Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  Before the guards could draw weapons or challenge him, Mamoru wove a thought and dropped it in front of them, making sure each would brush against it. He turned sideways and thought thin thoughts as the two vacant-eyed soldiers, having completely forgotten him, carried on towards the edge of the plaza.

  Twenty paces away from the entrance he stopped, holding his open hands away from his sides. A broad figure imperiously shoved its way to the front of the soldiers clustered at the gate, his bamboo armour adorned with several battle ribbons and a sergeant’s knots on his shoulders. With his left hand holding the scabbard of his longsword and his left thumb pressed against the bottom of the tsuba to stop the blade collar settling back into the neck, he swaggered over. Mamoru could feel the sergeant’s eyes scanning him, looking for clues, or threats. Mamoru stayed very still. He recognised the man.

  “Sergeant,” he said, by way of greeting. The figure stopped, and looked more closely. Swearing an oath, he stepped back a pace and half drew his blade.

  “Kami,” the sergeant gasped. There was a muttering from the soldiers at the gate, and hands were placed on weapons.

  “I’m no ghost, man. Prod me if you must, just not with anything too sharp.”

  “M... Master Mamoru?” The sergeant let his blade slide back into the scabbard and stepped out of his defensive pose.

  “Indeed.”

  “We were told you were dead.”

  Mamoru allowed himself an inward ah of satisfaction. He had expected that would be how they explained his absence. “I believe I am expected,” was all he said.

  “Nobody mentioned anything,” the sergeant muttered, scratching idly under the strap of his helmet. He came to a decision and barked out commands. One soldier left his post at the gate and headed into the palace at a run.

  With a medium bow the sergeant suggested Mamoru might like to walk into the palace. Mamoru returned the bow and started forward. The sergeant walked in front and, as soon as they were through the gate, two soldiers fell in behind.

  Mamoru felt a subtly different aura to the palace. There was still wealth and prosperity, as there was out in the city, but Mamoru felt a new tension since he’d last been here. When he had served Prince Norio as Prime Councillor, it had been a place of light and pleasant perfumes. But now there was an edge; not of darkness, but certainly a diminution of light.

  A path to his left offered an unexpected option. He stepped towards it and was immediately impressed by the reflexes of the young soldier on that side.

  “No! Follow the sergeant.” The soldier blocked his way in a combat stance; blade half drawn, left foot a pace behind the right and turned out to give force for the forward drive.

  Mamoru lifted his eyebrows and smiled, but did not move. A low growl started in the young man’s throat.

  And then the sergeant was there, his right hand pressing down on the younger man’s sword. He gently pushed the soldier aside, then himself stepped out of Mamoru’s path, granting him access. Mamoru inclined his head in recognition, pretending not to notice as the sergeant whispered quick instructions to the young guard.

  The path—a narrow and shaded accident between two outbuildings—opened out in the corner of a secluded garden. Three walls were simple rough stone of warm and pastel yellow, with willow rush screens. The fourth, a veranda backed by shoji doors. Slightly offset from the centre was an irregularly shaped pool with a gently trickling waterfall at the edge. The only bright colour in the garden came from the water lilies, and the occasional flicker of red or silver beneath the water. A bench made from pink granite sat next to the pool, and an artfully curved path of grey cobbles was set into soft white gravel raked into geometric shapes.

  The bench seemed an ideal place to wait, so Mamoru placed his staff beneath it and sat in a loose lotus next to his pack. He reached inside and took out a small flask and a rice cake, the latter wrapped in a vine leaf. Almost as an afterthought, he dipped into the essence of the stone bench and projected it around him like a bubble. He sipped delicately at the coarse sake, but devoured the rice cake with gusto.

  When the squad of soldiers ran into the garden, Mamoru was wiping his fingers clean on his tunic. He frowned in mild disapproval as the soldiers trampled over the gravel and destroyed the carefully wrought pattern, but his mood was lifted by the angry postures the soldiers took up. He could feel their fear and uncertainty like a taint in the air. Such bravado.

  An officer arrived, strutting like a peacock. Mamoru did not recognise him. He walked within five paces of Mamoru then strode back and forth, glaring. Mamoru smiled, and nodded pleasantly. The officer pointed at two men and barked at them to take this filthy peasant pig into custody.

  Mamoru was intrigued. Custody? Most unusual.

  The two soldiers sheathed their swords and made to rush Mamoru. Three paces from him they bounced heavily off an invisible barrier. One tried again with a similar result, while the other reached with his hand until he felt the obstruction. The officer scowled then barked again. This time only one soldier approached, sword extended in his hand. When the tip touched the barrier, the soldier adjusted his position and, with an impressive kiai, struck hard at the barrier. The sword rang sweetly as it bounced off. Mamoru considered that the soldier should be glad he had such a blade. An inferior sword would have cracked, causing him great shame.

  The soldier stepped forward and seemed to be studying something. The invisible barrier had chipped slightly and there was a mark hanging in the air. Mamoru moistened his index finger, reached out in a line between him and the mark, and rubbed gently at nothing. Before the soldier’s eyes, the mark faded away. He sheathed his sword, bowed deeply to Mamoru, and returned to his officer.

  There was a muttered conversation, and then the officer screamed coward and backhanded the soldier across the face.

  Archers arrived, and a flight of arrows scattered off Mamoru’s barrier. Some ricocheted and glanced off the stone walls, leaving tiny pits and craters. Some bounced back amongst the soldiers. Some went through the screen doors of the veranda, leaving holes in the paper—doors that suddenly opened to reveal a party of senior officers, nobles, and Prince Kazuhiko.

  Mamoru, who could see perfectly well from within the barrier, allowed himself a moment of satisfaction when he saw the young officer’s face drain of colour, and the slight tremble in his hands after he had dropped to his knees, prostrating himself. There was a rustle of fabric as the other soldiers did the same.

  Mamoru did not move.

  Kazuhiko looked furious. Actual red-in-the-face, vein-bulging furious. Mamoru was surprised that any son of Norio would be so obvious. True, the boy had not been a particularly competent scholar, and Norio had been somewhat indulgent, but even so. The surprise was replaced by sadness and understanding. Norio’s chain of office now adorned Kazuhiko’s neck. Norio, apparently, was no more.

  There was shouting, angry posturing, submissive posturing, and a plethora of bowing as various people disciplined various other people. Mamoru ignored it. He slowly turned on the bench until he was facing the veranda squarely. He was looking for someone he had expected to be in the forefront of Kazuhiko’s retinue, but who—so far—appeared to be missing.

  There was a shape, deep within the crowd on the veranda, who looked familiar, but it had been more than ten—no, more than fifteen—years since Mamoru left, so he couldn’t be sure. He was focused so hard on trying to identify the flitting shape that it took him several moments to realise not only was there silence, but everyone was looking at him.

  Straightening his spine and pulling his shoulders back, Mamoru looked directly at Kazuhiko and spoke. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”

  Mamoru set his stall out early by flaunting etiquette, then waited to see how Kazuhiko would react. Mamoru hoped there would be nothing more than a gentlemanly discussion, but Kazuhiko’s face had started to congest again. Mamoru tried to divert the incipient rant.

  “My lord, I am flattered that you think our conversation will
be so interesting that you have invited so many to attend.”

  Kazuhiko took far too long to understand Mamoru’s point, but after a cascade of carefully phrased protests and dismissals, Mamoru found himself alone with the prince.

  “What do you want, Kazuhiko?” he said.

  “What makes you think I want anything, Master Mamoru?” Kazuhiko’s voice was trying to be calm and balanced, but Mamoru could hear tension beneath his words.

  “Closing down fifteen shrines in a gradually expanding circle from where I last spoke to your father seems like an invitation to me.”

  “Really? Perhaps I am simply tired of supporting this ancient nonsense. Perhaps it is time to move on, and so I have started closing things down.”

  Mamoru allowed a firmer tone to creep into his voice. “If you had wanted to close down the shrines, why would you have imprisoned the monks elsewhere? I found where you had taken those from Bakifu-ji and Hatanata-ji. The shrines are intact and ready for re-occupation, whenever you get around to telling me what you want.”

  “Very well,” Kazuhiko said, sneering as he snapped his fingers.

  A shape detached itself from the shadows. A woman stepped forward. She had been beautiful once, but that was hidden behind a veneer of pain and misuse. She looked to be thirty years of age, or slightly less. Her black hair was artfully coiffured and her makeup skilfully applied, but fear dulled her eyes and submission pulled her lips down, making it appear as though she rarely smiled.

  She stopped two steps behind and two steps to the left of Kazuhiko, dropping to her knees and bowing. When her face rose her eyes locked onto Mamoru, and he felt a wave of hatred. Sadness touched his heart.

  “Sumiko,” he said, bowing deeper than he had to Kazuhiko.

  “This tool you left my father with is defective,” the prince snapped.

  Mamoru saw Sumiko flinch.

  “I left your father with a tool suitable for his needs,” Mamoru said. “She is admirably versed in politics, economics, diplomacy, and strategy. What more could a teacher want from his student, or a prince from his aide?”

  “She has no power,” Kazuhiko snarled. “No authority.”

  “Are these your words or those of your father?”

  “Mine, old man. My foolish father was more than happy with this broken toy. He doted on her. It sickened me. How can a man be guided by a female? How can a blade be a weapon if it has no edge?”

  “A keen mind is a weapon in itself, my lord.” He hesitated for a moment, then cocked his head. “Do we continue this charade? I see little point to it.”

  Kazuhiko’s face turned to wax and his eyes died. He stepped slowly backwards into the darkness behind the veranda. Sumiko rose to her feet and stepped forward. Her kimono, which she wore in the male style, slipped back from her shoulders and fell to the floor. Beneath, she was dressed much as Mamoru was, but in soft silken fabrics of the purest white. She shone. The demure, downtrodden expression disappeared like snow in rain, and her look became hard and bitter.

  “I should have expected you would see through him,” she said.

  “Is he even who he appears to be?”

  She barked a harsh laugh. “Who knows? He was once.”

  “To what end, daughter?”

  “Don’t call me that,” Sumiko screamed. Then she closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath. “You forfeited the right to call me that when you humiliated me.”

  “And for that I am sorry. But still...”

  “Still what? Are you going to try and flatter me with platitudes of wit and intelligence? You deserted me.”

  “Not true.”

  “Of course you did. I never succeeded you. Norio was left with second best. By tradition the Chief Adviser chooses one from the priesthood, trains them to become his replacement, then performs the ritual of succession. You did the first, a bare half of the second, and failed completely in the third.”

  “But I was dead. At least, that was the story. Judging from the response of the sergeant I met earlier, it would appear to be widely accepted.”

  “I knew. Norio suspected. He wouldn’t allow me to come and find you, so I worked with this—” she waved a hand dismissively at Kazuhiko “—weak fool.”

  “Worked with?” asked Mamoru.

  “There are other ways to do things than your way.”

  Sumiko’s right hand flicked from the wrist. Something silver spun through the air towards him. Mamoru raised his left hand, palm open, fingers slightly curled. The path of the throwing knife bent just enough for it to pass to his right. His brows furrowed slightly and he gave the woman a disappointed look.

  Sumiko repeated the gesture, this time with both hands and greater force. Instead of a single knife, a dozen shot forward, together with a dozen darts and a cloud of sparkling dust.

  Mamoru brushed the blades aside, then rolled backwards off the bench. Sumiko’s foot made the air whistle as it passed through the space occupied by Mamoru’s head only a second before.

  The cloud of dust dissipated. Mamoru, on one side of the bench, stood naturally. Sumiko crouched on the other side, slowly settling her weight onto her back foot. Her hands came up level to her shoulders and hooked into claws.

  Sumiko snarled and leapt forward, placing one foot on the stone bench as she lunged a kick at Mamoru’s head. Mamoru leaned to the side and she flew past, turning the fall into a neat roll and spinning to face him again. Both her hands curved into pistol shapes that a child might make, and two balls of darkness shot towards Mamoru. He made an O with his hands, and as each ball passed through his fingers, they sparkled and faded to nothing.

  Sumiko threw herself forward again, launching a flurry of blows with her fists and arms, her legs trying to trick Mamoru with high and low sweeping kicks. Mamoru avoided everything. Every blow was deflected or dodged, every kick missed its mark, and always Mamoru seemed to fall back and allow Sumiko to launch another energy attack. He absorbed each, preferring to take the damage himself, rather than allow the stray energy to ricochet elsewhere.

  Sumiko landed an open-palm blow in the centre of Mamoru’s chest, and he flew backwards through the air. He slammed into the wall opposite the veranda, his feet hanging off the ground, then slid to the floor in a clattering and rustling confusion of willow screens.

  Sumiko, a look of satisfaction on her face, stood back and pummelled Mamoru with bolt after bolt of black fire. Mamoru managed to catch each on the palms of his hands, but seemed pained by every impact.

  “Fool. You should have offered me the rite.”

  Mamoru began to dim. A nimbus of dark mist hovered just beyond his skin. It was visible through his clothing even though the sun had risen so far as to chase the shadows from everywhere in the garden except the veranda.

  When Sumiko briefly stopped hammering him with energy, he struggled to his feet, using the wall for support. He looked weak, and his years hung heavy on his bones. Taking a deep breath, he fought to stand upright, and then took three faltering steps towards Sumiko.

  “But I held you back,” he said, his voice rasping. “I kept you from developing your skills with the power. How are you so strong?”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think Norio did not know, that he did not despair over having a Prime Councillor with authority? That people would fear?”

  “I thought I left him with one people would respect.”

  “Respect is nothing without the might to support it when it weakens.”

  Sumiko dipped a hand into the neck of her tunic. When she brought it forth, she dropped a jewel from her hand and let it hang on a silver chain, just between her breasts. The jewel was black, set in a silver encasement, but it was not the smooth, shining black of onyx; this black absorbed light like water into a sponge, and its surface seemed to be thickly fluid.

  A look of horror crossed Mamoru’s face, and he sagged inwards. Sumiko stepped forward and took hold of Mamoru’s tunic with her left hand. Her right drew back, level with Mamoru’s throat, ready
for a killing blow that would leave the old man choking and drowning in his own blood. She took a deep breath to focus her energy.

  But now Mamoru stepped forward, his left foot twisting behind her right, his body crushing her left hand into her and pushing her back. His left hand rose to block her right, in case she still chose to strike. He fell with her, but only to one knee. Sumiko grunted as she landed hard, her breath driven from her. Mamoru swept his right arm across, trying to brush her grip from his tunic and her arm out of the way.

  Things did not quite work as Mamoru had planned. Sumiko’s hand was pulled from his tunic, but her grip transferred to his wrist instead. They were deadlocked. Sumiko began to squirm, arching her head up and forwards as she tried to move either of her arms against his weight. He seized the opportunity and head-butted Sumiko.

  There was a sickening crack as her nose broke, and she cried out. Her left hand released Mamoru and flew to her face, instinctively covering her bleeding nose. Even though his own head was ringing, Mamoru swept his right hand in and seized the pendant from between her breasts. A burning cold soaked through his hand and started to creep up his arm. Mamoru snapped the chain and rose to his feet. The bench was only a half dozen steps to his right.

  He placed the jewel on the bench, forcing open the fingers of his right hand. Then he opened himself to the granite of the bench and the fury of the sun beating down into the garden. Sumiko half rose, one hand to her face, the other outstretched towards him, empty, begging him to stop. Mamoru blended the stone and the fire with the dark energy he had already stored from Sumiko’s attacks. He wrapped them around his right hand and slammed it, palm open, onto the pendant.

  They screamed simultaneously, and a ball of twisting energy—with white, black and grey swirling around its surface like an oil rainbow—formed around Mamoru’s hand, then began to creep up his arm. His brow furrowed deeper as he threw more of his strength into destroying the pendant, and even as the stain passed his elbow and made for his shoulder, it began to thin and dissipate. A demonic howl burst from the pendant rising in pitch to a deafening shriek, then with a soundless explosion Mamoru was thrown across the garden and smashed into the wall.