War priest the complete.., p.40
War Priest: The Complete Series, page 40
Arik Dacre walked with the dozen or so combatants who had lost their matches, Nobunaga and his entourage a good twenty yards ahead of them, Master Guri Yarna, his sister, the female combatant who Nobunaga had spared, Tatum, and Combat Master Altai at the back. There was also an entire retinue of highly trained Crimsonian blades, Nobunaga’s entire group going without the requisite square hats of tradition.
Those who had lost the tournament weren’t shackled or anything, but it was clear now that there was only one option left for them, and that option involved plummeting to one’s death.
A fingernail moon cast an eerie glow over the barren landscape, purple and blue tones mixing with the orange of the torchlight, something almost melancholic about the arid stretch of Taomoni as it began to drop in temperature, ready to bear witness to a pointless sacrifice.
Arik hadn’t removed the Mask of the Fallen all day, to the point now that it felt like it was part of him, the disciple barely noticing it. The hood of his haori cape over his head, he maintained his anonymity, the others around him also without square hats or any other coverings, the combatants facing their deaths unmasked.
They came to a group of Mograns who were humming in unison, their voices carried on a slight breeze, a song meant for a funeral.
“The fools,” Meosa said with his normal disdain. “Why anyone would think this is a good idea is beyond me. How about this? How about we just send young people to fight one another and if they lose, toss them into a deep hole? The things you humans come up with. Bah. I wish someone would make some bloody sense of it!”
A circle of light took shape in the distance, Arik seeing that they had lined the supposedly Great Deep with more torches, adding to its sacrificial appeal.
There were more blades about, most of them surrounding a stone platform that had been built on the edge of the hole. As they approached the platform, Nobunaga took the three steps to the top, motioning for his guards and others, including Master Guri Yarna, to stay behind.
Nobunaga waited for everyone to come to a stop, the conversation dying down almost immediately as the warlord stood looking out over his people, his arms crossed behind his back, the ends of his mustache picking up in the wind.
Sand whipped past him and quickly settled, the retinue of blades scanning not only the crowd, but the defeated combatants, prepared for any interruptions.
“As many of you may have heard,” Nobunaga said, the booming nature of his voice taking Arik by surprise, “I am a man of few words, so I will keep this short. To the combatants gathered here tonight: you have all failed, but your death is not in vain. Your spirit, and the way you valiantly fought for survival will fuel this nation in our quest against the north.”
“Can you see her?” Arik whispered to Meosa.
“Why do you think his voice sounds like that? She’s amplifying it. Enenra is always with him, in the way that I am always with you, but not necessarily visible. If we try something now, we will likely fail. Did you notice the way the wind suddenly stopped earlier?”
Arik nodded.
“That was her as well.”
“Congratulations to all of you,” Nobunaga said after a long pause. “I commend you for being brave enough to die for your country, for inspiring all of us. Before we get started, I would like to invite Combat Master Altai to join me.”
The eye-patched instructor at the Double Sword Academy of Combat Arts approached the stone platform. Arik sensed that something was wrong.
“It has come to my attention through one of your former students that a reward is in order,” Nobunaga said as he placed a hand on Master Altai’s shoulder. “Sonjin, please step forward.”
It took Arik a second, but then he remembered hearing the name before.
That’s the blade who escorted me to the caravan, he thought as Sonjin came onto the platform, the Crimsonian warrior without his square hat, a series of grotesque scars covering his face augmented by the torchlight.
Nobunaga kept his hand on Master Altai’s shoulder. “For aiding and abetting the enemy, which has been verified by several at your school and first told to us by Sonjin, the punishment is death.”
Nobunaga slapped Master Altai on the back, Sonjin bolting forward at that very second, driving both his swords through his gut.
Arik tensed up and started to move toward the action, the disciple stopped dead in his tracks by Meosa.
“He would have done something if he could have,” Meosa hissed in his ear. “We’ve come too far, disciple, don’t mess this up now…”
Arik relaxed his shoulders as Combat Master Altai fell to his knees, his head hung in shame, the two wounds in his stomach bleeding out. Suddenly, he looked up at the crowd of combatants, a wild glare in his eye as he shouted, “Master Nankai lives!”
Swift as the wind, Nobunaga grabbed the back of the instructor’s robes and hurled him over the side of the platform, into the Great Deep.
In the end, Master Altai didn’t scream, and from where Arik stood, he couldn’t hear the impact of his body or anything of the sort. His fists still clenched at his side, Arik realized that the man’s final words were intended for him, that the man who had taught him to fight was still alive.
Master Nankai lives…
Predictably, Nobunaga didn’t agree.
“Combat Master Nankai is dead. And now, so is Combat Master Altai. Regarding his treason, some of you may know, the recent operations in the north were overwhelmingly successful. Yet it has come to my attention now that perhaps, one person, one Onyxian disciple, may have been able to escape. Bring this message home to wherever you may go after tonight: anyone caught helping this renegade disciple in any way will be killed. Now, I’ve said enough,” Nobunaga told the crowd with a huff. “Let the death ceremony begin.”
****
The first combatant to approach the platform bowed his head in shame.
He started to press back, only to be met by a blade, the Crimsonian warrior making sure that he continued forward. By this point, Nobunaga had stepped aside, well out of reach of any of the combatants who may attempt to take a swing at him. Not that Arik expected something like this. The Crimsonians seemed entirely warped by their combat patriotism, none scheduled for the death ceremony keen to put up a fight.
Arik watched as the failed combatant inched toward the edge of the platform. He turned, and waved goodbye to his family before he was physically shoved off. The second and third failed combatants were treated the same way, Arik hearing their screams as they plummeted to the bottom of the Great Deep.
How deep was it? What lay at the bottom?
These were things that Arik would never discover, not with the plan he had in mind.
The next combatant approached, the bruised woman defiantly looking over to Nobunaga and giving him a patriotic nod before she was shoved off.
“Mindless, these people,” Meosa said. “Practically thanking the warlord…”
Not all of them were shoved.
Some jumped voluntarily, but most needed some encouragement, and many wanted to say goodbye to their families, or give one last look at their loved ones, who stood in sorrow in that dark desert illuminated by torchlight, dreary clouds now blocking out the moon and stars, wisps of sand twirling into the air and falling back down.
“Such utter depravity,” Meosa said as two more went over the side, Arik getting closer to the front of the line. He was now ten feet or so away from Master Guri Yarna and his sister, Mori, who had her head hung in shame. Arik wished he could say something to her, that he could assure her that this wasn’t over, that her older brother lived, that it may take him some time, but he would rescue her.
Instead, he kept his motions to himself, the Mask of the Fallen continuing to obscure his features as more combatants were sent to their deaths, the Great Deep swallowing up their screams.
Arik reached the platform.
The man in front of him choked up as he looked back to his family, all of whom howled in unison in a way that sounded like a pack of the wolf-like hainu, the failed combatant then shoved into the Great Deep.
Arik approached the platform, feeling as if everything had come to a standstill, two blades just stepping up behind him when Nobunaga called out to the disciple.
“You, why did you forfeit your match?” he asked, his booming voice echoing into the Great Deep. “Where are you from? Who is your family?”
Arik paused, and as he did Meosa warned him: “Don’t reveal who you are…”
Without a word, Arik slowly turned back to Nobunaga, his head bowed, haori cape covering his face, just a glint of his hideous mask visible in the torchlight. Arik pointed at Nobunaga and brought the same hand back, making a gesture with his thumb as if he were slitting his throat.
The Crimsonians were just starting to gasp when Arik jumped backward, his arms spread wide, the wind rushing all around him as he began to fall. Meosa took over as soon as the shadows swirled around the disciple, Arik’s plummet slowing to a crawl.
“That was a bit dramatic,” Meosa said, a hint of pride in his voice, Arik trying to remain as still as possible. “But I can’t say it wasn’t memorable. And you didn’t say anything, so I guess for once you actually listened to me. Imagine that. Heh. Nobunaga’s not going to forget that gesture, is he?”
“Hopefully not.”
Meosa had floated Arik over to the side wall, where he waited in the shadows as the next body came flying past him, the man crying out in fear.
Based on the sound of the next body that came over the edge, the Great Deep truly was nearly bottomless, Arik barely hearing the impact below. A few more were sent over the side, followed by a deep hum that Arik recognized as coming from a bone trumpet.
The death ceremony had ended.
Soon, the torches above were extinguished, the procession dying down, the Crimsonians all heading back toward Mogra as a group to mourn and continue on with their lives.
“We will wait another forty minutes or so,” Meosa said, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. “It’s too dry here, and I can only feed off your Revivaura for so long.”
“Save some power,” Arik told him, “just in case they have a blade or two up there guarding the hole.”
“Heh. We really do make a great team, don’t we, disciple?”
Arik nodded.
“Never thought you’d end up with a remarkably educated kami like myself, did you?”
Once again, Arik nodded, a slight smile spreading across his face.
“You really like me, don’t you? Remember, I’m the one keeping you from falling before you answer that one…”
“Sure,” Arik said.
“That’s the spirit, disciple. Good answer.”
It was late in the night when Meosa finally lifted Arik toward the opening at the top of the Great Deep. As they neared the outer rim, he prepared to launch into action, even though the only weapon he currently possessed was the small kunai dagger affixed to his wrist.
But everything was calm, the guards nonexistent.
“What a relief,” Meosa said as he set Arik down on the sand, the kami letting out a deep breath.
Something instinctive came over the disciple as he placed the dagger back in its arm sheath.
As if Hojo were there telling them what to do next, Arik removed the Mask of the Fallen and tucked it into an inner pocket of his robes, the cold desert air meeting his face. He rearranged his haori cape so it now sat over his shoulders. To further change his appearance, Arik let his hair down and walked over to one of the torches, where he gathered some of the ash and smeared it over the bridge of his nose well past the cheeks, covering what was left of the red paint.
By the time he finished, he looked like a beggar.
Arik turned toward Mogra, its outer rim visible on the horizon, just a few lanterns providing enough light to guide him back to the city. “We leave for Omoto tomorrow.”
“And Avarga from there?” Meosa asked.
Arik nodded, his fist tensing at his side as he relived the betrayal he experienced that day, aware that if he was going to save his sister, he would need to grow even stronger.
But at least he now knew where to start.
Warrior pilgrimages, deception and infiltration, the study of Chimaura, more about Yokaura—all were on the table once he found Hojo, including locating Combat Master Nankai and whatever that would entail. He would visit Yoshimura Books in search of the missing War Priest passages, Arik hoping to learn all he could about the Whispering Sword.
With what Arik Dacre planned to do next, he was going to need a legendary weapon.
Book Two: The Whispering Sword
Part One
.Chapter One.
“Flies and mosquitoes don’t distinguish between peasants and aristocrats.”
–A quote etched onto a piece of goat leather by Hidden Warrior Hirata Masuhiro de Iga of the School of Illusion, and later published in a collection of his carvings, Hirata in Stone, First Edition, Yoshimura Books, Year 1019.
If you can’t be wind, be water...
Hojo’s words came to Arik Dacre as he ran along the beaches of Katano, the round buttes lifting from the water making his surroundings seem otherworldly. The ocean brought with it an early morning chill, one Arik would have noticed if he wasn’t being chased.
Thwick!
The pain swelled as an arrow struck him in the back. He kept running, the disciple immediately calling upon his unique healing power.
An arrow wound, as long as it hadn’t struck an internal organ, was something that he could handle relatively quickly with Revivaura. It would also give him fuel for what would happen once he finally got into position. For wound transfer to work, he needed to be wounded, and the band of false shinobi pursuing him would soon learn a very painful lesson.
Thwick! Thwick!
The arrows landed just before his feet, Arik leaping over them.
“Mind your steps, my boy!” Meosa’s voice came to him, the water spirit always with Arik these days. They hadn’t separated since they reached the Jade Realm, since Arik had narrowly survived death at the hands of warlord Nobunaga in the Crimsonian city of Mogra.
Arik grunted, the pain from his arrow wound slowly starting to fade away. Soon, his body would naturally push the point out, which was something he had experienced before during his training at the Academy of Healing Arts in an exercise that they did weekly for one semester known as Arrow Wounds. “How many are there?”
“Ten. Ten false shinobi brazen enough to chase a poor, helpless disciple like you to the beach. They couldn’t have picked a better morning,” Meosa said sarcastically. There was something mythical about it all, especially with the waves lashing at the shoreline, and the rock formations pressing above the mist like mountains.
Arik reached his hand into the inner pocket of his robes and returned with the Mask of the Fallen, which he placed on his face, the band already tied off and fitted.
The goal was to get the shinobi as far away from the small fortress they were guarding as possible, giving time for Hojo to make his move. Arik had been presented with two options: be the infiltrator or be the distraction, and he had chosen the latter, not only to continue sharpening his skills, but because it better suited his current progress. Not to mention his troubles with infiltration the last time he had attempted such a thing in Iga.
Thwick!
A second arrow struck him in the back, Arik stumbling forward.
It was time.
The disciple came to a stop and turned to face the ten false shinobi who had been chasing him. The visual was faint at first, but then it strengthened, a line made of red energy attaching to each one of his opponents’ chi auras, the Mask of the Fallen’s bloodlust apparent, which according to Hojo was a dark aspect of Thunderaura.
Arik grinned beneath the mask, feeling its intoxicating allure as he waited for his enemies to strike. This would be a shoreline battle in the mist, one that would take place on a sandy beach, which would be both an advantage and disadvantage. Yet Arik was prepared, and now that he had the mask on, he was almost hungry for the fight.
“You are wounded,” one of the shinobi said, his face obscured by a lesser mask, a dark-blue hood over his head. “We can make this easy. You should not have visited Kogu’s estate. Why? Why were you there? Were you interested in joining our ranks? Were you trying to prove something to yourself? Someone else? Answer me!”
The two archers behind the false shinobi brought their bows to the ready.
Aside from the archers, there were eight bladesmen in total, Arik gravely outnumbered. Combat Master Nankai, the visiting lecturer who had first taught him how to use a sword, had only spoken a few times about engaging multiple opponents, always with the caveat that one should avoid it at all costs.
If combat against multiple foes was inevitable, Nankai said to do it in a space where you could confine the fight to one or two assailants at a time, the exact opposite of an open space like a beach.
“Last chance,” the leader of the group warned Arik, as a pair of archers drew their bows behind him.
The false shinobi started to make a wide circle around him.
