The Red Plains (The Forbidden List Book 3) (34 page)

“We need to get Xióngmāo back to the Emperor and the others. They might be able to help her.” Zhou began to move her towards the steps and multitude of people below.

“You cannot kill death,” the voice behind them said, “not in his own realm.”

Looking over his shoulder, Zhou saw Yángwū climb to his feet all trace of the gash in his neck gone, and a new limb replacing the one Haung had severed.

“
I can help you. Send your friends back, Zhou. Let’s work together. Draw on me also
,” the voice of Shù said in his mind.

“Take her,” Zhou said to Haung and he stepped from under Xióngmāo’s arm, letting the
Taiji
take all of her slight weight. He placed a hand either side of her head and bent to plant a light kiss upon her brow. “Xióngmāo, go back to the world. Take Haung with you.”

“Zhou...” Haung began, but was stopped by a frail finger placed against his lips.

Xióngmāo, her eyes filmed with burgeoning tears, gave him a slow nod.

The
Wu
turned, the wild one, the father and husband, the diplomat and fighter, the lost one, and reached for the threads in his mind. The blue of the animal spirit, the panther that had been his companion and his hope, and the green of the life spirit that had guided and saved him numerous times. He grasped them both and pulled upon them, drawing their strength into his body, letting it fill him. Drowning in the combined power, he spread his fingers wide and the claws of the panther sprung forth.

“Go,” he growled around the four sharp canine teeth that had erupted through his gums.

Without looking again, Zhou raced forward. Yángwū’s first bolt of white caught him in the chest where it flared against the blue and green of his combined spirits. His armour and clothing rotted and fell away, the skin underneath turning a mottled grey. The discolouration lasted only the blink of an eye before fresh, young skin returned.

In return, Zhou’s upward swipe of his claws ripped open Yángwū’s belly, four ragged rents in the fat man’s stomach revealing layers of fat, pink with blood, beneath. The immortal staggered, the force of the blow robbing him of balance, but already the wounds were closing.

Two quick steps and Zhou had grabbed the front of Yángwū’s robe, lifted the larger man from his feet and thrown him across the platform to smash into the throne. The back of the wooden chair snapped off as Yángwū went rolling over it and crashing to the floor beyond.

Zhou pressed his advantage, running forward and pouncing upon the downed man, wrapping both clawed hands around his throat and squeezing. The sensation of the claw tips puncturing the skin on the immortal’s neck was strangely pleasant and rewarding. Zhou leaned back and roared his success. Then, snapping his head forward, he bit down upon Yángwū’s neck. Hot, salty blood filled his mouth.

“Get,” Yángwū screamed, “off of me!”

A crashing wave of power lifted Zhou up and threw him tumbling through the air, over the throne and right to the edge of the platform. He tucked his body, completing a rotation, a somersault, before flattening out again and landing on all fours. Zhou stood, the rest of his clothes rotting and falling away in clouds of cloying, damp dust. Once more, his skin turned the mottled grey pallor of death and Zhou felt the chill in his bones.

“You cannot stop me,” Yángwū shouted as he too stood, wiping the blood from his neck and hands, no trace the wounds upon his body.

Zhou drew more power. He asked for it all and it was granted. Skin changed. Dark fur sprouted, covering his body and plates of bark formed on his arms, chest and legs.

On the opposite side of the platform, Yángwū lifted his hands and coruscating balls of bright white light were conjured into existence.

The
Wu
roared out his challenge and, with clawed hands spread wide, darted forward to meet Yángwū’s attack.

Haung cradled the aged Xióngmāo in his arms, half-carrying and half-assisting her down the stairs. Behind him, a flash of white light and a bestial roar.

“Can you get us back to the real world?” he asked her, looking down to the bottom of the stairs and the gathering white robed servants.

The frail old woman nodded and her fingers gripped his tighter.

“Hold tight,” she whispered and he fell.

Through the realms they tumbled. Sliding through rock, the taste of metal upon his tongue. The whistling rush of air past his ears, sucking in a breath, followed by cold wash of water and the fight to keep his mouth closed as they sank further. Steam rising from his armour as the water was evaporated in a flash of heat and fire. An itching agony of a million bites on every bit of skin, the stabbing of a thousand knives into his flesh, a slow bend and break of every bone in his body. He screamed, his throat raw and his lungs packed with broken glass.

Cold. Not just an absence of heat, or the cold of a winter’s day, but absolute, bone chilling cold. It chilled the air left in his lungs and stopped his heart. The scream died in the darkness and a feeling of absolute isolation crushed his soul. He wanted to sleep, to die, to give in and have the emptiness, the loneliness end.

A feather brushed his face. Another stroked his closed eyelid. A cold, wet kiss caressed his lips.

“Jiao,” he mumbled, the face of his wife fading from view as he struggled to open eyes.

He was lying on his back and the constant fall of snow was covering him in a fine layer of soft white flakes. Haung cast his gaze around, taking in the scene. The immortals, those that lived, had not moved from their seats. Their streams of power still flowed into the rising column in the centre of the table. Sabaa was slumped in her seat, blood soaking her robes and her eyes closed. The dagger still protruded from Biyu’s chest, but her eyes were open and focused upon her task. Jing Ke was still reaching out towards the Jade Emperor, but the man with the grey hair and long grey beard had a hold on the assassin’s arm. Xióngmāo was on the ground next to him, her age spotted skin still hanging in wrinkles and her eyes closed. She looked small in the armour she wore and it was only the slight movement of her chest that told him she was alive.

Zhou and Yángwū were stood, hands around each other’s throat. The cords in their arms and hands bulged with effort. However, they were strangely still and it was difficult to focus on them, as if they were here and yet were not. Not transparent, but certainly translucent. Haung rolled over and climbed to his feet, sword in hand.

“We can’t kill him,” Haung said to the immortals, noticing the sweat that was pouring down each of their faces.

“Use the sword,” Dà Lóng said, gritting his teeth.

“I tried,” Hang said and lifted the sword up to indicate its ineffectuality. The sword he raised was not his
Jian
. His, he saw, rested on the ground near Yángwū, covered in a layer of snow. The one in his hand was a
Jian
sword, but where his shone like polished silver, this one was pristine white from the pointed tip, down both sides of the blade, the hand guard, hilt and the pommel
.
Even the tassel, the
Jianpao
, that dangled from the pommel was made of pure white threads.

“A servant’s sword,” Dà Lóng gasped. “A sword of death. Use it.”

Haung took a renewed grip upon the sword and settled into the quiet, letting his concerns and worries drift away, walling his thoughts away and letting his subconscious take over, to do what needed to be done.

He stepped forward onto his right foot, the hilt of the sword launching from its position near his hip, rising up and twisting his wrist as the sword neared its full extension. The sharp tip slid between Yángwū’s ribs, blade horizontal, and on into the immortal’s heart. Haung let his arm relax and the sword twisted back toward the vertical, tearing the wound in Yángwū’s side and forcing the ribs apart.

The bald man stiffened in Zhou’s grip as Haung withdrew the sword, a gout of blood spewing from the wound and welling up from the man’s mouth.

The otherness of both men faded. Zhou staggered backwards, scorch marks, cuts and wounds covering his body, and fell to his knees. Yángwū fell forward, his arms did not come out to break his fall.

Haung looked down at the fallen immortal, blood staining the snow. The sword remained unsullied. “He’s dead.”

“It is not over,” a voice, barely a whisper carried through the chill air, said.

Haung turned to look at the speaker, the Jade Emperor. “Why?”

“I am spent, my life-force is too weak. I have been here too long, too much power aiding you through the realms. After all these millennia, I am dying and the universe will reassert its will upon this world. All that I have fought for will be lost. Humans will lose their power to change and will become, as before, merely beasts rooting round in the dirt. Prey for all the other beasts out there.”

“Take the power,” Jing Ke said. “We give it freely,”

“I cannot, my
Taiji
,” the old, grey haired being said. “It will not be enough.”

“Their spirits will find new hosts, then they can grant you the energy you need,” Dà Lóng panted.

“It will take too long,” the Jade Emperor said. “There is one way. I must sacrifice myself, all that I am, that I was and will be. Give it all to a new host.”

“Me,” Haung said, stepping forward.

“No,” the Jade Emperor said, shaking his head. “You do not have the training to survive the process and energy of the realms. It needs to be someone trained.”

“Me,” Dà Lóng said.

“No, me,” Jing Ke interrupted. “I do not seek the power, but the Empire needs its Emperor. There are Mongols loose in the land.”

“You are all immortals, already full and aligned to a spirit. The transfer might damage your bond, or worse disrupt the subtle balance of the realms, favouring one over the other. It cannot be that way.”

“Me, my Lord,” Zhou said in a sad whisper. “I have the training and not long been a
Wu.
I’ve also carried the spirit of life, of Lady Shù. There is nothing for me here and I will not be missed.”

“You would sacrifice yourself willingly?” the Jade Emperor asked. “You will lose something of you and gain something of me.”

Haung watched the pain write itself across Zhou’s face as he looked down to the unconscious form of Xióngmāo. The indecision created by the choice was clear. A man who had lost his wife, child and city, that had battled to forge a new life only to have that destroyed as well. Now, having formed a bond with Xióngmāo, he was about to give that up too, but if he did not, then it was likely that the life he wished to have would never come to pass.

“Will I be able to help her?” Zhou asked. “Will we?”

“No,” the Jade Emperor whispered sadly. “When the sacrifices are made, we will fade from this world for another thousand years. It cannot be any other way.”

Haung sensed the fear emanating from Zhou. Fear, not for himself or his future, but for Xióngmāo.

“She has a father and son who need her,” Zhou said. “Family means something. She deserves to have time with hers.”

“I can do nothing,” the Jade Emperor wheezed. “We must be quick. I feel the universe attacking even now.”

“I will aid her, Zhou,” the Lady Shù said. “I will do what I can, though it may take many years. The realm of life is mine and though I may not undo all that Death did to her, I can do something.”

Haung looked between the two of them. Watching Zhou battle with the decision to give up his life here, leave everyone and everything behind, and Haung saw determination light up the
Wu’s
eyes.

“My thanks, my Lady,” Zhou bowed to her and turned to the Emperor. “How do we do this?”

“Come here,” the Jade Emperor beckoned with a hand that shook with the effort. “Take my hand. Jing Ke, place yours above ours.”

Haung glanced away as a low moan came from Xióngmāo. He knelt down to help her stand.

“What is happening?” she said in a faint voice.

He saw her eyes slowly focus upon the sight of Zhou stumbling across the snow covered ground to kneel before the Emperor.

“No,” Xióngmāo whispered, the realisation and shock clear in her voice. She tried to move forward, but her legs were too weak, too shaky, and it was all Haung could do to keep her upright.

“He chose this,” Haung said.

“He doesn’t understand,” she said. “He never does. He acts on emotion, on whims, not thought.”

“He has a good heart,” Haung agreed. “But this time, he knows the risks and promises made.”

A glow, a rainbow swirl of colours, began to shine from the combined hands of the Emperor and Zhou. Jing Ke’s hand hovered above the two.

“Zhou,” Xióngmāo called, the effort to raise her voice brought hacking coughs from her lungs, but he heard her, turning a sad face upon her.

Haung could not be sure what passed between the two of them. Whatever it was, it drew a choking sob from the small woman who sagged in his arms, all her energy spent. He lowered her to the floor, seeing tears stream from the old woman’s eyes.

“
Taiji
,” the Jade Emperor spoke in a firm voice, “now.”

Jing Ke raised his hand, drawing all the power of the remaining immortals into it, the vortex twisting high into the snow filled sky, piercing the clouds, a diffuse glow spreading across the whole horizon. The world paused, drew a deep breath, and Jing Ke’s hand fell in an explosion of light and a cacophony of sound.

It washed over Haung, driving him to the floor where he lay, covering Xióngmāo with his body and hoping it would all end.