The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online

inadequate!”
    “I am forced to agree with you, Mr. Lu,” said I, and would have continued had I not recognized the distinctive sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone. I lifted my head, thinking at first that I had been hit, but it was Mr. Lu. He must have died instantly, for he had been shot not once but twice, almost simultaneously, in the head.
    I had an immediate sense of grief, realizing how much I had enjoyed the sophisticated company of the Chinese, but the sight of his ruined head sickened me and I was forced to avert my eyes.
    The death of Mr. Lu seemed to be a signal for the fighting to stop. Shortly afterwards the sound of gunfire ended and I lifted my head cautiously to peer through the drifting rain. Death was everywhere. Our own men lay amongst the scattered and broken remains of the works of art they had carried for so long and so far. A few had once again laid down their weapons and were raising their hands high above their heads. General Liu Fang was nowhere to be seen (I learned later he had kept riding, abandoning his men to their fate), but the warlord’s soldiers lay in postures of death everywhere I looked. I rose, raising my own hands. There came a few more isolated shots and I surmised that, in Chinese fashion, the wounded were being finished off.
    I must have waited for at least ten minutes before I got my first sight of our ‘rescuers’. They were all mounted, all wearing leather caps of a distinctively Mongolian appearance and all carried light rifles of a decidedly unfamiliar pattern. Their loose shirts were of silk or cotton and some wore leather capes to protect themselves against the worst of the rain, while others wore quilted jackets. They were mainly good-looking Northern Chinese, tall and somewhat arrogant in their bearing, and none had pigtails. Most had armbands as their only insignia—a fanciful design consisting of a circle from which radiated eight slender arrows. I knew at once that they could not, after all, be government troops, but were doubtless some rival bandit army either fighting for themselves or allied with the government troops against General Liu Fang.
    And then their leader rode into sight from out of the misty rain. I knew it must be the leader from the way in which the other riders fell back. Also it was rare to see a handsome black Arab stallion in these parts and that was what the leader rode. Slender, a graceful rider, dressed in a long black leather topcoat with a narrow waist and a flaring skirt, a broad-brimmed leather hat hiding the face, a long Cossack-style sabre hanging from a belt of elaborately ornamented silk, the bandit chief rode towards me, lifted the brim of the hat away from the face and showed evident, and almost childish, amusement at my astonishment.
    “Good morning, Mr. Moorcock.”
    Her voice was clear and well-modulated—the voice of an educated Englishwoman (though bearing perhaps the slightest trace of an accent). She was young, no older than thirty at very most, and she had a pale, soft complexion. Her eyes were grey-blue and her mouth was wide and full-lipped. She had an oval face which would have been merely pretty had it not been for the character in it. As it was, I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her slightly waving black hair was short, framing her face but barely touching her shoulders.
    And all I could blurt out was: “How do you know my name?”
    She laughed. “Our intelligence is rather better than General Liu Fang’s. I am sorry so many of your men were killed—and I particularly regret the death of Mr. Lu. Though he did not know that it was I who attacked, we were old friends and I had been looking forward to meeting him again.”
    “You take his death rather casually,” I said.
    “It was a casual death. I have not introduced myself. My name is Una Persson. For some months we have been harassed by General Liu and this is the first opportunity we have had to teach him a lesson. We were