by David Parkin
Patrick had ridden, or rather, walked with Sendai for close to six years now. After all that time, he still knew very little about his mysterious partner. Sendai was from Metecia, a country in the Sandland region of Bushan, a land of magic and treasures, home to a resilient and reverent people. They lived their life by the night sky and their fiercely defended pride.
Whether he liked it or not, Sendai held a wide reputation as the greatest swordsman in both worlds, and he never talked about his past. The former certainly came in handy on the road, but the later was the feature Patrick admired most about his friend. Patrick preferred to ride alone, but he kept Sendai around because they both left their pasts where they belonged. That unspoken agreement garnered a respect for the man that Patrick held for no other. After all, “Respect,” as his father once said, “was as rare as fire diamonds in these worlds.”
“Anything for breakfast?” Patrick asked as he moved across the sand with his patented carefree smile.
“I’ve got a goat skin I no longer have use for,” Sendai replied, holding up his slashed instrument.
“Good thing for us Merv is just over that dune. Do you know what they say about Merv my, until recently, musical friend?”
“It’s a good place to burry Woodlanders?” Sendai guessed, optimistic.
“In Merv,” Patrick responded, ignoring the jab, “the women are sweeter than the honey.”
“Unfortunately,” Sendai added, “with a Ninja to hunt, we won’t have time to sample either.”
Due to its treacherous reputation, the road through the northern shore of The Backbone proved useful to smugglers and cutthroats who valued their privacy. Merv was the border city at the end of the route and a hub for the busy fur trade to the north. The dark and cold township was home to those drawn to a bandit’s life or just plain eager to disappear. It housed one of the most dangerous and seductive underbellies on both worlds. Patrick had traveled to the north on more than a few occasions, but he had never been to Merv. He approached with equal parts caution and elation but today, he was afraid Sendai was right.
Traditionally, this was the time of year they served as security in Bao Acres, a famous orchard of large and ornate apple trees in Western Kaito. Known for the powerful cider derived from their flesh and the deadly poison procured from their seeds, the red and yellow speckled Bao apples proved an easy source for a capable thief for a quick bag of gold. In the fall, dozens of mercenaries marched through the trees, flushing out the packs of rustlers and raiders the orchard’s bounty invited each year. In the years since Sendai had been hired, however, the thieves had learned how bad a raid on Bao could be for their health. After a few years, the guard work became so effortless, most hired swords called their time in the acres their “fall vacation,” spending most their days and nights getting drunk off the barrels of complimentary cider, taking naps, and stealing apples for themselves.
Three days earlier, Patrick had just begun slipping into a nap while stretched out across a low hanging bough when Sendai woke him by shoving a wanted poster in his face. As he struggled to look through the fog of his hangover, a rendering of two dangerous eyes beneath a black cowl came into focus. “A Ninja?” Patrick groaned as he handed the poster back. “There’s no such thing.”
“That’s the emperor’s seal,” Sendai said, pointing to the stamped sealing wax in the corner of the notice.
“It’s a hoax,” Patrick griped, lying back against the tree, “meant to draw the eye of the sell-swords while someone else hunts the real prized bounty.”
Sendai answered Patrick’s bellyaching by pointing to the phrase at the bottom of the poster and reading aloud, “Untold riches will be your reward, by the word of my father, the beloved peacemaker.” At this, Patrick sat up so fast he hit his head on the branch above him. “Have you ever known the emperor to make such a vow?” Sendai asked. Patrick didn’t answer. The ideas were already running past the backs of his eyes.
“If this Ninja exists,” he said, after a moment of thought, “then he must be quite a warrior to get in and out past Ping and his men.”
“A fair assumption,” Sendai noted as three other mercenaries walked past them with their own copy of the wanted poster in hand.
“With a reward like that,” the Wolfen continued, “you can expect the hunting parties to grow into hunting armies in no time.”
“Right,” Sendai agreed.
“In that case, it’s in the thief’s best interest to keep the majority of those hunting him off his back, right?” Patrick asked, an idea brewing in his head.
“He has a two-day head start,” Sendai added. “And from the stories I’ve heard in town, it’s a lot more than he needs.”
“Well,” Patrick said, “we have a few advantages the rest of the hunters don’t: your sword and my brains.”
“So we have one advantage and one crippling weakness,” Sendai responded, feigning a thoughtful look.
Patrick rolled up the poster and smacked Sendai on the head before jumping to his feet. “The way I see it,” he thought aloud as he packed his bag, “we can either go try to hunt down the greatest bounty in the history of the two worlds, or we could stay here and watch the apples grow.”
Sendai examined a young green apple growing above his head before turning his thoughts back to the Ninja. “So what’s the plan?” he asked, picking up his belongings and heading north alongside his partner.
“Every warrior, bounty hunter, assassin, and camel that longs for the emperor’s ‘untold riches’ will flood the Backbone, right?” Patrick spoke with his hands in an effort to bolster his point.
“Of course,” Sendai said.
“Well,” the Wolfen continued, “most people know the traditional route across the southern shore. It’s quick, easy, and relatively safe, but there’s also a path to the north.”
“Which is sparse, treacherous, and longer by about two weeks,” Sendai said, finishing his friend’s thought.
“I figure,” Patrick proceeded, “most will assume a thief would be eager to get rid of his plunder, so taking the quick path makes the most sense.”
“You think he’s taking the northern route,” Sendai said.
“It’s what I’d do.”
The Metecian raised an eyebrow. “That’s, actually, a good idea,” he said, churning the plan in his mind.
“Of course it’s a good idea!” Patrick exclaimed. “I’m Sir Patrick of Wolfwater, and Sir Patrick of Wolfwater has never had a bad idea.”
“Are you talking about since you woke up, or your whole life?” Sendai questioned.
“Hey,” Patrick said, “just because it doesn’t work doesn’t make it a bad idea, alright? Fisher communes are a good idea, they just don’t work.”
The centuries-long war between Kaito and Bushan, the continents that made up the two worlds, had come to an end almost fifty years before. In that time, Kaito’s silk trade had made it a rich and powerful nation while the countries of Bushan struggled to keep peace between their borders. The silk worms raised and perfected by the Kaitian families grew so valuable that if the nation lost even one to Bushan, each country could use it to begin their own silk trade which would devastate the Kaitian economy. Every so often, a lucky thief would get their hands on one and the entire country would shut down to prevent it from making its way across “The Backbone,” the narrow land bridge to the north connecting the two countries.
Patrick had seen the empire react to such a theft before but never with a plea for outside help and never with a bounty so large. Such desperation would only suggest that the thief was truly something special.
In the three days since leaving the apple orchards, the two mercenaries moved north, past the Backbone’s southern road and into the dunes across the northwestern shore.
They entered Merv as darkness set over the bustling city, moving between its sandstone quarters, stacked like children’s blocks. In the desert, people lived and worked under the comfort of night. As the sun had set, the street ven
dors began choking the narrow avenues.
Patrick and Sendai moved through the shadows of the city, watching every nook and back alleyway and the scum oozing from within. The Woodlands, where Patrick called home, were far from Merv and, considering the fact that Sandlanders like Sendai rarely left their native country, both men were considerably out of place. Dangerous sorts with nervous eyes holding blades in twitchy fingers glared with suspicion from every doorway.
As he scanned the swarming masses, Patrick recalled the warning he had received from an old peltman a few years back who told him that, “A man of Merv will rob and kill you, of course, but the women, why, with beauty matched only by their treachery, they’ll make you fall in love just to watch your heart break before it stops.” As Patrick’s eyes caught the alluring gaze of a particularly captivating temptress with dark eyes and an exposed midriff, he thought to himself, Sure, she’ll break my heart and kill me, but what a way to go.
“We need a map,” Sendai interrupted, pulling Patrick from the siren’s gaze.
“That could be a challenge,” Patrick agreed as they stopped at a local eatery and nodded to the host who brought a basket of stale flatbread.
“It appears you weren’t the only one with the brilliant idea of taking the northern route,” Sendai suggested as he sat at a dusty table and scanned the unusually large crowd.
“Good ideas don’t only come from Wolfwater,” Patrick relented as he sat beside his friend.
The red-haired knight came from one of the rain-soaked Woodland isles in the far Northwest of Bushan. Wolfwater was named for the packs of albino wolves stalking the misty forests of the region and the natural springs that some say, made their drinker immune to black magic.
Long ago, it was rumored that the quiet, pale-skinned people who called the isle their home were born as the white wolves, only to shed their animalian skin once their taste for blood had colored their fur the traditional bright orange hue of the Wolfens’ hair. Patrick’s homelanders, a proud race of timbermen, held fast to a reputation for wits twice as sharp as their ax blades and backs twice as strong as their handles. Years of hard labor, coupled with constant wolf attacks had hardened Patrick’s arms, calloused his hands, and caused thick and leathery scar tissue to grow over any sign of cowardice that came with the innocence of childhood. A Wolfen man had a great fondness for his home, although Patrick never had the chance to know it for long.
As he sat at the eatery, wondering what a night with that woman he saw earlier would be like, Patrick failed to notice two lumbering shadows approaching from the street. Luckily for him, his ever-vigilant partner’s sharp elbow could bring him back into the world at a moment’s notice.
“Are you he?” the larger of two mountains asked Sendai with an accent from Azbenkenazi, a Snowland country in northern Bushan. “Are you ‘The Great Sendai,’ who has killed hundreds, never lost a challenge, and always—”
“No,” Sendai interrupted, not interested in whatever these two men with swollen faces were selling. “It happens often,” Sendai continued. “Not everyone with amber skin and goggles is he. No need to apologize. Have a good day.”
“No, I’m pretty sure he’s talking about you, Sendai,” Patrick interjected. “You are pretty good with a sword.” Sendai closed his eyes, flabbergasted at Patrick’s idiocy. “Oh,” Patrick said, acting as though he had just understood, “you didn’t want them to know it was you.” With Sendai’s reputation, men like this approached often. Normally, Patrick played along, trying to avoid conflict, but something told him this fight might be worth it.
“I am Oleg, the greatest swordsman in Azbenkanazi,” the round man said as the large pile of northern furs across his back and shoulders jostled with nervous tension.
Sendai turned to Patrick, asking him without words why he opened his big mouth. Patrick answered by shooting a look to a map of The Backbone, hanging on Oleg’s wide-reaching belt.
“People always tell me, ‘Oleg, you are greatest swordsman in Azbenkanazi, but you are not greater than Sendai. Nobody is greater than Sendai.’” Oleg waited for the Metecian to respond, but the swordsman only took a peace of flatbread from the bowl in front of him and tore a hunk away with his teeth.
“Why is he not talking?” Oleg grumbled to Patrick with his hands in the air.
“You’re being rude, Oleg,” Patrick responded. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
“My brother Ivan doesn’t speak,” Oleg barked. “And I know you already, you’re the Wolfen worm that polishes Sendai’s boots because you cannot fight for yourself.”
Patrick looked to Ivan, who stared off into space as if he were barely aware of the confrontation at all. “Well,” the Wolfen relented, “one of those statements is true.”
Obviously not a man of patience or temperance, Oleg grunted as he pulled his sword and smashed it into the table, cutting the bowl of flatbread in twain.
Instinctively, the crowd in the eatery jumped to their feet and surrounded the four mercenaries, exchanging money and gold between a fistful of odds makers who seemed to appear from the very dirt beneath their feet. The owner of the eatery bellowed in his native tongue in an ineffective attempt to keep the violence from impacting his bottom line.
As dramatic as it all seemed, this scene was old hat for Patrick and Sendai. The Wolfen let his head drop against his chest, feeling actual pity for Oleg and his brother. Beside him, Sendai sat still, not an eyelash affected by his challenger’s dumb and heavy sword.
“Alright, alright,” Patrick relented, getting to his feet and putting his hands in the air. “Believe it or not, Sendai has heard stories like yours before. He doesn’t speak to you because you don’t know that you’ve already lost.”
Outraged, Oleg tried to pull his steel from the table but before it had a chance to budge, Sendai’s sword sang from his belt. In the time it took Oleg to flinch, the edge of the most skilled blade in the two worlds sliced six small cuts across the large man’s arms, face, and belly, finishing with a slice through his brother Ivan’s belt.
As quick as it started, Sendai’s blade came to a halt, firmly at the crown of Oleg’s head, buried in his hat. Just as quickly as it happened, every soul within sight gasped in unison and fell quiet as the moon.
Ivan’s belt finally broke the fragile silence as it fell to the dust. “What was it you called him?” Patrick asked, keeping a close eye on Ivan. “’The great swordsman, who has killed hundreds, never lost a challenge, and always . . .’ What was the last part?”
Oleg swallowed hard before his shaking words scratched their way into his windpipe, “H-he ‘always gives mercy to those who request it.’”
“Do you request mercy, Oleg?” Sendai asked, finally opening his mouth.
Oleg tried to speak but stuttered as his hat fell in two pieces, one landing in each half of the broken bowl on the table. “Yes, please,” the terrified Azben finally said.
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Patrick said as Sendai lowered his sword and the crowd erupted, exchanging money and retelling the story with excited animation.
With a smile, Patrick leaned over and snatched the map from Oleg’s belt, their payment for his and his brother’s life. Oleg nodded, relieved the price was so cheap.
“Please, tell me . . .” the Azbenkanazi begged as Patrick and Sendai sheathed their swords, “they say you met a genie and wished to be the greatest swordsman alive. Is that true?”
Sendai smiled as he and Patrick turned down the dark street. “There are many rumors about ‘The Great Sendai,’” he called over his shoulder. “Some are true, and some are not.”
After a few steps, Patrick looked to his partner, curious. “A genie? Is that true?”
“Pull your sword and find out,” Sendai responded with a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.
“Come on, partner,” Patrick teased, “you know me, the less I know about your Sandland black magic, the better.” The two strange companions laughed together as they disappeared int
o the bustle of the evening crowd.
CHAPTER TWO
“I remember the rain,” Captain Ping thought, as the storm’s bounty moved in from the west and danced with his senses.
The head of the Royal Guard nestled his aching bones into the back of his tired horse as they approached the top of a rolling green hill, lush with plants and trees bending to the will of the weather.
Ping and the twelve men behind him had ridden hard and heavy since last night. His bruised body and broken ego forced his chin against his chest for most of the journey. For the first time since the captain could remember, he had been defeated, a quick and painful incident that raised as many questions as concerns. This “Ninja” was a thief with brutal abilities and the motivation to kill any who would follow him, but instead, Ping and each of his men had been spared.
With the weight of questions like these on his shoulders, along with the bad news he carried to the capital city, Ping found it painful to raise the brim of his conical hat as the familiar sight of his home appeared beyond the mountaintop.
The village of Paoyang in Shokai Province spilled out from a narrow and misty valley below like flowers from an overturned basket. The mass of cozy pagoda-like houses and huts served as the sleepy center of the capital state of Kaito. Seeing Ping’s birthplace, where he, his wife, children, and ancestors called home, traditionally offered an occasion to warm his shivering core, but not tonight. Tonight, Ping’s thoughts were of his beloved master, who, along with the sacred ways of Kung Fu, taught him that, “Grave news requires a hard and fast delivery.”
As Ping and his guardsmen rode down the west edge of the southern mountain, the cliff slowly revealed Paoyang like the drawing of a great stone curtain. The village, surrounded on the north, east, and south by three sheer cliffs, was known for two things: one was the heavy late-winter rain; the other was just now coming into view. Ping had traveled this road so often he knew the exact spot where Kaito’s most prized landmark revealed itself.
