'You're planning to row through?' Halt asked Gundar, glancing at the telltale strip of wool at the masthead. It indicated that the wind was slightly aft of the beam and he'd learned over the past few days that this was one of the ship's best and fastest points of sailing. Gundar noted the glance and shook his head.
'We'd lose too much distance to leeward,' he said briefly. 'This channel's too narrow for that. We'd go forward, of course, but we'd lose distance downwind. Have to make our way back again too soon. Not a problem in the open water where we have plenty of sea room, but awkward in a confined space like this.' He peered carefully at the coastline, now much closer to them.
'Nils!' the skirl called. 'Up oars!'
The oars rose, dripping, from the water. The rowers rested on them, keeping the blades clear of the sea. Accustomed to physical work as they were, none of them was even breathing hard. Slowly, the ship glided to a stop once more, rocking gently in the small waves.
Gundar shaded his eyes, peering at the narrow opening – barely thirty metres wide. He glanced down at the chart and the navigation notes that had come with it, sniffed the breeze, then squinted up at the position of the sun in the sky. Will understood that this was all part of the instinctive navigation system that the Skandians relied on. Some of them, Oberjarl Erak, for example, were masters of the art. It seemed that Gundar was another adept.
But obviously, it never hurt to ask a second opinion. The skirl looked around and sought out Selethen. Of all of them, he had the most knowledge of this part of the world.
'Ever been here before, Selethen?' he asked.
The Wakir shook his head. 'I've never been this far east. But I've heard of the Assaranyan Channel, of course. This is where I'd expect it to be. Further north and south, the land becomes more hilly.'
They all followed his gaze along the coastline. He was right. Here, the coast was flat and low lying. On either side, north and south, the brown, dry land rose into low hills.
'What exactly is this Assaranyan Channel, anyway?' Will asked.
Evanlyn, who had studied the route of their journey before she left Araluen, answered. 'It's a channel through the narrowest part of the land mass here. It runs for forty or fifty kilometres, then opens into a natural waterway to the Eastern Ocean.'
'A natural waterway?' Will said. 'Are you saying this part isn't natural?' He gestured towards the unimpressive-looking river mouth ahead of them.
'People believe it was man-made – hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago. It runs straight through this low-lying area – that's why it was built here.'
'Of course,' Will said. 'And who built it?'
Evanlyn shrugged. 'Nobody knows for sure. We assume the Assaranyans.' Forestalling Will's next question, she went on: 'They were an ancient race, but we know precious little about them.'
'Except they were excellent diggers,' Alyss said dryly.
Evanlyn corrected her, but without any sense of superiority. 'Or they had a lot of time and a lot of slaves.'
Alyss acknowledged the point. 'Perhaps more likely.'
Will said nothing. He stared at the opening to the channel. It seemed so insignificant, he thought. Then he thought of the labour involved in digging a fifty-kilometre channel through this harsh, dry land. The prospect was daunting.
Gundar seemed to come to a decision.
'Well, as my old mam used to say: if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's probably a duck.'
'Very wise,' Halt replied. 'And what exactly do your mother's words of wisdom have to do with this situation?'
Gundar shrugged. 'It looks like a channel. It's in the right place for a channel. If I were digging one, this is where I'd dig a channel. So…'
'So it's probably the channel?' Selethen said.
Gundar grinned at him. 'Either that, or it's a duck,' he said. Then, cupping his hands round his mouth, he yelled at Nils. 'Let's get moving, Nils! Slow ahead!'
The lead oar nodded. 'Oars! Ready!'
Again there was the squeak of oars in the oarlocks and the involuntary grunt from the rowers as they prepared for the stroke.
'Give way all!'
Wolfwill surged forward again, gathering speed with each successive stroke, then settling to a smooth glide across the water. Gundar, eyes squinted in concentration, leaned on the starboard tiller to line the bow up with the centre of the channel.
They fell silent. The only sound was the creak and groan of the oars in their oarlocks as they swung up and down, back and forth, in unison, and the occasional grunt of exertion from one of the rowers. The sheer immensity of the task undertaken by those ancient people settled a kind of awe upon the travellers as the ship glided smoothly down the dead straight channel.
It had to be man-made, Alyss thought. No natural river was ever so straight. As they moved away from the ocean, the dull brown desert enveloped them on either side and the freshness of the sea breeze, light though it had been, was lost to them. The channel grew wider as they progressed, until it was nearly one hundred metres across. Erosion over the centuries had widened the channel considerably. On either bank, the immediate ground looked soft and treacherous for another twenty metres or so.
Selethen noticed Alyss studying the ground.
'Step in that and you might not come out alive,' he said thoughtfully. 'I'll wager it's quicksand.'
Alyss nodded. She had been thinking the same thing.
The heat beat down on them, folding itself around them like a blanket. The air was heavy with it.
Gundar spoke softly to two of the sailing crew. They hurried aft and slung buckets overside to haul up water. Then they passed along the rowing benches, tossing the cooling water over the hard-working men. A few of the rowers muttered their thanks.
The Skandians, experienced travellers as they were, had all donned long-sleeved linen shirts and had more of the same material fastened round their heads as bandannas to protect them from the sun. In the colder northern waters, Will had often seen them bare chested, seemingly impervious to the cold. But they were a fair-skinned race and years of raiding in the warm waters of the Constant Sea had taught them to respect the burning power of the sun.
The sea water flung on them soaked their shirts, but Will noticed that they dried within a few minutes. He recalled his own experience of the sun's power, in the desert of Arrida some years before, and shuddered at the memory.
Some of the crew busied themselves rigging canvas awnings so that those not engaged in rowing could shelter in their shade. It was a welcome relief to be out of the sun's direct glare. But the air itself was still heavy and oppressive. Will glanced over the stern. There was now no sign of the sparkling blue sea behind them. Only this brown river cutting straight through the equally brown sand.
'How long is the transit?' he asked Gundar. For some reason, he spoke softly. It seemed appropriate in this oppressive stillness.
Gundar considered the question. When he replied, it seemed that he had the same aversion to making too much noise.
'Five, perhaps six hours,' he said. Then he reconsidered. 'Could be more. The men will tire more quickly in this heat.'
Acting on that thought, he gave an order and the relief rowing crew began to change places with the rowers. They did it gradually, a pair of oars at a time, working forward from the stern. That way, the ship maintained its motion through the murky brown water beneath them. As each pair of rowers relinquished their oars to their replacements, they sprawled instantly on the deck in the shade of the awnings. They were tired, but nowhere near exhausted, Will knew. He'd had plenty of experience with Skandian crews in the past. They had an inbred ability to fall sleep almost anywhere, almost immediately. In an hour or so, they'd be rested and ready to replace their companions at the oars again.
'We might even anchor in the channel once it gets dark,' Gundar said. 'There'll be no moon until long past midnight and it could be a good idea to rest in the cool hours.'
Will could understand the wis
dom of that. The channel might be straight, but with no reference points to guide them, the brown water would merge with the low brown banks either side. They could possibly veer one side or the other and run aground.
'Not such a good idea,' Halt said quietly. 'We have company.'
Ayagi and his people had been appalled at the news of Arisaka's rebellion against the Emperor. The common people of Nihon-Ja thought of the Emperor as a person whose accession to the throne was guided and consecrated by the gods. To rebel against him was an unthinkable sacrilege.
'We are your people, Lord Shigeru,' the white-haired village elder had said. 'Tell us what you want us to do. We'll stand beside you against Arisaka.'
There had been an indignant rumble of assent from the other villagers. Foremost among them, Horace had noted, had been Eiko, the heavily built worker Shigeru had first shaken hands with. Ayagi might be the village elder, but Eiko was obviously a person of considerable influence among the younger Kikori.
'Thank you, my friends,' Shigeru had replied. 'But at the moment I hope to avoid further bloodshed. All we need is a guide to the village of…' He had hesitated and looked to Shukin for the name of the village he had nominated as a rendezvous point with Reito and the survivors of the army.
'Kawagishi,' Shukin had said. 'Riverbank Village.'
Ayagi had bowed. 'We know this village,' he had said. 'My nephew, Mikeru, will show you the way in the morning.'
Shigeru had bowed from his sitting position. 'Thank you, Ayagi. And now let's have no more talk of this unpleasantness with Arisaka. Let's enjoy the evening. Do any of your people have a folk song for us all to sing?'
A hot bath, hot food, dry clothes and a warm, dry bed for the night worked wonders on Horace's tired body.
Shortly after dawn, the Emperor and his party woke, breakfasted and prepared to move out once more. The rain had stopped during the night and the sky had cleared to a brilliant blue. Horace's breath steamed in the cold air as he exhaled. One of the village women had taken his wet, travel-stained clothes during the night and cleaned and dried them. The same service had been performed for the rest of the travellers. Putting on clean clothes, still warm from the fire they had dried in front of, was a distinct luxury.
There was the usual bustle and confusion involved in setting out. The riders inspected their girth straps. Weapons were checked, belts tightened, armour adjusted. As was his habit, Horace had cleaned and sharpened his sword the previous night before he slipped between the warmed bedcovers laid out on the matting floor of his room. He guessed that each of the Senshi had done the same.
As the rest of the party mounted, Shukin held back. He reached into the purse at his belt and produced a handful of golden coins, each stamped with the triple cherry crest.
Ayagi saw the movement and backed away, holding his hands out before him.
'No! No, Lord Shukin! We don't want any payment! It was our pleasure to have the Emperor as our guest!'
Shukin grinned at him. He had expected the reaction but he knew that times were hard in the mountains and the Kikori had little to spare. He had his answer ready for Ayagi's protestation.
'The Emperor, perhaps,' he said. 'But nobody would expect you to provide for a dozen hungry Senshi – or for a massive gaijin with the appetite of a black bear!'
He indicated Horace when he said this, grinning to make sure that Horace knew he was joking. Horace shook his head ruefully. He couldn't dispute the fact that he had eaten more than any of the others in the party. Nihon-Jan helpings seemed so small to him and he was famous even in Araluen for his prodigious appetite.
The villagers laughed. Horace had proved to be a figure of great interest and popularity among the Kikori. He was polite and self-effacing and ready to join in singing their folk songs – albeit with more enthusiasm than melody.
Even Ayagi smiled. His sense of hospitality made him reluctant to take the money but he knew that if he didn't, his people would go short. With the gold Shukin was offering, they could buy more supplies at the monthly market held in one of the larger villages.
'Well then,' he said, capitulating with good grace, 'in deference to the kurokuma…'
He accepted the coins and Horace was given the name by which he would be known among the Nihon-Jan – Kurokuma, or Black Bear. At the time, however, he was unaware of it. He was busy fastening a loose strap on the bedroll tied behind his saddle and missed Ayagi's statement.
Shukin bowed gracefully and Ayagi returned the gesture. Then he turned and bowed to the Emperor, with all of the assembled villagers doing the same.
'Thank you, Ayagi-san,' Shigeru said, raising his hand to them all, 'and thank you, Kikori.'
The villagers remained, heads bowed, as the small party rode out of the village.
Mikeru, the elder's nephew, was a keen-faced, slimly built youth of about sixteen. He rode a small, shaggy-haired pony – the kind the Kikori people used as beasts of burden when they gathered wood. He was familiar with the area, of course, and led them on a much shorter route than the one shown on the map Shukin carried. They had been travelling for less than an hour when they reached the ford in the river that Shukin had hoped to cross the night before. They rode across in single file, the horses stepping carefully on the slippery stones beneath their hooves. The water rose shoulder high on the horses and it was icy cold as it soaked through Horace's leggings and boots.
'Glad it's not raining,' he muttered as he rode up the far bank, his horse shaking itself to rid itself of excess water. He wished he could do the same.
'What was that, Kurokuma?' asked one of the escort riding near him. The others chuckled at the name.
'Nothing important,' Horace said. Then he looked at them suspiciously. 'What's this "kurokuma" business?'
The Senshi looked at him with a completely straight face.
'It's a term of great respect,' he said. Several others, within earshot, nodded confirmation. They too managed to remain straight-faced. It was a skill the Nihon-Jan had perfected.
'Great respect,' one of them echoed. Horace studied them all carefully. Nobody was smiling. But he knew by now that that meant nothing with the Nihon-Jan. He sensed there was a joke he was missing but he couldn't think of a way to find out what it might be. Best maintain his dignity, he thought.
'Well, I should think so,' he told them, and rode on.
Shortly after crossing the river, Mikeru led them to a cleared patch of ground on the side of the trail, set at the edge of a sheer cliff that dropped away into the valley below. This was the lookout Shukin had wanted to reach. He, Shigeru and Horace dismounted and moved closer to the edge. Horace drew in his breath. The cliff edge was abrupt, as if it had been cut by a knife. The mountain dropped away several thousand metres to a valley. They could see the mountains they had been climbing and, beyond them, the low-lying flatlands.
Horace, who never enjoyed the sensation of being in high places, kept his distance from the cliff edge. Shukin and Shigeru had no such qualms. They stood less than a metre from the awful drop, peering down into the valleys, shading their eyes against the bright morning sun. Then Shukin pointed.
'There,' he said briefly.
Shigeru followed the direction of his pointing finger and grunted. Horace, standing several metres away from the edge, tried to crane his neck and see what they were looking at but his view was obstructed. Shukin noticed and called to him.
'Come closer, Or'ss-san. It's quite safe.'
Shigeru smiled at his cousin. 'Shouldn't that be Kurokuma?'
Shukin smiled in return. 'Of course. Come closer, Kurokuma. It's quite safe.'
Horace shuffled closer to the edge, instinctively keeping his weight leaning back away from the drop. Bitter experience in the past had taught him that, even though he hated being in high places, he was paradoxically drawn towards the edge when he stood on one, as if he found the drop irresistible.
'Quite safe, my foot,' he muttered to himself. 'And what is this Kurokuma you all keep calling me?'
<
br /> 'It's a term of great respect,' Shigeru told him.
'Great respect,' Shukin echoed.
Horace looked from one to the other. There was no sign on either face that they were joking.
'Very well,' he said, continuing to shuffle forward. Then, looking in the direction Shukin indicated, he forgot all about his hatred of heights and terms of great respect.
Across the vast valley, toiling up the trail that clung to a mountainside opposite them, he could make out a long column of men. The sun glinted haphazardly from their equipment as they moved and the light caught on helmets, spear points and swords.
'Arisaka,' Shukin said. He looked from the column of tiny figures to the crest of the mountain they were climbing, then across the next series of ridges. 'He's closer than I'd hoped.'
'Are you sure?' Horace asked. 'It could be Reito, and the survivors of the royal army.' But Shigeru shook his head.
'There are too many of them,' he said. 'And besides, Reito-san should be closer to us.'
'How far away are they, do you think?' Horace asked. Even though he had been riding through this countryside, he had no idea how fast a large party could cover ground – and he had no real idea what lay between Arisaka's army and themselves.
'Maybe four days behind us,' Shigeru estimated, but Shukin shook his head.
'Closer to three,' he said. 'We're going to have to move faster if we want to reach Ran-Koshi before they catch us.'
'That's if we can find Ran-Koshi,' Horace said. 'So far nobody seems to know where it is.'
Shukin met his gaze levelly. 'We'll find it,' he said firmly. 'We have to find it or we have no chance at all.'
'Ayagi-san was confident that there would be people in Riverbank Village who would know about it. Some of the older folk in particular, he said.'
'Well, we're not getting any closer to it standing here talking,' Horace said and Shukin grinned appreciatively.
'Well said, Kurokuma.'
Horace tilted his head and regarded the Senshi leader. 'I think I prefer that to Or'ss-san,' he said. 'I'm not absolutely certain, mind you.'
The Emperor of Nihon-Ja ra-10 Page 9
