Iron Jaw and Hummingbird (28 page)

“Just a company, though?” Gamine looked up from the map and met Huang's eyes. “That's just four platoons, isn't it? What is that, two and a half hundred soldiers?”

Huang nodded. “Just about.”

“We're more than two thousand strong. Why should you be worried?”

Huang shook his head in exasperation. “Two thousand, yes, but all infantry, and many of them only poorly trained. In a standing fight, we might just handle two hundred fifty professional soldiers, but only if they forget to bring their heavy armament from home. And if they bring crawlers with mounted cannon? We might as well forget about it. It wouldn't take more than a handful of mounted crawlers to wipe us out entirely.”

Gamine crossed her arms over her chest. She was tempted to say that the powers would protect them but knew that Huang wouldn't respond well. And even she wasn't sure if she'd have been joking to say it.

“So where are we going, then?” Gamine finally asked. “If you're right, it won't take long for troops from Red Sands to get here.”

Huang scowled and leaned in to study the map more closely.

To the south and east stretched Tianfei Valley, where the three valley provinces were strung like beads on a necklace—too populated and well guarded. To the north and east was the Great Yu Canyon, where the highlands dropped precipitously down thousands of feet to the canyon floor far below—even if they could reach the canyon, there was no way down, and they'd be forced to divert days to the north just to get in. To the west were the highlands, with the Three Sovereigns mountains in the distance, and Bao Shan rising beyond—the high, rocky ground would offer little protection for a caravan on the march, and they'd be easy targets. All that was left was the south and west.

“Forking Paths,” Huang said, indicating the mazelike tangle of ravines and box canyons that started just to the southwest of their current position. “It's close enough that we might be able to get into the maze before the troops catch up with us. And if we can do that, there's a good chance that we could lose them.”

“And if we don't?” Gamine asked.

Huang looked up from the map and gave her a humorless smile.

“In that case, we better hope they forgot to bring their crawlers and heavy arms along, is all I can think.”

 

Gamine and Huang walked alongside their crawler as the sun dipped toward the western horizon ahead of them on the right.

“What's wrong with you?” Gamine asked, glancing sidelong at Huang. “You keep fidgeting.”

Huang scowled and flapped his hands in front of him. “My fingers itch, if you must know.”

Gamine narrowed her gaze. “
Which
fingers?”

Huang glanced over at her, wearing a frustrated expression. “Which do you think?” He held up his left hand, his scowl deepening.

On his left hand, Huang was missing all of his smallest finger and part of the next, while on his right hand his middle finger ended at the second knuckle. The three fingers were tipped with lumps of red scar tissue that had hardened into solid callus in the years since his injury. One night, during one of their quiet, tender moments of sharing, Huang had explained how he'd lost the fingers and what their loss had come to mean to him. The lost digits were a symbol of his connection to the bandits, most of whom had been scarred or disfigured in some way down in the mines. And so Huang never lamented the absence but carried it as a badge of honor.

Still, there were times when Huang complained of phantom pains, of twinges and itches in the fingers that were no longer there. And since they were gone, there was nothing to scratch, and nothing to ease the discomfort.

Gamine pursed her lips. “You know what
that
means.”

“Not
this
again,” Huang answered, rolling his eyes. “Look, it's nothing more than severed nerve endings misfiring, sending false signals through my nervous system. There's nothing
mysterious
about it.”

Gamine shook her head. Once, she might have agreed with him. She'd been just as analytical and rational as a child, and in her time as a confidence artist she'd learned that the simplest and most reasonable answer was almost always the correct one. Still, these days she couldn't help but feel that there were sometimes meanings beyond the obvious, and explanations other than the most reasonable.

“Have you forgotten already?” she asked. “Whenever you complain of your phantom pains, disaster or tragedy always follows. It isn't just a question of misfiring nerve endings. The pain is a precursor to danger, a signal to alert us of some approaching threat.”

“Oh, come on,” Huang said, his tone exasperated. “One time the ‘disaster' came only a few hours after my phantom pains, I'll admit, but another time it took weeks until the ‘prophesied danger' came about. In our world, it doesn't take any special foreknowledge to predict that something bad will
eventually
happen. It's just a matter of time.”

Gamine saw from his expression that there was nothing to be gained from pressing the issue. He was certain that it was nothing more than coincidence and no cause for concern. For her part, though, Gamine was far from convinced. Something bad was coming, she knew it now.

 

“Look's like luck is with us, Chief,” Jue said, handing Huang the binoculars, hanging on to a railing to keep from jostling off the crawler's roof. “Or against us, if you want to look at it that way.”

Huang squinted through the glasses at the column of men and machines marching at the head of the plume of red dust.

“Looks like four squads,” he said, “maybe five.”

“I make it at five,” Ruan said, scowling.

Jue nodded in the skeletal bandit's direction. “I counted five, as well, Chief.”

Huang lowered the binoculars. “That's no more than eighty soldiers, altogether.” He sighed. “Which
would
be lucky, if only . . .”

He trailed off and glanced behind him at the Fists' convoy. It would have been lucky, if the Fists had reached the safety of the Forking Paths by now. As it was, they were still woefully short, and the caravan was ill prepared to defend itself.

“Come on,” Huang said, moving toward the hatch to clamber back down into the crawler. “Let's tell the others.”

Moments later, rejoining the other members of the council, Huang recounted what they had learned about the pursuing soldiers, and what that suggested for the caravan's chances for survival.

“They shouldn't be on us yet, should they?” Mama Noh asked.

Huang shook his head. “No,” he answered. “They shouldn't.”

Given the distances involved, even with the relatively slower speeds the Fists' caravan was able to manage, they should have reached the Forking Paths labyrinth long before the soldiers arrived. Given the small number of troops, and the speed of their arrival, the only answer was that they had been on maneuvers in the area and had been radioed by the airship or by their command at Red Sands Basin to divert to the caravan's location and engage.

“How close are we?” Gamine asked.

Huang knew all too well what she meant. “The head of the caravan has almost reached the entrance to the Forking Paths.” He sighed, tensing his hands into fists at his sides. “If the body of the caravan could get within the maze of canyons, our chances of eluding capture go up exponentially.”

“I don't see those squads giving us that kind of chance, chief,” Jue said.

Ruan scowled and shook his head. “They'll be here too soon for that.”

Huang nodded. There was only one solution. It wasn't a good one, but it was the only choice they had.

 

“What?!” Temujin was the first to respond, but his shout of disbelief gave voice to the wide-eyed expressions all of them wore.

“It's the only way,” Huang said somberly. “Some of us will have to stay behind and delay the soldiers, to give the rest of the caravan time to get safely within the labyrinth.” He stood up and moved to open the crawler's side hatch. “Come on, there isn't any time to waste.”

Huang leaped down to the ground, followed by the others, as the crawlers of the Harmonious Fists continued their slow but inexorable journey to the southwest. Squinting against the swirling clouds of dust, the leaders of the Fists regrouped, concluding their hasty council.

“I want two hundred of our best-trained fighters,” Huang said, “ready to march out and meet our pursuit.”

“And I want a drink,” Temujin said, looking more sober than Huang had seen him in ages.

“I'll get our best marksmen pulled out of line and armed,” Jue said, ignoring the old man's feeble joke.

Ruan rubbed his chin. “I can think of a few dozen good hand-to-hand fighters I've been working with.”

Huang shook his head. “Won't be enough. We'll need more.”

“I may be past my own prime, dear ones, in matters martial,” Mama Noh said, straightening the hem of her skirt, “but I'm sure my people wouldn't hesitate to put their own skills at your disposal.”

“That helps.” Huang nodded. “And we'll need you leading the caravan, Noh. Can you catch up with the lead crawler?”

Mama Noh looked back over her shoulder at the yellowish green crawler inching along, barely above a brisk walking pace. “I'm not quite
that
far past my prime, Hummingbird. But must I command from that rattletrap? Couldn't I just as well lead the way in
comfort
?” She pointed to the red-painted crawler, following close behind, which had been her own home for years.

Huang smiled. “I don't think that should be a problem.”

Mama Noh flashed him a grin and a wink, wished the others luck, and then hurried off to send the opera players over and to take her place in the red crawler.

“Temujin,” Huang said, turning to the old man. “Can you take the lead crawler, instead?”

The old man scratched beneath his beard, scowling, but finally nodded. “My hindquarters must be made of less sensitive stuff than the great Noh's, since if the choice is riding in the crawler or standing out here in the dust with you lot, the question as to which is more comfortable hardly needs answering.”

The old man exchanged a look with Gamine and then hurried off to catch up with the crawler, still rumbling toward the Forking Paths.

“Having the players onside gets us close,” Huang said, “but we could still use more bodies.”

“What about me?” Gamine said.

Huang looked over at her, his eyebrow raised.

Gamine gave a sly grin. “I can handle myself in a fight.”

Huang gave her a worried look. “Look, Gamine, this isn't the kind of fight where punches will be pulled, you know?”

“No,
you
look.” Gamine crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. “I may not have been a soldier or plied the bandit's trade, but at the same time I'd guess that none of you spent an hour every day throughout your entire childhood being trained in self-defense, did you?”

Huang quirked a smile and shook his head.

“Just where
did
you grow up, anyway?” Jue asked, giving her an appraising look.

Huang and Gamine both glanced his way and smiled. “It's a long story,” she said, and Huang nodded in agreement.

“Your
followers
won't be too impressed if their ‘Iron Jaw' comes back injured,” Jue replied.

“Or dead,” Ruan put in, scowling.

Huang shot him a sharp look, then turned back to Gamine wearing a concerned expression. “Are . . . are you sure about this?”

Gamine fixed him with a grin. “What choice do we have? After all, what will my followers think if I
don't
stand and fight?”

Huang reached out and placed a tender hand on her shoulder. “Be careful, will you?”

“Don't worry.” She reached up and rapped on her jaw with a knuckle. “Best beloved of the powers, remember? They won't let me down.”

 

A short while later, as the Fists readied themselves for the soldiers' first assault, Gamine wished that she actually felt the confidence she'd affected with such bravado when volunteering for the duty. For that matter, she wished that she really
were
rendered invulnerable by supernatural powers. Looking at the soldiers now arraying themselves against the Fists, Gamine felt certain that a jaw of iron would come in handy in very short order.

The soldiers arrived with a crawler, but fortunately for the Fists it did not appear to be equipped with heavy armament. And despite the fact that the soldiers all carried rifles, they were approaching over such level and hard-packed ground that there were few places for their snipers to brace themselves against recoil, which reduced the chances that the Fists would all be picked off at range.

The Fists, for their part, had the advantage of terrain on their side. While the soldiers were forced to approach, with no cover but the crawler to hide behind, Huang had selected a narrow defile for the Fists to make their stand. The defile, a passage between two sheer cliffs, was a naturally formed gateway into the Forking Paths labyrinth. The distance between the two sides was no more than a half dozen paces, the width of seven or eight of the Fists standing abreast.

Huang ordered a handful of snipers to be positioned just beyond the defile, facing the approaching soldiers. Lying low on the ground, with their feet propped against the base of the cliff walls themselves, the snipers were well positioned to target the approaching pursuers and open fire.

Had the snipers been able to fire unobstructed on the soldiers, the encounter would have been a short one. Unfortunately for the Fists, the platoons' leaders had anticipated the strategy, and ordered the soldiers marching on foot to form a single-file rank behind the crawler, letting its large, metal bulk shield them from rifle fire. The snipers, unable to draw a bead on the soldiers, contented themselves with firing at the crawler itself, but their shots only plunked harmlessly off the crawler's armor plating, and in time Huang ordered them to hold fire to keep from wasting ammunition.