot water, holding it next to his skin, warming him, as he let himself sink further and further into the depths. A contented sigh escaped his lips without conscious thought or effort.

“It’s nice, but once a year is really enough for any man,” Gang said as he too sank into the pool. The water level rose and slopped over the side, before settling back to a level.

They had chosen an empty pool, indeed there were few other patrons in, and Haung was glad of the quiet. A chance to put aside the worries and sadness. A time to think about Jiao and the baby, to remember he had a family to care for and one which cared for him. Gongliang had family or had had a family, he corrected himself. No, the family were still his and Haung knew he would have to visit them, talk to them, tell the children of their father’s bravery, his intelligence and his service to the Empire. It wouldn’t soften the blow or the shock, but in the years to come Gongliang’s bravery would count for something.

Mist rose from the pool, covering the tears.

“They are not going to give up,” Zhou said.

“And our horses cannot keep this pace up much longer,” Xióngmāo agreed.

“After the third night, I thought they would be too scared and turn back.”

“Whatever is behind them scares them more,” she said

Zhou checked the trail behind. Their passage was clearly marked by the trampled grass and there, not half-a-day distant, were the six remaining Mongol warriors. They had moved slower since the first night, the first death. A more cautious pace, checking the land around them, taking care and being aware. It had helped Zhou and Xióngmāo maintain some distance, but only by pushing the horses hard and they were running out of strength.

“What about the others? The larger search party?”

“They cannot be more than a day behind the small group. I’d say that the six behind us can see the large group on their horizon. It will have given them strength and courage. They won’t stop now.” Xióngmāo brushed her long dark hair out of her face.

“Then we do not have much of a choice,” Zhou said. “We need to lose our pursuit before we reach the trade route and the desert. They will not need to track us there. It is one road all the way. There will be nowhere to hide.”

“I don’t like unnecessary deaths, Zhou.” She held up her hand to stop his words before they left his mouth. “However, I agree. We need to be clear of the Mongols and we need to confuse the trail if possible. They will probably have a good guess where we are heading, at least as far as the trade route.”

“We have to do it today. The larger party will be a day behind and that gives us a chance to get some distance. The question is where and when today?” Zhou gazed around at the plains of grass, the lack of places to stage an ambush was clear.

“There is a place not too far away. We will have to change our course a little, but I think we can reach it within a few hours,” Xióngmāo said and with a tug on the reins turned her horse to the south.

# # #

Her directions brought them to a river just as the sun reached its highest point in the sky. The horses saw the water first and, with a renewed burst of energy, ignored their rider’s commands and galloped down the slope towards it. Zhou stopped trying to control his horse and just concentrated on hanging on, clamping his legs against the saddle to prevent being thrown to the ground. The horses stopped as soon as their forelegs touched the water, and dipped their heads to drink from the fast flowing water.

Zhou swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the floor. His thighs ached, but each day the pain had lessened and it took less time for feeling to return. From his saddlebags, he took his water gourd,
hulu
, and drank deeply. With a river this close there was no need to save or ration the water so he drank as much as he could. He dipped the gourd into the river and let it refill.

Placing his refreshed supply of water back into his saddlebags, he took his first look around. The river valley was wide and shallow. On his side of the river the slope was steeper and closer to the water’s edge, but on the southern side the valley continued on for some distance before the land rose again. The soil beneath his feet consisted mostly of pebbles and rocks. Bending down, he picked up a handful and inspected them, running his fingers over their semi-polished sides and noting the collection of sharp and round angles. They sounded like rain drops hitting the ground as he let them fall through his fingers.

The river itself did not follow one channel, rather it was  a collection of streams that twisted and turned, much like the braiding in a young girl’s hair, through the valley. The braid directly in front was quite shallow and the rocks on its bed were easy to see, even in the dim light filtering through the clouds.

To the east, the river continued its meandering flow through the valley and out of sight over the horizon. The west, the direction the river flowed from, there was a stranger sight. Between two braids a hill of grey rock stood proud. The streams flowed around its base without disturbing its shape and curves.

“That is where we are going to draw the Mongols to,” Xióngmāo said, coming to stand next to him while her horse drank its fill of water.

“Why there?”

“This river, this land and especially that hill are sacred to the Mongols.”

“Why? It is just a hill,” Zhou said.

“This area is called the Forbidden Zone. To all Mongols, all tribes, this land is not to be traversed. They only come here on a pilgrimage, the rest of the time they stay away.”

“Will that stop the ones chasing us?” Zhou asked.

“It might, but I doubt it. They should have stopped already. The three men you killed should have been warning enough to stay away, but they ignored it. Something is driving them onwards. They won’t stop, so we will have to stop them,” she said. “The hill is a tomb, the entrance is on the western side, facing the setting sun.”

“Whose tomb?”

“Centuries ago the Mongols had a great war leader, one who united the tribes under his own banner. You saw a lot of his legacy in the Mongol army that attacked the Wall. Before him they all fought each other, all the time. No rules, just death and destruction. It made it easier for the Empire to protect itself against them and he saw that. There were years of war as he brought tribe after tribe under his control. Then more years as he trained and organised his army, developing tactics and weaponry. The death toll was huge. He attacked countries to the north and west, trying out his ideas and getting his people used to following orders.”

Zhou watched her face as she spoke. Her eyes were elsewhere, seeing something he could not.

“The Emperor, at the time, knew about it and were worried. Soon, they knew, he would turn his gaze south and attack the Empire. The Wall was built, but there was little faith in just one plan to stop him, so they hatched another. Someone was sent north, to learn about the Mongols and the new leader, and if possible to get close enough to kill him. Without the leader, the Emperor suggested, the tribes would return to infighting and leave the Empire alone. The leader died,” she said in a quiet voice.

“He was assassinated by the Empire?”

“During one battle, the leader was wounded. Nothing serious. An arrow sliced into his leg, just below the knee. A bandage, a few herbs, and some stiches is all it required. He should have survived.” She shook her head as she spoke.

“A poisoned arrow?”

“No,” she said, looking away to the west, towards the tomb. “Amongst the herbs used to treat the wound were some that were poisonous. The poison worked its way into his blood and he died in great pain. Once he was gone, his subordinates, the leaders of the tribes, started to fight over who would be in control and the land descended once again into tribal conflict. Until now, there has not been another person who could unite the tribes.”

Zhou followed her gaze to the tomb. “You sound like you admired the man. How did you find out about it? Did you know him?”

“He was my husband, Zhou, and I poisoned him. The Empire sent me north to find out what could be done, and I killed him.”

“Husband?” Zhou felt his breath stop, eyes widen, and blood turn cold. He shivered.

“I was one of his many wives. Mongols, certainly the important ones, have more than one wife. He had seven. He found me amongst the camps and claimed me as his own. His power was absolute, and I went along because it brought me close enough to find out more, and to take any action I needed to.”

“You killed your husband?” Zhou found the last word hard to let go of. It stuck in his throat.

“Yes.” He saw her shoulders rise and fall in deep breaths and her head turned away from the tomb. “He was a great leader, Zhou. He had a vision for the future of his people and the will to put it into action. Even his harshest actions were done with purpose, with a goal in mind, to make life for his people better. He was not happy to cause so many deaths, though his magicians praised him for it, gaining power from each battle. However, the cost to the Empire would have been high and I could not allow it. I treated his wound. I put the poison in amongst the herbs and I watched him die. He knew what I had done. I could see it in his eyes, but he said nothing.”

“How long were you with him?”

“Five years,” she said and shook her head. “Many years have passed since then, and we have a lot to do before the Mongols arrive.”

Zhou raised a hand to rest it on her shoulder, a gesture of comfort and understanding, but it never reached its destination. He was unsure what to say, what to do, and the hand fell back to his side.

“We had best get started,” he said.

# # #

For the remainder of the afternoon, Zhou and Xióngmāo cleared the accumulated mud, silt and debris from the tomb’s doorway. The horses rested at the base of the low hill in the centre of the braided channel. A short pebble beach surrounded the hill itself and stone steps, worn by the weather and tread of many people, led up to the doorway. The rest of the hill was free from decoration, no statues stood tall to proclaim how special and sacred the site was, no signs, no golden panels or precious jewels adorned the door.

A recess had been cut into the hill and the door was carved from a grey mottled stone. A thin line ran down the centre of the door, bisecting it. On the left hand panel, a depiction of Mongol life, tents and horses, a great fair, fires and entertainment, a dream of what it could be. On the right, scenes of war and conquest, great swathes of mounted warriors riding across the steppes. At the head of the horde, the largest figure, the King, rode a horse carved with such skill that it appeared to be running still. In their wake, the bodies of the conquered and the slain. Towns, clearly identifiable by their walls and angular buildings, were burning and carved smoke rose towards the top of the door.

“It is as clear as we can get it,” Zhou said, washing the fine mud from his hands in the cold river. “We should open the door and get ready. They cannot be too far away.”

“We will,” Xióngmāo said.

He sat back, resting on the pebbles, looking towards the west and the dimming light. “What was he like?”

“Tall and strong,” she answered. “He had a dream, Zhou. A vision of what life could be like for his people and when he spoke everyone listened. You couldn’t help yourself. He had a deep voice and his words were filled with so much passion. Did you know that some of his most trusted generals were enemies that he had fought and bested in battle? He offered them all a chance, join him or die. Those that joined learned to trust him quickly, he kept his word above everything else. Those that choose death were used in rites by the magicians. Many tribes and towns surrendered as soon as his army appeared. Word spread. He was not afraid to be brutal and merciless. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands died at his command.”

“Yet you admired him?” Zhou kept his gaze ahead. He had no desire to see her reaction.

“I did.”

“Even though he killed that many people?”

“I do not admire the deaths or the murders, but it was a different age and a different culture. One that revered and worshipped death. Every moment of life was wrung dry, twisted until every drop of joy dripped from it. They do not fear death as the people of the Empire do, nor do they seek it unnecessarily. He knew his people and led them well. They were richer, united, and better off under his rule.” Her voice faded into silence and just as he opened his mouth to speak, she said, “Come on. Let’s get the door open and prepare ourselves. We have about an hour till dark.”

A short climb up the stone stairs and they were stood in front of the door. The fading light of early evening cast pale shadows across the carvings lending them a far more sinister look. The images of death, of bodies, of towns burning, stood in deeper relief than those of peace and tranquillity.

“How do we get in?” Zhou said. “There doesn’t appear to be a handle or a lock.”

He put his palms flat against the door, one either side of the division, and pushed. It did not move, creak or make any other encouraging sound. A few moments later, he gave up.

“Did you know that when a Mongol leader dies, his wives are supposed to be buried with him? To look after him in the afterlife,” Xióngmāo said, a wistful, sad tone in her voice. “He stopped that tradition or this might very well have been my tomb too.”

Zhou remained quiet, not sure how to answer.

“Instead he put the wives in charge of the tombs and burial places. It became their task to care for the body and spirit of their departed husband. They decorated the tombs, placed his prized possessions around the body and ensured that the dead had everything they could possibly need in the next life. We prepared this one for him. Each wife was given a key and only the wives were allowed into the tombs, to clean them, carry out rituals, and protect them.” She reached beneath her collar and pulled a leather necklace out. On the end, a polished white stone, longer than it was wide and thinner in the middle than at either end. The leather thong passed through a drilled hole in the stone and was knotted to prevent it from slipping off.

Zhou took a step back as Xióngmāo placed her key on the figure of the King on horseback, her husband, and pushed. Straight, thin lines of white light began to glow upon the door, it looked as though the door was about to shatter and crumble into jagged pieces. The light was bright and Zhou raised a hand to cover eyes that had become accustomed to the failing light of evening.