After the storm ended, late in the afternoon, Zizhu called down from his post on the wall, his cloak hanging heavily on him, drenched with rain. “They’re coming! They’re coming! I see the ensign!”
Bingmei ran out to the courtyard, nearly slipping on the wet stone tiles in her eagerness. Water dripped from the edges of the roof, pattering noisily down the drainage chains. None of the lamps had been lit yet, for fear they’d be extinguished in the storm, but they would be. She saw Grandfather emerge from the quonsuun, a relieved smile on his face. A delicious smell accompanied him.
Perhaps all would be well after all. Perhaps she’d worried for nothing.
“You see them, Zizhu?” Bingmei called up. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not blind, no matter what you think!” he shouted back. “They’re not far off. Unbar the doors.”
Servants of the quonsuun were suddenly rushing around. Some scampered up rickety ladders, beginning to hang the lit lamps from the iron stays. Others rushed forward and raised the heavy crossbar holding the door closed.
Bingmei hurried forward, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.
As the servants set the crossbar down and began pulling the heavy doors open, the smell of fresh rain-soaked grass filled the courtyard. She saw the group marching toward the gate wearily, heads bent low against the weather. No doubt they’d marched through the storm to get there by dusk. They would be tired, surely, but she hoped Mother and Father would have enough energy to tell her and Grandfather stories of their journey. Just a few minutes and they’d be home.
Then the wind shifted, bringing the smell of the group rushing to her. The smell of rancid tubers afflicted her, making her eyes water. The overpowering stench made her step back, gagging.
This was not the smell of her parents. It was a death smell.
Bingmei’s heart pounded fast as she stared out into the gloom of the failing light. She recognized the family banner, the depiction of the leopard. But her nose could not be deceived.
The pretenders had her parents’ leopard banner. What did that mean?
“Shut the door,” she said in a strangled voice, shaking her head.
Grandfather arrived next to her, hands clasped behind his back. “What’s wrong, Granddaughter?”
Bingmei covered her mouth and groaned. “It’s not them,” she said, shaking her head, wanting to banish the horrid stench. “It’s a trick. It’s not them! Close the doors.”
“Do as she says,” Grandfather commanded.
The servants, looking worried, began to push against the doors.
There was a clattering noise, startling them, then a crash as Zizhu landed in the courtyard next to her. His pike had fallen first, the noise jarring everyone. One of the servants screamed. Zizhu tried to lift his head, his eyes dazed in pain and surprise, but Bingmei saw the arrow protruding from his chest. He slumped back, his chest falling still.
The servants shoved hard at the doors. Bingmei went to help as the group outside charged toward them. Shouts and yells from outside added to the confusion. The servants managed to wrestle the doors shut and were fumbling with the crossbar when something heavy smashed into the wood from the other side, knocking them back. One of the doors inched open, preventing the crossbar from fitting into the cradle. The smell that came through the gap made Bingmei want to vomit. A flash of metal, a saber, cut through the gap—and through one of the servants holding the beam. He cried out in pain and dropped his end.
They had lost the protection of the walls.
Grandfather looked at Bingmei. “Get my saber and the cricket!” he said, his face contorting with emotion, his cheeks twitching with barely suppressed rage. Bingmei vaulted from her position, rushing back into the quonsuun like the wind. She heard voices, shouts. The few remaining guards came rushing past Bingmei to defend the compound.
Panic urged her on. The smell filling the courtyard was horrible, but she sprinted to her grandfather’s room. His saber was suspended on the wall, the meiwood hilt capped in gold. The saber, a relic of the forgotten past, had seen many years of duty.
She pulled it down and then found the little box that contained his wooden cricket. It, too, was made of meiwood, and she knew it was magic. Artifacts like this were as coveted as they were dangerous. But her grandfather had let her play with the cricket before. She knew how to invoke its power. Perhaps this was what the Qiangdao were after. She had no doubt that these were some of the infamous brigands who roamed the world seeking prey and ill-gotten gains. Why would they dare attack a quonsuun? She took the box and stuffed it into her pocket, then grabbed the saber and hurtled back toward the training yard.
Voices. Threats. Laughter.
“You’ve returned at last, Muxidi?” rasped Grandfather Jiao.
“Only to bring you their heads, old man,” said the leader of the Qiangdao. Bingmei arrived just as a leather sack, bulging and dripping, was flung at her grandfather’s feet. It brought a whiff of a smell. A smell she recognized as her parents, mixed with the stench of death.
No!
She stared at the bag in shock, unable to believe what she was witnessing. The guards who had passed her moments before lay sprawled on the ground, some still twitching as they died, others motionless. A band of ten Qiangdao stood in the area, wearing the thick leathers and hides favored by the thieves. There were no colors in their clothes, no fashion. They smelled like rotting flesh.
“Your ensign is ended!” shouted the leader to her grandfather’s face. “You killed my grandfather. So now I take my revenge on you and on your seed. Die, old man!”
Bingmei, still frozen, watched as the leader brought up his saber to strike off her grandfather’s head. She still gripped his weapon in her hand, her body too frightened to move.
The killing blow came, but her grandfather ducked at the last moment. With a blur of his fists, he struck at the leader, knocking him down to the wet stone tiles. He was old, but he was not powerless. Two of the bandits yelled and attacked him. Grandfather twisted, evading a thrust, and struck back. He took down one of them and kicked the other in the knee. The crack of breaking bone snapped Bingmei out of her haze.
She raced forward just as the leader’s saber sliced down her grandfather’s front. Muxidi used both hands to amplify his force, one on the hilt, one atop the blade. She gaped in shock as her grandfather sagged to his knees, his eyes wide with pain and surprise. If he’d had his own weapon . . .
Turning his head, Grandfather saw her charging toward him. The grief on his face ripped at her heart. The wound was mortal. She could see the grin of satisfaction on the bandit’s face. Then he pulled his sword free and kicked Grandfather down.
A scream came out of Bingmei as she charged the man. She yanked the saber out of its scabbard. There was no hope of winning against so many. But if she died killing this man, it would be a good death. Why not join her parents beyond the Death Wall? And her grandfather too? They would go together.
Muxidi saw her in time, and he effortlessly blocked her thrusts and slashing motions. How could he not? She practiced daily, but she was only twelve. Tears streaked down her cheeks. He was toying with her, letting her expend her energy. His ruffians formed a circle around her, boxing her in. They laughed as though her efforts were an enjoyable diversion. If only she could steal a little blood from the man before she died.