War Priest: The Complete Series, page 37
“Yes, thank you,” said Arik as he sheathed his blade. He turned to the older woman and bowed, the Mask of the Fallen still on his face.
Even though she seemed blind, there was now a hint of hesitation in her eyes. “Please, disciple, the mask. It would probably be best if you don’t wear it in public settings. Those of us that are more attuned to the spiritual world, like myself, can sense what it is. And there’s always a chance that someone clever will know what it is, which could put you in harm’s way.”
“She’s right,” said Hojo. “It’s best that you keep the mask hidden until it is absolutely necessary for you to wear it.”
****
How they made it to Omoto so quickly was something that could be attributed to Hojo’s nonstop pace, little conversation, and the master illusionist’s knowledge of the wooded and mountainous terrain of the Jade Realm.
It had taken two days, and during that time Arik had continued to go over the lessons he had learned from Hojo, only trying on the Mask of the Fallen one additional time, earlier that morning, the sudden sensation of being poisoned dissipating almost immediately.
He had to keep in mind what Hojo had told him, that an opening had to actually be present, and that sense of bloodlust Arik got when wearing the mask could make maneuvers such as the Autumn Leaves Strike much harder to pull off.
But there was little time for practice.
Arik needed to get to Mogra in time to sign up for the tournament, the disciple hoping that he wouldn’t have to rely on his recently acquired illusionist techniques to add his name to the roster.
The outskirts of Omoto when coming in from the east were quite different than coming from the west. The disciple saw the border city in a new light, the Jadean side of the city much more welcoming, men and women in conical hats riding out on horses, merchants moving their wares in big sacks thrown over their shoulders, the commotion of it all.
“We will get you to the caravan heading south and then part ways,” Hojo told him, the master illusionist turning to Arik, just a bit of his face visible in a wedge of triangular light. “It shouldn’t be much longer now, disciple.”
“I need to do something before I go to the Crimson Realm,” Arik told him.
“Oh?”
“I can’t go like this,” he said as he motioned to the clothing that he was wearing.
Hojo nodded, impressed. “You are right, you can’t. I suppose we could visit the market.”
“I already have Crimson clothing,” Arik told him. “It’s being held at the infirmary near the stadium.”
“Yes, the stadium. Let’s head there first.”
“I don’t know about you, disciple,” Meosa said privately as they passed in front of a bakery, the three taking the alley that Master Kojiro had pointed out to Arik a little less than a month ago, “but I’m going to miss the master illusionist. Not that I’m saying I like him or anything, don’t get the wrong idea, but at least when he’s around, I know that there is someone else to take the brunt of whatever attack you may have coming your way.”
There had been many times over the last month that Arik had doubted Hojo, and there had almost been a time in which he had parted ways with him altogether. But Hojo had proven something to the disciple back at Mount Osore, that deep within his deception was a man of his word. He had shown Arik a number of new things, and had even volunteered his own life to help him acquire the Mask of the Fallen.
Arik couldn’t forget that, and he would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t intrigued by the teachings of the School of Illusion, the disciple wishing that Hojo had explained more about Chimaura to him, especially after Arik had witnessed the unique power in action.
His face had morphed back in Iga. He’d witnessed it first hand, and it was something the disciple couldn’t forget. There was clearly much more to understanding chi, perhaps beyond the three most common interpretations of Chimaura, Revivaura, and Thunderaura.
Clearly.
As it had been the last time he had visited, the infirmary’s entrance seemed almost flush with the side of the stadium, no indication really of what it was on the other side of the door. Hojo stepped off to the side, his hat obscuring his face as he nodded at Arik, letting him know in his own way that he would be waiting outside.
“Always the mysterious stranger, right?” Meosa asked as Arik entered the infirmary to find Indra the nursemaid washing some of Master Kojiro’s surgery tools in a basin. There were only two patients in the front-facing office, both of whom were asleep, Indra smiling as she looked up at the disciple.
“Disciple Arik,” she said as she immediately wiped her hands. “Something has changed about you.” She approached Arik and examined him further. “Yes, something…”
“It’s been quite a journey,” was all he said.
She waited for him to speak more about it, but he didn’t. Hojo had taught him better.
“In that case, I suppose you’re here for your clothing?”
“I am. If I could have a few words with Master Kojiro as well.”
“Yes,” Meosa said so only Arik could hear, “where is that raggedy little tanuki?”
“He stepped out for the day,” Indra told Arik. “He went on a hike, believe it or not. He does that from time to time, just needs a breath of fresh air. Normally, I’d join him, but I decided to stay around and take care of a few tasks before enjoying a long nap. It has been months since I had one.” She yawned playfully. “I’ve earned it.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“Come, I’ll lead you to your things.”
Indra guided Arik up a flight of stairs to the room that he had stayed in for three nights upon first arriving in Omoto, something that seemed like a distant memory now. Once she was out of the room, he changed into the crimson robes that Combat Master Altai had given him, finishing up with the square hat on his head, his shoulder bag containing his shinobi tools, the Mask of the Fallen, which was wrapped in the fabric of a frayed prayer flag, and the Coro Pache book.
He came downstairs to find Indra seated on one of the cots, Arik refilling his waterskin as she spoke to him.
“Are you all right, disciple?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding in her direction. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Something is different.”
He turned to her, Indra motioning toward some rations she had put together for his trip. “I’m just focused,” Arik told her as he went for the rations. “Thanks for this. And thank you again for storing my things. I will return soon.”
Indra led him to the door, and once they reached it she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there, Disciple Arik. The world needs people like you. Don’t forget that, and don’t lose…” She tried to hide a hint of sadness in her eyes and failed. “Don’t lose your humanity.”
It was as if he were stepping into another life and right back out of it, Arik picking back up where he left off with Hojo, the master illusionist moving alongside him like he had been there all along.
“I hope you remember everything I’ve shown you,” Hojo said, not looking at Arik, his gaze angled at the dust-ridden road beneath their feet. “And I hope you survive.”
I will survive, Arik thought, nodding his reply rather than saying anything. They continued onward toward the border, Hojo eventually speaking again. “And I have to commend you on your disguise—you truly look as if you are from the Crimson Realm.”
The river that had once greeted Arik at the Jadean entrance to Omoto seemed to spin away at the border between the two countries, trickling back toward the west, creating a shallow canyon empty of life. While the waters were closer to the surface on the Jadean side, they seemed to cascade downward on the Crimsonian part of the city, forming a series of enormous waterfalls that were partially hidden by walls erected long ago.
It was here that they came to the caravan, Hojo stopping Arik from proceeding. “I’ll handle everything from here.”
Now in a square hat, his view of the world limited to a rectangular slat, Arik stood silently while the master illusionist did his work, the disciple eventually led to the nicest carriage in the caravan. This was confirmed when he got inside he noticed that everything was cushioned, the space much more comfortable than he was expecting.
“You know where to find me if you survive,” was all Hojo said as he shut the door.
“And where would that be exactly?” Meosa asked as Arik got comfortable. “There is no telling where that fool would be.”
“In Avarga,” said Arik, sure as day that this was what Hojo was referring to, to the cabin that they had stayed in outside of the city.
“Avarga, huh? If you actually do this, if you are actually able to win the tournament and kill Nobunaga, would you seek him out?”
Arik thought about this for a moment. “I really don’t know. I still need to visit Avarga to figure out if the bookseller there has the missing pages for the Whispering Sword passages. I may also train with Master Altai.”
“Don’t tell me you are interested in another legendary weapon…” Meosa said with a groan. “They don’t all exist, you know.”
Arik removed his square hat and glanced out one of the shutters, scanning the people for any sign of the master illusionist. As he would have predicted, Hojo was nowhere to be seen.
“We will have to see what happens,” he finally told Meosa.
“I suppose the uncertainty is to be expected in joining with someone like you. I just hope that for our sake, this is the right move. We are in the realm of the enemy now, my boy, and things may not work out the way that you would like.”
“Then I will adapt,” Arik said, remembering what Hojo had said. “Like water.”
.Chapter Six.
–An excerpt from Coro Pache: Legends of the War Priest, Fifth Edition, Yoshimura Books, Year 1521, Page 196.
It wasn’t long into Arik Dacre’s journey to the desert that he found Crimsonian oban tucked away in one of the hidden pockets of his robes, a smirk coming across his face as he knew instantly how it got there.
When did Hojo even get close enough to put this here? he thought.
A day and two nights was about the fastest one could go in traveling from the border city of Omoto to Mogra and it passed relatively quickly, the disciple spending much of the time resting in the dark carriage.
They would have arrived in Mogra in the afternoon had it not been for a dust storm that added several hours of delay, the wind whipping against the outside of the carriage like a screaming banshee, Arik impressed that the driver and the caravan guards were able to shrug off such a phenomenon.
“They do this all the time,” Meosa assured him.
Arik had entertained the idea of making an appearance in the outer rim, to pay a visit to Domen the herder and his mother, who had so graciously hosted him on his first visit to Mogra. But he now tried to frame his arrival in the way that an illusionist would, and for what he planned to do, he knew it was better that he wasn’t linked to any of the locals.
Just in case things went wrong.
Instead, he would find shelter just about as far away from the city center as he could, and he would pay handsomely for his room, double whatever the cost to remain anonymous if necessary. If this didn’t work out, and he managed to survive, Arik was going to be a wanted man. He knew better than to question this, and going forward, he would always have to think in this way.
The sun was setting when they finally pulled into Mogra, the caravan heading down a man-made ramp and gathering where all the transport carriages did at the outskirts of the city, porters waiting for them with water.
Mogra was set in a deep valley, mountains on the horizon casting mile-long shadows as the sun dipped behind them. Everything had a plum color to it, Arik feeling utterly anonymous in his Crimsonian robes and square hat as he stepped out of his carriage.
“Where will the tournament be held?” he asked the guard that held the door open for him.
“At the Double Sword Academy of Combat Arts, my lord.”
“And where does one sign up?”
“I believe…” The guard dipped his head a little, his square hat shifting down as he delivered unwanted news: “I believe that that has already happened. Tournament begins tomorrow.”
“I knew we should have gotten here a day earlier,” Meosa said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Rather than reply, Arik nodded. “Thank you,” he told the guard.
He had made it too far not to join the tournament, and one thing he had learned over the last month was there was always another option, and generally, in his world at least, this option meant deception. But before he could do that, he needed to find a place to stay that provided an easy exit, where people could see them.
The first inn he came to, which was separated from the main dirt road by a three-foot-high wall of sandstone, was fully booked. But the shabbier place next to it had a single basement room available, and even better, it had its own entrance.
The space was dingy and had a stale smell to it, but after the innkeep lit a few candles, Arik saw that there was plenty of light to do what he needed to do next.
And so it begins…
It didn’t take much longer than thirty minutes for Arik to completely change his appearance, his Crimsonian robes going back in his bag while he changed into the slightly threadbare ones that he’d worn when training with Hojo, dark gray to the point they were almost black.
Now seated on a cushion before a mirror made of polished obsidian, Arik applied the oshiroi white makeup to his face, adding touches of gray usuzumi makeup and swirling them together.
He slicked his long black hair back and pulled it into a tight bun, the roots of which he smeared with the gray makeup, adding touches of white. His haori cape went over his head and before he stood, he used the dagger strapped to his forearm to draw a cut over his eyebrow, which he healed up before it could bleed too much, leaving the scar intact. He then adjusted the white paint makeup around it, blending everything in.
“Going for the scarred old man look, I see,” Meosa said. The kami cleared his throat. “How does this sound?” he asked in his octogenarian voice. “Too proper? I’ll make it a bit grittier… how’s this?”
“Works for me. We’ll start at the taverns around the city center, where I’m sure we can figure out who is responsible for the roster. From there…” Arik bit his lip. He really wished he had understood Chimaura better, that he was able to put someone under a spell to some degree as Hojo seemed to be able to do.
“We don’t have enough money to truly bribe someone, but I can help in that regard,” Meosa said, still using the gritty voice of an older man. “Just find out who we need to talk to.”
“Right.”
Arik exited the inn through its private entrance and turned toward the center of town, figuring that people would be gathered around the Mogra library which now doubled as a bathhouse. The hint of familiarity he was feeling with his surroundings was a welcomed change, the stone buildings and the occasional archways creating an intricate maze of back alleys and side streets, protected from the sun by thick wooly kayno hides.
Arik took his time, hobbling along as if he had injured his leg, noticing that groups of people would pass him with clan banners, the overwhelming majority some variant of red. There was a lot of pride in the air, and as he reached the center of the city he saw that a great crowd surrounded some of the public works, everyone in square hats or with their heads covered by fabric, like Arik was doing.
There was drinking and dancing, a man blowing fire, spectators clapping around him. Not certain of where he should head, Arik simply began listening to the crowd, to the voices of the people swelling all around him. He heard names from other localities, potential champions spoken about with joy interspersed with banal conversations.
He learned that Nobunaga had arrived in town earlier that day and there had already been a procession, the warlord staying in one of the suites at the Double Sword Academy of Combat Arts. This news made Arik drop his head to some degree, disappointed that he wasn’t trained well enough in the ways of an illusionist to simply sneak into the Academy and take care of Nobunaga in his sleep.
If only Hojo were here…
A drunken man shouldered into Arik, but before he could apologize, Meosa struck up a conversation in his newly acquired accent.
“Is there a list of competitors? How do I sign up?”
The drunk laughed at Meosa’s question, the man finding it hilarious that a man as old as Arik was interested in fighting.
“I may look old,” Meosa said, “but I personally neutered a thousand kayno with my own bare hands and fought off hordes of ravenous gaki. I’m ready to fight!”
“It’s too late to sign up, you old fool,” the drunk told him. “They have already revealed the roster.” He swept his hand toward one of the buildings on the opposite side of the square, where people had gathered around a pair of torches sticking out of the ground.
“Let’s go, disciple,” Meosa whispered to Arik. “We have the information we need.”
