Eight years before, he had discovered his purpose.
“Nasu Munetaka, if rumor is to be believed, you are possibly the worst student who has ever been sent to me. You are small. You are weak. You shake like a leaf. Hold out your hands.”
“Yes, sensei.” Munetaka did as he was told and stuck his hands out, palms down.
“They expect me to teach the art of the bow to such as this?” The old man watched Munetaka’s hands tremble. “Pathetic. They told me it is because you swallowed too much seawater, but I suspect that you are simply a wretched pig dog who lacks character. You have already demonstrated that you are a liar.”
The other students snickered. Even though he’d been forbidden to speak of the Great Sea Beast for years now, their daimyo’s condemnation had followed him everywhere. Nasu Munetaka was considered a liar for telling the truth. “Yes, sensei.”
“Lower your hands. Your last sensei told me you have been squandering your inheritance on gambling and pleasure women, and that you often come to training reeking of alcohol. You’re a disgusting mess, but if there is to be a war against the Tairu, we will need bodies. If you are late again to class, I will use you as a target.”
The sensei continued down the line. “You will draw until the second thumb joint nestles upon your jaw.” The other students had already prepared their bows and they stood eager at the edge of the grass of the practice field. Munetaka hurried to catch up. His father had been a superb archer and Munetaka would not fail him. “Each of you will release two hundred arrows today. First your arms will ache, then your fingers will bleed, and then you will experience pain like nothing you have ever imagined. You will pray for death long before that, but you will not stop until I tell you to. Ready! Draw!”
The targets were men made of straw. They seemed very far away. Munetaka raised the yumi. It was longer than he was tall, but because it was designed to be gripped on the lower third, he could still use it. His hands were shaking so badly that he had a hard time nocking the arrow.
“Release.”
A dozen arrows flew downrange. Most of them fell short and stuck into the grass. Not a single target was struck. Munetaka’s hands were shaking so badly that he wasn’t ready in time.
“Hurry, idiot. You will draw back fully and then release the arrow in the same motion.” A few of the other students laughed. “Shut up. Did I give you permission to find that amusing? Now, Munetaka.”
It was incredibly difficult to pull it back and the yumi creaked as it bent.
“Imagine it is your sea monster,” one of the other boys shouted.
And for just a moment, he did, and they were on a sea of red. His fingers slipped. The string slapped into his left wrist with a snap. The arrow flew wildly to the side, burying itself deep into the ground.
The sensei casually backhanded the loudmouth. “Multiple idiots. Wonderful. But if it really was bigger than our lord’s castle, that would probably still have struck your monster. Try it again, fool, and no distractions this time. The rest of you wait.”
His father had often told him that the arrow knew the way, so it had to be true. He could only trust that his father would guide the arrow’s flight. Muscles strained as he struggled to pull back the string as he glared at the target, imagining that the straw man was his sensei, and as his fingers reached his cheek, he let go.
Red fletching appeared in the center of the dummy’s chest.
The sensei nodded at Munetaka. “It is rare that a liar can shoot true. Again.”
His wrist stung from the string. He took another arrow from the bundle and, since the yumi seemed to fight him less this time, had it nocked far more quickly than the first.
The second shot hit within a few inches of the first arrow.
“Again!”
The third was just above those.
“Hmmm . . .” The sensei stroked his long mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe the rest of you should arrive stinking of cheap booze too . . . Now imagine it is this sea monster of yours, Munetaka. Show us what you would do to it now.”
He was a screaming child on a sea of red, holding onto a fragment of a boat, struggling to stay above the waves, as tentacles fed men into a wet hole filled with giant teeth.
Only he was no longer a little boy. Father, guide my arrow.
His hands did not tremble this time.
The fourth arrow streaked directly through the center of the straw man’s face.
Four years before, the hunt had begun.
Munetaka was awakened by the grunting of pigs. A wet, pink snout was biting at his face to see if he was edible so the young samurai slugged the pig in the eye. It squealed indignantly and retreated. He found himself lying in a pile of straw, his back against a peasant’s shack, and a sake jug in his lap. It sloshed when he moved it, so he choked down the remainder. It was the cheapest swill in Kamakura, but it got him drunk enough to sleep, and that’s what counted.
“I figured you’d wake up if that pig started eating you.” There was a man leaning on the fence. His kimono bore the mon of the Minamoto clan. “If not, then that was some strong drink.”
“Who’re you?” Munetaka asked as he scratched himself.
“The better question is, Who are you, Nasu Munetaka?”
“Who’s that? I’m just some drunk ronin,” he lied.
“No. I recognize you. You do not look so different now, like a shorter version of your father. They say you would have been a handsome one if the sea hadn’t poisoned you, so that’s why you are still nothing but skin and bones.” The man gave him a sad smile. “They say you’re the best archer in all the land. They say you killed a hundred Tairu soldiers at the battle of Uji.”
“They say lots of stuff.” He had no idea how many he’d killed, but he’d shot at least twenty. It was hard to keep track. Lord Yorimasa had still lost though, and after his suicide, they’d tossed his head in the river.
“Yet now you’ve been reduced to a life of crime, smuggling, and drinking. That’s rather sad. It’s to be expected though. You can’t tell someone their entire life that they’re a liar without honor, and not expect them to make it the truth.”
“You’re lucky I’m too hungover to string my bow to shoot you, friend.” The man seemed kind of familiar, but Munetaka couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Saburo,” he answered as he climbed over the fence.
“The scribe?”
“Scholar, diplomat, things like that. In fact I’ve just returned from a mission to the Song court all the way across the sea, but I still remember your tragic story.”
“Yeah . . . Just a story . . .” Munetaka rubbed his bleary eyes. “Our dead lord saw to that.”
“Most of all, I’m a collector of stories. The gaijin have stories too.” Saburo removed a piece of paper from his kimono and handed it over. “Like this one, about a war between witches and a king, where foul sorcery was used to turn a leviathan of the deep into a giant monster to wreck the king’s fleets. It comes all the way from a land called India.”
Munetaka could not read the strange foreign writing, nor could he recognize the coastline shown on the map, but at the bottom was a drawing and it was . . . “No.” The eyes, the tentacles, the spine, the blood red hide, It was perfect. His mouth was suddenly very dry. His hands began to shake so badly that they threatened to crumple the ancient paper. “It can’t be.”
“So it is the same then?”
Even though Saburo was of higher station, Munetaka leapt up and grabbed the scribe by the shoulders. “Can you take me to its lair?”
“It is very far away.”
“I know a good ship.”
“It is in a strange gaijin land. We’ll need warriors.”
“Then we will find them!”
Saburo grinned. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a story.”
Six months ago, he had found the source.
The samurai had fought their way through the jungle temple, leaving a trail of dead and dying in t
heir wake. One of the foreigners charged them with an oddly curved dagger. Munetaka drew an arrow and launched it in one smooth motion, piercing the throat and sending the gaijin to the stone. Two more cultists followed, screaming, but Munetaka released two more arrows in rapid succession and dropped them both. He stepped over the dying, and observed his crew. They were hacking the last of the cultists to bits. Worshippers of foreign devils were no match for Munetaka’s experienced warriors.
In honor of their god of the depths, the cultists painted their skin red. Munetaka had painted their temple red with blood to defy it.
“That’s all of them, Captain. We took no casualties.”
“Good work.” Munetaka gave the ronin an appreciative nod. “Spread out and search.”
This land was always hot. The air was constantly moist. It made their equipment rust and their armor chafe. For years they had followed clues and consulted with wily foreigners. They had been caught up in battles and plagues. They’d crossed an ocean, a dozen kingdoms, and marched hundreds of miles, and every inch of it had been filled with discomfort and misery. It stood to reason that such an awful creature had been spawned in this cursed land. Despite all of those tribulations, the warriors he had gathered still followed him. He didn’t really understand. Munetaka had no real station. There was no honor to be gained in following someone considered to be a delusional madman, yet they followed his orders and trusted him with their lives.
Perhaps, if the Great Sea Beast hadn’t ruined his life, turned him into a drunk, and gotten him disgraced with his clan, Munetaka might have made a good captain after all . . .
They entered a great stone room, lit by flickering torches, covered in gaudy carvings and murals. In the center of a great basin was another statue of the Great Sea Beast, dyed red from the accumulated sludge of thousands of human sacrifices. Munetaka snarled, “Damned foreign devils.”
“Remarkable. This is the home of the cult of the Great Sea Beast.” Saburo was examining the murals. He alone could read their gibberish. “This is the repository of all their knowledge.” The scribe seemed giddy with excitement.
“All I need to know is where to find it and how to kill it.”
Saburo traced his finger down the wall. They had struck enough of these temples that Munetaka recognized the story shown in the pictures: witches dragging a leviathan from the depths, cutting it apart, and torturing it with their gaijin sorcery until it had been twisted into the savage creature that had ruined his life. However, this series of pictures was different than the others.
“Interesting. They cut a bone from the leviathan. A horn . . . When the witches blew on the horn, it made sounds that could awaken and summon the Great Sea Beast.” Saburo reached for a thick wooden lever on the wall and pulled it down.
There was a sudden grinding inside the wall. Munetaka had an arrow nocked within an instant. Rusty chains rattled through channels in the floor. The stone wall split, then slowly ground open. “What manner of gaijin trickery is this?” He pointed his yumi into the room, but there was only shadows. “Fetch a lantern.”
Flickering light filled the newly revealed chamber. There was something odd hanging from chains attached to the ceiling. The mysterious device’s surface was grey and porous of texture. It was an oddly curled bone, only it was as big as an ox, and standing next to it was one of the red-painted priests wearing only a tiger pelt. He began gibbering furiously in their strange language when he saw the samurai approaching.
“You’d best shoot him quickly. He says that if we come any closer he will unleash the monster and send it against our home island,” Saburo whispered.
“Good.” Munetaka made an exaggerated show of gradually drawing back his bow. “Let him.”
The priest rushed and pressed his mouth to the bone. Air resonated through a maze of chambers. A deep, eerie rumble filled the temple. The sound seemed to grow and grow. The hair stood up on his neck. It was a long alien wail that shook all the warriors to their bones.
Munetaka could have killed the priest immediately, but let the monster come. That took care of finding it. The priest looked up, triumphant, but seemed a bit surprised when Munetaka showed absolutely no fear. Realization dawned that the samurai wanted the beast exposed. Only then did Munetaka drill him through the heart.
The assembled ronin stared at the body for a moment, unsure what their captain had just allowed to happen.
Munetaka took a flask from his pocket and took a long drink. There was no turning back now. “Take the horn back to the ship. Have the priest cleanse this gaijin filth from us.” He began walking away. “It’s time to go home.”
Ten days ago, his clan had learned the truth.
The crew of the Friendly Traveler had seen the smoke rising over the horizon hours before they’d seen land. There were bloated corpses floating on the surface as they approached the harbor. After such a long journey, it had not been the joyous homecoming most of them had been hoping for.
There had been a town here once. Now it was nothing but a ruin. Buildings had been crushed. Fires had caught and spread out of control, consuming everything. There had only been a small castle here, but it had been smashed to pieces and spread across the rocky shore. There were bodies everywhere. Peasants were trying to pull survivors from the rubble.
Two men stood at the rail, watching the dead float by.
“Is this what you wanted, Captain?” Saburo asked.
“No . . .” There were children crying in the streets.
But now they understand.
His crew was shocked by the carnage. They were hard men, but it was hard to comprehend destruction on this scale. He’d warned them . . . “Take us in. I want to find out what direction it went.”
The docks were gone. Several masts sticking out of the water explained the fate of most of the ships stationed here. One warship had been picked up and hurled three hundred paces inland, and half of it was sticking out the side of an inn. There were other warships still in one piece, but they had most likely arrived after the Great Sea Beast had left. They had been gone so long, and there had been a clan war going on when they’d left, so Munetaka wasn’t sure who would be in charge when they got back, and he was too pragmatic to risk flying his clan’s flag. When he saw that the other warships were Minamoto he ordered their own flag raised.
The crew of the Minamoto warships were so stunned that they barely noticed the arrival of the Friendly Traveler. Munetaka hailed them, answered several angry challenges, and was then allowed to come alongside a much larger, newer warship. Ropes were hurled back and forth, and the Friendly Traveler was hauled in close, partially so they could communicate more easily, but more likely because they looked like pirates and the clan was not about to let them escape.
There were shouts as they drew closer, warnings that the harbor was treacherous with sunken ships that could damage their hull and questions about if they too had seen the giant crimson demon, which was half the size of a mountain.
Munetaka was surprised to see the personal mon of the Minamoto daimyo on the guard’s armor. Lord Minamoto Yoritomo himself—the successor of the man who shamed him—approached the rail. The entire crew bowed . . . except for Munetaka.
“What’re you doing?” Saburo hissed. “Are you drunk?”
“Only a little,” Munetaka answered.
The lord’s eyes narrowed dangerously at this slight. Dozens of Minamoto soldiers nocked arrows, awaiting the order to execute the impudent captain. “Who are you?”
“I am Captain Nasu Munetaka, son of Captain Nasu Tadamichi. Twelve years ago, the Great Sea Beast killed my father and sank his ship. I alone survived. I saw this monster and I told the truth. I intended to hunt it down and send it back to Jigoku. Your predecessor called me a liar and a fool. He mocked me and dishonored my father. He declared this monster a myth.” Munetaka pointed toward land. All eyes followed.
There was a giant footprint, shaped like that of a lizard, only as wide as the lord’s warship and pressed
deep enough into the sand to fit a house.
“Do you believe me now?”
His entire life had come down to this moment.
The sea outside Kamakura was red with blood and lit by burning wreckage. The air was choked with smoke and the screams of the injured. The Great Sea Beast’s arms were humanoid, only its hands ended in three webbed fingers, and it was swatting boats from the ocean like a child in a bathtub. Hundreds of arrows were lodged in its hide. It had been struck by balls of flaming pitch from the warships and the whaling harpoons of desperate sailors, yet it showed no sign of slowing.
A Minamoto warship rammed straight into the monster’s stomach. The flesh dimpled as the bow gave, but it did not pierce the ancient flesh. The Great Sea Beast let out an ear-splitting roar, scooped the warship up and hurled it inland. The tiny dots spinning off of it were sailors and samurai. The ship landed on the rocks and exploded into a million pieces.
“Saburo!”
The scribe ran to him. “Yes, Captain?”
“Sound the horn.”
“But we don’t understand how the gaijin magic works! It could just enrage it further.”
“Excellent. Do it now.”
The scribe knew not to question. “Yes, Captain!” He ran to do as he was told.
Munetaka picked one particular arrow from his quiver. Though the shaft had belonged to his father, he’d replaced the arrowhead with one he’d fashioned himself. It was slightly different in shape from his regular armor-piercing points but the balance was perfect. He’d carved a piece of bone from the gaijin horn. If it had really come from the body of the leviathan the Great Sea Beast had been fashioned from, he would send it home. He’d had the arrow blessed by priests of every faith he’d come across in his travels. Surely some god would be listening.
Saburo blew the horn. It was nothing like the strong, resounding bellow created by the tiger priest, rather it was a harsh note that trailed off into a painful warble.
Yet, it worked. The Great Sea Beast turned and roared a furious challenge. It started toward them. The waters were shallow, so it seemed to grow taller as it walked across the seabed, exposing even more of its corpulent self to the air. The waves became increasingly violent.
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