War priest the complete.., p.39
War Priest: The Complete Series, page 39
“I’ll try,” Arik said as he clenched his fists into balls at his side.
“And I’ll do the same. If Enenra has attached herself to Nobunaga, which is clear to me now, this means that he is much stronger than any opponent you will ever face. Once we do get to them, it will be our biggest challenge yet. Listen to me, just rambling here. Catch your breath, disciple, close your eyes for a moment and relax. Remember all the things that supposed illusionist taught you. Your next match will start soon.”
****
The next two fights were variations of the first, large, muscled Crimsonian fighters with plenty of strength but not enough wits, Arik aided by the Mask of the Fallen, which made him feel as if he were always a step ahead.
He ended up slaying one of the combatants, not able to swipe the man’s serrated sword away, a fight that would have been fatally prolonged had it not been for his focus on moving like water.
The other opponent, the one he didn’t bring down, had been beaten yet again by the Autumn Leaves Strike. He hadn’t put up a protest when the blades approached, and was led to a bleacher that was slowly starting to fill up with losing combatants that were still alive, all of them forced to watch the tournament while they awaited their inevitable death later on that night.
A knock at the door told Arik that it was time for his next fight, the disciple loosened up by this point, ready to reach the finale.
As he made his way up the stone steps, the roar of the crowd came to him once again, not all that different from what he had experienced back at the stadium in Omoto. Patriotism was on display, red banners everywhere, Arik starting to notice that people were starting to cheer more and more for his arrival, the mysterious masked fighter with his strange combat style that was borderline offensive.
His next opponent was already waiting for him, Arik slightly surprised to find a woman with two blades not quite as long as the traditional swords used by Crimsonian warriors. She wore a haori cape over her shoulders that was white and featured a butterfly motif now stained with blood. There was also blood on her face, the woman not bothering to wash off her earlier kills, her bangs cut short, her long dark ponytail braided and tied off with a red ribbon that matched her robes, a slightly sadistic look in her eyes.
“This one is going to be a challenge,” Meosa said, something that Arik already had sensed—she wasn’t like the others.
A drum signaled the start of the fight, Arik now with his sword at the ready and moving into a fluid stance.
It was as if she had been fired from a crossbow at him, the woman reaching him so quickly that lightning seemed to crackle all around her, Arik barely able to miss her first strike as she spun both blades.
Klank!
He brought his sword up just in time to parry one of her attacks, clearly one partially fueled by Thunderaura. Fighting in an unpredictable way, the woman shouldered toward Arik, one of her blades just about an inch away from reaching him as he slipped to the side.
Body Replaces Sword…
Arik went for it, throwing himself into her field of influence, the woman responding with a razor-fast vertical slash pattern that caused him to stumble backward.
“Disciple!” Meosa shouted in his ear as Arik dropped his sword.
She leaped for him, the female fighter attempting to cleave him to death as Arik rolled out of the way, toward his weapon.
He thought about going for the dagger on his arm, but he went for his sanjaku cloth instead, pulling it off his neck and tightening it with both hands just in time to stop one of her swords. His haori cape now draped over his head, Arik ignored the crowd as he blocked another attempt with the cloth, the disciple thanking his lucky stars that the piece was holding up.
Arik kicked up dirt, and used the momentary distraction to dive toward his sword. He managed to reach it and brought it up with both hands just as she tried to send her blades downward.
Klank!
He parried once again, Arik knowing that wasn’t going to be able to stop her advances, not with how quickly she was moving. The longer this fight lasted, the worse his chances of winning became.
As if the Mask of the Fallen was listening, a trail of red energy connected the tip of his blade to her abdomen, Arik finally giving into the mask as he followed the line forward, oblivious to her next maneuver, and what her two blades would do if she reached him before he reached her.
He reached his target and pulled up on his sword, the woman dropping both of her blades at the shock of his insane strike.
“Finish…” she said, her gaze softening. “Kill me.”
Arik was just about to honor her request when the sound of a gong reached his ears. Suddenly, the Crimsonian blades were all standing around him, three of them, each with a pair of swords drawn.
“What is the meaning of this?” Arik asked, his voice haggard.
“Nobunaga will spare her life,” one of the blades said. “You have won the bout.”
“Spare her life?”
“Step aside,” the blade said in an aggressive tone.
Arik pulled his sword out of the woman’s body, leaving her on her knees.
He took a few steps back and one of the men lifted the woman and carried her over to Nobunaga, Arik finally getting a good glimpse at the warlord as the man stepped down from his perched seat.
Nobunaga was short with black hair and a long mustache that hung well past his beard, bushy eyebrows, his hairline receding to some degree, his robes of the finest crimson silk Arik had ever seen. He was by no means handsome, and there was nothing remarkable about him as far as Arik could tell.
But as much as finally coming face to face with Nobunaga should have sparked something within Arik, he couldn’t strip his focus away from his former teacher, Master Guri Yarna, the priest joining the Crimsonian warlord and healing the female combatant, the crowd completely silent.
Arik started to shake his head, barely able to contain a mixture of shock and anger.
“So you aren’t the only healer,” Meosa said as the woman’s life was returned to her. It was only a matter of seconds before she was shaking her arms out, and bowing to Nobunaga and the northern priest, Arik now seeing Combat Master Altai standing as well, his focus not on the woman but on the disciple.
Arik turned back to the gate.
“Don’t let it get to you, disciple,” Meosa said as he reached the stone steps that led down to the underground waiting rooms. “Just focus on winning this wretched tournament. I’m so ready to be done with this.”
****
As they waited, Meosa went into detail about his earlier revelation, explaining that he’d been looking for information when they had first separated in Omoto. He spoke quickly, as if he were trying to shift Arik’s focus on what was happening in the tournament, off the overbearing fact that Master Guri Yarna and Arik’s sister were present.
“She always liked Omoto,” Meosa explained, “Enenra did. An acquired taste, if ever there were one. I didn’t think I would actually run into her, but I knew if she were alive, that this was where she would be. We chose our sides back then, Enenra with Coro Pache, myself with the Queen Merit. When the war ended, I couldn’t break my agreement with her. Enenra didn’t exactly beat me in a fight—I let her win, I’ll have you know—but I had lost our agreement regardless, and I reluctantly agreed to her demands.”
Not only had the kami known Coro Pache, but he had been quite active in the Crimson-Onyx Shroud War, which Arik had sensed to some degree. Still, like Hojo, Meosa had been keeping things from the disciple, and also like Hojo, it wasn’t clear to Arik why this was necessary in the first place. What was the point in these secrets? How would knowing this information have changed their relationship in any way?
“So you basically bet on the outcome?” Arik finally asked.
“Yes, we did. And that was my punishment, forced slumber in that cave. Things were different back then, you know. Chi was utilized in ways that have long been forgotten, at least from what I have seen. Let me ask you, my boy, have you ever heard of Yokaura? I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t.”
“Yokaura?” Arik asked, interpreting that it was a merger between the words ‘yokai’ and the ‘aura,’ which would make it similar to the three known classifications of chi.
“You recall the itako, and what she was able to do.”
“I do,” Arik said, remembering what it had been like separate from his body, how otherworldly it felt.
“You’ve also seen what I am capable of when feeding off your power. This is an aspect of Yokaura, which seems to have been all but forgotten these days. Hell, five hundred years ago it was already on its way out, but before then…” Meosa sighed. “Let’s just say that Taomoni used to be more like that. Humans were still rooted in their three main interpretations of chi, sure, but there were other things that could be done with it, the kind of magic that was able to seal me in a stone box, or separate your soul from your body. That’s called Yokaura.”
“What about Hojo’s daughter?”
“What about her?”
“Her name is Tayaura.”
“Ah, that.”
“Is it another aspect of chi?”
“No, I think it’s just a name that the supposed illusionist came up with. You’d have to ask him. It definitely has nothing to do with Yokaura.”
Arik nodded slowly, feeling very small as he continued to learn new things about a world that seemed crystalized not so long ago.
“This was why I called you the War Priest early on, after I saw what you are capable of. I try not to be one who believes in destiny, but in that regard, I am no different than a typical human. It was fate that brought you to that cave, I’m certain of it, your Revivaura unlocking the box sealed by Yokaura, our paths joined.” Meosa laughed bitterly. “I don’t know if this is a good thing or bad thing, but I still feel I am on the right side of this. But Enenra won last time, and she is as cunning as she is powerful.”
“This isn’t a game,” Arik said, the scowl on his face actually matching the grotesque visual of his mask. “Thousands upon thousands of people died in that war.”
“I don’t think this is a game, but at some point, in all wars, you must choose your side, disciple. The Jade Realm and lofty fools like Hojo pretend that there is always a balancing act that can be exploited, and oftentimes this is the case. But there always comes a time. Eventually, we can no longer be neutral. So…”
A knock at the door caused Arik to get to his feet.
“I apologize if I made it sound like a game, I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean I’ve chosen my side, and I will fight with you to the end. Now…” Meosa’s voice grew louder. “Let’s get out there and win this despicable tournament. We can deal with the aftermath later.”
Arik approached the door, once again moving through the corridor and up the stairs to the fighting grounds. He was met by a bright sun and a crowd cheering for a fighter that they knew little about. His dark clothing, sinister black mask over the bottom portion of his face, red paint smeared over his eyes and his haori cape fashioned into a hood, adding shadows and mystery to his features—who could blame them? There was something enigmatic about his appearance, fierce and memorable.
But Arik felt no elation in their cheers, the disciple moving from determination to sudden apprehension as he came eye to eye with his next opponent.
Domen looked just as Arik had remembered him, the fourteen-year-old boy thin yet muscular, shirtless with several wounds hastily wrapped with cloth. His face was bruised, yet he still had a hint of defiance in the way he held himself, Domen not recognizing Arik in his disguise.
“The herder boy,” Meosa said. “It seems fate’s cruelty knows no bounds.”
Domen held a broadsword, Arik recalling that he had mentioned something about his father’s weapon. With both hands on the grip, Domen kept the sword to his side, the piece so large that the only way for him to sheathe it would have been across his back.
Arik started to shake his head as the drum sounded.
“I can’t,” he told Meosa with a deep sigh.
Domen tilted his head ever so slightly as he looked over to Arik, the disciple remembering him with a square hat firmly over his face, how he had looked at him in the same way when he had run into him in the desert.
“Domen,” Arik said, ignoring Meosa’s murmurings.
“Who…?”
The crowd started to stomp and roar even louder, drums signaling the start of combat yet again.
“It’s me, Arik. The one who helped you find your lost kayno…”
“Arik?” Domen visually swallowed a lump. But instead of lowering his weapon, he hoisted his sword up. “I’m… I’m sorry. If we don’t fight, they will kill us both.”
“I’m not going to fight you.” Arik withdrew his blade from his scabbard and dropped it to the ground, forfeiting the match.
He expected Meosa to scream at him, and as the Crimsonian blades approached, he prepared himself for the inevitable, Arik assuming they may attack him in some way for his cowardly display.
But this didn’t turn out to be the case. One of the Crimsonians took his weapon and the other two led Arik over to the bleachers where the failed combatants sat, the ones who were still alive, most wounded in some way.
The blades didn’t search his person for any other weapons, like the kunai dagger strapped to Arik’s arm. They simply deposited him there and returned to their posts.
Arik looked back to Domen, and as he did the young herder slowly raised a fist into the air, the crowd cheering wildly. Beyond him, Arik could see Nobunaga and his entourage, too far to make out the look on Master Altai’s face.
“Why the hell did you do that?” one of the injured warriors asked Arik, the man’s face smeared in grime and grit.
Arik ignored him, and it wasn’t long before new fighters were brought out, the day growing hotter, the crowd growing thirstier for blood as the tournament continued.
Arik recognized the next combatant, Tatum in the same headband he’d worn back in Iga, with the veil covering his face, his red hair matching his robes. The left-handed swordsman was clearly a fan favorite, the spectators cheering wildly for him as his opponent approached.
The fight was over just about as soon as the drums could signal its start, Tatum swiftly taking his opponent’s life.
“That’s the guy who cut off my arm,” Arik told Meosa, who had yet to say anything.
“He’s going to be a monster, isn’t he?” Meosa asked as Tatum unceremoniously turned back to the waiting area.
“He will likely win.”
“And after?” Meosa asked.
“I’m not dying here today. I don’t know about you,” Arik said in a low voice.
“That’s the spirit, disciple. Then we will do as planned?”
Arik nodded as the next combatants were announced. “We will. No sense in striking now.”
“I don’t know if you would be able to do that anyway considering Enenra is with Nobunaga…”
“And even if I did, if I didn’t kill him…” Arik lowered his head to some degree. “Master Guri Yarna would heal him.”
“It’s always something, isn’t it? I guess then all we can do now is wait and watch this despicable tournament.”
“I just wish that Domen wasn’t going to die today. I just… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see him that way, as an enemy, as an other.” Arik lowered his head some. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize to me, my boy. It’s hard enough to kill someone, let alone a friend. You had other options such as wound transfer, but it’s best he doesn’t die the way all the failed combatants over here are going to die. Nothing like plummeting to one’s death…”
“Hopefully, it will be sudden.”
Arik had this feeling that the rest of the matches were going to increase in brutality now that the weaker fighters had been weeded out, and he turned out to be right.
The next round started, Domen stepping out with his oversized sword and forced to spar with Tatum, the ending inevitable.
Arik had to look away.
He had no idea that the young herder was planning to enter the tournament. Had he known a month ago, he would have done whatever he could to convince Domen not to.
The crowd cheered for Tatum as blades came forward to retrieve Domen’s dead body.
His poor mother, Arik thought, feeling the urge to heal, wishing yet again that he had focused on the Divine Branch of Remote Healing. No one deserves this.
Tatum didn’t celebrate, nor did he raise his fist in the air. The Crimsonian fighter simply turned to the waiting area, where he was met by a pair of blades and led underground once again.
It wouldn’t be much longer until he won the tournament.
.Chapter Eight.
“To heal and recover can mean different things to different people.”
–Master Nongrat Eldegai in his book A Healing Mind, Third Edition, Ezochi Revivaura Books, Year 1336, Page 78.
Torches illuminated an ancient walkway that passed directly under one of the sandstone arches and continued into the desert. Behind the torches were the citizens of the southern Crimson Realm, who were clustered in small pockets, families cheering them on. A sense of revelry was in the air, even if it was about to turn to tragedy.
