Dragonwall (26 page)

Having seen the fate of his two fellows, the guard took no chances with Wu. The blade felt icy and painful in the noblewoman’s lung, and the strength to continue fighting escaped with her final scream. The guard’s thrust carried her a full two feet. She landed on her back with the polearm protruding from her chest. The guard still held the other end.

Ting had not moved. The minister stared at her attacker with a look of uncomprehending shock, hardly registering that she had come within a breath of dying.

Wu lay on the floor for what seemed to her like an eternity of silence, struggling to breathe through the cold agony in her lungs. The only thing she could see, the only thing she was aware of, was the guard at the other end of the polearm. He was a young man, no older than Batu had been when she had first met him. The youthful soldier looked deathly afraid.

Ji and Yo screamed and rushed toward their mother’s side. The earless veteran caught and restrained them before they arrived.

Recovering from her shock, Ting stepped to Wu’s feet and pushed the frightened young guard aside. The anger had drained from her face. It had been replaced by something between incredulity and sadness. “Why?” she asked. “Why such a foolish attack?”

“For… children,” Wu gasped. Each word made her lungs ache as though she were breathing ice instead of air. An agonized half-scream escaped her lips.

Ting looked at the veteran holding the children. “They don’t need to see this! Get them away from here!” She waved her arms at the other guards. “Get away from here, all of you!”

The veteran obediently took the children and left the hall. The rest of the guards retreated to the edge of the room.

Ting returned her attention to Wu. “Where is the ebony tube?” she asked, kneeling at the wounded woman’s side. “It doesn’t matter now. Tell me.”

Wu shook her head. “Children are safe.”

“What do you mean? Why are they safe?” the mandarin asked as she leaned close.

“No good to kill—if I’m dead,” Wu said.

“Is that what you think?” Ting sighed, her voice breaking with regret and guilt. “They must die anyway.”

Wu lifted her head. “Why?” Though she had intended to yell, a hiss was all that escaped her lips.

Ting could no longer meet Wu’s gaze. “Because they might know.”

“No!” Wu’s arm shot up from her side, and she clasped Ting’s throat. Her fingers closed into the dragon’s claw choke, but the last breath left her lungs before she could crush the mandarin’s larynx.

Hsuang Yu Po had never thought the odor of roasting meat would make him so miserable. The smell was rich and sweet, for the meat had been basted with honey. A desperate longing stirred in his stomach, and his mouth watered with a hunger that he knew would not be satisfied.

“Knaves,” commented Cheng Han. The tzu’s powder-stained face was drawn with starvation. His good eye bulged from its sunken socket, but the useless one had receded even farther into his haggard skull. His breath stank from the internal effects of starvation, and his k’ai hung off his frame as though his body were an armor stand.

With the other commanders of the noble armies, the two men stood in the highest room of Shou Kuan’s bell tower. Save for a rough-hewn table, several benches lining the walls, and a window overlooking the city’s main gate, the room was barren. Even the plastered walls had never been painted.

The window looked over the gate to the dusty road running from Shou Kuan to Tai Tung, the location of the emperor’s summer palace. Although the road ran eastward, it entered Shou Kuan from the south, as was customary. If the main gate had been on any wall but the southern, it was commonly believed, evil spirits would have found it easy to enter the city.

Before turning eastward, the road ran seventy yards south and climbed to the top of a knoll. On top of the knoll stood two hundred shirtless Tuigan. From the bell tower’s window, Hsuang could barely make out their long braids of hair and the shaven circles on the tops of their heads.

The half-dressed barbarians were tending fifty large, smoky fires. Over each fire, huge slabs of meat were roasting. As the enemy clearly intended, the morning breeze was carrying the smell directly to Hsuang and the others.

Hsuang tore his eyes away from the tormenting sight. To the right and left of the bell tower, the city walls were manned by soldiers of the Twenty-Five Armies. Like Tzu Cheng and the other commanders, the soldiers appeared gaunt and haggard. To a man, their glassy eyes were fixed on the smoky fires outside the city. Although the men’s appearance and obvious hunger concerned Hsuang, he was far from shocked or surprised. In the three weeks since the battle at Shihfang, nobody had eaten more than a few handfuls of grain.

After the battle, the Twenty-Five Armies had retreated under cover of darkness. The Tuigan had followed close behind, preparing to attack. Fortunately, the peasants had obeyed Hsuang’s messengers and burned their lands that very night. As the noble armies retreated down the road, their flanks had been protected by blazing fields. Only a small rearguard had been required to keep the Tuigan from overtaking them. Most of survivors had reached the safety of Shou Kuan’s walls shortly before dawn.

Up to that point, everything had gone according to Batu’s plan, and Hsuang had remained confident that his son-in-law would overcome the barbarians. However, the noble’s confidence had deteriorated when his subordinates reported the city’s condition. Upon hearing of the noble armies’ defeat, the efficient citizens of Shou Kuan had obeyed the directive Hsuang had sent before the battle. They had burned their food stores and fled, leaving the city deserted and barren.

Hsuang had begun each of the twenty-one days since by cursing himself for not sending a special messenger to the city prefect. Of course, his self-derision had done nothing to alleviate his mistake, and now he was in danger of failing Batu. The troops of the Twenty-Five Annies were starving. It would not be long before they lacked the strength to keep the barbarians from the city. Already, men were dying of hunger, and illness was on the rise.

Hsuang wondered where his son-in-law was. Two days ago, the tzu had promised his subordinates that help would arrive soon, but he knew they placed no faith in that vague reassurance. Unfortunately, without the Mirror of Shao, he could not contact Batu to ask when the provincial armies would arrive. Nebulous promises were all he had available to keep up his men’s morale.

Hsuang was the not only one concerned with the army’s morale. Pointing at the dusty knoll outside the gates, Cheng Han said, “Those cooking fires are within archery range. Let the men occupy themselves by making the enemy pay for his fun.”

Hsuang considered the request, but finally decided against it. “No. We’ll need the arrows when help arrives.”

“Of course,” Cheng said, bowing modestly. “What could I have been thinking?” There was a barely concealed look of mockery in his eyes, but he made no further protest.

Hsuang did not blame the man for his doubt. The gray-haired noble still had not told his subcommanders that Batu intended to surprise the Tuigan at Shou Kuan. If the enemy stormed the city and happened to capture one of the nobles, Hsuang did not want his son-in-law’s plan revealed.

The old lord was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this decision. Shou nobles did not fear death nearly as much as they feared dying like cowards. Yesterday, one young lord had actually suggested mounting a suicidal charge before the pengs grew too weak to fight. To Hsuang’s alarm, several wiser nobles had voiced support for the young man’s idea. The commander wondered how long it would be before the rest of the lords urged him to choose battle over starvation.

Considering their restlessness, Hsuang decided it would be wise to allow his men some fun at the barbarians’ expense—providing it didn’t cost too many arrows. Turning to his subordinates, he said, “On further thought, I think Tzu Cheng is right: we should make the Tuigan pay for our misery. Each of you may select ten archers. Give each archer four arrows. We will see which of our armies kills the most barbarians.”

The nobles all smiled and voiced their approval. Within seconds, each lord was laying wagers that his archers would kill more barbarians than those of any other army.

Cheng approached Hsuang. “A wise decision,” said the scar-eyed lord. “By tomorrow, our men may be too weak to pull their bows.”

“Let us hope they remain strong a few days longer than that,” Hsuang countered, catching the tzu’s eyes with a meaningful gaze. “I am confident that help will arrive soon.”

Before Cheng could respond, a sentry knocked on the stairway door. “My lords, it is most urgent!” he called.

Hsuang cast an eye out the tower window to see if the enemy had moved. The fires on the knoll were smoking more than previously, but the Tuigan appeared no closer to attack than they had been at dawn.

“A messenger from Tai Tung has passed through the enemy lines!” the sentry added.

An incredulous murmur rustled through the room. Hsuang called, “Bring him in.”

The door opened and the guard escorted an exhausted man wearing a purple, dust-covered waitao into the room. Though he had more flesh on his bones than the soldiers of the noble armies, the man looked every bit as drained. His face was pale and weary. Blood seeped down his brow from beneath a fresh bandage on his head.

Hsuang stepped forward to greet the messenger, but Tzu Cheng held out a restraining arm. “For all we know, this man is a barbarian assassin.”

The old noble gently pushed Cheng’s arm aside. “This is no barbarian,” he said. “This is my steward.”

The sentry’s eyes widened in shock. Glancing at the wound over Xeng’s brow, the soldier bowed. “Forgive me, Tzu Hsuang. Your steward knocked at my gate, but when we opened it, there was nothing there. We saw a blur entering the city, and thought he was an enemy spy!”

“It is only a cut, and there is nothing to apologize for,” Xeng said to the soldier. He turned to his father. “It was my fault, Tzu Hsuang. I should have identified myself.”

Though he did not feel as magnanimous as his steward, Hsuang dismissed the guard without punishment. He turned to Xeng, forgetting himself and holding out his arms to embrace his son. Fortunately, the younger man suffered no such lapse of decorum and simply bowed to the lord.

Flushing at his slip, Hsuang returned the gesture of courtesy. “I am both happy and sad that you have come, Xeng,” the old noble said. “Seeing you again gives me joy, but I regret that you now share our danger”

“There is nothing to regret, Tzu Hsuang,” responded Xeng, using his dusty sleeve to wipe a trickle of blood from his brow. “When I left the summer palace, I knew your circumstances. It was my choice to join you.”

As the steward spoke, his knees began to wobble and he looked as if he might collapse.

“Perhaps you should sit,” Hsuang said, directing his son to one of the benches along the room’s stark walls. After Xeng was seated, Hsuang asked, “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you watching over your mother and Wu?”

Xeng looked away. “I failed,” he said. “They’re dead.”

Hsuang studied his son for a long moment, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. “Who? Who’s dead?”

“Everyone,” the steward replied, still unable to meet his father’s gaze. “Ting Mei Wan killed them all.”

The old lord backed away as if withdrawing from a leper’s presence. “What are you saying?”

“I couldn’t save them,” Xeng said, his voice weak with grief.

Hsuang finally grasped what his son had come to tell him. His eyes grew vacant and glassy, as if his spirit had fled his body. “Ji and Yo?” he asked hopefully.

“I have heard that your grandchildren did not suffer. Ting had that much mercy.”

Hsuang’s knees buckled. He would have fallen had Cheng not caught him and helped him to the bench. Though the pained tzu found the strength to keep from crying out or sobbing, he could do nothing else but stare into empty space. Finally, the old noble asked, “Why?”

Xeng turned to face his father. “Before she was killed, Lady Wu asked me to deliver this to the emperor.” He withdrew an ebony tube from his robe and gave it to his father.

Hsuang took it, then removed two papers from inside. The first was Wu’s letter to the emperor. It explained how she had come by the second paper, which was Ting Mei Wan’s report to the “Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples.”

When he finished reading, Hsuang looked up. In a quivering voice, he told the other nobles what the letters contained. After the murmur of astonishment died away, the old lord asked his son, “Why did you bring these to Shou Kuan?” Though he did not intend it to, his voice held a note of reproach.

Xeng’s lips dropped into a mortified frown. “I didn’t know what else to do. Minister Ting’s soldiers had surrounded the emperor, and she was searching for me in every corner of the summer palace.”

“You could have hidden anywhere in Shou Lung!” Hsuang yelled, his grief finally overcoming his self-control. “What good do you expect these letters to do here?”

At Hsuang’s outburst, the other nobles uncomfortably shifted their glances to the wall and stood motionless.

Xeng looked at the floor. “I failed you.”

The old noble regarded Xeng for many moments, sorry that he had taken his anguish out on his son. Finally, Hsuang rolled the papers and returned them to the tube.

“No,” the old noble said, grasping Xeng’s shoulder. “You haven’t failed me, but you will return these letters to the summer palace. See that they reach the emperor. Ting Mei Wan must pay for her crimes.”

“He’s wounded!” Tzu Cheng objected. “He won’t last a day!”

Hsuang looked at his son with demanding eyes. “My steward is a strong man” he said.

“Tzu Hsuang,” Cheng said, daring to meet his commander’s severe gaze, “in your grief, you are asking too much of your servant. It is a wonder he reached us at all. That he could pass back through the enemy lines wounded is unthinkable.”

Xeng returned to his feet. “I will try, if that is what my lord wishes.”

Hsuang gave the ebony tube to his son. “That is what I wish,” he said. The old noble was not being callous or cruel. Hsuang could not bear the thought of his son being in Shou Kuan if the city happened to fall before Batu arrived.