Dai-San - 03 (27 page)

‘My race is long gone, at least as it was known in its day. I alone have been preserved to see the Kai-feng and thus atone for the transgressions of my liege.’

He got up, went to put another log on the fire. He stirred the glowing coals with the tip of his sword.

‘Hynd and I live Outside time, as you have no doubt guessed by now. This was imperative if we were to survive the ravages of the millennia. For I am of the folk whose lord found the root in the forest glade, a part of which you ate—’

‘The legend of the great warrior told to me by the old apothecary in Sha’angh’sei, the one who had the root—’

‘Yes. He was Bujun—’

‘And the garden—the temple in Sha’angh’sei—’

Bonneduce the Last nodded. ‘That, too.’

What am I missing? thought the Sunset Warrior.

The little man limped back to his chair, his hand reaching down again to stroke Hynd’s back.

‘Because of his burning desire to rule over all the world,’ said the little man, returning to his story, ‘he was led into the forest glade where grew the root.’

‘Led by whom?’

‘By God.’

‘Which god?’

‘There is only one, my friend.’

Behind the grate, a log cracked down its length and, with a soft crash, fell to the ashen bottom of the hearth. Orange flames leapt up with renewed vigor.

‘In eating it, he became the most powerful warrior in the world and thus his thirst for conquest was slaked—’

He paused at the sight of the Sunset Warrior’s raised hand.

Within the new mind had flashed the image of a huge man with cinnamon skin and hazel eyes. Unaccountably, he wished to see Moichi again, wished at the very least to know where he was. Upon the vast salt seas, riding the high poop of some heavily laden ship flying full sail to catch the wind and ride the tide, heading for some foreign port, hidden by the curve of a lush headland, his
rutter
thickened by new entries. Now what had made him think of Moichi at just this moment? He reviewed the conversation.
There is only one, my friend.
His lavender eyes opened, gold sparking around the irises.

‘Go on,’ he said softly.

‘In eating the root,’ the little man said, ‘he also caused to be created The Dolman. For as it was then, there was nothing on the world that could match his power and our Laws could not tolerate such an imbalance.

‘Thus The Dolman was born, birthed to do battle with my liege. The Dolman was victorious but, in the process, he was severely injured and was forced from the world of man. Yet for centuries unending, he nurtured a growing obsession to return, to wreak his vengeance upon all of man, for his one lust is extinction.’

‘And now he waits within the forest to the north. For me.’

‘Yes,’ said Bonneduce the Last. ‘And my long mission over the ages has been accomplished.’

The Sunset Warrior reached one gauntleted hand into the folds of his robe, beneath his armor, drew forth several small shapes, off-white in color. They gleamed in the firelight.

‘Once,’ he said, ‘you gave a gift to Ronin. I still wear that gift. I still value its protection. Now here is my gift to you.’ He reached out a hand. ‘You told Ronin in Khiyan that the Bones were no longer useful. Perhaps that was because they belong to another time, a forgotten age. Here, my friend. From the jaws of a crocodile of today.’

Into Bonneduce the Last’s cupped palm, he dropped the teeth Ronin had gathered in the jungles outside of Xich Chih.

No one saw him; no one even heard his approach.

He was like the night wind, blowing in across the high ramparts.

His jhindo senseii would have been content.

In the dark, dank streets of Kamado, with the proliferation of noise and movement, he became but another flickering shadow thrown by the inconstant light of the swinging oil lamps.

Within the herds of whinnying, snorting horses, sweating, swearing soldiers, packs of lean yellow dogs, coats filthy and matted, past the precision of the changing of the guard at watch’s end, he flitted through the crowds of the stone citadel, unchallenged and unnoticed, wrapped securely in his cloak of invisibility that was the soul of jhindo.

At various times he paused within deep shadows, overhearing snatches of conversations, making his way, at length, to a certain wood and stone house. Its long, quiet porch was identical to those of all the other barracks within Kamado. Yet this one was different, he knew.

He went around to the side, edging into the pitch blackness of a narrow alley littered with refuse. Squealing, rats skittered from underfoot. He stood still until they quieted and when at length he chose to move again, they made no sound.

Through a small window where lemon light did not thrust back the deep shadows, he hoisted himself lithely. Into the blackness of the building’s interior.

Opening a wooden door just a crack, he peered out at two warriors talking at the far end of a long, narrow hall which was lit at intervals by oiled reed torches. His door was almost midway between the lights. It was the best placement he could hope for.

Carefully, he tested the hinges of the door.

Quickly now, he opened the door without a sound, his hands already a blur. Two black metal stars sang through the air, buried themselves in the warriors’ necks.

The man in black moved silently away, an articulated shadow.

‘All doubts should have been swept away.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘No, old friend, I am a leader now. I feel the weight of all mankind.’

‘Are you unsure then of what you can do?’

‘No, not that. More of who I am.’

The hearth was carpeted with white ash. The logs, consumed by the fire, had all collapsed downward, shattering. Small flames still leapt and danced, scattered among the ashes.

‘All of us are composed of pieces.’

‘I would feel easier knowing the outcome of the battle of Haneda.’

‘Perhaps the answer lies somewhere inside you. None else can know. Once I could have rolled the Bones, read the answer on their etched faces. Now—’ He sighed deeply. ‘I am tired.’

And for the first time, as he looked at him, the Sunset Warrior recognized a trace of mortality in the little man.

He smiled.

‘I am here now.’ His voice whispered across the semidarkness. The sonorous ticking was a contrapuntal rhythm to their voices.

‘You have completed your task. The guilt of your liege has been expiated—’

Bonneduce the Last shook his head sadly.

‘No. There has been altogether too much blood spilled. Man is not a wheat field waving in a summer wind, to be cut down, a harvest for sorcerous creatures. They have no right. They must pay. Some Laws stand for all time.’

‘Then The Dolman will be defeated.’

The clear gray eyes stared at him, rents in the fabric of time.

‘Will he? It was through my liege’s insatiable greed that The Dolman was conceived. Perhaps it is man who must now pay the ultimate price.’ His shoulders lifted, fell with the finality of a death sentence. ‘None can say at this moment.’

‘Soon, old friend.’

He got up, stood near the dying fire.

‘Yes, soon an end to all the suffering I have borne witness to.’

He limped across the room to a low chair over which he had thrown his worn leather shoulder bags and reached within their depths. Abruptly, the ticking became louder and he turned, walking back to the Sunset Warrior.

Bonneduce the Last held in front of him a small object of brown onyx and red jade. It was trapezoidal, glassed on one side. Within the structure could be seen a sphere of fireopal, revolving back and forth to the rhythmic sound.

‘The Rhyalann,’ he said. ‘This is what keeps Hynd and me Outside, what has allowed us the breadth of eons.’

‘Ronin often wondered what caused the ticking that accompanies you wherever you go. I too.’

Bonneduce the Last nodded. ‘I know. I show it to you now because you never asked to see it. Beyond a certain few, no one must even know of its existence, for with each person who sees it, its power decreases.’

Tut it away,’ said the Sunset Warrior. ‘Put it away.’

He heard the little man’s limping step over the wooden floorboards.

Tuolin groaned.

He lifted a trembling hand. It cost him a great deal of energy.

I cannot, he thought.

Then he caught himself and began the deep breathing that was an essential part of his training. Back to basics.

His chest was sticky, warm and wet, but the pain was minimal there. The fierce grinding of flesh against bone was further up, at his shoulder socket.

The reaction had been entirely reflexive.

His arm like lead moving slowly upward. He gritted his teeth, forcing his muscles to work. His nerves screamed and he fought back the shout of pain that bubbled in his throat. He grunted.

The shadow had been thrown across the far periphery of his vision. Somewhere in his brain, it had registered.

At length, he reached far enough and without hesitation pulled it from his rent flesh. He almost passed out with the pain but he returned to the deep breathing, oxygenating his blood against the shock, pulling himself back from the brink of unconsciousness.

Oh, you fool, he thought. Get up!

So it was his training that had saved him. It was why he had been moving, even before he heard the harsh hissing coming towards him, why his body had already begun its turn away from the threat. It was why he was alive now while one of his men lay dead beside him.

Looking at the weapon in his hand, a metallic star, five-pointed, its edges serrated. And he cursed himself again, for he knew the evil that was now inside the walls of Kamado.

He lurched to his feet, staggered against the corridor’s wall. Sweat broke out on his face, along his sides, under his arms.

A jhindo master within Kamado. His mind raced as he followed the path of the moving shadow. Even if he had not seen the direction of the wraith as he was falling—with suprareal clarity because the intense concentration helped to block the pain and shock to the nervous system while the organism tried to adjust to the invasion of its flesh—he would have known which way to go. There was only one target that made sense in this barracks: the Sunset Warrior.

There were two guards in front of the door.

He stood quite still in the flickering shadows of the corridor. He was reasonably certain of his destination. Still, he wished to leave nothing at all to chance. Therefore, he determined that one would have to live, if only for the few moments it would take for the confirmation.

He launched himself, silently and swiftly, a human dart, his right hand snaking out in a blur, the ridged muscles, heavily calloused, a knife, breaking the sternum of the right-hand guard.

Even before the man fell, choking on his own blood as it poured into his lungs, the jhindo had broken the collarbones of the second guard with a fierce chop of each hand. He grabbed the man as he began to slide down the wall.

For the briefest moment, there was a whispered dialogue, then the jhindo slit the guard’s throat with a hidden blade.

Crouching low, he threw open the door, rolling inside.

Onward, his stomach heaving, trying to force its contents up his throat.

Around the near turning, the corridor leapt up before his eyes as if pulled by strings controlled by a madman. He leaned against the wall, panting, pressing his forehead against the cool stone, urging himself onward, his soldier’s instinct screaming. His tongue licked his dry lips. He knew he was dehydrating, the combination of the shock, the loss of blood, and the sweat of his efforts.

He concentrated on the hate, cold and efficient, and with it came the release of adrenalin, bolstering his system. He willed his thoughts away from his crooked left arm and the warm blood leaking out of his shoulder.

The sight of the two sprawled bodies brought him up short. The door behind them was slightly ajar and though his nerves were screaming for immediate action, frantic at the time lost, he willed himself to stand perfectly still and close his eyes, because inside the room, it was darker than the dimness of the corridor and he would not go in there blind. Just an instant’s blindness while he adjusted and the jhindo master could kill him six different ways. He knew enough about the secret art not to underestimate its practitioners.

He went in with a rush, crouching and rolling across the floor as soon as he had crossed the threshold. Away from the leakage of the lethal light.

Platinum glow from a rising moon, briefly freed from its dense cloud cover, splashed into the chamber through high, narrow windows whose shutters had been opened to the compound outside. Shimmering bars of some liquid prison.

His sword drawn, Tuolin’s eyes swept the room, taking in the corner first, then the deepest shadows thrown by the placement of furniture.

He found them together on the wide cream-colored bed, locked in silent struggle.

The jhindo and Moeru.

He was above her, a dark, humped shape, and her legs were locked across his back as if they were in the act of making love. But her powerful thigh muscles were corded as they strained across his kidneys, her heels locked at the small of his back, pressing inward, seeking purchase to break his spine.

The jhindo’s hands were at her throat, the thumbs searching for the soft flesh just beneath her jaw, directly below her ears.

The jhindo grunted as Moeru jerked her legs, digging her heels in. But he had found the spot now and he jabbed. Moeru gagged, tears of pain welling in her eyes, spilling down across her high cheeks.

She coughed, brought her left hand up in a swift arc, the edge stiff, slamming it into the jhindo’s head just behind the ear. His head snapped up and his eyes seemed to glow with a feral hunger as he applied more pressure.

Moeru cried out.

Tuolin broke out of his stupor and, rushing to the bed, smashed the hilt of his sword into the jhindo’s rib cage with enormous force. The man grunted, his body twisted, and he released Moeru as he leapt at Tuolin.

The deadly hands were a blur, sweeping the rikkagin’s blade from his grasp and at the same time describing a mysterious blurred pass.