Dai san, p.20
Dai-San, page 20
They reached the horses and mounted. The saddle was too small for him and he was obliged to fold his legs up so that his feet would take the stirrups.
‘You were right, Moeru. Nikumu was a complex man. And a brave one. He could have killed Ronin and lived but the shame of that deed would not let him. He battled The Dolman with such ferocity that it allowed dor-Sefrith to return to life in his body—’
‘But what happened to Haneda? The destruction—’
‘It could only have been The Dolman. Perhaps he and dor-Sefrith fought while Ronin was dying.’
‘In that event—’
‘Yes, I know. What was the outcome? Dor-Sefrith is no more.’
Unaccountably, he thought then of another lifetime and the time he had shared with her. He debated asking her if she had loved Ronin, but the question and thus the answer seemed as remote as yesterday’s rain.
‘No matter,’ he called to her, pulling on his reins. His mount trembled and reared. ‘I am here now. The Sunset Warrior is come to Ama-no-mori. For us, the Kai-feng!’ Their horses leapt forward.
The wind shifted and he could smell, from a distant wooden edifice lying low on the veldt, the pungent fragrance of steaming tea.
In the great copper pot, rice was boiling. The flames licked lovingly at its blackened bottom. Steam rose up through the opened flue, into the massive chimney.
The cook wiped his hands on his greasy apron, turning away from the stack of rough-hewn shallow wooden bowls stacked beside the high pile of firewood.
It was still early and the great room was empty. A yellow and gray dog wandered in from the narrow street, his nose close to the wooden floor, searching for food.
The cook yelled halfheartedly and, when the animal made no move, kicked out. The dog yelped as the toe of the cook’s boot caught him in the ribs. His jagged claws skittered over the floor as the cook lashed out again, cursing. He went out onto the porch and sat, licking his bruised side.
Kiri came into the room from the street and the cook poured her some tea before he shuffled off into a corner near the fire to sleep before the breakfast rush.
She stood before the fire, feeling the heat but blind to its light. She sipped her tea mechanically.
When she had drained her cup, she took a bowl from the pile and, using a great black metal ladle, served herself a portion of the sticky rice. She went to a long table and sat, her bowl in front of her. She made no move to eat.
Someone came into the room, stood watching her back for a time, then came across the room, sat beside her.
Tuolin poured himself some tea.
She felt her heart thudding beneath her robe as her pulse increased. She wanted to say something, but the unknown words stuck in her throat like cracked bones.
He would not look at her, nor would he speak, and thus they sat, as the great room began to teem with warriors who ate sitting or standing up, talking among themselves while the cook hastened to refill their bowls, knowing that they ate the first meal of a long day.
After a while, she got up, threaded her way through the throng.
Tuolin reached out and touched her bowl of cold rice.
Standing in the prow of the Bujun flagship, Shoju, the Sunset Warrior gazed out onto the reaches of the glittering sea. The hot noon sun left a dazzling gilt path outward, eastward, behind him.
He faced west toward the continent of man and the Kai-feng.
He burned with anticipation.
Beside him stood Moeru, armored in breastplate of burnished metal banded with sea-green jade and mother-of-pearl. Her long black hair was tucked into her high copper helm. Two Bujun swords, one longer than the other, hung from her hips.
All about them was frantic motion, carefully coordinated and precise as the movements in the climax of a Noh play, as Bujun worked to set the vast armada’s rigging.
Azuki-iro signed to him and Moeru murmured, ‘We are ready.’
There came a shout, repeated endlessly, like the crying of the wheeling gulls circling their masts.
A rhythmic singing began as Bujun bowed over the great flat windlasses on their ships and with creaks and groans the wheels turned, bringing up the heavy chains of the anchors from the harbor’s floor.
The Bujun’s song, exciting and melodic, filled the air, already rich with salt and phosphorus.
The last of the mooring lines were cast off and made fast.
Bujun raced through the rigging.
The water was black with the bulk of the armada, stretching away and away, westward.
He looked to port and starboard, at the fifty score Bujun ships, cast off now from Ama-no-mori, rocking gently off the coast of Eido.
‘It will take too long,’ Moeru said. ‘How will we ever reach the continent of man in time?’
‘Nichiren,’ he said.
He left her, the sunlight spinning madly off his ebon armor, white plumes shooting from his high helm.
He braced himself against the base of the bowsprit of the Shoju.
He drew forth his blue-green blade, Aka-i-tsuchi, pale lavender running down its long double edges. With both hands, he reached it forth, over the sea.
He closed his eyes.
And the last legacy of his beastly protector flowed up from the dark depths, called by Aka-i-tsuchi, by his mind.
In the east, clouds formed along the horizon, building steep and purple. Yet where the ships rocked gently in the water, the sun shone hotly.
It grew quite calm, not a breath of air stirring.
The clouds writhed out of the east, rushing at the fleet.
The first hint of a wind from the east.
‘Break out all sail!’ called the Kunshin.
The east wind began to rise, cool, alive with electric intimations, filling all who felt its touch with a peculiar exhilaration.
The darkening clouds now raced across all the skies for as far as they could see. Pink lightning crackled, thunder wailed, echoing across the sea.
The wind tore at the armada.
With that, the Kunshin gave the last sign and the ships rushed out to meet the storm.
The seas heaved and the wind howled through the rigging, straining the sails to their limit, and the vast Bujun fleet leapt westward across the storm-tossed ocean of periwinkle and deep lavender, racing faster than any ships made by the hands of man.
Moeru stood in the bow of the Shoju, just behind the tall figure standing athwart the base of the bowsprit, watching the unnatural light undulate along the great blue-green blade, and what thoughts at that moment ran through her mind, none could say, not even the Sunset Warrior.
Nemesis
THERE WAS A MAN within the teeming camp of The Dolman who stayed close to certain people even though they were relative newcomers to the army. Obviously, they were leaders. And they did not stink like the other generals. In fact, as far as the man could tell, they were human.
The man was tall and thin, his muscles hard and ropy. His face, with its long, drooping mustaches, was gaunt and haunted. Deep within, he mourned for his people and that aching frustration was built until it became an emotion so bitter that he could not bear to live with it. In desperate self-defense he had turned it outward, into implacable hatred so that at least he could wake each morning and not plunge a short sword into his lower belly.
Po had long ago aligned himself with the Reds of the northern provinces for he detested the fat hongs and eager rikkagin who held sway within the walls of Sha’angh’sei.
As a trader, he made frequent journeys to the continent of man’s richest city, was even welcome within the houses of many of its wealthiest and most influential citizens, high up in the walled city district. He forced himself to fall neatly into the guise of a successful trader from the north, burying his hate by looking to the future—the future that was now—remaining sharp-tongued but carefully concealing his true feelings.
Yet, as the time of the Kai-feng drew nigh, as his time in the north revealed to him the true nature of the burgeoning battle, while those seemingly secure in their palatial homes in Sha’angh’sei grew fat and complacent, his temper writhed upon its tight leash, burning bright. Thus, when he had been insulted—or rather, when his taut nerves had caused him to believe he had been insulted—he had lashed out, spilling his guts, insulting in kind the people assembled at Llowan’s dinner party. And so he had forever been banned from Llowan’s home. He had castigated himself for days for his foolish lack of control. In disgust, he slew three Greens on the northern outskirts of the city. Then he vowed that never again would his emotions betray him.
Now, as he picked his teeth after a satisfying meal over a fragrant pine fire, he knew that it no longer mattered. At last the war for liberation was here and soon the rebel army, as he chose to call it, would break through Kamado’s defenses. All Sha’angh’sei stood before him, waiting like a fat jewel to be plundered. These aliens, he knew, had no interest in either silver or the poppy, had not, he suspected, even the intelligence to understand the concept of wealth. No, these peculiar creatures lived only to kill and when they had sated themselves on the blood and the gore they would return to whatever hellholes out of which they had first crawled. He shuddered. Oh, how they stank! Then he thought of the wealth that would soon be his. With it he would assume control of the war-torn city, establish a new line for his people. They would stream in from the hills in the west, becoming proud and powerful within the confines of the new Sha’angh’sei. And the fat hongs would be the first to die under his regime. This was why he had resigned himself now to follow.
Confident, he strode through the vast stinking encampment, alive with the discord of alien languages, foreign dialects, winding his way through the teeming, bristling bodies. Twice he spied the black, beetling heads of the insect-eyed generals and he gave them a wide berth.
At length, he came to the tent of the fat man. He was a great general, Po knew, perhaps second only to the disgusting Makkon. That was why he had picked out the man when he first rode into camp on the ebon animal that was hard to look at for more than a few seconds. The fat man had come from the heart of the pine forest, from where the Makkon were, and Po knew.
He went past the guards and, ducking, stepped through the tent flaps into the covered pavilion beyond.
‘You sent for me,’ he said, bowing his head.
Three of the deathshead warriors passed in front of him and, stooping, went out through the back of the pavilion.
The fat man looked up from his charts.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
A Makkon stood by his side, its hideous beaked head swiveling. Its thick tail flicked at the air, which was heavy with its stench. Po averted his eyes, clamped down on his surprise at seeing the being outside the forest. What is happening? His thoughts darted like unquiet fish.
‘We wish,’ said the fat man silkily, ‘for you to do us a service.’
‘As you request,’ said Po, his head still bowed.
‘Good,’ said the fat man. ‘Tonight you will infiltrate Kamado.’
Po concealed his surprise once again, said: ‘I am, as you are no doubt aware, a prime master of jhindo.’
‘Concealment and assassination,’ said the fat man. ‘Yes, we know well. That is why we chose you, Po.’
The Makkon opened its hooked beak and screamed, its gray tongue flailing at the scaled roof of its mouth. Po shuddered and closed his eyes momentarily, nauseated.
‘There is someone we wish slain,’ said the fat man, seeming to translate the Makkon’s request. ‘We wish it done silently and mysteriously to increase the terror.’ Then he gave Po a description.
‘That could fit many people, sir.’ Still he was sickened by this weak, subservient pose. Yet he knew within its docility lay his ultimate strength to outlast and thus defeat these pompous generals and stinking aliens. ‘What is the name?’
The Makkon howled again and Po felt tears start at the corners of his eyes. His ears hurt.
‘Her name,’ said the fat man quietly, ‘is Moeru.’
They had gone on, leaving him alone in Sha’angh’sei. Behind Tenchō, in the palace of the Empress.
In his high gleaming helm, in his black lacquered armor ribbed in sea-green jade and lapis lazuli, he strode through the cool marble halls, hearing only the echoes of his footsteps.
He stood for a moment peering down a wide gallery, past flecked marble columns. Beaten brass lamps hung from long chains.
The palace was deserted.
The air was still, hanging dusty, like folded sheets, waiting for the occupants to return from some summer sojourn on another continent where the sun shone and it never rained.
For a moment, he thought he detected a presence high up at the other end of the vast gallery: an inquisitive voyeur, perhaps the gyring beat of primitive music. But the air was thick and the light dim and the shimmering was most likely some refraction of flames off his armor.
He shook his head, as if trying to remember a snippet of another’s memory, and failing, strode from the palace, wondering what had led him to return here when events and time pressed for him to make all speed northward to Kamado.
He came out onto the jeweled garden, lush still in the ending of the year. The day was bright and cold, as brittle as porcelain. High cirrus clouds scoured the cerulean sky. The trees were red and orange, as shiny as copper or brass.
With his gauntleted hands on the bridle of his mount, he paused, his head turning back toward the hidden entrance to the Empress’ palace, certain now that he had forgotten something there.
Then he shrugged, leapt upon his steed, and without another backward glance, galloped out of the open gates, through the maze of tumbled streets and black back alleys, of Sha’angh’sei, strange in their emptiness, northward to catch the column of Bujun on the march to Kamado.
Behind him, a great wind came into the palace as if seeking someone or something. It batted at the brass lamps as if in the frustration of finding no one. They fell to the floor. Cold flame ran along the marble and the building shuddered as from a great, angry fist.
It was Bonneduce the Last who saw him first, at the head of the long column, and it was he who gave the order for the great postern gates of Kamado to be opened.
The little man’s face was alight with pleasure as the Sunset Warrior reined in and dismounted. Amid the dust and clatter of the marching Bujun, he grasped Bonneduce the Last and picked him up in the air.
‘Old friend,’ he said over and over. ‘Old friend.’
‘It is good to see you,’ said the little man, giving vent to his joy. ‘At last.’
At their feet, Hynd, the singular mutant who was more than animal, growled in his throat, his round tail whipping the air.
The Sunset Warrior bent to stroke his furred head and Hynd coughed, his thin lips pulled back from his wicked teeth. He nuzzled the Sunset Warrior’s leg.
Moeru reined in her horse and, bending, kissed the little man.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Sunset Warrior saw Kiri running toward him, then abruptly halt and stare as if stricken. He watched her face as she moved backward, away from them, her eyes never leaving his.
‘There have been changes since you embarked on your journey. It is not for you to help Kiri now,’ said Bonneduce the Last.
‘I could not aid her before,’ he said, turning away. ‘Accompany us to the stables, old friend, and then we shall speak of many things.’
‘I will do better than that,’ said the little man, leading the way down Kamado’s narrow streets.
Within the stables, they left their horses to be cared for by the grooms. But before they left, Bonneduce the Last took the Sunset Warrior to the far end of the stalls. There was Ronin’s dark red luma.
The creature snorted as the Sunset Warrior stroked its neck.
‘Ah, thank you, old friend.’
Bonneduce the Last turned away, limped back down the aisle of stalls to where Moeru waited.
For long hours through the remainder of the day and into the brusque twilight, while skirmishes continued unabated without the walls, the rikkagin of man met with the Sunset Warrior, Bonneduce the Last, the taipan of Sha’angh’sei, the Kunshin and his daimyos.
‘Each day,’ said Rikkagin Aerent, ‘the enemy attacks with more men. Each day our forces grow more depleted.’
‘As you know,’ Tuolin said, ‘the deathshead warriors can be destroyed by sword, but their number never seems to diminish. Now they are led by black creatures with the faceted eyes of insects. None of these have ever been killed or wounded. Our men are demoralized.’
‘And the rikkagin?’ said the Sunset Warrior, looking about the smoky room. ‘The men but feel what they see in their leaders and emulate it. A more doom-filled group I cannot imagine. If you are downcast and hopeless, then expect only the same of them.’ His mailed fist struck the table around which they all sat. ‘Now we are all together, the last forces of mankind. The Bujun are come. They are the greatest warriors on the face of the world. We are at the peak of our strength. I will not wait here within these walls only to be beaten down by attrition. This is not the way of the warrior.’ He saw, in the periphery of his vision, Azuki-iro regarding him placidly, smiling. ‘At dawn tomorrow we will go out onto the plain, cross the river, attack the enemy. All of us. And by day’s end, we shall know whether man shall live or die in the time to come.’ He signaled to Rikkagin Aerent, who spread out a detailed topographical map of the district. Upon it had been marked in various colored inks, ‘the deployment of The Dolman’s forces.
After a time, the Kunshin leaned over and stabbed with his forefinger.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘And here.’
Then they got down to it.
‘It is good to have you back,’ said Rikkagin Aerent.
The Sunset Warrior laughed.
‘Am I so unchanged then?’
‘No.’ Rikkagin Aerent looked away for a moment, then his clear eyes returned to the strange visage before him. ‘Not at all. You are like no other I have ever seen before but even so’—he grasped a long arm for a moment—‘even so, I could not mistake you.’ He paused to allow two warriors passage down the cramped, dark hall. They stood between smoking tapers, half-shadowed.
