Kamikaze, page 10
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
Training grew longer and more demanding, stretching from dawn to well after sunset. No longer did they take their meals at the mess hall. Instead, a gaggle of laborers delivered food to the kill house, and during every meal the instructors delivered lecture after lecture. Every lecture covered a different topic: monsters and their weaknesses, strengths and limitations of human weapons and armor, discussion of past battles and lessons learned.
Training became increasingly technical. They learned how to lay down trails of chalk and string, and leave warnings and messages for other humans. They memorized movement orders and advanced tactics. They practiced casualty evacuation and first aid. They detected and defused mock traps.
At least, Yamada tried.
“Yamada! You killed everyone again!”
“Sorry!”
“Sorry won’t cut it! Thank you Yamada!”
“THANK YOU YAMADA!”
Tripwires became the bane of his existence. He could sense false boards easily enough. But wires? They were so thin he could barely feel them. Even Hiroshi had difficulties detecting them all. Yet the instructors somehow had this uncanny knack of sensing them with the sasumata. And the only advice they could offer was:
“Practice. Keep practicing until you develop sensitivity,” Takahashi said.
Even Sensei could only offer one bit of advice.
“Become one with your weapons. Be as familiar with their weight, feel, balance and reach as you are with your own arms. Only then can you sense the resistance a tripwire offers.”
Yamada redoubled his efforts, volunteering again and again to take the front line. He needed the practice, and he’d be damned if anyone died because of him.
He detected more traps. Set off fewer ones. He was making progress. Slowly, but surely. He just had to keep at it. He had to get good.
On the eve of the Sabbath, in the parade square, Chong delivered the weekly debrief.
“Good job, everyone,” Chong said. “Tomorrow you’ll be released for sabbath. Tonight, you will clean your gear and your barracks. In the morning, after inspection, you will be allowed to go.”
Yamada took extra pains to clean his weapons and armor. Kato was extremely fastidious; even the slightest speck of dirt would trigger a spout of screaming.
At night, after lights out, Yamada lay in bed and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. He was physically exhausted, but his mind raced. He wanted to see Katsura again. There was just that something about her…
Novelty, maybe. By now he knew everyone in the barracks. Hiroshi, obviously. Sato, Ono, the other students from the dojo. And Sensei Sasaki Makoto, a cross between patriarch and teacher, who despite his advanced years somehow managed to keep up with everyone.
By contrast, Katsura was… fresh. Exciting. Unknown. He wanted to know more about her. Her being a bishoujo was obviously a factor too, but—
“TURN OUT!”
Yamada snapped awake.
“TURN OUT! TURN OUT! TURN OUT!”
“Turn out!” Yamada echoed. “Everyone wake up! Turn out!”
Rolling off the bed, he opened his cabinet, groped around and found his spear, his katana, his tanto. Taking the yari, he shoved the katana and tanto into his obi and followed the men out the door.
The entire camp was on high alert. Half-dressed men burst from huts, spears and swords and crossbows and lamps in hand. Including the instructors.
And in the distance, a man screamed in pain.
This was not a drill.
The recruits rushed to their places, forming up by squads and platoons. The wounded man’s screams died, but other cries of pain took over. Iron clattered and crossbows sang.
Above the din of war, there was a high-pitched inhuman screeching.
“Listen up!” Chong barked. “Monsters are attacking the camp! You will reinforce the guards! Do not let the monsters pass! MOVE!”
Instructors leading the way, the men rushed to the gate. Blazing lamps and torches revealed a phalanx of troops massing at the gate, blocking the camp entrance with their bodies. Some were in armor, some only had uniforms, but they were all armed with swords and spears. The tower guards loosed a blizzard of bolts into the darkness. Steel clashed and sang, men cursed and shouted, monsters howled and shrieked.
The recruits formed a narrow semicircle behind the veterans. Any monster who broke through the phalanx would run into them. Gripping his yari in both hands, Yamada aimed his weapon at the gate and peered through the mass of men.
It was a frantic, murderous melee. Frontliners feinted and parried and cut and blocked and stabbed in a desperate dance of death. Men in the rear ranks jabbed their steel past their comrades’ ears, seeking monstrous flesh. Crossbowmen crowded the guard towers, raining bolts on unseen foes. Far to the rear, men dressed in black robes knelt and prayed.
A man screamed and fell away. The men behind him dragged him to safety. A large, bestial, monstrous thing rushed into the gap in the formation.
Under the burning yellow light, through the small gaps in the scrum of men and monsters, Yamada glimpsed thick dark fur, enormous arms, a glint of steel, waggling tentacles. Behind it was a living wall of beastly flesh and flashing metal, advancing inexorably towards the humans.
Were they mole men? Yamada didn’t know; he could barely see them in the maelstrom of violence. But nothing else he knew came close to what little he saw.
The frontline rippled. The humans retreated a step, two steps, three. Men stepped in to replace the wounded, advancing under cover of a screen of spears and swords. But the moles were slowly pushing them back.
Yamada tightened his grip. Any moment now, the recruits would—
“Amen!” someone shouted.
“AMEN!” the rear rank echoed.
Lightning split the sky, striking the ground just past the gate. A shockwave hammered Yamada’s ears and brains and intestines. He shook his head and blinked rapidly, trying to see past the purple worm in his vision.
The enemy assault had faltered. The moles were staggering and reeling, their arms and tentacles outstretched. Some of them had fallen into the ditch, and were desperately clawing their way back up.
“Masaka,” Yamada whispered.
Next to him, Hiroshi crossed himself.
“FORWARD!” a man yelled. “FORWARD! DEUS VULT!”
“DEUS VULT!” the soldiers roared.
The soldiers charged. Storming through the gate, they shouted and stabbed and screamed and slashed. The crossbowmen peppered the monsters with a devastating hail of bolts. Monsters squealed and wailed, falling back in the face of the onslaught.
“CHARGE!” someone shouted.
Bellowing at the top of their lungs, the soldiers pressed the attack. But the monsters had broken. Now there was only slaughter, bloodied swords and spears rising and falling in rapid succession, soldiers tackling stray monsters and stabbing them with blood-reddened knives, crossbowmen shooting fleeing creatures in the back.
In minutes, it was over.
“All clear!” someone shouted. “Stand down!”
“Stand down! Stand down!” the soldiers echoed.
The soldiers shifted gears. The frontliners fanned out, taking defensive positions outside the gate. The men behind them brought up lamps and torches, and prodded the dead monsters with their blades. Others carried the wounded and brought them to the priests, who in turn knelt over them in prayer. Leaders scurried to and fro, coordinating the process.
“Are we done?” Sato whispered.
“Recruits, listen up!” Chong shouted. “This ain’t over yet! We will help the guards stand watch tonight! Fifty percent alert! Two hours on, two hours off! Samurai and Internationals, you’re up first!”
Yamada sighed. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight.
* * *
On the sabbath day, after breakfast, Chong decreed that liberty was canceled.
“It’s not your fault,” Chong said. “All of you worked hard and you deserve the break. But our patrols report increased monster activity along the road. Only soldiers on missions or with critical business may leave the camp.”
“Are we going out to fight the monsters?” Sato asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not fully trained yet. If the monsters attack the camp, you will need to defend yourselves, but you will not go monster hunting until training is complete.”
In lieu of liberty they had light duties. Dawn revealed dark-stained earth and gibbets of flesh lying around the front gates. Flies buzzed thick in the air. Weary soldiers, weapons held close to hand, paced the perimeter of the camp, keeping one eye on the endless forest.
As the recruits stood watch, a fatigue party carted away the decaying flesh and churned up the earth until the dried blood was completely absorbed into the dirt. Others inspected the palisade, the gates and bridge, working under the direction of senior soldiers to fix potholes and replace shattered stakes.
Yamada was assigned to perimeter patrol. Try as he might, he saw no bodies. He decided it wasn’t a bad thing.
When they were done with their camp chores, they returned to their barracks to re-clean their gear and their lodgings, more to kill time than anything else. Sensei stepped out for a while, and re-appeared with a wheelbarrow filled with wooden weapons.
“I shall be conducting an extra Kukishin-ryu class, should anyone be interested to attend,” he said mildly.
Everyone from the dojo joined in.
They trained outside their hut, using what limited space they had available. Distributing bokken and wooden tanto to the class, Sensei said, “In the dungeon, we’ll fight multiple enemies in close quarters. If the enemy breaks past our spears, we draw our blades or use taijutsu. This shall be the focus of today’s class.”
In the middle of a vigorous two-man katana set, Yamada spotted Takahashi and Kato approach the class. The men stayed well clear of the students, watching the kata. When it ended, both men approached Sensei.
“Sasaki-Sensei, we wish to borrow Yamada and Hiroshi for a while,” Kato said.
“Very well. Yamada-kun, Hiroshi-kun, please follow the instructors.”
“Take your bokken with you,” Takahashi added.
Kato and Takahashi led them to a quiet corner of the camp. Here, a training dummy made of stuffed straw stood near the palisade.
“Beginning tomorrow, we will integrate special skills into combat training,” Kato said. “However, your skills are unique. We’d like you to test them here, so that we know what to expect.”
“I understand,” Hiroshi said.
“Excellent. Hiroshi, we don’t know what Kishi does. Show us what you can do on the dummy.”
“How do I activate a skill?”
“Simply say the name of the skill in your heart, and it will fire automatically.”
“Wakarimashita.” Understood.
Hiroshi drew his bokken. Stood before the dummy. Took a deep breath. Let it out.
And he glowed.
Ethereal flames danced over his clothes, his flesh, his weapon, burning a bright bluish white. A circular wave of light radiated outwards from him. As the wave passed through Yamada, he felt the weight of the world fall away. Energy surged through him, restoring vigor and strength.
Most of all, he was completely and totally calm.
Hiroshi raised his sword. Advanced. Slashed.
“EI!”
The dummy shuddered.
Hiroshi backed up, and attacked again. He flowed through a series of cuts and thrusts, circling around the dummy to attack it from every angle.
And he was magnificent.
Every motion was sharp and clean, every strike decisive and deadly. No wasted effort, simply grace in motion. The dummy rocked back and forth under the weight of his blows, and Yamada knew that even a single strike would fell an ordinary man. Watching Hiroshi flow, Yamada saw not merely a man, but the spirit of the sword distilled and expressed in a mortal vessel.
At last, Hiroshi was done. Backing away from the dummy, he returned his bokken to his obi.
The flames extinguished. The light faded. The subtle energy faded, leaving only a lingering sensation of… purity. It was the only word Yamada could find.
“Well done,” Takahashi said.
Hiroshi bowed. “Thank you.”
“With Kishi, you’re just as good as Sensei,” Yamada said.
Hiroshi laughed. “You’re too kind.”
“Yamada, it’s your turn,” Kato said.
Steeling himself, Yamada stepped up to the dummy. Drew his bokken. Breathed.
Kamikaze, he thought.
Wind blew. Leaves rustled. A distant bird chirped.
Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong?” Kato asked.
“I don’t feel anything,” Yamada said.
“I heard Kamikaze has a special trigger condition,” Takahashi said. “Imagine the dummy is your enemy. Completely, truly, believe it. You must want to destroy it. Then, trigger it.”
“Hai.”
Yamada fixed his gaze on the dummy. It was not a sack of straw tied to a crossbeam. It was a man, a monster, a huge mole the size of a bear, with iron teeth and hardened claws. It was rearing up, ready to rend and tear, Katsura was behind Yamada, he was the only one who could—
“EEEEE!”
He struck. Wood slammed into wood. Screaming, he bashed the dummy again and again and again, targeting the head, the arms, the belly, the groin.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
He wasn’t going to kill it, he was going to annihilate it, break it down so completely not even a trace remained. Stuffing flew everywhere. The crack of wood on wood maddened his blood.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
A red curtain fell over his sight. There was him, the enemy, nothing more. The world meant nothing, the dungeon was nothing, there was only the bokken in his hand and the monster before him. He hit and hit and hit and—
“Matte!” Hiroshi shouted.
Yamada stopped.
Blinked.
The dummy was wrecked. The sack was torn, and a pile of stuffing lay scattered on the floor. There were fresh gouges on the crossbeam where there was none before. And the scent of smoke tickled his nose and throat.
Fatigue rushed through Yamada. His limbs turned to jelly, his hands became rubber. He dropped to a knee, panting hard, suddenly breathless.
“Are you okay?” Hiroshi asked, holding out his hand.
Sweat gushed down his forehead. His fingers cramped. His muscles burned. His lungs screamed.
“Daijoubu,” Yamada replied.
Grabbing Hiroshi’s hand, Yamada wobbled to his feet.
“Kamikaze is… fearsome,” Kato said. “It sends a man into a frenzy, granting him the strength of ten. But it exacts a great toll.”
Yamada nodded. He felt like he’d just run a marathon.
“Not just fatigue,” Kato continued. “Self-control too. I used to serve alongside a man with the same skill as you. Every time he activated it, he lost himself in his rage. He charged the enemy recklessly, attacking everyone before him. Once triggered, he wouldn’t stop until the enemy was dead, or he blacked out.”
“This is going to pose a problem,” Takahashi said. “We can’t use the skill indiscriminately in the dungeon. Kamikaze is powerful, yes, but if you can’t control it, you will break formation, possibly even attack your buddies. Also, if the enemy lures you into chasing him, he could lead you into a trap—and no one would be able to save you.”
“What… can… we… do?” Yamada asked.
The trainers exchanged glances.
“We can’t have you activate that skill in the kill house,” Kato said. “Not yet. What we can do is train you separately. Until you have control of Kamikaze, we can’t use it in training. Or even in the dungeon.”
“Wakarimashita. How long will this training take?”
“As long it must.”
13
Limits
One week. One more week of training and they’d be sent into the dungeon. Part of Yamada was eager to leave the camp. The rest of him was apprehensive. Up to this point, they’d never had a choice. Sure, Marshall and Kojima and the other human leaders said they were free to choose, but this environment didn’t give them many options other than doing what society, what the Skill Sphere, assigned them to do.
And soon, he would be going to war.
After breakfast on the first day, they filled their satchels with rations. Oat cakes, pouches of nuts and dried fruit, and strips of smoked meat—what the Westerners called jerky and the Chinese insisted on calling rou gan.
“This is standard fare for the dungeon,” Chong said. “You won’t be able to cook food down there. If you want to stay alive, you must keep moving.”
The troops departed to their respective training grounds, cycling through them as the day progressed. And this time, the instructors allowed the troops to activate their skills.
At the range, Yamada threw his heart into learning the crossbow. He was getting the hang of it, but there was no way he could match the marksmen. Those men were incredible.
They always hit their marks. Twenty paces, thirty, fifty, hundred, all the way to the end of the range, it didn’t matter. Once the sharpshooters activated their skills, a hit was guaranteed.
Once he had established their skills, Takahashi led the sharpshooters to the other half of the range, where he called for headshot after headshot after headshot. Now the crossbowmen began to falter. At combat range, they were fine. But out to fifty paces and beyond, when it became difficult to see a target’s head, they started missing their shots.
Sato, as it transpired, possessed the Sharpshooter skill. Yamada had expected a flurry of complaints and whining when his shots went wide. Instead, Sato simply gritted his teeth and got on with training.
But it didn’t stop Sato from asking a question during a break.
“Why are we training to shoot targets this far out? I thought combat in the dungeon took place in close quarters?”
