As he took his place above them on the dragon throne, he cast his eyes over those that had remained. There were no more than four hundred in all—friends, courtiers, and retainers. So few they seemed, huddled together between the great stone pillars, and yet he felt inordinately pleased to see so many familiar faces.
In the end this was all that remained. Friendship and loyalty. The rest meant nothing.
He lifted his chin proudly, recalling who he was—a Son of Heaven, last of the Seven who had once ruled the great empire of Chung Kuo—and saw how they responded to the gesture, pleased that he was their Lord.
"Kuei Jen," he called, looking to his son. "Come stand behind me."
The young man did as he was told, his father's shadow.
"Master Nan . . . the screen."
Down below, Nan Ho turned and instructed his assistant to lower the great screen. Slowly the lamps in the great hall faded, the glowing screen came down.
Olduvai. The images were from Olduvai.
He watched as the cameras panned across that mighty host, sensing the fear that rippled through the watching crowd below as they saw what had fallen out of the dark upon them. Only Pei K'ung seemed unafraid. She stood there at the foot of the steps, looking up at him, concerned, alone in all that crowd in not watching the screen.
He met her eyes briefly, then looked back at the screen, all hope, all spirit draining from him. Look! the images demanded. Look and despair!
He saw the great ships waiting on the far side of the plain, their hatches open, ready for embarkation, the fluttering pearl-white banners of the waiting army, and felt his stomach tighten.
"Are you afraid, Kuei Jen?"
The young man laughed softly. "I would be foolish to say no. That is some sight, neh, father? I know now how the enemies of Ch'in must have felt when the great Ch'in army took the field against them."
Li Yuan half turned and smiled at his son. This much, at least, had been a blessing: to have had so fine a son.
"That may be so, but we would do well to remember what happened at Ch'ang P'ing, neh, my son?"
Kuei Jen bowed his head, chastened. At Ch'ang P'ing, in 259 B.C. the army of the kingdom of Chao had been starved into surrender by the King of Ch'in, the First Emperor's father. In a gesture of the most supreme barbarity, the King had ordered that the army of Chao be exterminated and a great mountain of heads had been piled up on the plain of the battle. Four hundred thousand men had been executed that day and Chao deprived of every able-bodied man it had.
And now history, it seemed, was to repeat itself. For one thing was certain. DeVore would spare not one of them. They must fight, or die like curs.
There was a knocking at the far end of the Hall and then the great doors swung open. Li Yuan turned and looked. It was his Major, Haavikko. As the man straightened up from bowing, Li Yuan beckoned him across.
"What is it, Major?"
Haavikko knelt and touched his head to the stone flags, then looked up at his Master.
"There is news from Odessa, Chieh Hsia. Li Min's army has withdrawn."
There was a gasp, then a murmur of urgent, whispered voices from the crowd.
"Withdrawn?" Li Yuan leaned forward, unable to believe what he had heard.
"Yes, Chieh Hsia. It seems—"
"Chieh Hsia.'"
Li Yuan got to his feet, staring past Haavikko at the newcomer. It was Karr. The big man stood there, getting his breath, a scroll held up in one hand.
"What is it?"
"It has come, Chieh Hsia! A message from Li Min. He sues for peace, and for an alliance against our common enemy, DeVore."
The silence that fell was profound. Li Yuan stood there a moment, astonished. He had assumed Lehmann was in league with DeVore. Why, the men had been allies! Trembling, he went down the steps and, bidding Haavikko rise, walked over to Karr and took the paper from him, reading it through. He turned, handing it to Nan Ho, who had come across.
"It cannot be," Li Yuan said, shaking his head. "Peace, certainly. I'll agree to peace. But the rest . . ." He met his Chancellor's eyes. "How can I possibly ally myself with him? For ten years he has been my mortal enemy. To embrace him . . ." He shuddered. "The men I've lost, the loyal friends ... It would be a betrayal."
"You have no choice," Pei K'ung said, stepping up and taking his arm, forcing him to turn and face her. "You must do this, husband. You must or there is no hope."
He met her eyes briefly, then looked away, troubled. "Perhaps . . . But I must have time to think."
"Then think. But don't take long." She pointed up at the screen. "See. He is loading his armies back on board their ships. Soon they will fly north to meet us. So think hard but think fast, Li Yuan, for you must decide. Before the God of Hell descends on us."
He stared at her, then, knowing she was right, nodded and turned to Karr. "General Karr . . . send a messenger. Tell Li Min . . . tell him I shall let him know within the hour."
FU CHIANG HAD FLED, escaping the assassin's blade by hours, yet the people of his great City—a city he had wrested by cunning and the force of arms from his fellow Mountain Lords—had come out onto the sandstone cliffs to witness with their own eyes the host that had gathered on the plain near Olduvai. In awe they stared as phalanx after phalanx of massive soldiers—seven, maybe eight ch'i in height— marched aboard the ships, their uniformity of appearance as much as their massive size sending a ripple of chill apprehension through the watching crowd.
There was a strange and eerie silence to the scene, a stillness such as might happen in a vast airless jar, and then a trumpet blew.
A great gasp of fear greeted the apparition in the sky above the ships. It was a horseman, a giant horsemen almost two li in height, dressed totally in white, its horse as pale as snow. In its hand it grasped a bow.
The trumpet blew again. Deafening, making the watchers clasp their ears in pain.
A bright red horse appeared beside the first, its rider—his face cowled—dressed in vermillion silks, a broadsword in his hand.
Again the trumpet blew.
This time it was a black horse. It reared proudly, its black-cloaked rider holding out a set of scales.
Once more the trumpet sounded.
And finally, a pale horse, mounted by a white-cloaked skeleton.
DeVore, watching from his vantage point, smiled. The crowd was running now, screaming, trampling each other down to get away, while above them the air rustled with the presence of the four gigantic figures.
He turned. Pasek, who had arrived no more than twenty minutes back, was on his knees, his mouth open, his eyes staring in wonder. Behind him, those of his acolytes who had made the journey with him did the same.
"You have done well," DeVore said quietly, putting out his right hand so that Pasek might kiss the black iron ring that rested on the knuckle of his index finger. "You have laid down a path of fire for me."
As Pasek grasped his hand and kissed the ring fervently, DeVore smiled inwardly. It was no lie. Pasek had sown the seed—had planted these startling images in the minds of friend and foe alike—and now he, Howard DeVore, would reap the harvest.
The battle is already won, he thought, retrieving his hand, then turning to watch as his fleet lifted slowly from the plain. All the stones are mine, while my enemies . . . He laughed, a cruel, unfeeling laughter that broke finally into a high cackle of triumph. My enemies play with an empty pot!
In the air above, the horsemen began to turn, rising into the pure blue of the sky, leading on the pure white circles of his ships as they began their journey north to the coast.
And at his back he could feel the dark wind blowing, cold and pure, coursing through him with a silent, steady pressure, streaming like an unseen tide of photons from the endless blackness at the core of him. The game had begun.