While in the Happy Valley, Nar-Nuteng had trained rigorously with Beatriss; in sparring contests with Bo-Jing’s retinue, the bright-eyed girl proved she could hold her own with any of them. Bo-Jing never openly acknowledged her prowess, but his insults desisted. And when she announced that she would return with him to free the slaves, he made no objection.
Salt, meanwhile, had disappeared. She had accompanied Bo-Jing and the others to the Happy Valley but refused to enter Beatriss’s fortress. Villagers claimed to see her from time to time and Bangqiu seemed to know where she was. Truthfully, no one seemed to care and soon it was time to return to Khanbaliq.
Bo-Jing, Nar-Nuteng, and Bangqiu made the now familiar journey back to the capital. Rumors of an invasion from the western deserts circulated in the taverns and Bo-Jing and Bangqiu were often recognized as that baghatur and that sorcerer who had deflected the Master’s advance. Good food, welcoming company, and soft beds made the short trip feel way too short.
Back in Khanbaliq, the hospitality was less hospitable. Bo-Jing was invited to tea with one of the Emperor’s high-ranking ministers. In this meeting, Bo-Jing learned that the Emperor was surprised that Bo-Jing had tarried so long in Khanbaliq. Bo-Jing bumbled through a few excuses and then promised to make preparation and leave the day after tomorrow.
Bo-Jing, Bangqiu, and Nar-Nuteng agreed that they had one more day to drive the slavers out of the Monastery and free the captives within.
They party made this approach by the main gate, fully prepared to meet another ragtag group of monks and their fire-breathing machine. The courtyard was empty, the machine still in the same ruinous state that Bangqiu had put it in during the last assault. Bangqiu made himself invisible and using his magic boots, rose up over the gate to land in the courtyard. The doors to each of the winch rooms were closed and barred—from the outside. Listening at one of the doors, Bangqiu heard scratching and slavering, but smelled something far worse than rabid dogs. He knocked the bar off the door and then rose into the air. A half-dozen ghouls rushed out with wild eyes and bloody teeth. They smelled Bangqiu but couldn’t find him and clawed furiously at the air.
When Bangqiu did appear, he was only a few feet above their heads. They rushed towards him and—into a thick cloud of scalding steam that delivered their second death.
Bangqiu entered the winch room and raised the first gate to allow his friends into the gatehouse. Then he opened the second winch door and blasted its two undead occupants with a barrage of hot green bolts of light. He opened the second gate and the rest of the party entered the courtyard.
Bo-Jing led the way to the temple room in which they had fought the priestess, and warned Bangqiu and Nar-Nuteng that the priestess had been killed by the sudden descent of an enormous sword held aloft by a thirty-foot statue while trying to escape through a trapdoor at the statue’s feet. The sword was once more poised aloft, and no one wanted to open the door. Bo-Jing persuaded Ryu to eat one of the lotus pods to enter the dreamworld so that he could pass through the trapdoor without opening it. After passing through the door, returned from the world and deliberately triggered the trap door from the safety of the other side. With silent cheers, the party lit torches and went below.
The party found themselves in the narrow, fulsome tunnels of the antpeople. Wanting no quarrel of double-sword-wielding creatures whose carapaces were like steel, and whose voracious larvae lurked in huge pools of offal, the party sought and found the path of least resistance—by avoiding the sound of clicking and clanging and the smell of rotting compost, the party passed through the antpeople’s lair and into the relatively homey tunnels of the Khanbaliq sewer system. The tunnels were well-made with wide iron walkways alongside an easy-running course of garbage, waste, and storm runoff.
By accident or evil design, the iron walkway was insecure in some places and the bold Bo-Jing was dropped unceremoniously into the sewage canal. There was a circular current here and Bo-Jing found himself pulled swiftly toward the bottom. The fast-thinking Nar-Nuteng through him one end of the a rope. Bangqiu seized the other end and with the help of his magic boots, ran up the arched ceiling to hover above the canal and help Bo-Jing pull himself out of the sewage. The party continued, Bo-Jing still leading the way, but tapping the floor ahead of him with a half barge pole.
The party group found their way to the cells where the slaves had been held captive, and found that they were now occupied by a several monks, who murmured softly to each other while sharing a bowl of rice perched on a stool. One of them saw the party’s approach and caught his breath. The others turned to stare in terror, not moving until the rice bowl slid off the stool onto the floor. None of them reached for his spear or hatchet. At last one of them spoke, “You have come to kill us too?”
Bo-Jing had learned from talking to the rescued slaves, that many of the monks had come from the same southern villages. These monks were thin, one of them emaciated, shivering in his thread-bare scrap of saffron cloth. It was clear to Bo-Jing that if a lucrative slaving operation was running through the monastery, these men were seeing none of the profit. He asked them why they were there. Their answer, in Southern-accented Zhou, with references to soldiers, burning rice paddies, and promises of getting educated in the North, became completely unintelligible when Ryu asked them to name the basic precepts of the two-fold path.
Ryu shook his head and looked at Bo-Jing. “You understand the way of the two-fold path better than these men.”
Bo-Jing asked the men if they wanted to leave the monastery with him. After receiving his reassurance that he did not wish to torture or eat them and his promise that if that was his plan he would just kill them now, the monks agreed to show Bo-Jing a way out.
But it wasn’t time to go out. There was something else down there that Bo-Jing needed to deal with. The monks didn’t know if there were more slaves but there could be soon. There were two bosses and after the priestess boss disappeared, there was one boss, a disgusting man with several pet weasels.
The party wandered the sewers until they met another group of sewer-dwellers. Well-fed and well-clothed Northerners, these men did not even pretend to be monks. “This is just our home.” They were led by a sinister look shaman and maintained a fortified stretch of tunnel on both sides of the sewage canal, with no obvious way of crossing between them.
They knew the weasel man and where to find him. If the party was looking to buy slaves, they could take a message. The party waited and played dice on one side of the tunnel while runners from the other side went to find weasel man. During this time, Bangqiu found a way to cross the sewer undetected and eavesdrop on the men on the far side of the tunnel. The men expressed mild curiosity about the visitors, but said nothing that betrayed a hidden agenda beyond selling slaves. When the runners return, the conversation changed. Weasel man did not want to meet the visitors. These were the robbers who had killed all the monks and stolen so many slaves. Instead, the runners, explained, weasel-man wanted them to find out where the robbers lived so he could report them.
When the runners shared their message with Bo-Jing and Nar-Nuteng, the warriors didn’t need magical powers to know something was up. Bangqiu, invisible in the darkness of the shaman’s cave, promised him new powers if he could help him meet the weasel man.
The shaman liked the sound of this offer. The other men were confused, but when the shaman ordered boards to be placed across the canal so the rest of the party could cross over. After a brief and amicable farewell, the party were on their way, led by the shaman who school his staff and rattled his bone jewelry as he led “the voice” and “the voice’s companions” through a series of passage, at last bringing them to the circular room where Bo-Jing and Nar-Nuteng had once before encountered weasel-man.
Weasel-man wasn’t there, but the weasels were, three of them, large as wolves. Bo_Jing called on the power of the Coin of the East and the weasels, fell to the floor and curled into tight balls. Nar-Nuteng heard the sound of human footsteps running out of the room. They followed the sound back into the antpeople’s tunnel, but soon lost the trail. The monk-refugees were afraid and asked to return to their cells. Bo-Jing told them they could if they found their own way back. They decided to stay with him.
The party decided to return to the circular room, hoping to lay in wait for the weasel-man. While rummaging through his belongings, they found a store of decent food, a sack of tael coins, and business records. A group of monks arrived, unarmed, but well-fed. They greeted the visitors and promised that their master did want to meet them. But he was in the city.
Bangqiu was skeptical and tapped one of the monks on the forehead, ordering him to tell the truth. The man began blabbering. His master was hiding in the stone shed. The other monks gasped and began to run. Bangqiu and the others chased them, through the antpeople tunnels to the surface, then through a garden toward a small shed built next to the monastery wall. Bangqiu became invisible and reached the shed first. The small room was cramped with tools, cooking pots, and sleeping mats. There was an exit, a stout door built into the monastery wall. The shed appeared empty, but Bangqiu sensed the sweaty, weaselly breath of another person. Bangqiu positioned himself in front of postern door. When the monks reached the shed, they cried out to the empty room that Li-Ho had told the robbers he was there. An invisible man reached for the door and collided with the invisible Bangqiu. The two men grappled and wrestled. The other man stabbed Bangqiu with a knife and Bangqiu retaliated with a blast of magic missiles.
Both men became visible and stared at each other. Weasel-man was pudgy and round with a flat nose and large eyes. But the smell. Weasel-man retreated while commanding the monks to attack. As they grabbed tools and charged, Bo-Jing arrived. He killed the Weasel-man with one slash of his sword and ordered the monks to leave his friend alone. They joyfully threw down their weapons. “We are free!”
Showing posts with label slave pits of the undercity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slave pits of the undercity. Show all posts
Sunday, July 11, 2021
Saturday, May 2, 2015
The Emperor's First Peculiar Request
The Emperor of Khanbaliq had grown restless, obsessed with acquiring a concubine from the lost city of Cynadicea—someone like the elusive Beatriss, but younger, rarer. (And, more to the point, willing to yield to his advances!) His latest favorite, Jiaohu, recently purchased from the Monastery of the Two-Fold Path, knew how to keep his attention. One evening, lounging at his side, she spoke with idle malice:
“They had another pale one, you know. Younger than her.
Prettier, too. Strong thighs. But the monks are keeping her for someone...
important.”
The Emperor sent gold, and messengers. But the monks
only delivered girls of vague resemblance, none matching the description. It
was clear now: they were hiding her.
So the Emperor turned back to Beatriss.
“If you can bring me this girl,” he said, “I will let you
leave. You may build your castle in the south.”
Beatriss listened, suspicious, and said nothing until she
had the full account. Jiaohu elaborated—there was a prisoner named Xing
in the monastery’s lower cells, and Ciuciu was the name the other slaves
gave to the pale girl. Xing would help, if approached with the correct
password.
Beatriss gathered her team:
- Naron,
a swordmaster who had bled beside her before
- Jumay,
priest and spell-caster of quiet but deep power
- Feng
Feng, a magician of shifting loyalties and sardonic insight
- And
lastly, Bayan—once a servant, still barely more than an apprentice
fighter, and utterly unproven, but eager to escape the confines of the place
and test herself in a milleu where the criteria of success were more
clear.
Bayan said little as they set out. She’d requested to come.
Beatriss had allowed it. Now, on the eve of action, her breath was tight in her
throat.
They entered through a crumbling postern gate on the
ruined side of the monastery. Wind rustled through rotting beams. The floor
shifted under their steps. Bayan stepped carefully, watching how the others
moved. She kept her hand near her blade—just in case, though she wasn’t
sure what she’d do with it.
They descended into a half-collapsed corridor, and there,
amid the scent of fungus and decay, came their first danger: a bloated,
tentacled compost creature, reeking and heaving as it dragged itself from a
collapsed cistern.
Before Bayan could even breathe a warning, Beatriss
charged, cutting it with swift, slashing arcs. It thrashed and struck her
across the face with a heavy, adhesive tendril. Beatriss dropped, choking.
“Do something!” Jumay shouted.
Bayan froze—then remembered a flask tucked inside her sash. She fumbled it
open, poured the acidic tincture over Beatriss’s mouth and jaw, dissolving the
syrupy film. It worked.
Beatriss stood again, unsteady, and glanced at Bayan. No
praise—just a nod. But Bayan would remember that nod.
When the battle ended, a woman peeked from a loft,
covered in straw. She was thin, bruised, but alert.
“Are you friends of Jiaohu?” she asked.
Beatriss gave the password.
The woman was Xing, and she recognized Ciuciu’s name.
She offered two paths: one through an overgrown garden, likely overrun with
venomous vines; the other, deeper, through the lair of antmen. Beatriss
chose the latter.
“Are we sure we need to go this way?” Bayan whispered,
nervously eyeing the dark descent.
“No,” said Beatriss. “But I don’t want to die in a garden.”
The antmen tunnels were cramped and damp, carved from
soft clay and overgrown with mold. Bayan trailed near Jumay, whispering
questions.
“Do they see in the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Should we be whispering?”
“No.”
Suddenly, from the gloom ahead, three antmen emerged—eight-limbed,
armored, with two shields and two blades each. One cast a net
that caught Beatriss mid-sprint. She fell hard. The antmen surged forward.
Bayan’s first instinct was to run.
Instead, she crouched behind Jumay, clutching her sword. She
watched Naron stand in the passage like a gatepost, parrying blow after blow,
while Feng Feng blasted one creature with lightning. Beatriss cut
herself free, rose, and together with Naron, finished the remaining two, and they crawled through the twisting tunnels, without direction, noticing that Xing was gone.
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“Where’s Xing?” Bayan whispered.
No one answered. From behind them came a scream—and then a wet crunch.
“Was that—?”
“Yes,” Beatriss said flatly. “Keep moving.”They pressed onward through chambers of rot—half-organic,
half-dug. One room pulsed with a humid, sour warmth. A mud chamber, slick and
bubbling. Beatriss entered first and was immediately swarmed by massive
white larvae, as thick as a man’s leg.
She shouted for retreat, slashing them away.
Bayan helped drag her out.
Wounded and weary, the party began their return. In a final
subterranean chamber, they stumbled upon two crocodiles, locked in a
lazy scuffle over a limp human shape. The beasts turned toward
them—hungry for fresh prey. The party struck fast. Bayan, trembling, landed a
single blow. It did not kill—but it felt real.
Afterward, they approached the body. It was hairless,
featureless, nearly bloodless.
“Is that Xing?” Bayan asked.
“I don’t think anyone is,” Jumay replied.
They returned to Khanbaliq bruised and empty-handed. The Emperor
was not pleased—but Beatriss’s report was thorough. Her commitment to
return was clear.
And Bayan? She slept that night still wearing her sword
belt, dreaming of tunnels, of breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and of
the quiet nod that said: You didn’t fail.
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