Dai-San - 03 (25 page)

As they rode off across the wide undulating veldt, the Sunset Warrior turned his piercing gaze on the face of Moeru as if seeing it for the first time.

Morning had already broken and the oblique light bathed her face in pink and ocher. She turned away from his gaze and he watched her proud profile, the sweep of her neck as her hair fell away from her face, blown by the stiffening east wind. The tall pines stirred.

A rush of gray plovers took off over her shoulder, wheeling in the white sky. A mist was rising from the land.

‘Why do you stare at me?’ Moeru said. ‘By rights it is I who should stare at you.’

‘You have been important to Ronin ever since he met you. Therefore you are important to me. I wish to know why.’

She looked off into the distance, at the disappearing plovers.

‘What happened to Nikumu?’

‘He was the last of dor-Sefrith’s line,’ said the Sunset Warrior. ‘Surely you knew that he was a warrior-mage, as the ancient Bujun used to be.’

‘He had used sorcery very little until quite recently.’

‘Yes. Of course dor-Sefrith knew of The Dolman, just as he knew that the Kai-feng would come. He was not immortal yet he knew that to ensure the safety of the Bujun and all man, he must somehow cheat death. Thus he worked his magic, thus each member of his family knew of his secrets, from generation to generation, and because he knew that his enemies were powerful and immortal, dor-Sefrith made plans within plans. I do not know them all. I know only what he told me.’

Above them, the sky brightened, and the sun, clearing the forest’s height, filled the morning with warmth. They began to walk toward two horses tethered some way across the field.

‘Nikumu sensed the coming of the Kai-feng and thus it fell to him to summon dor-Sefrith. However, The Dolman was already more powerful than he anticipated and he was caught midway within the spell. While the concentration was taken up wholly by the difficult summoning, The Dolman invaded him.’ Moeru shivered involuntarily, put her arms about herself. ‘It was something of a deadlock. Dor-Sefrith became locked in insubstantial form—’

‘The shade! It was he who I feared—’

‘Yes, mistakenly. But you could not know of The Dolman. He was within Nikumu, attempting to exert his will, and dor-Sefrith, though he could speak, was powerless to aid Nikumu.’

‘But Ronin helped him, did he not?’

‘Perhaps. In any event, you were right to urge him back to Haneda. He became the catalyst but, in the end, Azuki-iro was correct, it was Nikumu’s battle. He had lost ground, assuming the leadership of the sasori, imprisoning you. You see, dor-Sefrith had counseled him to send you to the continent of man to find the Hart of Darkness—’

‘Who?’

‘Setsoru.’

‘Oh yes. I was close, finally, but I became embroiled in a battle with the Reds in the north. I slew three before I was knocked off my feet. Then the boot—’

‘You were kicked in the head—’

‘My memory. Setsoru?’

‘I found him in the forest—Ronin—’

‘Yes, you were so white—Where is he now?’

‘We are together, Moeru. That is why Nikumu imprisoned you. First by taking your voice from you, then, in Haneda, binding you. The Dolman feared that Ronin would become this—’ He tapped his chest.

‘But what did that have to do with me?’ said Moeru.

‘Perhaps that is something that we both have to discover.’

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.

T
HERE 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.