War Priest: The Complete Series, page 18
“How so?”
“Anyone who lost the tournament in Minowa was beheaded. Are you familiar with what is known as a head inspection?”
“Does it have something to do with test cutting?” Arik asked, recalling the phrase Master Kojiro used to explain what would happen to the bodies of the dead slaves.
“Test cutting is something that would come after a head inspection. The inspection was practiced by Crimsonians a very long time ago. After a battle, the leading warlord or lord-commander would inspect the decapitated heads of every single combatant that lost their life, friend and foe alike. One of the reasons for doing this should be obvious—to celebrate a victory in battle—but it was also practiced as a reminder to refrain from becoming lost in triumph, and to remember that the decapitated heads of an enemy and a fellow soldier were one and the same.”
“I see…”
“It was also said to enhance the dignity of the warlord or lord-commander in the eyes of the warriors. It hasn’t been practiced since the Jade-Crimson War of Shadows that ended in Year 752, but Nobunaga has since brought it back. So that is why I say we are lucky. From my sources, there was a line of Nobunaga’s men holding decapitated heads from the Minowa tournament that stretched nearly half a mile. I wouldn’t want the people of Mogra to experience something like that, even if being tossed into the Great Deep is an equally terrible fate.”
“So you suggest that I compete in this tournament…”
“Reluctantly, yes. But you aren’t going to be able to compete in your current state, and I’m not going to be able to train you without drawing attention to myself.”
“So what then?” Arik asked.
Master Altai’s voice thinned. “I’m going to just come out and say it: you have a month to get stronger. I suppose rather than going into any more detail, I should tell you that part right off the bat. If you plan to compete in this tournament, which I believe would be the best way to get close to Nobunaga, you need to improve your sword skills. Are you familiar with the term warrior pilgrimage, or perhaps the ancient term, musha-shugyo?”
Arik shook his head.
“A warrior pilgrimage is a trip made by a fighter to various localities where they post a sign challenging others to duels, usually in predetermined courtyards. There are various kinds, and not all necessarily end in death. This could be one way to grow stronger. I wish I had a fellow instructor I could send you to, but, if you haven’t figured it out already, what I’m doing here by simply speaking to you is treason, and I wouldn’t want to rope anyone else into this. So perhaps you can go around the Crimson or even the Jade Realm looking for these kinds of challenges. They are quite common in the Jadean city of Iga, you know, which may be a good starting place, much better climate as well.”
“And then I would return here in four weeks and compete in the tournament?”
“Correct. And hopefully you will have improved your skill enough to win by that point. Then, and only then, would I be able to start officially training you. What I’m suggesting here, Disciple Arik, is the long game. There is no quick road to the top; it will be winding. You may be able to land a death blow in your first meeting with Nobunaga, but it still may be impossible, and in that case, you would have to wait. If you won, however, I would be the one responsible for training you, and trust me, I would teach you how to land that blow the moment you got the chance.”
“And the shinobi?”
“We have no way to deal with them just yet. Perhaps it would be best to cut off the head of the snake rather than deal with its minions, especially with these illusionists, who are prone to scattering like sand in the wind.”
“What about…” Arik thought about the passage in the book that had been given to him. “The Mask of the Fallen. Have you heard of it?”
There was a long pause before Master Altai responded. “I see you’ve already discovered one of the more interesting legends in the War Priest book. You know those are legends, right? Some may be true, others hyperbole, stories passed down by locals or even ones that took place before Coro Pache’s time and repurposed for this volume. I gave it to you as a reference, yet I do find it interesting that this is your first discovery in the book. If the Mask of the Fallen did exist, it would certainly help you. But you wouldn’t find it in the Crimson Realm; you would have to venture to the Jadean city of Avarga, where yokai and humans coexist, and from there to Mount Osore.”
“What is Mount Osore exactly?”
“I’ve never been there personally, but from what I’ve read, it is the location in which the living are supposedly able to meet the dead. But again, I can’t verify this. I’m assuming there would be plenty of challenges between here and there, which could perhaps strengthen you to the point that you would be able to win the tournament. Do you think you really would do something like that? Try to find the Mask of the Fallen?”
“Yes,” Arik said, feeling as if the voice that slipped free from his lips wasn’t his, that it came from beyond in a way. “If it exists, it would help me. And I wouldn’t suffer from it the same way that Coro Pache did.”
“You mean the mask’s poisoning aspect, correct?”
“That’s right,” Arik said with a bit more confidence. “It is very difficult to poison me.”
“I suppose that settles it then, you can leave tonight for Omoto, and take the eastern trail from there to Avarga. That is, unless you would like to stay here for another day.”
It was a comfortable room, and Arik wouldn’t mind being able to actually rest for a night, but he also had a time limit to accomplish what he hoped to do.
“I’ll leave tonight.”
“In that case, I will make arrangements and handle everything so all you need to do is meet with the caravan. Do you have money?”
“I have some sen that I’ve saved.”
“Sen will help you once you reach the Jade Realm, but you need oban here. Do not worry about that part of it; I will give you what I can.”
“You don’t have to,” Arik started to say.
“There is little hope left in this country, and after what they did to Combat Master Nankai, it now feels as if the sun is hours away from setting, leaving us in perpetual darkness. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last with my views, even if I keep them to myself.”
“I understand.”
“You have to be careful, Arik. You are a wanted man, disciple, even though no one currently knows that you exist. Never forget that. You must be very vigilant in using Revivaura. To paraphrase what you said earlier: you’ve come too far to stop now. And with that same incident in mind, never tell someone that again before you attempt a strike. Never give yourself away prematurely. If I can depart any wisdom to you, it is this: never warn your opponent.”
****
After a quiet evening meal with Combat Master Altai, Arik packed what little things he had, including his War Priest book and a spare set of robes. As he had promised, Master Altai had arranged everything, the two meeting at the entrance of the Double Sword Academy of Combat Arts.
“Remember what I told you,” Master Altai said, also in his square hat now that they were outside of the Academy’s grounds. “I will see you a month from now, and I pray for your sake that you will be able to win the tournament. Do not forget to look for warrior pilgrimages in your search for the Mask of the Fallen. And when you do return here, please refrain from visiting the Academy. Sign up for the tournament and go from there. It is best that there aren't ways to tie us together, for now. I wish there was more I could do for you,” he said, hesitating.
“You have done enough,” Arik told the eye-patched instructor. “Thank you again for everything.”
“In that case, I will let you get to the caravan. Sonjin here will lead you to the post.” He motioned toward one of the Academy’s blades, Arik not certain if he was one of the ones that he had fought earlier. The man was in the same crimson robes as Combat Master Altai, a red rim around the eye-opening of the square hat.
Without a word, the blade started off, Arik on his heels in a matter of seconds.
“Thank you,” Arik told him, but Sonjin didn’t respond.
“You really are adamant about finding the Mask of the Fallen, aren’t you?” Meosa asked Arik, the aqueous kami’s voice at a level that only he could hear.
Arik grunted a response.
“You have one month, and rather than find someone that can teach you how to properly fight one of the hearty peasants that decides to enter Nobunaga’s tournament, you decide to go on a treasure hunt for an item that may or may not even exist.”
“You knew the War Priest, right? Coro Pache?” Arik whispered.
“That’s not what we are discussing, my boy.”
“Did he have the mask or not?”
“Even if he did, you might not be able to obtain it. You do realize that, at least in terms of the legend’s timeline, Coro was much older than you, and much more powerful I should say, when he sought out this rare item.”
“Times are different.”
“That, they are,” Meosa said with a lamenting sigh. “That, they are.”
The caravan’s post was the western side of Mogra, set in front of a man-made ramp that led to the top of the canyon, one weathered over time. The outer settlement where Arik had stayed with Domen the previous night would be bypassed completely on their way out, Arik wishing he could’ve stopped by to thank the herder and his mother once again.
Sonjin stopped in front of a wooly kayno-drawn carriage made of a metal frame, with walls crafted of thick leather due to the lack of wood in the area. The carriage driver, a stooped-over man in a gray tunic with a square hat on his head, hopped down from his seat and opened the door for Arik.
“My lord,” he said.
“Lord?” Meosa asked. “Ha! Don’t get used to this kind of treatment, disciple.”
Feeling a strange hint of shame, Arik quickly got into the carriage, where he took a seat on a cushioned bench with storage beneath. As he got settled, the carriage driver undid some bone buttons along the right outer wall of the carriage, creating an opening that doubled as a window.
“It will be a nice night, my lord. Best to enjoy the cool weather,” the driver told him.
Arik thanked him, and as he did, he peered around to see that the blade named Sonjin had already departed.
“This is going to be so much better than walking to the desert,” Meosa said, Arik now with the waterskin now tucked under his arm, his provisions beneath his seat. “It’s not quite the luxury I’m used to considering I’m from the Jade Realm, but I suppose it will do for now.”
The caravan was just about to leave when Arik heard some commotion behind his carriage. He looked out the opening to see a square-hatted woman arguing with one of the caravan guards, a child in a fabric sling clutched to her chest.
Arik tuned into the argument, Meosa’s voice coming to him as he did so: “May I suggest that you don’t get involved?”
“She can ride with me,” Arik announced, ignoring the kami.
The caravan guard, a young, muscular man with a spear, approached his carriage.
“My lord, this woman is from the outer settlements and the carriages for outer settlements are already full,” he said, motioning toward the back of the caravan. “She will have to wait.”
“No, she can ride with me. I can pay for passage.”
“But, my lord…”
“Why do you constantly disregard my advice?” Meosa hissed at Arik. “And aside from the fact that you’re sticking your neck where it doesn’t belong, she has a child that will likely be crying. Do you want to spend the next couple of days cooped up in a carriage alongside a sobbing child? I sure as hell don’t.”
“I have the oban to pay for her passage, but I believe my carriage has already been covered by Combat Master Altai at the Academy,” Arik told the guard.
“Please, my lord,” the woman said as she approached. “My child, I need to get her to Omoto, to Master Kojiro. She’s fallen ill.”
“Absolutely not,” Meosa told Arik. “You cannot use your healing powers, remember? If you’re going to go against my incredibly sage advice, at least tell me you won’t secretly heal this child. What would be the point in having this woman join the caravan anyway? Why don’t you just open up a tent near one of that depraved bathhouse and heal anyone who steps up? If she gets in his caravan, she must make it to Master Kojiro. Wait. That’s the tanuki, isn’t it? This world has too many masters and not enough humble kami such as myself!”
“She rides with me,” Arik told the guard with a hint of finality in his voice. “Either let me cover the costs, or speak with Combat Master Altai, who will confirm her passage.”
“I suppose if you are willing to grant her space in your carriage, who am I to deny that?” The caravan guard opened the door for the woman, assisting her as she climbed inside.
The two woolly kayno grunted in response to the sudden change in weight, but the carriage driver didn’t say anything, and soon, they were off, heading from Mogra toward the border city of Omoto.
The woman, who now sat across from the disciple, baby to her chest, remained completely quiet for the first hour, never thanking him, almost as if she were somehow scared of Arik.
He thought about sleeping, but the disciple couldn’t quell his curiosity in regards to what was affecting her child. Maybe if I can at least diagnose what the illness is, Master Kojiro will be able to cure her more readily. Or…
Another idea came to Arik. What if he simply waited until they got to Omoto, and then quickly healed the child before departing for the next caravan, the one that would lead to the eastern Jadean city of Avarga?
No, you’ve already brought attention to yourself, Arik thought. Still, you can at least diagnose it…
“You know, I was once healed by Master Kojiro,” Arik said, striking up a conversation.
The woman looked up at him, the bottom of her square hat lined with tattered red fringe. “You… You know Master Kojiro?”
“I do,” Arik said with a short nod. It was dark all around them now, aside from the faint glow of the lanterns that the caravan guards had attached to their spears. The temperature had dropped as well, the woman across from him with a wool blanket over her body to protect from the elements. “I spent some time with him years ago in Avarga.”
“You are the worst liar,” Meosa told him with a chuckle. “Why would someone of your status, one who can afford to travel this way, be spending time with a tanuki whose main job is to heal slaves? What are you going to do next? Tell her that you are friends with Domen? How would you explain that? But, continue on; you’ve stopped listening to me as of late anyway.”
Arik took off his square hat, the woman now able to see his face. He didn’t know what the protocol was, but as soon as he removed his, she removed hers as well, the woman much younger than he expected. “May I ask what is wrong with your child?”
“It’s…” The woman very carefully removed her child from the sling attached to her chest. “It’s a rash from not getting the proper nutrients,” she said she showed him the child, Arik barely able to make out the baby’s face in the dark. “It can be hard down here.”
“I’m sure Master Kojiro will be able to help with that,” Arik said as he reached into his robes. “But you could probably start with a proper meal.”
He had placed his Jadean sen in the left inner pocket, and the Crimsonian oban in the right, so he wouldn’t get them confused. He returned with some of the Crimsonian oban, which he assumed she could use for food at the border.
“And now you’re being charitable,” Meosa lamented. “Alas, I suppose it makes sense. It is in your nature, is it not? So selfless. And here I thought that you were the War Priest. You know, Coro Pache wasn’t as charitable as you seem to be, but that is to be expected considering he was Crimsonian and you are Onyxian. Fine, give her your money,” the aqueous kami said as Arik handed her the bills marked in red ink to the woman. “We can always get more. I think. Well, I hope.”
“I… I don’t know what to say,” the woman told him. She sniffled, and then tilted her head up, trying not to get emotional. “It has been a trying journey as of late.”
“I’m sure it has,” Arik said, the tone of her voice making him feel the emotion in his chest as well.
They had both experienced hardships that the other likely couldn’t fathom, yet here they were, in a cramped carriage moving to the border, their shared suffering having a way of calming both of them, the two united by the idea that life was challenging no matter who you were or where you came from.
“Thank you again, my lord,” the woman said. “I wish you luck in all of your endeavors, and will pray for your success.”
