The Pirate Empress (72 page)

“Hasn’t he always?”

“Not like this.”

“You
must
help me. You cannot allow the world of legend to return to ascendency.”

“There was a time when the world of legend was the world of reality. The gods thrived.”

“Please,” Li implored. “These are not those times. It’s all wrong. It was caused by the will of some very bad foxes.”

“And who is to say what times these should be?”

“Then why oh why did that prophesy ever exist? Please give him a chance to right things. Give
us
the chance to give
him
the chance.”

If the sea god could sigh, it seemed that that was what he was doing. His nine, yellow, human heads nodded in unison. “All right then. I will enable the rescue of Wu, but henceforth, you will lose all memory of him. You will have the boy, but you will not recognize him as your son. Do you understand? All you have gone through for the boy will be forgotten. What is your answer?”

Li pinched the tears from escaping her lids. She had not lived her entire life protecting and trying to save him only to let him be killed by the fox faeries. “Do it,” she said.

%%%

While Master Yun rode north to search the mountainous watchtowers of the Dragon Wall, Chi Quan took an army of men to block the approach of the strange Mongols who wore the ancient raiment of First Emperor Qin’s adversaries. At sunrise the next day, after a night spent riding at top speed to the easternmost point of the wall, sleeping in their armour, Quan’s soldiers arrived at the gates of Shanhaiguan. Unpractised as they were, he placed them against the frontline of the Xiongnu army, and led their first charge against the strange steppe warriors. The fierce horselords fought them to their knees, driving them up the western flank of the fort while new enemy forces suddenly appeared from the north. Quan was too preoccupied to note who they were. He only noticed that they held back, letting both sides exhaust themselves before attacking with fresh forces.

Arrows flew like clouds. So huge was the army of the Xiongnu that Quan could hardly believe the sight was real. Where had these warriors come from? They were wilder and fiercer than any of the steppe folk he had ever encountered; they were savage in their attacks and obeyed no rules. Blood sprayed and limbs flew as arrow and dagger struck. Horses fell and men screamed and the Xiongnu kept coming. Just as the enemy were ready to declare victory, the weather turned. This gave Quan’s troops a chance to regroup, but before they could attack anew, the gleam of hairless scalps and clean-shaven foreheads appeared through the driving sandstorm. Liao Dong and his pigtailed Manchu warriors had joined the fray. Fresh battle screams were hurled against the Ming’s pathetic offense, and Quan’s army began to crack under the assault. They retreated, and then collapsed into a scattered, ragtag mess of weary, terrified men, who straggled, some horseless back to Beijing.

Quan had only one more maneuver: the legion of Yeren that had followed him to the Emperor’s side from the Red Desert. He had hesitated to deploy them. What if he couldn’t control them? But when Captain Huang returned, a hunted look on his face, Quan knew he must try. The Manchu were hooting in victory; the Xiongnu circled their newfound allies in admiration and exaltation. So certain were they of their triumph that they paid no heed to the Ming leaders who now strategized amidst the groundswell of blood. He had an army five thousand strong. That was how many Yeren lived, invisible, in the vast barren lands of the rust-coloured columns.

Ren Xiong
was his general, the leader of the host. It was Peng who gave him his name— literally, Man-bear. He was the tallest, palest, most frightening example of them all, but he was also the brightest. When Quan signalled with a red flag for the Yeren to make themselves visible, the formidable legion appeared, their bones rattling to life before flesh covered them in pelts of brilliant white. Fear motivated the Yeren and when they saw the victory dance of the barbarian hordes, their fur transformed to black—a signal that death was imminent. At the sight of the charging Man-bears, the Xiongnu and their Manchu allies turned tail and ran.

Quan motioned to Ren Xiong to pull back by waving the banner of Imperial yellow, and the hides of all five thousand Yeren winked from black to yellow, before vanishing. The only evidence remaining of their existence were three-toed tracks, and the thunderous
crunch, crunch, crunch
of footfalls on the field of sand.

%%%

The wind rose, and the mountains opened up toward the sun. The red-brown coat of Master Yun’s horse blended in with the landscape. He and Peng were near invisible in drab grey. They passed Mongol camps as though invisible, the men in braids busy with their mutton stew. Fists clad in falconer’s gloves, they raised cups of putrid water, mocking the Son of Heaven as they waited on his doorstep.

The desolate autumn wind gusted as Xingbar and his riders skirted another of Dahlia’s armies. Lucky for them, Xingbar was as silent as a goat, and as surefooted. They had travelled far and still had so far to go. Master Yun stopped to allow the foxling to stretch her legs and feed on dried jerky, before giving her a drink of fresh water from a goatskin.

Peng stretched her eyelids wide and stared at the closest tower. She snapped her eyes shut. “My mother. She is watching me.”

“We must be nearby then.”

Master Yun studied the winding wall ahead. They had ridden low, following the outside wall, not daring to ride upon the brick paths and ramps, for fear the sound of hooves would echo along its entire length. His Majesty had not relied on his own design to fortify this barricade, but had followed the map originated by his forebears. Building the Dragon Wall was a strategy that should have benefited generations, bringing peace to millions, but oh, how it had failed.

“Master Yun!” Peng squeaked. “There, look in the sky!”

Master Yun squinted and saw only a vacuous swirl, heat and cold clashing among the clouds.

“I think it is your blue dragon friend. The one who rescued you from the tomb.”

“Peng, you must close your eyes. If what you say is true, your mother must not see what you have divined in the heavens. She and Dahlia have the Bloodstone, the Hell Master’s all-seeing eye, and through this green, red-veined gemstone, she can see all that you see.”

Master Yun lifted his grey-bearded chin to the clouds. Fucanlong sailed over the serpentine wall toward a far watchtower with someone on his back. He hoisted Peng onto Xingbar and raced along the side of the wall, chasing the watery image of the blue dragon. At long last he caught up at the base of a very tall watchtower and saw the dragon set his passenger onto the ground.

“What have you done, Li?” Master Yun demanded, dismounting with breath steaming.

“The bargain is made,” she said. “Wu is in that tower, and Xiang Gong has made certain that he is alone.”

“And when he is rescued?”

“When he is rescued, I will lose all memory of my son.”

“That is your wish?”

“It is not my wish, Master Yun. But it is my will. It is the bargain I made. We must hurry for Xiang Gong will only hold the Foxes attention for so long.”

“I think you should take Xingbar and Peng back to the palace. I will retrieve Wu and return on the back of Fucanlong. You will not know your son. He will be just a boy.”

Li shook her head. “I know I made that bargain with the god. I know that is what he intends as payment for allowing me to rescue him. But he is my son. I will not forget him. No one can make me forget, not even a god. I must see my boy!”

Master Yun felt the emotion tug at his breast. He would not deny her this last time to recognize her beloved boy. “We go then,” he said, and signalled the dragon to permit them to mount, instructing Peng to hide in the underbrush. Fucanlong lifted them into the air to the top windows of the watchtower, a vantage point from where they could look down inside the fort.

Rolled onto one side, Wu slept, but when Master Yun and Li’s shadows fell over the cold, sunlit floor, he stirred, and then shot to his feet.

Li rappelled down the curvature of the wall on a rope held in the dragon’s teeth. She stood before him excited and terrified. It had been almost six long years since she had seen her boy. She lifted him in her arms; he was only a foot shorter than she. “You see, Master Yun!” she shouted. “I have not forgotten my boy. How could I ever forget him?” She kissed his face fervently, swept his hair back from his forehead. He had grown even since the last time the warlock had seen him. “You are quite a young man,” she said. “And soon you will be emperor. Yes, Wu. Your great grandfather is dead and you must take his place. You will stand on the Crosshairs of the Four Winds and guide your armies to ultimate victory!” She hugged him and could not stop hugging him, until his breath became only gasps.

There was a commotion outside the door. Li swept her son into her arms. He was much bigger and heavier now, and it took some effort for her to swing him up the rope. Master Yun aided them with a mild wind force, lifting them into the air, just as the tower door slammed opened, and a quad of Mongol guards stormed in.

%%%

The cloudy air fell still over the heavenly mountains, and the Dragon Wall snaked into the mist. Li looked below from her perch on the dragon’s back, and saw the beacons lit, but the warning was not for the Chinese. The fox faeries had taken possession of the wall. Those fires were signals to her armies to move down the valleys across the rivers and into the plain. They were high enough that they could see all of Dahlia’s maneuvers. Her regiments were deployed along the Yellow River. For a thousand miles Li sighted the black and silver of the Fox Queen’s banner. Mountains and rivers flowed into the horizon, while the plains rolled endlessly away. Gongs sounded and in the descending night came the mournful sound of a flute, hundreds of thousands of cavalry moving into position, watering their mutant mounts in the dead lakes—Jian, the evil seven-headed, one-eyed birds; Quilin, the dragon-horses; and Nian, the New Years Day beast.

Master Yun turned his head to look back over his shoulder to where Li was sitting with Wu sandwiched between her legs. “Look to the west,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

Twilight threatened, but still there was light in which to discern the machinations of their enemy. Li was still looking to the wall, watching its serpentine twists as they approached the curved eaves of the Forbidden City. Suddenly, Master Yun urged the dragon upward and they sailed over the river. Below and slightly to their right they spied activity on the plain; it was clear that Dahlia had begun to maneuver her forces into position. But it was an utterly strange stratagem. Dahlia stood in the center. Troops assembled around her in a double ring.

“You see how each regiment represents a number? Each ring consists of 8 regiments and each regiment from 1 to 8 consists of troops 10,000 strong. The outer ring adds up to 360,000 warriors, the inner ring comprises half that number. Together they represent a force half a million strong. The magic comes from the juxtaposition of the troops. No matter how you add them up, diagonally or circularly, they all add up to nine. The nine tailed fox holds the center.”

“It has begun,” Master Yun said. “The Fox Queen has formed her Magic Circle.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

The Azure Dragon

That night he watched the pale disc of the sun set over the red sand. How he regretted journeying over these ten thousand miles. On the western shore of Hot Lake the water boiled. Fame, success, honour, pride: What was any of this to him when he had failed so miserably in his quest? The last of the thunder rolled away, leaving the sand wet. An image like a dream impressed in his mind: the glorious muscle-bound creature clad in loincloth, who menaced all with razor-sharp claws, serrated bat wings and scowling blue face, beaked like a bird.

Rise
, the god commanded to the beating of his mallet.
Your time is not yet come.

Along the flank of the wall he walked horseless, the sound of song bleating in the distance. The barbarian pipe was the saddest of all played by the red-eyed savages who would commit any crime to seize the heart of China—even join forces with the baneful creatures of legend and the demons of nightmare. It was freezing autumn and he was way out west. Would he find the road back in time? The Pole winds blew cold on his tattered garments, the yellow grasses snapped with their force. The moon above seemed poised to fall. And the pipes played on in mournful solicitude. He passed each of the border towns in shadow, his companion as ghostly as he. The silence of the garrisons rang deadly in his ears, when only the sneering chatter of Mongol voices replied to the haunting song. Did they not know what was about to happen? Did they not know how the demons would enslave them? He looked longingly eastward to his homeland, and turned. South now. South he must go, along the endless road.

The colour of the sands had changed. No longer red, they were yellow and flat and bleak. Their yellowness seemed to reach to the skies and no matter how he stretched out his arms he could not touch their endpoint. At night the wind howled. Flocks of birds dared not fly over them. As they followed the river they saw that the carp were ripe, and on that raw and slithering flesh, they feasted in the moonlight. By the bank, the brown grass turned silver and in the sky the clouds loomed black.

How he finally came to the encampment of Brigade General Chi Quan was not a question he could ever answer. From the ring of tents the smoke and dust of activity arose, illumined by the night fires of a puny army. Was this great general to lead his pathetic troops against the Circle of Dahlia tomorrow? From the shadows, he saw the silhouette of the brigade general in his tent, and he knew he wore his faded armour. From whence had he arrived? The horses outside foamed; they wore a light coating of snow, and their bodies and muzzles steamed. The wind cut like a knife. He ducked his head for shelter, and peered inside the great general’s tent and saw him at a table surrounded by his lieutenants and captains, a brush in his hand, a sheet of parchment to map out his plan, the water on his inkstone frozen.

“Warm this over the fire,” he instructed one of the men.

Captain Huang took the inkstone and moved to the exit. Quan glanced up as the man gasped, and then he, too, choked on a breath—and stared. He Zhu bowed. He was weary. He ushered his companion forward, a lovely young woman, bold and robust. Not Chinese. “This is Alai,” he said as Quan rose from his seat. “She is a bowmaid of Xiongnu descent. She is my love, my life, and she has chosen to fight with us.”

Some of Quan’s men recoiled at the word, Xiongnu. Master Yun had warned them of these devils of the past, and they had fought them on the sands of Shanhaiguan. They were savage and fierce and had battered the Ming army almost to defeat.

“Let her be,” Quan said as two of his captains went to seize her. “Let the warrior monk speak.”

“The world has changed, the Emblem of Balance is broken, and nothing is as it was—not even death. Lei Shen returned me to my time and my place. He watches over me.”

“And Alai,” Quan said. “Does he watch over her, too?”

Zhu shrugged. “I do not know the mind of the god. But I do know this. She is not of our time, although I love her. And so it seems to me that she cannot die in our time.”

Quan moved to touch him, felt his shoulders and arms, searched for the scar that Madam Choi had inflicted upon him. “It is indeed you.” He tore open Zhu’s tunic at the throat and searched, but the teeth of the fox faerie left no mark. “The thunder god did his job well.”

“The enemy is moving into position,” Zhu said. “I have seen the gathering of the hordes along the eastern wall. They descend to join their queen on the plains of Xian. Your armies are small, Brigade General. What is your plan?”

“I await word from Master Yun.”

“There is no time for that. Already, the Circle is complete. What magic have you to counter that?”

“Zhu,” Quan said. “I cannot believe the Mongols and the Manchus would choose to fight on the other side. Had this most recent skirmish at Shanhaiguan not been so frantic, I would have waylaid the Manchu leader and reasoned with him. We must find Liao Dong, and Altan of the Mongols. Perhaps they don’t know what’s at stake.”

“I am sure they do not,” Zhu said.

“Then what hope have we?” a voice said from the tent’s darkest corner.

An impressive figure stepped into the lantern’s light. He was tall and rugged of face and build, and had hair striped like a tiger.

“Admiral Fong,” Quan said. “This is He Zhu, a warrior monk, and one of my bravest and most skilled and steadfast fighters.”

“I no longer fight with crossbow and sword,” Zhu said. “But the Tiger’s Eye has betrayed me, and so, I will pick up my blade once more.”

“It is not the gemstone that has betrayed you,” Quan said. “The world has been transformed, turned upside down and inside out. You are not responsible for what that gemstone can or cannot do.”

“Enough of this esoteric talk,” Fong said. “Talk of magic gemstones will not save us. Look outside. You can hear the clanking of the enemy’s armour and the sharpening of their blades. That is what should be concerning us, not this bunk.”

Their camp was situated at the base of First Emperor’s tomb. Now, Quan led them uphill to the top where a flat plateau offered stable footing. The vegetation on the mound was dying from the bite of the autumn frost, and wind whipped dry soil into a fog of yellow dust. In the strangeness of the night, enemy torches blinked.

Admiral Fong gasped at the sight of the newly forming Magic Circle that marked the plain. Black troops in rigid formation, their armour gleaming in the torchlight—like so many gaming pieces—took up position. Would they stay like that all night? Standing beside He Zhu, Alai shivered. Her own people were part of the configuration. In the dark it was impossible to see their banners, but come morning every contingent would be marked with the silver-tipped, nine-tailed insignia of the Fox Queen. Only Quan stood untouched by the sight.

“We cannot fight this,” Fong said. “Her forces are too great in number. And they are not of this world. How can we fight magic?”

“Her armies do not fight with magic,” Quan replied. They fight with physical blows, weapons and shields. They have arms and legs just like us, no matter how mutated, and they ride mounts that are propelled by muscles just like ours and also bleed.”

“Some of them are ghosts and hopping corpses. They are the dead and the undead. An arrow or a sword cannot kill them. And, have you not seen the strange raiment of some of her other soldiers? Those horsemen are not of our time.”

“I have seen them, and I have fought against them,” Quan said. “They fight with bows, and under terror they will flee. As for the dead and the undead, we may not be able to kill them but we can try our utmost to hold them back.”

“Dahlia’s soldiers number in the hundreds of thousands,” Zhu said. “By my reckoning they are at least half a million strong.”

“Then it’s the end,” Fong said. “We may as well surrender. We have not the means to defeat such a force.”

“Surrender is not an option,” Quan said. “When Master Yun returns with Peng and Wu, we will have the makings of the Crosshairs.”

“You don’t even know if that will work,” Fong objected. “And you don’t know if Master Yun will be successful in rescuing Wu. Let me tell you what I know of the Fox Queen. She is old, older than time. My people are long-lived, and in all the generations of the White Tiger, fables of the fox faerie have endured. She lives to rule. She and her kith have ruled successive kingdoms, as long as there have been kingdoms to rule. She cannot die, not unless her tails are sliced off. And they must be sliced off in one fell swoop, all nine at once.”

Quan turned from surveying the terrifying view below them. “If that is all it takes, then I will seek her out and chop off her tails myself.”

“If it were that easy, don’t you think it would have been done by now?” Fong asked.

Zhu nodded. “The opportunity will not arise readily. Believe me, I know. And you should know, too, Quan. Both the Emperor and I were bewitched by Jasmine for years. Even now, Zheng Min is under her spell, as is the Mongol Altan. And look,” he said, pointing to the circle of armed soldiers blemishing the plain, she is protected by her own device.”

They headed back down the hill dejected. He Zhu knew they must fight or die, and he knew it was likely they would die whether they fought or not. He was through questioning how it was that he had already died once and returned to life, but that did not stop him from questioning whether it was possible for him to die again. He stopped at the foot of the mound and almost gagged. Quan lurched beside him and Fong’s face went as pale as the white bands in his hair. On a tall pike, the severed head of Zheng Min perched like a rotten melon.

%%%

It was dawn before Master Yun and Li completed their reconnaissance by air. Too long had they spent away from the war council.

“No, Master Yun. Not to the palace,” Li said. “Look there, isn’t that the White Tiger’s warship? Why is it heading down the Grand Canal, back out to sea?” She yelled, although from this height no one could possibly hear her. “Fong! You’re going the wrong way!”

Master Yun sent Fucanlong down toward the manmade waterway. They must stop the flight of the White Tiger at all costs. If he was fleeing, then it was certain that he had taken the Black Tortoise, too. Without Fong and Lao the Crosshairs was moot.

As they swooped to the deck of the warship, a huge shape suddenly lunged at them. The thing had wings like the dragon, but its form was totally undragonlike. Quilan, Master Yun thought, the dragon-horse. On its scaly back perched the white and black shape of the beautiful Jasmine.

Fucanlong was unable to breathe fire. He had no weapon other than teeth and claws. Burdened with four passengers, these weapons were useless. He might tip the riders off his back to their deaths. Master Yun willed a tail-spinning wind gust to send Jasmine and her mount careening. But her power had grown one-hundredfold since their last encounter. She laughed in a high tinkling voice that sounded like silver and righted her mount, her black hair streaming back from her face, her dark eyes amused. “Peng, my love,” she called to her daughter. “It’s time to come home. Mother misses you.”

Peng sat nestled in Master Yun’s lap and now she twisted to face him. “I don’t wish to go,” she whispered, hugging him hard.

“Then you shall not go.” He raised his head. “Leave, Fox Demon. Do not come near us again. Next time we meet, it will be in the battlefield.”

The legs of the dragon-horse reared, its hooves punching the cold air. Its wings flapped and Jasmine gripped its muscled haunches with satin-white thighs. The snowy fabric of her gown flowed like a wisp of cloud. “No one tells me what to do.”

The Quilin lunged at the blue dragon, spewing flame. Fucanlong parried the fire with his front claws. His passengers went screaming, tumbling and scrabbling for handholds. And Peng sailed out of Master Yun’s grip into the arms of her mother.

“After her!” Master Yun ordered.

The blue dragon wheeled in the direction of the Quilin and the fox faeries. He jabbed at the horselike rump, causing the dragon-horse to buck in outrage, spraying loose scales, hissing smoke. Foxes could not fly and it was Master Yun’s hope that they could shake the fox faeries off their steed and catch the foxling while her mother plunged to her doom.

Again, Master Yun urged Fucanlong to goad the dragon-horse. It bucked and this time its passengers went flying. Master Yun sent the blue dragon in a mad, flipping maneuver to meet the foxling in her free-fall, but with that action, Wu was jarred from Li’s grip and went soaring off the back of the dragon into empty space.

Li did not react. She seemed stunned as though she had just woken from a dream. Master Yun wasted no time. Peng or Wu? He had to catch both. Jasmine was already out of sight in a bank of thick cloud, her dragon-horse sinking after her. Wu was the nearest and he lunged for the boy, scooping him out of the air, then thrusting him into Li’s lap. “Snap out of it, Li. Hold onto the boy!” Peng had by now dropped into the bank of cloud and Master Yun shot down, hands gripping Fucanlong by the throat, steering him downward.

They were inside the bank of cloud and they were blind. All was a thick, choking fog. They had lost her. Either she had plunged to her death or Jasmine had survived, retrieved her flying mount and somehow saved Peng. He hoped it was the latter. But if it was the latter, they had no hope of retrieving the foxling. And so they might as well all be dead. Without Peng, they could not complete the Crosshairs.