The Baen Big Book of Monsters, page 31
A spear struck the polished pole, chipping it, and flew off to the side, passing through Captain Jat’s sleeve. The boy glanced once now round at the arena, and saw, suddenly, that there were literally hundreds and hundreds of natives, scrambling and slipping and leaping over the weed-covered floor towards them. He saw also another thing; two of the horrible, claw-armed women were slashing at a native with their great knives; it may have been the man who had thrown the spear and chipped the post . . . The post was obviously an incredibly sacred thing.
He heard his own voice shouting strangely to Captain Jat to come; but that indomitable length of man had swarmed a fathom up the polished pole, and was cutting loose another string of pearls. There came a shower of them bounding onto the rock, and into the weed and water; but again Captain Jat had secured a share. He gave one leap to the rock, and another into the boat; then, stern-foremost, they rowed grimly for the opening into the cavern.
One of the savages, a huge fat man, had outdistanced the others, in spite of his fat. Perhaps his fat accounted for it; for he had come across the slippery weed, creeping on hands and feet, and had therefore lost no time in falling. He rose up at the edge of the channel; but as he made to spring at the boat, he slipped and fell squelching on his back, and Captain Jat pistolled him calmly as he lay.
Yet, now the danger was appalling; for scores of the natives were getting near, and a shower of spears came over the boat, four of them striking her starboard quarter, and making it look literally rather like a gigantic pin-cushion; but no one was hurt; though the Captain’s clothing was cut in two places. They replied with their heavy pistols, and left a dozen of the natives dead, and so managed to ram the dinghy stern first into the cavern.
Captain Jat put the boat round, as soon as they were well out of sight, and they both settled down to pull. Yet when they had gone about a hundred fathoms they heard a splash, and saw that one of the smaller native boats had already been hauled across the weed, and was now in the water of the channel. They knew that in another few minutes there would be scores of boats after them.
Half a minute later, Pibby’s oar stubbed against the slack chain of the boom, and they in oars, and hauled the boat along to the side of the cavern, being now on the seaward side of the boom. Captain Jat worked desperately, and Pibby lighted the chain up to him, so as to get it as taut as possible; yet it took time; for they were in utter darkness; but the chain must be taut, if it were to act as a boom; otherwise the natives would manage either to shove their boats under or over it.
And all the time, as they worked, boats were entering the mouth of the great cavern, with torches held high over their bows to show them the way; while the boat that had been first launched into the creek was now scarcely a hundred and fifty feet away; and still Captain Jat growled to Pibby to “Light up the slack! Light up the slack!”
The small boat came on steadily, until she was not more than seventy or eighty feet away, and suddenly a great shout told Captain Jat and the boy that the light of the distant torches must have picked them out in the blackness. Immediately afterwards, all around them in the water there was plunk, plunk, the noise of thrown spears. There came a sharp, chinking sound, as a single spear struck the rocky side. It glanced, gashed along the Captain’s face, and took away a part of his ear. He swore grimly, and gave one more pull on the chain; then closed the big padlock and locked it with a swift deliberation.
Immediately afterwards, he fetched a spare pistol out of his side pocket, and loosed off into the approaching boat, with such a good aim that one of his bullets punched a hole in two of the men, who happened to be in a line. Then, dropping his pistol into the bottom of the boat, he sprang to his oar, and a minute later they were away round the bend, bumping heavily in the darkness against the rocky side of the cavern, and listening to the fierce outcry that came echoing along the cavern, as the boom opposed all progress for the time being.
“Done ’em, boy!” said Captain Jat. “Now pull easy! We don’t want the boat stove. Back water when I sings out.” And therewith the two settled down to work at the oars.
Some forty minutes later, they passed through the screen of overhanging bushes and trees that marked the mouth of the creek, and were presently out into the wholesome sweetness of the sea, with the island no more than a shape of darkness astern. Yet, when they came to look for the little brown woman, she had gone. It was evident that she had come-to, and slipped overboard in the darkness, preferring, it appears, to face any risk that the island might contain for her, than to face the facing of the unknown.
“The ship, boy! Pull!” said Captain Jat, a little while afterwards. And indeed, the ship it was; and soon they were safely aboard, steering northward, away from the island, for good this time.
Down in his cabin, with the door safely closed, yet not without more than one suspicious glance towards it, Captain Jat was presently conning over, and exhibiting to Pibby, his spoils. On the table was a jug of very special toddy, and Captain Jat was investigating it with the aid of his big pewter mug. Pibby also, it must be confessed, had adopted a fairish-sized drinking cup for the same purpose; for Captain Jat allowed him only the one, and no more.
It may be that the unusual richness of the toddy developed a latent generosity in the lean Captain; for after a lot of fingering and weighing and examining, he presented Pibby, as his share, one of the smallest of the pearls, which had been somewhat badly chipped.
Pibby Tawles, cabin-boy-deck-hand, call him what you will, took the little, damaged pearl with sufficient evidence of gratitude. He could afford to; for inside his shirt there reposed a number of pearls as fine as any that Captain Jat had brought away with him. The boy had picked them off the bottom-boards of the dingy, where they had fallen when his master cut the strings of pearls about the Sacred Pole.
In short, we may conclude, I think, that whatever else he might be, Pibby Tawles was one who had a very sound eye to the main chance; a conclusion which a further adventure of Captain Jat’s has rather impressed upon me.
A Single Samurai
INTRODUCTION
It would be a grave injustice if this book contained no stories set in Japan, home turf of Godzilla/Gojira and other giant monsters, or kaiju, to use the Japanese word applied to such formidable creatures. Fortunately, two such are on board, and here’s the first, complete with a brave samurai undertaking the impossible task of stopping a monster as big as a mountain.
Steven Diamond runs Elitist Book Reviews, which was nominated in 2013 and 2014 for the the Hugo Award. He has several pieces of short fiction published for numerous small publications, and currently writes for Skull Island expeditions, the fiction imprint for Privateer Press’ Warmachine/Hordes tabletop/RPG game. He is also currently editing a horror anthology titled Shared Nightmares. Steve lives in Utah with his wife and two children, and he is a die-hard fan of the Oakland A’s, and New Orleans Saints.
A Single Samurai
by Steven Diamond
My father taught me that the decisions you make are nothing more than the product of who you are. In a way, you could say that the future is all predetermined. Fated. You just have to decide, right from the very beginning, who you are and how far you are willing to go to do what is right. Any early doubts will cause your failure in the end.
So who am I?
Samurai.
It is no easy task to watch your entire land destroyed. Whether real or imagined, I suppose it makes no difference that I can still hear the screams coming from the throats of thousands as they died. I could do nothing at the time. No, I suppose that is untrue. I could have hid my eyes. Covered my ears. But how would my ancestors have regarded me then?
No, I watched. I listened. I took in every death. Every scream of terror and pain.
How did I escape the devastation, you wonder? I could comment that, in a way, I didn’t. That I was right there in the thick of it, and that I am still experiencing it. But I don’t think that is the answer being requested of me.
The truth of the matter is that I escaped my certain death by riding on the creature—the kaiju—that was in fact the instrument of the destruction and chaos left behind me.
It is hard to describe a monster the size of the one I currently ride. It is a mountain. Massive. Unyielding. Indestructible. Imagine if the mountain nearest you suddenly began moving. Imagine if, one day, it slowly began unfolding itself like a bear emerging from hibernation. What is a village to a mountain? More, what is a person to a mountain?
Nothing.
This is not the first time kaiju have been stirred from the depths of their slumber into our world. My ancestors fought them, though those monsters were nothing compared to the one upon which I traveled. To compare myself to a flea on a dog would not do justice to the scale of the monstrosity. It had no definitive form that I could identify. It was simply too big, and my view too limited.
All I know is the kaiju utterly obliterates anything that crosses its path. Armies have tried to stop it with cannon. Other samurai have tried with blades. Nothing causes even the most subtle of reaction from the beast.
Yet here I am, riding the kaiju. It heads south, where in a matter of weeks, if not days, it will reduce my entire country into little more than rubble. I have one goal. Climb the kaiju, and kill it. How does one kill a mountain?
Somehow.
What is a true samurai without a daisho? There are many myths and legends surrounding a samurai and the two blades he carries. Wearing a daisho not only marks a samurai for all to see, but it innately conjures the whispers of heroic deeds, demonic opponents, and traditional duels.
In public, in the rare event that a samurai is asked the question, a samurai will brush aside the myth. We don’t brag. We don’t boast. It accomplishes nothing to let the common masses know what we truly protect them from. We kill the demons before they can do untold levels of harm, and then we tell the people that nothing untoward has happened. We keep the darkness at bay while most people struggle to even understand that there is an encroaching darkness.
The katana and wakizashi—or whichever desired combination of blades the samurai chooses to wear—are sacred weapons. They are more than just status symbols. They are physical representations of what we should all be spiritually. There are some blades that are passed from father to son, but these are a different sort of katana. They have not been forged in the old way. The secret way.
My katana and its matching short sword are different than those weapons wielded by regular samurai. Like myself, with their appearance, they don’t brag. They don’t boast. The scabbards for both are simple and lacquered black. The hilts are wood wrapped in gray sharkskin. The blades stone-polished.
It is not the look of them that makes the blades special. Again, it is how the blade is made. It is what is inside the blade that makes it different. When blades are forged in the old way, that forging is done literally with a piece of the samurai’s soul inside. How it is done is a mystery even unto the samurai and a secret kept by the monks who forge our blades. A unique bond is formed between the samurai and his weapons. Should the blade break—which is rare in the extreme—a samurai’s soul breaks with it, and dies. Likewise—and far more common—when a samurai dies, his sword crumbles to dust.
What is a true samurai without a daisho?
Soulless.
I was not truly expecting the carnage I stumbled upon. It could be argued that it was luck that led me to the clearing in which I now stood. I would not be the one to argue that point, for I do not believe in luck. I believe in my ancestors and the guidance they give me should I be worthy to hear it.
As the kaiju moved, crushing everything in its path, it began shedding the stone and foliage that covered it. Up the great beast I traveled, along a faint animal trail with the monster’s back my goal. How long must this kaiju have rested in its one place for it to have grown trees? To have these animal paths crossing its surface? And not just the evidence of their passing, but those creatures themselves with their homes? More than once I saw the passing deer, or heard the distant growling of predators.
Every step the kaiju took shook loose the debris—some of my country—that clung to it. Great rockslides cascaded down the monster’s sides. Trees three times my age would rip free from where they had rooted and tumble away. More than once I sought shelter in small caves to wait out the upheaval surrounding me.
It was after waiting out a particularly violent series of earthquakes upon the kaiju—likely nothing more than a sequence of quick steps from the abomination that resounded upwards—that I found the path I had been following completely gone. It had been swept away, and there was no clear route for me to follow to reach the top of the monster. I backtracked for the better part of a day until I found another, steeper path that I never recalled previously passing. Climbing it took the remander of that day, and that was when I found myself in a clearing of sorts as the sun was falling.
The first thing I noticed was the coppery smell of blood.
It assaulted my nose, and I could tell without seeing it that the quantity of spilt blood was enormous. I could tell that it was human blood.
I drew my katana.
In the center of the small clearing I quietly turned in a slow circle, taking in the picture. The clearing was more of a hollow set between large rocks. The trees were sparse, and I began picking out smallish pools of darkness that I realized were caves. In the middle of the clearing were the scattered remains of a small contingent of soldiers.
It was impossible to tell just how many had been here. Heads lay like discarded and rotting fruits that the peasants had neglected to harvest. Arms and legs lay strewn about the clearing, and I soon saw even more hanging in the few trees surround me. Blood arced and streaked everywhere. I picked a point of reference and turned again in a slow circle, this time counting legs I could see. When I arrived back at my starting point, I had counted twenty-five legs. At least thirteen soldiers had died here. I saw signs of gunfire, but nothing that suggested what the men had been firing at.
Samurai have a sense of when events have turned perilous. A shift in the breeze. A sudden stillness. An icy chill that slips insidiously into the heart. There was something here. Watching me.
I do not claim to never be afraid. That is foolishness. My father taught me that lesson when I was very young. He taught me that fear is a tool; perhaps even the most valuable tool a samurai can have. When controlled, that fear can serve as an extra sense of protection. But it does not rule me. I rule it.
I pivoted to my left and carved upward with my blade before I even had time to register the nearness of the danger. My katana bit deep into . . . something. I used my momentum to pull the blade clear and felt the spray of liquid—blood?—cover me. I did not pause to look at the thing I had, hopefully, killed. As I spun back to my unguarded flank, I caught the briefest glimpse of a vaguely cat-shaped animal bounding toward me.
Diving to the left, I rolled and came back to my feet with my katana held at the ready. The thing was the size of a mountain cat, only it looked to have rocks covering its back for protection. I had never seen a monster like this, nor heard of the like. As the creature and I circled, I wondered if the appearance of these small creatures had anything to do with the sudden awakening of the kaiju.
I feinted a strike at the thing, then pulled back, looking for a weakness. I now saw four eyes, vertically slit, that gleamed in the waning light. Claws retracted into the thing’s paws. It did not make any further move to attack me. Almost as if it were waiting—
I threw myself to the side and felt claws rake my left shoulder from behind.
Pain is nothing. It is simply a feeling, like hunger, or worry. It can be tolerated and banished with proper discipline. There are demons that live off that pain, that thrive off their victims succumbing to it. So I feel no pain. I do not just ignore it, for that implies a recognition that it was there to begin with.
Two more of the cat-things had emerged from their caves, making four that faced me. They moved to surround me, sniffing the air, and likely smelling my blood. But not my fear.
One leapt at me, and I drew my wakizashi and buried it in the thing’s neck. Its momentum wrenched the short blade from my grasp. I took three running steps at the nearest of the other three cat-things and swung low with my katana, cutting off the two legs on its right side. It bellowed in pain, a sound somewhere between a wolf’s howl and a cat’s shriek.
I turned, keeping the thrashing beast between me and the other two. I reached out and tapped my blade on the wounded monster’s rocky hide. It clinked like it would against stone. I needed to send the creatures a message. I needed them to understand that they were not the predator here. I was.
I stepped quickly around to where I had easy access to the cat-thing’s unprotected belly, and drove my blade into it. I did not make the cut quick. I slowly dragged my blade, gutting the monster. I felt the connection between the monster and myself. I felt it as the bit of my soul in the blade eradicated the soul in the creature. I had only felt this a few times before, and only when necessity had forced me to kill an oni slowly. Through my katana, I felt the creature die.
When I withdrew my blade, the other two creatures were gone. I had not seen them flee, but I knew they would not trouble me further. I retrieved my wakizashi, cleaned my blades on a strip of cloth from my robes, and continued through the clearing and up toward the spine of the kaiju.
