by David Parkin
In the palace sitting room, Ping waited in silence, his eyes shifting from the emperor to the doors through which he had challenged the Sons of Sato to enter.
After a long while, the emperor stood. “I’m going to bed,” he snapped, having lost his patience. “If the Sons of Sato can’t get past a few guards, I guess you need a new plan, old friend.”
“Yes, my Emperor,” Ping relented.
“I don’t know much about Ninja,” the emperor added, “but I do know men, and no man would attempt stealing worms without a buyer already in place. I want you to find out who hired him or who forced his hand before sundown tomorrow. If you fail me,” the emperor pointed at Ping to emphasize the matter, “you fail the whole world. Remember that.”
“Yes, my Emperor,” Ping replied with a hint of sorrow in his voice. If the Sons of Sato had been defeated so easily, then he had no idea how to get the emperor and the nation out from under the burden of the silent thief.
“We’re samurai, Emperor.” Ichi’s voice suddenly echoed through the cavernous room. The frightened emperor turned quickly to discover the three brothers standing in the open doors, calm and cool. “Samurai don’t have much use for ‘palaces and concubines,’” Ichi concluded.
“Guards!” the emperor called out in a panic. “Guards!” he yelled again as he ran toward the back of the sitting room. The emperor swung open the heavy doors and gasped as he found Jin-Po, along with a dozen palace guards, lying in the hallway, bound and moaning through silk gags. “Ping!” The emperor turned desperately to his friend, expecting the captain to jump into action, but all Ping did was smile for the first time in days.
“Maybe just a few concubines?” Ozo asked, turning to Ichi, hopeful.
Ichi sighed as he shook his head in embarrassment. “Respect, Ozo.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Ocean of Tears was a half-circular stretch of sea separating Kaito and Bushan. It was named for its waters, so treacherous that any and every sailor from either continent who attempted to cross it had never returned. Some say the center of “The Tears” was home to an endlessly swirling typhoon catching ships and pulling them toward their doom like a fish on a line. Others blamed the disappearances on great sea serpents and man-eating dragons living in the waters.
Whatever the truth, throughout known history the Backbone served as the only course of travel from one continent to the other. The narrow strip of land stretched like a girder bowing under the weight of the two worlds.
Across the centuries, almost all the violence born from the war took place over the Backbone’s treacherous landscape. Most called it, “the meat grinder,” as a never-ending stream of flesh came through both ends to be ground by the hellish bottleneck of clashing steel and fire. Aside from the road built across the southern shore, the rest of the Backbone remained almost completely untouched since battle had scorched its terrain.
Outside the dangerous town of Merv in the Kaitian northwest, the land began to narrow immediately. While stepping onto the graveyard of millions beneath a rust-red sky, Patrick felt a pang of fear in his heart, remembering the horrific stories he’d heard of the war as a child. The road ahead was thick with fortresses and traps and covered with the untouched remains of ancient battles. The centuries of war affected the Backbone to such an extent that the very topography and, in some places, even the climate had become permanently altered.
Most referred to the first few miles of the Backbone’s northeastern shore as “the salted wound.” As Patrick paced the oddly white sand of the desolate beachhead, he found it hard to imagine that the seaside was once home to a maze of jagged, volcanic rocks constantly bombarded by the unforgiving surf. For centuries, Kaitians considered the land useless until it was discovered that the beach’s abrasive conditions were perfect for grinding a dead body to paste.
In a matter of years, the beach became a dumping ground for millions of dead Bushanese soldiers killed behind enemy lines. Over the millennia, the blood-red water, the rocks, and countless bones ground against each other until there was nothing left but an unholy aggregate resembling natural salt.
At each chance to rest, as Patrick emptied the white sand from his shoes, he wondered if any of his own ancestors lent their bones to the dust falling back to the shore.
Patrick and Sendai kept mostly quiet for the day it took to cross the wound until, eventually, the white sand gave way to a saw-toothed landscape of dangerous cliffs and large jagged rocks. The mercenaries encountered a peppering of giant blue glass boulders scattered by the eruption of an ancient volcano. The travel proved more difficult between the sharp edges of the terrain, but the mood had lightened considerably since they were no longer pacing across the remains of their heroes.
After days of endless sharp rocks rolling his ankles and catching his elbows, without so much as a Ninja hair to show for it, Patrick’s temper began to wear thin.
“We followed the map,” he erupted one night as they made camp at the rim of an ancient cliff. “We’re on the high road. We’ve been out here for three days.”
Sendai laid out his bedroll, careful not to disrupt his friend’s bellowing. “We made a mistake,” Patrick continued as he set down their large supply bag and looked out over the endless boulders, losing their shape against the cooling sky. “Who in their right mind thought it a good idea to follow an undetectable killer across the most perilous landscape in both worlds?”
“You did,” Sendai offered carefully.
“I’m from Wolfwater!” Patrick exclaimed. “We never have good ideas!”
“We’ve made no mistake,” Sendai defended, annoyingly calm. “We had to find the place where our bounty would begin to lose hope.” The Metecian looked to the desolate rocky terrain pockmarked with volcanic scars. “And I think we’re close.”
“Who’s losing hope?” Patrick grumbled as he sat down beside his partner. “He’s probably in Soverato by now in one of those big baths with all the ladies. Not that it would do him any good because he’s invisible.”
Sendai tilted his head quizzically. “Did I ever tell you my philosophy for catching an invisible thief?” he asked.
“You deal with them a lot, do you?” Patrick inquired skeptically.
“Man or rat, the rules remain the same,” Sendai said as he sat back against the one flat spot on a large serrated boulder. “You don’t go after the thief, you let the thief come to you.”
Patrick threw his hands in the air, growing more frustrated with each word spoken by his fellow traveler. “Great!” he said. “My partner’s got desert madness! I knew you’ve been out in the dunes too long.”
“He’d need to move fast,” Sendai theorized, ignoring his friend. “He’s at the end of his mission, running out of previsions. He wouldn’t have much time or money to spend on supplies by now. Besides, he couldn’t afford to have anyone discover his treasures. Tell me,” Sendai asked Patrick, “if you were out here with no food or water, where would you go to find it?”
“Well,” Patrick boasted, “lucky for me, I don’t have to worry about that because we planned ahead and brought—” Suddenly, Patrick’s heart skipped a beat as he looked to the spot beside him where he had set the supply bag, now empty. “It’s gone!” he shouted as he stood and pulled his sword. “He took our food! Why would you let me leave it out like that?” Patrick scanned the endless rocks beneath the blackening sky. “This place is a maze! He could be anywhere!”
“Relax, my friend,” Sendai composed. “I poisoned it.”
“You poisoned our food?” Patrick threw his hands in the air, feeling like he’d just lost his mind. “How could you do that? I just ate some a few hours ago!” Suddenly, pain and nausea began to rise through Patrick’s bowels. He held his midriff and hunched over as he continued his search.
“Relax, friend,” Sendai assured him, his cool demeanor growing more infuriating by the second, “it’s not poisoned with toxin.”
Slowly, Patrick took his hand from his belly and stood as
the pain miraculously disappeared. “Then what?” he demanded. “You know, I was joking about desert madness before, but now, I think I was right. I can’t believe he’s out there!” Patrick turned and shouted into the empty night. “I can’t believe you’re out there!”
As Patrick continued his rant, Sendai pulled his sword and began slowly and calmly stalking around the rocks. “Did you ever hear the story of Sato and the Iron Palace?” Sendai asked.
“Bedtime stories?” Patrick fumed, “No thanks, I’m too busy starving to death.”
“Once,” Sendai continued, “Sato was tasked to infiltrate an impenetrable palace in northern Bushan to remove a greedy prefect. After trying everything he could think of to get inside, Sato began to lose hope. What’s worse, the prefect and his men began mocking him by holding up flags of surrender and dancing about inside their high-walled fortress. One day, after Sato had all but given up, a barrel of cherry wine arrived at the front gate of the palace. Of course the prefect was suspicious so he left the barrel outside for three days before he ordered one of his men to go outside and tap it. To their delight, delicious wine filled the man’s cup, and he carried the barrel inside.
“The men drank the wine through the night until the last drop was gone. However, when they picked up the barrel to throw it in the fire, it remained heavy. At that moment, Sato broke out from inside! He had waited, completely submerged in wine, for three days with only a small reed to breathe. The samurai faced down the men and removed the prefect from power. They say his skin remained pink for nine months after that.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow, confused, “So . . . you hid Sato in that supply bag?”
“Not Sato, no,” Sendai admitted, “but something just as clever. . . . A tiny, little spy.”
Suddenly, the spy revealed itself as a cricket chirped in the shadows. Like lightning, Sendai turned fast, and his sword clashed with the deadly blade of the Ninja!
CHAPTER FIVE
“Clean, solid, with just enough tension in the wrists,” Sendai read as his scimitar pressed firmly against the Ninja’s beautifully crafted steel. The Sandlander’s eyes painted a quick glance over his mysterious foe, spotting a blood-red polished scabbard tied to the Ninja’s belt. Interesting, he thought, if that sword belongs to who I think it does, perhaps this one has got it in him to beat me?
As an outcast in his homeland, Sendai spent most of the days of his life on the high roads and low trails of Kaito and Bushan. In that time, the edge of his blade had left an equal amount of blood and reputation across the two worlds.
He was good with a sword, of that there was no doubt. He was so good, in fact, that defeating “The Great Sendai,” the Metecian with dark glasses and few words to share became a legend for brave men to aspire to, equal to climbing the tallest mountain or crossing the Sea of Tears. As of late, Sendai found himself staring down the tip of a challenger’s sword almost daily. Often, men like Oleg in Merv approached with swords drawn, interrupting meals, naps, even a wedding once. If Sendai was lucky, combatants would throw a few insults before throwing the edge of their blade but mostly they came without so much as a word.
Through the years, Sendai had crossed steel with both sides of the law and all degrees of honor, from pirates to noblemen and prizefighters to kings. They all believed their destiny lay in defeating him. So far, every one had died by their vainglory.
Sendai may yet to have met his match, but secretly he hoped against the stars that a worthy foe would one day mark his flawless record and take upon himself the curse of the undefeated.
Navigating a world rife with men who trained for years to kill you was a young man’s game. Sendai would never admit it to anyone but he secretly dreamed of the day peace would come for, at least, the last few heartbeats of his life.
After walking over so many broken men and their blades in the years past, Sendai had acquired the unique ability to read his opponents through their fighting style. Engaging so many men across so many lands had turned his challenger’s swords to quills dipped in ink, dictating their fight histories, their teachers, even the worth of their character. Often, Sendai’s skill made the task of killing a man, with whom he had never exchanged words, less of a challenge. Sometimes, however, the story he read made the fight a doleful task indeed. In fact, this was the circumstance of his and Patrick’s first meeting.
Many years ago, when Sendai was still a welcome man in his homeland, Akai, their strongly religious neighbors to the north had hired a band of thugs to intimidate the border. Metecia had been at odds with Akai for centuries over the boundary to the northern mountains that served as the source of water for both countries. Sendai had spent most of this particular siege laying waste to the hired Akai soldiers threatening the palace of a vizier located at the edge of the border.
As the last men fell that morning, Sendai received word of a lone straggler who had somehow gotten past him, snuck through the city gates, and infiltrated the palace. Insulted and annoyed, Sendai arrived personally to track down the rat.
Under the threat of violence, the vizier fled, leaving his youngest and most beautiful wife to fend for herself should any breaches occur. This was common practice for the wealthy living close to the borders. If an invading party happened to take over a rich man’s land, they would find a concubine as a peace offering inside the house and hopefully take pity on the landowner.
Through the help of this exquisite woman, Sendai tracked the thief to the palace sewers where he met a Wolfen cub with distant eyes and unruly red hair erupting like a pillar of fire atop his head. As the young man’s pockets spilled over with jewels, Sendai was amazed that the wretch dared pull his sword to challenge him.
Expecting the usual exchange with the hired scum Akai managed to pull from the slums of anywhere, Sendai engaged the boy of no more than sixteen years with a plan for Patrick’s quick and painful death. However, as the cub’s sword began to speak, Sendai was dejected at the story it had to tell.
With hair like that, there was no denying where he was from. After a few strokes of his rusty sword, however, it became obvious that Wolfwater was not where the sell-sword had trained in battle. To Sendai, fighting styles are like fingerprints and the young man’s steel sang with the unmistakable song of the Siglosian war pits. The moment the broken and dirty method showed itself to Sendai, he knew Patrick’s story. In all likelihood, he knew it better than Patrick knew it himself.
The tales of Harpy raiders swarming through villages to steal children were rampant in the west. At the age of three or four, this angry and energetic boy was no doubt taken from his family to Siglos, just south of Sendai’s homeland, where he was sold into slavery. After ten or twelve years of torturous training and endless violence, the boy would have been sold again, this time to the highest bidding side of any war. For Patrick, that war was with Metecia.
The more Sendai learned from the Wolfen, the more he pitied the boy who had no real stake in this fight. After only a moment exchanging blows, the Metecian knew he would spare the sad life, but the wolf inside Patrick wouldn’t stand for anything but everything Sendai had behind him. Sadly, the only way to stop the angry thief from hurting himself or Sendai came by way of an injury, a deep slice through Patrick’s right shoulder. The fight ended at once and the injury was so severe, the boy would never fully recover.
After Sendai arrested Patrick, he spoke to the vizier who, out of gratitude for the great swordsman’s service, commuted the Wolfen’s sentence from death, to imprisonment until death, a ruling without much disparity in the murky dungeons of Metecia.
Through a cruel twist of fate, not more than a few months passed until Sendai found himself a guest in that same dungeon. Blind with love, Sendai had rationalized that meeting the vizier’s young wife Yasmina was his due reward by the stars for taking pity on a slave. Alas, after a palace aide discovered the two in bed together, “The stars,” as Sendai said, “always found a way to trip up any who believed himself worthy of their praise.”
> In Sendai’s experience, two men who spent nine months chained together, knee deep in a pit of rancid castle runoff, would either become close friends or bitter enemies. Thankfully, Patrick proved a resourceful, smart, and clever lad who made Sendai laugh.
Through their time in the dungeon and the six years since their escape, Sendai had never told Patrick that it was he who injured his shoulder and imprisoned him there. He had heard Patrick curse the “mysterious man” who had ended his fighting career countless times and feared that if Patrick were to discover the truth, he would never forgive Sendai.
As the one small way he had of paying back his faithful companion, Sendai kept the Wolfen close, protecting his life and his secret past. Besides that, when Sendai fell asleep with Patrick across the fire, he could trust that his coin and his life would both go unperturbed until the morning sun. That alone made the Wolfen a companion of the rarest breed.
“COME ON,” Patrick called impatiently from behind as Sendai faced down the masked Ninja, “let’s get this over with. I’m hungry.” Growing restless, Patrick took a quick, but hostile step toward the masked thief. Through the Ninja’s swift glance at the Wolfen, Sendai saw him spot the angle in which Patrick held his injured shoulder and disregard him as a threat.
With all the sound of a blinking eye, the Ninja vaulted toward the Wolfen and disarmed him with a quick jab to a pressure point at the base of his neck. As Sendai swung toward the thief, he had just enough time to send an elbow into Patrick’s jaw and take him off his feet before catching the Metecian’s blade on the downswing.
The balance of power and form this Ninja possessed was nothing short of remarkable. Too early to tell, Sendai thought to himself, but perhaps he is the one to finally grant me peace. A twitch of the silent assassin’s blade told Sendai his opponent’s tensions were raising.
“In a hurry?” Sendai asked. The answer came quick as a snake’s tongue as the Ninja broke the locked blades and struck low. “Impatience,” Sendai read as he caught the thief’s steel, “desperation even. He’s too skilled for impatience. He wants this over quick for a reason.” Well, he thought to himself, let’s see what happens if I deny him his request.
