Bridge Across the Land Read online

  With the pointing of his short finger, the soldiers escort Angela out; no delay permitted. “Let me go! I am not a witch!” Her eyes hide burning rage. As she turns around to look in the store, Valerie is relieved and kisses Ivan on his forehead; Galina and Vicat smile with satisfaction.

  In a moment’s time, Angela understands cause and effect. She is dragged and shoved out of the door all along the way. In her two eyes of lake and night flowed hate and hurt simultaneously.

  Wind whirled by at high speed, puffing up and flapping his robe while waves of cool slapped the skin. The green mountain ranges run on and on while rolling alabaster clouds abound. Tianyin slings a sword on his waist while he stands tall on a hill. As he stills and focuses, he coldly looks down at the city of Krakow below: European houses densely pervade, roads are windy and narrow; inappropriate for galloping. There is a round plaza in the middle of the city that has a grand church standing tall and soaring into the sky on one side. On the other side is a bell tower that controls time. The rest are mostly wooden houses that fear fire. The stone castle has a mountain to its back, the pulse of the royal family. It is as solid as a metal barrel, difficult to take down by force.

  Two cavalry scouts behind him are sitting on the ground, cleaning their armors and sharpening their weapons while letting their horses rest. One elder with semi-white beards and brows is dexterous and masterful, energetic and spirited. An innocent-looking young man who just turned 15 or 16 has a face as fresh as the sheen on the grass. He is wrapping bandages around his palm. The elder leans on a halberd and stands up. He goes to Tianyin’s side and peers at his stony face and looks over the city’s scenery too. He speaks slowly in Chinese, “This is an excellent opportunity—”

  After a lasting silence, Tianyin responds in Mongolian, “What is the use if we can’t find the person?” He lightly exhales and says, “It’s already been two days. I estimate that Baidar has already begun the invasion into Conrad.”

  Suddenly a horse whinnies and another cavalry scouts arrives. Harried, he steps off the saddle and stomps on the grass, rushing toward Tianyin in huge strides, panting, he says, “Captain! I saw her! A girl with one blue eye and one dark brown eye. She is being dragged to the center plaza by their soldiers.”

  Tianyin’s fine eyes light up, “Does she have the knife? Did you get a good look?”

  The man dripping hot sweat shakes his head and says, “I didn’t see the knife but the eyes are right.”

  “Good.” Tianyin takes large steps down the hill like a meteor. With a voice that goes into the sky, “Hesig, Kyrigu and Wonbayer, prepare to ride and get ready to save!”

  Once the command is out, corresponding moves occur swiftly and agilely. In a flash, four riders grab weapons and grip their rein, galloping powerfully against the wind and into the city.

  “If the whole royal family flees west, should I bring Angela?” Alexander mutters miserably. He walks quickly along a city trail toward the stone bridge. Anthony follows with quick small steps, trying to straighten the attendant’s outfit that Alexander is busy changing into as he walks.

  “As long as you can find the right reasons, my lord.”

  “Then she would know my . . . wait.” Alexander suddenly stands still, a look of shock in his green eyes as he stares dumbly at the plaza ahead. He sees the gathering crowd loud and noisy, armed defense soldiers and church clergy all around. The pyre setup in the center binds a young woman who keeps moving. Her clothes and face dirty and her cloth bag already filthy and fraying. Bright red bloodstains on her bare arms from the trial and injury are visible—she is—“Angela!” Lightning-struck with rage, Alexander instantly flares up madly, desperately trying to enter the crowd.

  Bible in hand, Father Peter’s deportment is adorned as he proclaims in a dignified manner, “Through the Church’s questioning, Angela Cherreh has already confessed to her identity as a witch. Since she entered Krakow, those eyes that only the Devil has exposes her identity. Her adopted father kindly took her in when she was four but died in an accident a year ago. For so many years, she has been competing for patients with God, using the opportunity to treat illness to defile people’s souls. She is the loyal servant of the Devil, a witch that is evil and bloodthirsty. The Church has decided to burn her flesh and soul altogether into ash. She will never be born again!”

  It stuns the audience below. They gawk at each other out of surprise, sighing and discussing. Puzzled, Alexander squeezes up close and looks up in shock and sadness. Anthony chases after him and hisses by his ear, “You Highness, how unimaginable, she is a witch. Did she have a purpose for getting close to you?”

  “Angela . . .” Alexander whispers from his throat, at a loss and numb.

  Dry logs are already piled beneath the stake. The torch is standing by and ready, but Angela continues to be courageous and unyielding. Her eyes show indomitability rather than tears while she struggles vigorously. Suddenly, she catches a glimpse of Alexander below the platform and bids farewell with her eyes. He, however, avoids eye contact! Angela only hears the clash and crash of profound love.

  Anthony sees his prince nervous and ambivalent, so he urges, “Your Highness, let’s go. Before a witch dies, she will seek revenge; whereas you are most precious.”

  Alexander looks a few times with attachment, then hesitatingly went far away, “But she . . . .”

  Angela watches him back out and stay far away from the plaza. Bitter misery and acid-like anguish well forth so that the first teardrop falls from her bluest eye, then the second drop from her deep ebony eye . . . . She closes her eyes then opens them, looking up at the infinite elegance of the azure sky that makes all her wishes seem vain.

  As the dry steam approaches, the choking flame is only a little ways away. She could hear the sizzles. One soldier tips the torch and is about to ignite the pyre—

  Shoo, an arrow with a steel dagger as head flies over like a falcon, cutting off the forearm of that soldier! An ear-piercing cry of misery, blood splatters. The amputated arm holding the torch falls, igniting Father Peter’s clothes. He shrieks strangely, rolling about to extinguish the flame.

  The crowd turns into a rioting mob. Alexander is horrified when he glances back, immobile for a time. Angela’s wide open eyes looks about and cannot help but be startled. But then she sees from each direction of the east, west, north and south a rider charging in like a powerful and unstoppable tornado and heading straight for the pyre.

  The elder on the north side has graying hairs and white brows. Donning a light armor and a lancet as lean as a tiger, he is armed with a halberd with a curved hook like the moon. The soldiers meet the assailants with knives at hand, hacking away at the feet of the horses. He lowers himself to block. Taking advantage of the pull-back force, he wipes the enemy with his moon-like spear so that the adversary loses his leg; Hesig repeatedly pierces the front of the horse then cuts to the right like a wheel; knives wielded by the weak cannot withstand his awesome prowess. With a whoosh, he kills several by slicing them at the waist. The long halberd chases to the left while the hooked edge catches a neck, the slightest movement leads to the head coming down and blood spraying. His every strike removes a soul.

  On the west side is a rider with small eyes and thick lips. He is short and stocky, appearing scary and bold. He wields two large hammers, the handles of which are connected to metal chains. The head of each hammer is a hexagon that dances like a meteor. Before the soldier is able to defend himself, his skull is already smashed into pieces. Once the enemy slashes near the horse, Wonbayer throws the hammers out and smack him so that he bounces up into the air with a mighty pow! Leaning on the rebound force of the hammer, another soldier drops to the ground hanging on to the chain and letting the horse drag him. Raising his other hammer, he aims and knocks him out; the soldier dies instantly and the corpse shoot more than ten feet away. The chained hammers are like a mighty python that tur
ns and twists, opening up a river of blood along the way.

  The young man from the south side is very young. He wears a braid and is adroit. He holds a bow in one hand and aims with one eye, causing harm whenever he shoots. When he charges into where enemies are in throngs, all the soldiers with their sharp weapons raised high surround him; but Kyrigu is as if born on the back of a horse, evading and shunning, prone and prostrated. Sometimes he kicks with gusto, sometimes he hops while leaning into the saddle, never falling. When the enemies are too close, the bow and arrows fail. With all ten fingers, he tightly grips eight arrows pulled from the quiver on his back. Each arrowhead has a dagger tied to it. Kyrigu lets out a shout, spreads his arms like wings and slashes with those eight blades as if they were flowers dancing around him, though they are knives that dig into flesh.

  In a blink of an eye, the ground is dyed red and carcasses lie all about; people flee and birds scatter, dusts fly and dirt is gyrating. People have never heard of such weapons and such rapid-fire slaughter seems inexplicable without knowing why. Angela is mute and dumbfounded, wanting to go but cannot. She eyes everything around her hastily and sees that the rest of the soldiers and clergy members are tied to the stake, breaking out in a cold sweat.

  In an instant, Angela feels power lapping toward and building behind her back; cries repeatedly rise as the energy of the sword mix with wind, turning and lashing continually. Tianyin is still cool when he flips onto the platform. His long straight sword a ghostly white; he assumes the resting stance to pierce throats then backs up and bends his elbow so that with two fingers on the wrist as a defense, he leans forward and sweeps over the ground to the right. Looking smart after the arc, his sword creates a large pattern. One Church administrator picks up a sickle and hacks down on him from behind while he is unaware. Tianyin drops to the ground to the left and rolls forward to evade, then stands and steps over. His sword alternately and consecutively draws circular patterns at the wrist, slicing dicing in an upward motion. When he turns around, he pecks the clergy’s wrist stylishly and steadily. Without delay, he kicks the administrator off and turns right around to cut all the ropes on the stake with his backhand.

  Angela is untied completely; her bare feet touch the ground and she barely has a chance to catch her breath when a huge force picks her up by the waist.

  “Ah—” She cries out of apprehension, hitting and struggling. Tianyin grabs her with sheer force and jumps off the tall platform. With the sword protecting them, he straddles the horse behind Angela and pushes her onto the horseback. He digs out a rope from his bosom and ties their waists together swiftly.

  He speaks loudly in a language that Angela does not understand while the other three riders respond in unison. They whip the horses to catch up rapidly with Tianyin and Angela and form a triangular ring to protect them. The four raise their whips and bolt out of the city.

  Father Peter crawls then stands up in his ragged robes. Seeing that they have escaped, he shouts an order, “Devil’s army rescued her! Warriors, fight for God!” As soon as he finished, the soldiers’ morale is again raised and they rise to chase vigorously.

  Angela is forced to be immediately next to Tianyin. Heat and sweat pass through their skin, heart beat can be heard and her hair is being blown by breath. She is upset and afraid. She keeps poking him boldly with her elbow and twists about; finally she bites the arm holding the rein. She tastes blood. He grunts and responds no more. Angela grabs and beats the horse’s head madly. The stallion in pain loses his focus on the rugged and bumpy road so that it trips and falls, neighing at the sky.

  The two are thrown off the horseback. Tianyin does a turn in the air so that he falls first on the hard gravel path. The pain sears his back and he but slightly wrinkles his brows. Angela is tied to him so has to plop on him entirely. Their eyes are in close proximity as she stares at him. Suddenly she is awe-struck—those eyes! That pair of sable eyes!

  They really are black, eyes as dusky as mine!

  That pair of dark eyes look forward then become serious and alarmed. The soldiers chasing after them surge forth to kill. Tianyin immediately sits up and helplessly severs the rope around their waists. However, he clamps Angela’s hand tightly, fearing that she will escape again. His other hand has just unsheathed his sword when a crowd of enemies are already on the attack.

  One person holding a heavy board sword with both hands leads by slashing from the side. Tianyin exchanges moves and clangs metals with him. Just at that moment, Tianyin finds an opening; he pulls Angela into a squatting position while his blade wipes that man’s intestines and another leg of his kicks off the heavy weapon in the opponent’s hands. Blood drips down from Tianyin’s hair down to his forehead but he does not even wince. When he hears the air movement of a knife, he retracts his arm to pull her behind him while he lifts his sword then drops it to block in a bow stance. Up above he swirls his sword to blur the opponent’s vision while his right leg stealthily kicks the back of the man’s knee. Once the enemy falls, he raises his arm and lightly severs the enemy’s major neck vein. The enemies are numerous and the soldiers are many, Tianyin’s energy sustains as he moves nonstop, raising his knee and piercing with his sword, he adopts a dropping stance and thrusts in reverse like a sparrow hawk, extending nimbly and repeatedly changing directions. Lifting shields and evading attacks, he always delivers the weapon to the enemy’s weak spot.

  Angela is pulled up and dragged down, scared half out of her wits. In the midst of her screams, she discovers that there are already three more people on their side. Hesig, Kyrigu and Wonbayer steer their reins and rush over. Each wielding their martial abilities extensively to defend. Tianyin backs away to withdraw while holding on to Angela’s hand tightly. He hauls her onto the horse, presses her down to avoid arrows, then clicks his feet to hasten the horse. They are the first to rush into the distance like a puff of smoke.

  On the edge of the plaza, Alexander sees the entire scene. He focuses and swallows while shuddering. He tells Anthony, “The way they look . . . . are they the legendary Mongols? Horrible. If so, haven’t they already invaded?”

  “I don’t know. It’s also possible that they really are the Devil’s army . . . .” Anthony said as he stupidly eyeballs the empty stake.

  “What if they are Mongols? This relates to the safety of Poland.” Alexander seems to have thought of something and rushes to turn around, pushing his attendant he says, “Hurry, sneak up after them and see where is their camp. I will go and report to Father!”

  The day has gone and it was twilight, the weary sun leans against distant mountains. The rays of sunset covers thousands of miles; an orange hue pervades the world. In a lonely and secluded forest, birches stand straight, ascending toward the unlit screen. The breeze whispers a song. The massive chill whistles, coming to and fro.

  Standing alone by a tree, Angela is palpably fatigued, hastened by the pangs of hunger and bleak temperatures. Her blue and dark eyes roll about and watch quietly. Tianyin, Hesig, Kyrigu and Wonbayer work together, a few steps away outside. They encircle and stretch rolls of tent on several trees, using the trunks as stakes so that they instantaneously form a tent. Wrapping them around a few more trees, there are inner and outer suites. The tent door is built into the rolls of cloth; it can open or shut by controlling a string.

  Kyrigu crouches down to arrange the corners. He peeks at Angela. Lips pursed tight and feet stomping, he comes to her. The other immediately backs up out of alarm, gasping and protecting herself with hands at her chest and neck.

  “Sigh,” seeing her tied at the wrists and head to the birch, the young man’s clean and pale face is full of pity and shame, “How will you know that we mean no harm?” He looked into her eyes sincerely but received only resistance in return, “. . . . If you knew you were the daughter of Mongolia’s Great Khan, you should be very happy now, right?”

  He turns his head and shouts, “Big Brot
her Tianyin, is it alright that we tie the princess like this?”

  “Wait until she is placed inside the tent so that she cannot escape.” Tianyin glances over and replies in brief.

  The building is mammoth, built with thick stones, hard walls and deep trenches, the Polish imperial castle solidly occupies the highlands with tight security. Under the incandescence of the emaciated sun and a red sunset, shadows are heavy. The light inside the castle is slanted and colored, lighting up half of the large hall. Clean and shiny floor, giant columns and extended red carpets all show how preeminent and imposing is the royal palace.

  King Boleslav is on this throne overlooking a room full of military ministers. He rubs his messy eyebrows and says decisively, “Well, Boruc, bring that prisoner over!”

  Boruc is in a heavy armor and the stern look of a military man. Shortly, he orders the soldiers to bring over a man with reddish hair, drab eyes, fair complexion and very few words. His head is lowered and a few strands of hair covers his face.

  “What is your name?” Boleslav’s voice comes from overhead.

  “Valentin Lobanjic·Loevsky.” He still does not look up.

  “You sound like a Kievan Rus’. Why were you with the Mongolian Army?”

  “I’m half Polish. My mother is from Poland.” Valentin raises his longish eyelashes and looks with his clear eyes, saying, “The Mongols invaded South Kievan Rus’ steppe, forcing us to become captured soldiers.”

  “So you got caught by us on purpose?” Boruc questioned him in a harsh tone from the side.

  “Um hum . . .”

  “Good.” Joy appears on the face of Boleslav,” You must do your best to relate the movement of the Mongolian troops. Poland will be grateful to you.”