Chapter 276 — Departing in Peace
The Herdsman of the Wasteland · Page 1 of 3
Shen Mu sat up at once and looked out of the window.
Libationer Bashan's snoring was deafening; the cold wind blew into the room, and still he did not wake. Outside came a strange chanting, the rise and fall of its notes all indistinct.
Shen Mu wasted not a moment: he sealed his own soul with the Art of Creation of the Dark Demon, then roused his primal energy, and the Chubao Sword hanging at the head of the bed rang once and leapt from its sheath, its silver light flooding the chamber.
Beyond the window white shapes drifted and flickered to and fro; the Chubao Sword hummed and quivered, and bolt upon bolt of sword-light shot out like lightning, and of a sudden several heads dropped to the ground outside the window.
Shamanic sorcery that kills sounds uncanny, yet it does no more than strike at the soul or strike at the flesh.
Young as he was, Shen Mu understood the reasoning well enough: to strike at the flesh was to steal into the room by secret arts and cut a man down; to strike at the soul there were stranger means by far. Shamanic poison, poisoning the enemy's soul, colorless, odorless, formless, traceless, leaving no way to guard against it.
The straw man and the worship of the soul, writing down a man's name and the hour and date of his birth and bowing to it ten days, one spirit bowed away each day, seven spirits in seven days, and then the three souls.
And the Yansheng art, which wounds the body through the soul, pricking or slashing an enemy's soul, for soul and flesh are bound together, and a wound to the soul is a wound to the body: prick the soul's hands and feet, and the enemy's fleshly hands and feet show the marks of the piercing; prick the point between the brows, and his mind falls to chaos, and so on and on. That a man may be killed merely by knowing his name is indeed beyond belief, but it, too, must come down to one of those two means. Shen Mu had sealed his own soul and hung the Chubao Sword at the head of the bed for just this: to guard against those two means.
Suddenly a strange laughter sounded.
Shen Mu looked quickly and saw a host of curious little men crawling in through the window, each one leaping down to the floor, armed with sabers and axes and steel forks, mounted on little horses, drawn up in ranks like an army of several hundreds.
That army of little men came swarming in and stood upon Libationer Bashan's chest; Libationer Bashan still did not wake, his snores loud as thunder. Their leader, a long spear in hand and a fine steed between his legs, stood upon the tip of Libationer Bashan's nose, leveled his spear at Shen Mu, who had already risen upon the bed, his eyes shining with excitement, and loosed a shout of no discernible meaning; at once the other little men rushed upon Shen Mu like a tide.
The little men were frantic with excitement, crying out all manner of unintelligible things, brandishing saber and sword and steel fork, charging in furious array.
Though they numbered several hundred, Shen Mu felt he could crush them flat with two or three kicks. He scarce knew whether to laugh or weep. Was this, then, the reason Zaifu was so wary, so loath to use his own true name?
Shen Mu drew his sword and shook it, and sword-light burst forth; he was about to sweep these little men away when of a sudden he heard someone calling his name. The voice came out of the cold wind, drawn out long, long, as if from a vast distance; Shen Mu said not a word, and yet the voice rushed toward him with flying speed.
When another calls your name, though you make no answer, your heart gives answer unbidden, and by this principle, surely, the voice had found out where he stood.
The sword-light in Shen Mu's hand was about to cut down the whole onrushing army when he felt a sudden chill of ice invade the point between his brows; he made to reach out and draw his sword, but his soul had gone rigid.