The art of legend, p.46
The Art of Legend, page 46
The young spirit shaman led her to an open pit at the center of the sanctuary. Known as the Khan’s Peaceful Fury, it was a circular meditation spot with the stones raked into a spiral that met at the center at a raised circular platform. The pit was surrounded by a larger blackrock chamber with a domed ceiling. Directly above it was an opening to the sky. It was a place Sali had frequented as a child. This was where Jiamin had been tested by a soulseeker.
Speaking of which, Sali stopped the moment she caught Jiamin’s—no, the khan’s—eyes and bowed. She was a prisoner, but there was no reason to be rude. Besides, she performed the bow automatically. Sali was annoyed.
The Eternal Khan of Katuia was shirtless with his hair pulled back in a ponytail. His sides were covered by face-framing strands that looked like long saber fangs. The khan looked strong and was taller than her by two heads and easily half a body wider. His face was chiseled, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose and chin. His eyes were sunken and covered by wild, thick eyebrows. The man’s body was crawling with muscles, thick knots that rippled with every movement. He was tanned and lightly marred with cuts, but otherwise stood as a supreme specimen of a warrior.
Except he wasn’t, not really. Sali knew the truth.
Nine people surrounded the khan: two spirit shamans, two female attendants, three dressed like wills of the khan, and a cupbearer. The last, a pretty woman wearing little except the barest modesty, was lounging at a small table off to the side. All of this was cliché, like a scene out of an ancient Katuia fable.
The khan was working through open-hand fighting drills with his two wills, taking on both at once, their feet kicking up sand with their continued exchanges. Sali studied him as he split the air with a lightning first step. His arm swings were powerful yet soft, like a rushing ocean wave. One such strike smacked one of his wills in the chest. There was a delayed reaction, and then the will flew backward as if launched from a catapult. He fell far outside the pit and nearly landed on the hard obsidian floor. His momentum was too great, however, as he lost his balance a second time, skidding along his backside until he slammed into the far wall. The other will of the khan launched a series of quick snapping kicks.
All three war artists fought in the house style of Chaqra, known as Eight Limbed Art. It was an aggressive and straightforward war art, focused on battering an enemy down with aggression and strength. The outcome of the melee was never in doubt. As soon as her partner was knocked out, the female will of the khan gave it her best effort, but she was easily dispatched by the khan’s superior power. There was nothing elegant about the sparring session as the khan cracked down upon her with a large forehand. Within moments, he drove her to her knees and then gave her a haughty shove to the side, sending her falling on the sand and gasping for breath.
Sali’s eyebrows furrowed. Jiamin had never been this rough with his Sacred Cohort. Sali would have been the first to dunk his head in a piss trough if he had been so hard on any of them like that.
The khan noticed her and gestured for her to approach. “Salminde, I’m recollecting many things about you. I wish to know if it’s true.”
“All you had to do is ask.” She had to bite down on her lip to keep from saying “my khan.”
“What I wish to know cannot be told,” he replied.
The cupbearer approached and sank to her knees, holding up a long wooden box. The khan reached in and pulled out a coiled rope. Her gaze intensified. The man had her tongue. She had mourned its loss, assuming it was gone forever. Sali remained calm, not allowing her face to betray her emotions. The khan held the tongue in his hand and tossed it over. Sali plucked it out of the air and placed it in its holster.
He pointed at her and then beckoned. “Let us test these memories I hold of you.”
Sali’s heart sped up even as her arms and legs relaxed. Her body sank down as she settled into a defensive stance of the Serpent Fang with her left spearhand held forward. Her right drifted down the loop of the tongue, caressing the cold, familiar diamond links until she felt the carved handle.
The khan stepped forward, his guard still down, his pace relaxed. In the world of the Katuia war sects, it was the higher caste or senior who initiated sparring as a sign of respect and reverence. Combat would not begin until he chose.
At least that was expected. That was custom.
However, customs be damned. Sali attacked the moment the khan stepped within range. Her arm drew forward, launching the coiled tongue and aiming a killing blow to his neck. The way she saw it, she might as well try to end it now if given the chance. The worst he could do was kill her, which wasn’t a bad way to go.
The tongue bit closer to her mark than she expected. The khan didn’t look surprised, nor did he react poorly. As always, his movements remained casual, as if he were putting forth little effort. The khan raised a finger to his face as if about to scratch his nose. And somehow caught the bite of her tongue in mid-flight inches from his throat.
He smiled. “Little Sali always wanted to win practice.”
It was true. She hated that this man had access to Jiamin’s memories.
The khan closed his fist around her bite and yanked. The force of his jing combined with his strength tore her off her feet, nearly dislocating her shoulder. Sali barely held on to her handle, flying out of control before she twisted to strike at him with the point of her steel-tipped boot.
The two collided, Sali kicking his chest. The khan took a step back as he absorbed the blow. She sent a jolt to her tongue, stiffening it and launching up and away from him, and then he struck back. She landed on a knee, her spear in hand.
“Are you still the viperstrike, or is that warrior a memory?” He raised his guard. It wasn’t lost on her that he chose to fight her spear with an open hand. She intended to make him question that confidence.
Sali came back at him, twisting and bending the flexible shaft of her tongue, alternating spear thrusts and sharply angled slices, hitting from low to high and from the side. Sparks exploded around him as the bite raked his metal armlets. Then he lunged with a punch that was blindingly fast and covered more ground than she thought possible. She raised her arms in time to block the hit, but it still threw her halfway across the room, nearly toppling her off her feet.
“Or perhaps you were just a figment of my imagination.”
The khan attacked and was on her in an instant, throwing elbows and punches, kicks and knees, each an attack that sent a wave of force like a swinging hammer. The Eight Limbed Art emphasized extending power past the body. The greater the surge of jing, the more powerful the force. The Eight Limbed Art required a practitioner to have an immense fountain of jing, which very few war artists possessed, which was why this sect never became a dominant style. In the hands of the Eternal Khan of Katuia, however, the immense well of jing he wielded was devastating.
Interestingly, there were no hints of other styles within the khan’s movement. While all khans fought with the Eight Limbed Art as their base style, most were influenced by their past life. Jiamin often mixed his Eight Limbed Art with Nezra’s own Serpent Fang style. This khan so far had not revealed any parts of his past. He fought strictly with the Eight Limbed Art, with no excessive movements or outside influences. He simply chopped and hacked at her with overwhelming force. It was effective, if not elegant or beautiful.
The outcome of the fight was never in question. Sali took as many hits as she could handle. Her flesh turned crimson with each impact until her face and body were red and purple. She managed a few hits, three spear gashes along his arms and left knee, and a downward smack with the butt of the spear that should have concussed him. She also landed blows to the ribs that would have crippled a normal person and slipped a spearhand in that would have punctured a hole into the side of anyone else’s face.
The khan took the hits without so much as flinching. He wrapped his two large hands around her head and brought his knees up: the first slammed into her gut, the second into her chest. The first blow sent her body into shock, while the second made her lose consciousness. Then, still holding on to her skull, he swung around and tossed her like a child angry at a stuffed doll.
Sali screamed as her neck stretched to the point she thought her head would separate, and then sank into the gravel. She groaned and tried to stand, but the moment she got to a knee, the room turned sideways and she pitched forward, face-first.
Sali lay sprawled on her belly with half her face submerged in the sand. Her heart hammered as time slowed. She blinked once, watching the khan approach, his feet crunching on the rocks. This had been a lesson. He had beaten her to prove that she had no chance, that rising up against him had been futile. Sali pushed herself up and sat on her knees in the sand, then looked up and stared defiantly as he towered over her.
A small smile appeared on his lips. He barked, “Leave us.”
The speed with which the room cleared was impressive. The cohort around this khan must be well trained. Jiamin had always kept lax surroundings, but these two were not the same men.
The khan continued to study her long after they were alone, with only the sound of dripping water to break the silence. Finally, he offered a hand. “This has been illuminating. The opinion I have of you is well earned.”
Sali wasn’t sure how to react. This was someone she had sworn to slay. However, her parents had taught her better. When in doubt, lean toward honor. She accepted the khan’s offer, and he hauled her to her feet. “How so? You beat me worse this time than in your previous life.”
His hands were surprisingly gentle, another difference. Jiamin had trained alongside Sali to be a warrior since they were both sprouts, and they both shared the rough hands and thick calluses to show for it. This khan only had hints of calluses at the tips of his fingers.
There had never been a khan not raised from the warrior caste. While the man standing before her was certainly mighty, it raised more questions about his desires.
She remained guarded as she followed him to the table. Her odds had improved but there was still a chance she wasn’t walking out of this room alive. He sat at the table and waited until the cupbearer hurriedly returned to the room to pour their drinks. He gestured for her to join him as the girl scampered away. That was another difference; Jiamin rarely bothered with servants unless necessary.
“And what have you learned, great khan?” He certainly wasn’t her khan.
He brought his cup to his lips, draining it quickly. He made a face that had the look of someone new to strong drink. “You are still formidable and resolute. You hold on to honor and the old ways, but you are not rigid. You are willing to take advantage.” He motioned to the room. “Most importantly, you are still Katuia.”
That was where he was wrong, but there was no need for her enemy to have unnecessary information. “You’ve brought me here against my will. What is your intention?”
“Straightforward as well. I respect that.”
He spread his arms out and motioned to nothing in particular. “In our long history, Chaqra has never crossed the Grass Sea into Zhuun lands. I am forging the future of our people at this very moment. I do not intend to rest upon the laurels of my ancestors. I shall be the catalyst for change in this world. The Katuia will cast a storm across all lands. The Zhuun are only the beginning. Tomorrow we will assault the shores of the Tsunarcos. The day after, the White Ghosts. The Katuia’s moment to ascend has arrived.
“But not even I can accomplish this on my own. I will need other great men and women to stand beside me.” He set his cup down. “So, I have an offer, viperstrike, a chance at redemption. Swear your soul to the Eternal Khan of Katuia as you once did and reclaim your place as a Will of the Khan. Nezra will be forgiven and will again be a capital city among our people. It would be as if nothing had changed. What say you, Salminde the Viperstrike? Sali, my old friend?”
Sali was stunned. She had come here expecting to die, not to be raised back to the Sacred Cohort, a place just below the khan himself. This arrangement would save her people and guarantee their future.
But she could never go back. She knew too much about who and what the khan was, and how the spirit shamans had manipulated their people.
Sali opened her mouth to refuse his generous offer, but the right words wouldn’t come out. “My…I mean, great khan…”
He held up a hand. “Call me Visan. It was my name from before, and the one that I would be pleased to hear come from your lips.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Property of the Tiandi
The monks at Skyfall Temple gave Jian a cane with four small wooden wheels at the bottom to help him limp about the hospital. He refused to use it at first, his pride getting in the way of common sense. Having the Champion of the Five Under Heaven hobble around was a bad look. It made him feel self-conscious and weak. But mostly self-conscious. The monks here practically worshipped him. He was the face of the entire religion, and felt the immense pressure of always putting up a good front. It was a terrible burden. It wasn’t until after Meehae introduced him to an injured fourteen-ring Hansoo recovering from a broken hip after tripping and falling down a flight of stairs that Jian got over himself.
He could hear Taishi chastise him. “Big muscles mean nothing.” She would then poke him in the chest. “Strength comes from within, as does weakness. Never presume.” She was a shining example of inner power in a frail-looking shell.
Several hospital healers checked in many times a day. There was an entire staff assigned to him, given his stature within the religion. He received around-the-clock care from a surgeon, spiritualist, acupuncturist—Meehae, in this case—a jing master, masseuse, herbalist, cupping mender, and even a midwife. Jian wasn’t sure why he needed one of those, but he soon found himself preferring her company. She was more motherly.
He spent his days puttering about the recovery ward, moving between his bed, the urinal, and the small pebble garden just outside the hospital entrance. Eventually, he felt strong enough to brave the stairs. That opened the rest of the hospital wing to him, but even those added spaces quickly grew too small and quiet. There was only so much stupid rock and fungus and the weirdly tight-lipped but judgmental healers that he could bear. These stuffy monks were awful company compared to the ones back at Vauzan. All were respectful, but few were friendly.
Jian’s restlessness grew with his strength. He eventually tried to leave the hospital but was rebuffed by the two big Hansoo guarding the door. It was for his safety, they said. He needed to be close to the healers in case anything happened. They would happily fetch whatever he needed from the outside. What Jian really needed was to go for a walk, but no matter how much he pleaded, he was not allowed to leave.
Even worse than not letting him out was that no one could tell him what had happened to his friends. What happened to Taishi and Sonaya and Zofi? What about his other friends and the masters? What disappointed Jian the most was his oldest friend, Meehae. He had been so happy to see her, and she had seemed happy to see him as well. But she treated him like an acquaintance, not a friend, which hurt more than he cared to admit.
No one seemed to know what happened to any of his friends, or about Vauzan’s fate. Did the Cinder Legions emerge victorious? Was Vauzan still standing? Had the city been razed and the ground salted? They couldn’t even tell him how he got here. Even Meehae turned cagey, changing the subject every time he begged for answers.
He thought about Taishi a lot. Her birthday was around this time of year. She needed warmer robes during the third cycle winter. She had lost her beloved llama slippers during the siege. He wasn’t sure she would survive this year, although that was the same conversation they usually had every year. Did she make it out of Vauzan alive? His breathing grew heavy. The wound in his chest throbbed.
The gardener, who was raking a green bed of java moss nearby, looked over. “Is all well, holy one?”
Jian waved him off. “I’m fine, Haiksong.”
The gardener had been one of the first here to speak to him. Unlike most others at the hospital, the older monk was not as impressed with Jian and so treated him like anyone else.
“Very well, son. Watch your step to the left. The rock’s slippery from that fresh bed of moss.” The kind man nodded and went back to his work.
Jian winced as he rose to his feet. He grasped his stick-on-wheels and rolled back to the hospital.
Haiksong walked past with his two rakes slung over his shoulder. “Are you on your way back to the shack? Mind returning these for me?”
“I’m just going to the acupuncture ward,” he replied.
“That’s all right, then.” The gardener waved and turned away toward the equipment shack.
Jian found Meehae tending a young monk with an angry gash across his shoulder. Leaning against the wall beside him was a horsecutter blade. Dozens of needles were stuck near the wound as she sewed him up. The young monk was oblivious as he babbled on about how many battles he had waged. It was obvious to Jian that with the angle of his wound, it had been self-inflicted, likely accidental, but he kept that to himself. Let the boy keep his pride.
Meehae noticed him. “Is everything all right, Wen Jian?”
“I need to know what’s happening in the outside world. You can’t just keep me in the dark. You must know something.”
“Like I said, we’ve been so busy—”
