Bridge Across the Land Page 24

  Tianyin clutches her hand. “You will—die.” His sable eyes vaguely woeful as he trembles in his injuries, breathing fast as he props himself up, staring at her miserably.

  “But I don’t want you to die!” Angela screams intensely. Uttering words of truth and from the heart, tears slide down her cheeks and she sobs in pain and a shiver.

  Tianyin is shocked.

  “Let me go . . . .” The young woman is interrupted by her choking and her tears descend nonstop. She cannot lie to him anymore. In the sound of a mosquito, she says openly, “Since I am the Mongolian princess anyway—Dad’s stepdaughter . . . .” She speaks the truth with guilt, shame and hate. She buries her head and cries, “I am sorry . . . .”

  Angela’s apology clogs her throat as she takes out Hanyuan’s Medical Cases and places it in his bosom, saying, “I am exchanging this with yours . . . . let each object return to its rightful owner.”

  The thin veil suddenly rips between the two, Tianyin sits stunned and lapses into silence. He looks with earnestness and bereaved eyes like wells.

  Really, it is true . . . . She is the Mongolian princess . . . . and . . . . Dad’s daughter. But actually he knew erstwhile.

  The young woman wipes away her tears and hardens her heart, viciously pushing him aside all of a sudden. She pulls her arm back and seizes her dagger from him. She stands up and back, not being able to see him again. She turns her head and presents it to Lacson. She points to herself, the Mongolian horse in the distance and the Volga River behind her.

  “Oh—I see.” Lacson raises his voice in a strange tone and does not take over the knife but just keeps nodding and snickering. He bypasses Angela; boots apart, he walks over to Tianyin. He bends over and laments, “You two developed feelings—how moving, moving.”

  Tianyin’s eyes burning, gritting his teeth hatefully; frost is all over that dirty face.

  “How about this,” Lacson squats down in leisure. His thin face is haughty and challenging. He negotiates, “Might as well go back with me to be a Mongolian consort and enjoy a life of prosperity, how is that?”

  Tianyin shuts up and glares with murder; cool and unrelenting, he lifts his head to look at him and struggles to get up leaning on his sword.

  “Ha, I did not think you were willing.” Lacson takes off his water pouch and gulps it, teasingly says, “Baidar so valued you and you ruined it single-handedly. After all you have been aloof all your life, right . . . . the imperial son of Great Song?” He raises his brows and stuck his face up close, ridiculing him.

  Tianyin is shocked and could hardly believe it. A chill goes up his spine. He regards the merciless face stiffly.

  Ha ha, don’t be too surprised. I started out as an intelligence cavalry member as well and stayed in Great Song for a few years. You are still somewhat famous at Lin’an.” Lacson checks his stunned face and indulges in it. He shakes his head satisfactorily, switching legs and squatting down, “But do not worry, I have not told anybody, you know.” He lowers his voice and get up close to tell him insidiously, “I will keep this secret—it might come in handy who knows when.”

  The atmosphere changes after his words are done. Tianyin is immensely irritated hearing what he said. His accumulated anger releases and spreads; all at once, he fishes for his long straight sword and yells forcefully, twisting his arm and curling his wrist, with a swing of a fierce silver, he slashes Lacson abruptly.

  Lacson did not expect this and slips, falling over and hands and feet sprawling chaotically; he raises his sheath to block. His one hand is blocking the sword and with his other hand he suddenly pulls out his knife—Tianyin missed the first time and leans forward and dips, plopping onto the ground. Mud is stuck on his blood cheek. How could Lacson let him go. Lacson rises swiftly off the ground and stomps on the back of Tianyin’s hand with his one foot, kicking dirt to humiliate him then smashing the back of his head with his sheath. Tianyin’s fingers open and he loosens his grip on his sword; the back of his head aches with a dull pain and he swiftly blanks out in darkness. Lacson suddenly brandishes his knife like a violent fall that cascades straight down, the torrent that shatters rocks is about to stick right into the injured body on the ground.

  “Get away!” At the final critical moment, Angela scrambles forward and with her head knocks Lacson aside. His silver blade goes crooked and lashes across Tianyin’s face lightly. Then he staggers back with his arms waving.

  Angela blocks in front of Tianyin, tragic and fierce, her blue and black pupils glisten ferociously and her steely and chaste stares full of might. Her nippy blade next to her snowy neck, she threatens to kill herself. Lacson suddenly breaks out in a cold sweat; coming to and steadying his feet, he bends from his waist and smiles. He throws down his knife and comforts her, “Okay, okay, I will not hurt him.” He steps back an inch, palms open, he gestures at his horse and respectfully says, “As long as Princess can go back with us, that will be better than anything.”

  Lacson calls Xirimo forward to escort her. Angela’s eyes follow his hand and scan everybody. Her moon-like brows are in a frown and hesitantly she leaves. She still grips the Mongolian knife tightly and has it against her jade-like neck without relaxing for a moment. It is as if she has glue below her feet, she tries to go but with every step she looks back, full of despair. She glances at the body collapsed on the ground.

  Tianyin’s face is seeping with blood. He only gets dizzy and faints. Shadows intersect as he bathes in endless pain. He sees in a blur Angela mounting the horse with them. His heart rips open in wrench, grief-stricken; he trembles and crawls, stretching his arm to grab air. He struggles to offer his life and wants to chase after her but he is depleted and crashes again and again.

  Angela sits high on the saddle and sees Tianyin’s body entirely coated with mud. His dark eyes look on sorrowfully, at a loss and injured; she cannot help but think of all the many things before and after, tears well up in her eyes and she is heartbroken.

  On that first day, he was the bandit who kidnapped her from the stake on fire . . . . and her savior. Then he was the intelligence cavalry member who guarded the princess to Mongolia. Immediately, he became the criminal who kidnapped her. Then the older brother that Dad left on the east side of the earth. Later, he became the imperial son of Great Song—and someone she loves.

  The horse bumps along slowly as she watches Tianyin. That pair of pure inky eyes moist like pools of water grow farther and farther away; the lone shadow is sad and lost. She cannot help but feel as if she is being cut. The sunset breeze brushes against her temples, behind her the drifting haze in an inebriated hue.

  Farewell, Tianyin.

  The night sky is a rayless haze, towers of clouds blacken like the sea, the moon is obstructed and the stars are drowned. The desolate forest is overcast, the evening curtains smear the strings of stabbings on the shore. Only the Volga River continues to pour forth a quiet flow; crystal beads of water spread from the sky, bathing and nourishing all that is beneath, washing faintly and cleansing a history of bloodbath.

  A drop of clear rain dribble on his cheek and pauses there for a moment; it trickles down along his face. Another drop is like a spin out meteorite; the slightly cool liquid from the clouds slips through the corner of his mouth. Followed by another drop that is mixed with blood and smeared red, drips down the bridge of his nose. One drop, then another drop . . . .

  Tianyin’s eyes roll, shutting them in weariness then opening them again. He wakes up slowly from the shock and feels the cool moisture on his face, droplets of tender pecks by the pouring rain. The hair on his forehead is messy, his lips are dry and rough; his blood stains stiffen his clothes. He lays face down alone and baffled. He cannot feel his body.

  In the universe, a lone shadow lies horizontally and the rain hits him silently; a most pathetic sight.

  Tianyin tries to move his left hand, his muscles are hard a
nd his bones are light. He lifts his arm to wipe the rain off of his face; suddenly he feels the excruciating pain shoot straight into the back of his head, tugging at his entire body and gulping quietly in the throat.

  The gruesome battles during the day appear distinctly before him; the intense scene strikes ferociously at the door of his heart. His bitter memories are heartless.

  He suppresses the cruel pain. Hips on the ground, he curls his legs and props himself on the elbows. He pants lowly as he digs into the dirt, rising inch by inch. Injury and fatigue in his entire body revives section by section. Bruises at the root of his neck, a cracked back, ruptures in the arms and shoulders, swelling and rotting in holes in his legs . . . . furthermore a heart full of hurt that cannot be taken care of.

  Tianyin sits stunned holding onto grass. He gawks at the innocent rain falling and dancing, filling the world. Wisps of cold whish by and the creepy night is deep and dull. Clouds in the mountains are misty and the plain stillness is hollow; he only hears the sound of the river vaguely swimming in the distance and the forests in the wild rustling. Everything is empty around him.

  Yeah, his efforts for eighteen years are all empty now. He turns his head and sees his unsheathed sword asleep horizontally by his hand. Blood and dust all over the blade, the silvery white fluorescence is mute. He extends his fingers to touch it, finding the handle and pressing it underneath his palm; he can tell that the sheep skin around the handle is already ruined and ripped.

  For many years, to avenge on behalf of his father, divide Mongolia and save Song; that was his everything. To reach those goals, he lived in hiding and in humiliation for eighteen years. Blood all over his hands; he sacrificed everything. But today, the heavy responsibility that burdened him for eighteen years vanishes at that spur of the moment; his shoulders are suddenly light, only blank pain remains.

  Now the person who will assassinate Ögedei will actually be Angela.

  A flurry of rain turns into rays of plain threads that pierce continuously. Tianyin looks to the Volga River and does not see her departing shadow. What remains is a vast blur of sadness and chaos, a lack of distinction between heaven and earth.

  Wonbayer said, whatever mission to save the country, what major responsibility bestowed by heaven, none of it compares to the people around him. Now, he believes. But there is no one around him anymore.

  He is depressed and regretful, rigidly staring into the darkness. He sorrowfully squeezes the handle of the sword and his insides are in pieces, as if his soul is being sliced and whipped. He buries his raw pain deeply and trembles with resentment.

  You, do not kill Ögedei. Live well for the rest of your life and be a Mongolian princess. I have forgotten about Great Song and you forget me too.

  Tianyin looks dumbly at the murky curtain in the sky as he sadly rolls his eyes. He sits there at a loss, letting the cool rain wash his face. The wet wind is frigid, waves of rain and snow whoosh by. His feeble body is frozen and numb, his heart is as if an ice house filled with a blizzard and axed by painful breathing. The road ahead is as shady as hell, he does not know why he should still be in the world.

  This imperial son of Great Song has been a tragedy since birth.

  Just as Lacson said, he has ruined everything about him in Mongolia and what remains in Great Song is just a legend. Actually people are not imprisoned by heritage, but imprisoned by themselves.

  Wait!

  Tianyin is suddenly alarmed and his entire body tenses. He abates his breath and lose his color. How did Lacson know? People of Lin’an . . . . does he know Chinese? Thinking of this, a cold sweat rains down and a chill goes up his spine. His heart pounds and he abruptly turns to eyeball the river, as if to see through its thousands of miles.

  Wonbayer says Baidar discovered the tombstone with Chinese words on it; but he and Kaidu do not know Chinese. How did they read it?

  Only, Baidar’s confidant, Lacson . . . .

  Tianyin’s horrified face white like wax; his insides are completely frigid. He doesn’t know how to move. Suddenly, a scene from the past surfaces in his memory. Angela leans over and says with determination, “Give me the knife—I will kill Ögedei for you.” What is behind is blurry but now it is gradually becoming clear. Lacson stands with hands on his waist just a few inches away, watching and eavesdropping!

  Oh no!

  Tianyin’s heart burns and is about to explode. He cannot be bothered with his serious injuries. He suddenly stands on his knees and pushes against the ground. He picks up his long straight sword, falling softly. He crawls again. He is soaked with rain but he runs and rolls like mad. Shortly, he arrives at the shore of the Volga River. Plunk, he trips and kneels, swallowing and gasping, rain and blood drench him and drip down his collar, nose and the earth. Tianyin lifts his head and sees the voluminous torrential river with waves in the night like ink that chills the heart.

  He pauses, touching the river’s mud and standing up straight, he unties his belt and ties his sword next to him. He stares at the other shore, steely eyes determined. Gritting his teeth, he braces himself and jumps in. With the splash of the waves, a shadow suddenly leaps into the cold ripples, swimming across the water.

  The thick night melts and disappears; the thin mist in the morning is hazy; but the drizzle has not stopped, rustling sparsely. A blob of gray hovers over the horizons. The clouds are depressed and the pressures are oppressive, everything seems so oppressive. Angela leans against the stone cave and sits up resting. She did not sleep well the entire night, always waking up all at once and dozing off all of sudden. Her drowsy eyes open and close. Whether it is in a dream or in reality, everything is somber and deep, blurry and bleak. She sits next to the stone wall utterly hopeless. She peers at the tired Mongolian soldiers guarding her. He is standing five feet away, rubbing his eyes and guarding firmly; so she wearily turns to explore beyond the cave. Her blue and dark brown eyes well forth with sadness and she numbly looks down at the scenery below. That stone cave is on a peak, luxuriant fern grow in clusters. She is overlooking the wilds below. At that instant, you can see the vast ocean-like forest, the birch trees mix with other timber, growing straight and trim. The rest of the Mongolian army and Tibetan mastiffs are stationed at the stone cave above and guarding; they are sleeping soundly.

  The spring rain is as subtle and tender as sprinkles, nourishing trees and leaves; humble and moisturizing, they fill all of space.

  Just like that day the dandelions covered the sky next to the river.

  Angela feels cold and lethargic all of a sudden. She embraces herself with her arms for some warmth. She cannot help but be invaded by despairing memories that seem like a flood of sorrow and acid. Her sad tears stream silently in her heart and she raises her head, leering longingly at the screen of rain.

  She filed the Mongolian words on her sheath thinking that she could escape fate; but after so many twists and turns, she still has to go back to Mongolia as a princess, just like reincarnation that is destined.

  Before the dandelions, she left Kyrigu; after that, she lost Hesig. They used their lives so that Tianyin and her may live until today . . . . but all that work are for naught. No, not for naught, there is still her. She will personally murder Ögedei—because she knows that he had spent half of his lifetime for this.

  She will probably never see him again in the future, ever . . . . when she is executed because of her assassination attempts targeting Great Khan, thinking about this time and thinking about how he would still be alive somewhere in the world makes her smile pleasantly. She will never forget that pair of pure black eyes.

  Suddenly, rustling footsteps outside the cave brings Angela back. She leaves the boulders and sits upright. She sees Lacson’s high boots approach her and stand in front. He changed into a fresh outfit. His narrow eyes eerie; he waves his hand at the guard and gurgles something in Mongolian. The other person nods hap
pily and jaunts down the hill; the sound of his movement is gradually in the distance.

  Only two people are left in the stone cave looking at each other awkwardly. Angela lowers her head and moves back, glancing elsewhere. Behind Lacson is an endless scene of rain, green, somber, depressing and sly. He curves his lips, appearing strangely deceptive. He peers at her unkindly and smiling faintly. Akimbo, he asks in Chinese, “. . . . Did you sleep well last night, Princess?”

  Angela’s ears shoot up. She raises her head and eyeballs him in shock, “You . . . .”

  The morning is still faint and the velvet rain is weary of drifting. Below the peak, more than a dozen Mongolian soldiers are sleeping outdoors, snoring soundly with rising and falling rhythms. The eight tiger-like mastiffs are tied to tree trunks, their paws are pillows for their naps. Without warning, a shadow tiptoes close and quietly. Bloody boots press against the grass, he limps and moves lightly, lifting the bright sword diagonally.

  One Tibetan hound raises its sharp ears and looks around, sniffing the stranger and roaring softly. That black shadow suddenly picks up its owner’s head, the silver curve softly slicing soundlessly. At once blood gushes like spring, its owner dies silently. It barks with frustration and rage, shattering the silence. It rushes forward but its neck is tied by a metal chain; it bounces back. The shadow moves with lightening speed, his sword does not stop moving; he bends and chops, another mastiff trainer’s head is sliced off. Suddenly the Tibetan wolves are all alarmed, barking like mad and struggling to jump, but no one can escape the chains to bite or attack. The shadow seems to be picking mushrooms, rolling and twirling to the left and right, tap, ax, pierce, cut, stick and chop, killing each one; every use of the sword takes a life. In a short while, the several sleeping mastiff trainers are first murdered.