Outlanders 39 Hydra's Ring, page 2
Wei Qiang angled a ropy eyebrow. "Should I interpret your words to mean I lack that vision?"
Musgrave replied smoothly, "The unfortunate truth is that in today's realities, you are an anachronism, a curiosity. There is no place for you or your quaint criminal enterprise in the modern, post-baronial world. You must adapt to changing conditions or be overwhelmed by the growth of more up-to-date operations, like the one I represent."
"You threaten me, consortium man?" Wei Qiang's tone was silky soft.
Musgrave shook his head, lips curving in a cold smile. "By no means. I simply state circumstances as they are."
"You state circumstances only as you perceive them to be," Wei Qiang retorted contemptuously. "There is a vast divide between your perceptions and realities. You know nothing."
The smile that stretched Musgrave's lips became almost pitying. "I might surprise you."
Qiang arched a supercilious eyebrow. "Then do so, consortium man. Surprise and enlighten me with your knowledge."
Flatly, Werner Musgrave stated, "I know that Wei Qiang is only an alias, one of hundreds you have adopted in a life that began in China's Yellow River valley over five thousand years ago.
"Then you were known as Huang-ti and later as Xuanyuan Shi, the Yellow Emperor. You developed legendary skills in war craft and allied yourself with the most powerful lords in Asia to create a vast empire. You also found a means that, for all intents and purposes, rendered you immortal."
Wei Qiang sucked on the mouthpiece of the water-pipe hose, his seamed face showing only mild interest. The marmoset nuzzled his ear. "Go on."
"Over the centuries you adopted many names, many guises," Musgrave continued, "and embarked on many life paths as Shiwan Khan, Wu Fang, Yen Sin, Lo Pan. According to my research, you were quite infamous in the early twentieth century when you were known by the melodramatic euphemism of the `Devil Doctor.' During that period, you saw to the formation of the most pervasive Asian criminal organization in the world, the Si-Fan. The list of your alter egos is endless ...as are the crimes you perpetrated under those names.
"History has hailed you as both a visionary and a criminal mastermind, a genocidal monster and a liberator. Now, as Wei Qiang, you are merely an enfeebled old patriarch who cannot die but can only be killed. Your position is truly untenable. You stand now, at long last, upon the brink of doom."
The old Chinese eyed him speculatively and exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. "I have heard similar sentiments pronounced over my humble person more often than you can possibly count, and yet I sit here talking to you."
"Talking, perhaps," Musgrave replied stiffly. "But not listening. Do you deny or confirm the extraordinary biography I just presented to you?"
Wei Qiang raised a thin left hand, the skin looking like damp parchment ready to fall off the bone. He scratched the marmoset under the chin with the tip of the fingernail protector. "Why should I do either, consortium man? Your fantasies bring a passing entertainment to, as you say, an enfeebled old patriarch."
Werner Musgrave placed his briefcase flat atop the desk. "If I speak only fantasies, then you should have no interest in my gift."
"First you spin a fable for my amusement, then you present me with a gift." Wei Qiang's tone was edged by icy sarcasm. "Why has the consortium so blessed me?"
Unlatching the locks, Musgrave said, "This blessing does not come from the Millennial Consortium. In this instance, we have agreed to act as intermediaries for another party."
"Oh? And who might that be?"
Musgrave didn't answer. He raised the lid of the case and Wei Qiang leaned forward slightly, then froze. The consortium representative pretended not to notice the expression of stunned incredulity that settled over the old man's face like a mask.
A heavy ring lay within a molded cushion of foam rubber. The metal was coppery in appearance, the strands shaped to form nine intertwined serpents, the horned heads holding the tails in their jaws. Delicate splinters and veins of jade traced along the twisting reptilian bodies, fused cunningly with the metal. The nine pairs of eyes were cabochon-cut rubies.
The ring was abnormally large, several sizes too broad to fit on even the thickest finger of a very large man.
Uttering a wild, gargling cry, Wei Qiang seized the ring with both hands. The marmoset recoiled at the sight of it, baring its tiny teeth and chittering in fear. Clutching the ring between his bony fingers, Qiang stared at it with a surprise so intense it was almost stupefaction. Holding it before his eyes, he studied it, turning it about in the candlelight, his respiration coming hard and fast. He lifted a questioning, imploring gaze.
"The Hydra's ring, yes," Musgrave said, unable to completely repress the gloating note in his voice. "One of nine. I believe you wore them first some four thousand years ago, when you donned the Kai Bu Xiu, the Armor of Immortality, and they were attached to the fingers of the gauntlets. Once every five hundred years thereafter you wore the rings and lay encased within the armor for a day and night—until the end of the fourth century A.D. Since then, the rings have been denied to you. Eventually, old age came upon you, but not death. That was the final gift of the rings and the armor...or their curse."
Wei Qiang's lips stirred as his fingertips continued to fondle the ring, as if trying to convince himself it was real and within his grasp. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords seemed paralyzed by shock. Musgrave realized what he was he was trying to ask.
"Yes, I know the location of the other eight rings, just as you know the location of the Kai Bu Xiu. So as I hope you understand, we have a mutually beneficial situation here."
In a faint, hoarse rasp, Wei Qiang asked, "Are you certain it is genuine?"
Musgrave nodded. "There is no doubt."
"How can I be sure?"
The dun-clad man lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "If you are indeed the man I claim you to be, then you know how to test its authenticity."
Wei Qiang fixed Musgrave with a brief, unblinking glare of pure malice and unspoken threat. Musgrave only smiled. Reaching into a drawer beneath the desk, the old man withdrew a thin-bladed knife, scarcely more than a thorn of steel. With its tapered tip, he pricked the ball of his left thumb.
A bead of dark red blood oozed from the puncture and he smeared it over the horned Hydra heads on the ring, masking the jeweled eyes. He slipped the band of metal onto the third finger of his right hand and waited, holding it up before his face. The ring hung loosely, askew in the web of flaccid flesh between his fingers. He stared challengingly at Musgrave. "I am waiting, consortium man."
Suddenly tiny lightnings played over the ring, blazing like a miniature aurora borealis. Nine pairs of eyes flashed with a bright yellow glow. As if the metal had come alive, the serpentine bodies coiled around his finger, altering in diameter, tightening and contracting. Laughter rose from Musgrave's throat, triumphant and not a little relieved.
Wei Qiang stared dispassionately across the table, meeting Musgrave's dark-lensed gaze. He breathed deeply, regularly, his chest rising and falling. His respiration became labored. Then Qiang's body went into a series of strange, almost mannered convulsions even though he remained sitting upright. The tangled root wood of the chair squeaked and creaked.
His hands gripped the edges of the desk so tightly the knuckles stood out like small ivory knobs. The marmoset uttered a high-pitched screech and bounded from his shoulder in terror, taking refuge upon an overhead timber.
With each spasm of his body, Wei Qiang changed, the flesh of his face tightening, the breadth of his shoulders spreading beneath the jacket, his chest swelling. The man shuddered violently as the shriveled skin stretched taut over his cheekbones, the deep creases and wrinkles smoothing as if all the loose epidermal tissue on his face had been gathered in a knot at the back of his head. The prominent ropy veins on his hands sank into firm flesh. Liver and age spots faded. His mustache and eyebrows darkened to a charcoal-gray.
When the convulsions ceased, Wei Qiang panted deeply and harshly, breathing through his thin, high- bridged nose. His lips peeled back from his bared teeth, air hissing between them. Sweat glistened on his high, pale brow. He sat motionless, hands spread on the desktop, a dim yellowish-green flame flickering in his narrowed eyes.
"Are you convinced?" Werner Musgrave asked, sounding completely unperturbed by the transformation he had just witnessed.
Wei Qiang tentatively fingered his face, coughed and murmured hoarsely, "I am not young."
"No," Musgrave agreed. "Only the other rings working in tandem with the Armor of Immortality will restore your youth and vitality. The effect of one ring cannot reverse the deterioration of your body—it can only hold it at bay."
Eyeing him suspiciously, Wei Qiang rasped, "You say you know where the other eight rings can be found?"
Musgrave nodded. "Within Great Pyramid of China in Xian, in the vault that once served as the tomb of Shih Huang Ti...yet another one of your alter egos, or so I am told. Very clever, to masquerade as your own descendant."
"Who told you that?" Qiang snapped, his voice growing stronger and more vibrant with every word.
Waving away the question, Musgrave declared, "I have been instructed to inform you that if you agree to retrieve the eight rings from the pyramid in Xian, you must also agree to reclaim only the rings and leave whatever else you may find there untouched."
"Who has instructed you?" Wei Qiang's magnetic eyes fixed upon Musgrave's face.
"His identity is less important than the fact he will supply you with all of the means to succeed at this task.
Manpower, materiel, engines of war, all will be made available for your use."
"Engines of war?" Wei Qiang echoed doubtfully.
"The pyramid has been abandoned for many centuries." "No longer. Now it is occupied and heavily fortified." Qiang's eyes widened as far as the epicanthic folds allowed. "By whom?"
Musgrave made a casual show of opening the bracelet of the handcuff around his wrist. "A woman who commands a well-armed contingent of troopers. She is called Tui Chui Jian."
Wei Qiang frowned. "The Dragon Mother. Rather a pretentious title for a woman to adopt."
"Perhaps," Musgrave replied. "But she is not Chinese. She is an American. Her true name is Erica van Sloan, and she will never willingly relinquish the means for you to regain your youth."
Wei Qiang nodded contemplatively, idly tapping the horned Hydra heads with the point of his thumbnail protector. "Then she must die."
Musgrave's lips quirked in a smirk. "Is killing and war an undertaking you are prepared to see through to the end, especially at your advanced age?"
Wei Qiang stared at him in silent surmise. In the sudden quiet, they heard only the lap of water against the hull of the junk and the faint creak of the rigging on the deck. Thunder boomed, sounding much closer.
With a sigh, the man pushed himself to his feet. He was far taller than Musgrave had expected, several inches over six feet. Qiang walked casually around the desk, tugging at the golden cone capping his thumb.
"I've seen more war and done more killing than ten thousand mortals you might meet," he said musingly. "And through it all I have learned two things—"
In one swift movement, he snapped away the protector, revealing a three-inch-long thumbnail, its edges beveled and curved like the blade of a scimitar. He slashed it twice across Musgrave's face, blood spraying from the deep lacerations that stretched from both corners of his mouth and curved up toward his earlobes. The man screamed as he clapped his hands to his face and fell to the deck, overwhelmed by pain and shock. His dark-lensed glasses fell from his face.
"No insult should go unavenged," Wei Qiang said in the same reflective tone, "and the punishment should always fit the crime, as Gilbert and Sullivan's quaint Mikado sang. If you enjoy smirking in the presence of your masters, then you should take solace in the fact that after tonight you will always do so."
Shaking his hand to rid the razor-keen thumbnail of blood droplets, Wei Qiang stepped on Musgrave's glasses. The lenses cracked and crunched beneath his foot. Coldly, he stated, "And the second thing I have learned is to always finish what you start."
Wei Qiang fondled the molded Hydra heads on the ring as a clap of thunder shook the timbers and planks of the junk. He couldn't help but smile at the melodramatic irony of the timing.
Chapter 3
Xian Province, China—two months later
Thunder boomed in the distance, a long, loud roll. A fireball bloomed amid an explosion of pulverized stone. Erica van Sloan flinched, shielding her eyes from the flurry of grit.
Seng Kao yanked her into the niche, away from the observation post, sheltering her body from the concussion of the high-explosive shell as it punched a huge smoking crater in the face of the pyramid. Through the tumble of falling masonry, Erica glimpsed the wheeled light-artillery piece down by the riverbank, flame and smoke belching from its bore.
"They are only finding the range," Seng Kao said softly but admonishingly, "but you must be more careful. Without you to inspire our troops, all is lost, Tui Chui Jian."
Erica brushed dust from her heavy, ankle-length cloak of dark green. "The troops who haven't deserted, you mean."
She didn't bother lowering her voice, despite the presence of three other imperial troopers within the niche. Like Lieutenant Seng Kao, they wore black boots, helmets and coveralls of midnight-blue with facings of bright scarlet. They carried compact SIG-AMT subguns slung over their shoulders. The faces under the overhangs of the helmets were of an Asian cast. They were all native Chinese, and Erica towered nearly half a head above the tallest of them.
Her long, straight hair, confined by a high, sable-fur tam set at a rakish angle on her head, spilled over her shoulders. It was so black as to be blue when the light caught it, much like the color of troopers' uniforms. The mark of an aristocrat showed in her delicate, honey- hued features, with the high arch of her brows and her thin-bridged nose. Single-mindedness, intelligence and the potential for cruelty glinted in her violet eyes.
She was tall, nearly six feet in her stilt-heeled boots, and voluptuous in the tight-fitting uniform that clung to her upper body. Ebony pants hugged her long, lithe legs. Her waist was tightly cinctured by a red sash, and the narrow shoulders of her indigo tunic were broadened by tapered pads. The satiny fabric was tailored to conform to the thrust of her full breasts, which were accentuated by crimson facings.
Carefully, she edged out of the niche and onto the observation platform again, lifting a compact set of binoculars to her eyes. She swept the ruby-coated lenses over the thickly wooded valley roughly a mile across. The Yarkand, a tributary of the Yangtze River, flowed through it, the foaming waters cascading down a gentle fall half a mile to the west.
The army of the invaders spread across the valley floor, sprawling nearly a quarter of a mile or more in all directions. A gray umbrella of smoke hung above the valley, the result of a hundred cook fires. The previous day the army had crossed the river, and all night the fires flared along the length of the valley. The wind brought the blare of horns and the sharp shouts of officers drilling the men.
Then, shortly after daybreak, the barrage began on the pyramid that had served as Erica van Sloan's home for the past two years. From her vantage point, on a small balcony halfway up its southern face, she could see only a small portion of the pyramid's staggering dimensions.
The immense structure was composed of countless blocks of seamlessly fitted stone, the top quarried perfectly flat. Early-morning sunlight played along its facade, lending an air of otherworldly majesty to the huge monolith. A broad expanse of trimmed gardens and lawns surrounded the base of the five-hundred-foot-high pyramid. Old pagodas and Buddhist shrines were hidden within the gardens. No walls or gates ringed the perimeter. They were not needed, since legends whispered in the dark of evening had taught all of the locals to keep away. Obviously the invading soldiers had not been pressed into service from any of the nearby provinces.
The pyramid was painted black on the north side, blue-gray on the east, red on the south and white on the west. The original colors had been restored shortly before Sam had undergone his transformation—or evolution—into Overlord Enlil.
In pre-dark days, archaeologists had theorized the Great Pyramid of China was part of the tomb complex of Emperor Shih Huang. The purpose of the pyramid or tomb was never known, though Taoist tradition attributed its construction to a very powerful race called the Celestials, one of whom was reputed to be the first emperor of China, the legendary Huang-ti.
Whoever was responsible for its construction, one thing was certain—the great pyramid of Xian represented a cardinal point in the world grid harmonics, a network of pyramids built at key places around the globe to tap Earth's natural geomantic energies. That aspect of the structure's design was not conjecture. Erica knew it as a fact.
But one fact she still did not know was the true purpose of the army that had swarmed into her valley over the past two days.
The first reports of a very large and organized body of armed men marching from the port city of Kiangsu and across Honan had filtered into Xian sporadically over the period of a week. Verifiable intelligence from outlying provinces was not only difficult to come by, but the sources were also very hard to assess as to accuracy and simple veracity.
China was vast and without a centralized government, having reverted to a nation of divided fiefdoms and mini-kingdoms whose boundaries were determined by warlords. At first, Erica assumed the reports of Wei Qiang and his army were only distortions, fragmented exaggerations about one of the regional warlords seeking to expand his territories.
But the fragments, once assembled like a jigsaw puzzle, formed a coherent and terrifying image. Wei Qiang was whispered to be a direct descendant of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, who millennia before had invented the four branches of military tactics concerned with mountains, rivers, marshes and plains.
To have reached the valley in Xian, Wei Qiang and his army would have had to contend with and cross all of those terrains, so she wondered if there wasn't some truth to the rumors about his lineage.
