Kamikaze, page 2
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
Hiroshi barged through the crowd. Approaching the priest, he latched on to an arm.
“I got him!” Hiroshi said. “Help me turn him on his side!”
The other Westerners pitched in, sweeping the ground clear. The black man swept off the priest’s hat and placed it under his head. The priest continued struggling, screaming, cursing.
“Let him go! Don’t hold him down!” the black man ordered.
The helpers backed off, leaving the priest to thrash around.
“Demon!” the priest yelled. “You will not have my soul!”
“Is that so?” the demon asked.
The priest went still.
Groaned.
And sucked in a deep breath.
The men helped him up, taking him by the shoulders.
The demon hadn’t ceased its tortures out of mercy, Yamada knew. By toying with the priest it showed off its powers to all present. And demonstrated the futility of resistance.
“You will learn the error of your ways,” the demon said. “And once you understand the truth, you will come begging to me for forgiveness.”
Sensei glared at the demon, shifting his weight ever so subtly. “What do you want?”
Yamada had seen other men, students who had been with Sensei for a dozen years or more, wilt under that gaze. The demon was completely unfazed.
“You are here for my entertainment,” it repeated. “I expect much from you.”
“Oh?” Sensei pointed at a soldier. “You with the crossbow! Shoot the demon!”
“It’s no use. That’s not his body.”
The three elderly men on the road were back on their feet. The Westerner and the Chinese were glowering at the demon. The Japanese one was addressing Sensei.
“We tried that before,” the Japanese continued. “The bolts merely passed through him. What you see is merely a shadow of his true self.”
“Sou desu ka?” Sensei said. Is that so?
Sensei’s arm whirled.
A rock sailed clean through the demon.
The demon grinned, revealing pointed teeth as long and sharp as knives.
“I see you have a warrior’s spirit. Excellent. Look over there.”
It pointed.
Past the square, a narrow trail cut through the forest, leading to a pair of enormous double doors set into a rocky cliff. Even with the moonlight, Yamada was barely able to see the doors.
“Beyond those doors is my dungeon. If you dare to challenge me, you can find me at the bottom floor. If you survive.”
The demon laughed again.
Thunder cracked once more. A flash of light washed out the world.
Yamada blinked hard, clearing his sight. The demon was gone, leaving only echoing laughter.
When the demon’s voice faded, the Japanese elder spoke, his voice somehow amplified across the square.
“I’m sure all of you have questions. But this place is dangerous. There are monsters lurking in the woods, and they have been known to emerge from the dungeon. Please allow us to escort you to our village. We have prepared a meal for you, and will be able to answer your questions in greater detail there.”
Monsters? Did he just say ‘monsters’?
“Sensei, what do we do?” Hiroshi asked.
“We follow,” Sensei replied, “but all of you, stay on your guard. Until we know what is going on, be extremely careful. I do not believe we are in our world anymore.”
Hearing the words from Sensei’s mouth, reality finally sank in.
They weren’t on Earth any more.
A demon ruled this world.
And there was no way out.
Yamada shook his head. This was no time to give in to despair. That was what the demon wanted. He would not fall for it. If the demon could bring them here, then surely there was a way to go home.
Even if it meant taking the demon’s surrender at swordpoint.
“Let’s go,” Yamada said.
3
Chikyu Mura
The dirt trail wound through a deep forest. The three elders led the way, while the soldiers watched the woods. A few of them carried lit lamps to keep the shadows at bay. A detachment of troops peeled away, returning to the dungeon doors. All was quiet.
Too quiet, Yamada realized. The chirping of insects, the hooting of owls, the croaking of frogs, there were none of the sounds he associated with the woods at night. There was only unnatural silence. Were they all hiding?
Or did this world not have such creatures?
Clenching his fists, Yamada wished for a sword. A blade. Something he could use as a weapon. But the mysterious magic that had transported them here had left them with nothing but the clothes on their backs. If there were monsters in the woods… they were counting on the guards.
As he framed that thought, Hiroshi bent over, adjusted his sandals, and got up.
“Here,” Hiroshi whispered, pressing a heavy weight into Yamada’s palm.
A rock. Not the best of weapons, but a start.
“Thanks,” Yamada replied.
Suddenly he felt foolish. Sensei must have picked up a rock shortly after being summoned. Hiroshi had the same thought. Why hadn’t he done the same? Had he learned nothing from Sensei?
He was in a different world, a dangerous world, and he had to act accordingly.
More lamps appeared in the distance, lining a tall wooden palisade. A pair of soldiers stood guard at a gate. Behind them, guard towers stood at the corners of the wall, housing shadowy figures that peered out into the night.
“Halt!” a guard yelled. “Who goes there!”
“Robertson and party!” a man replied.
“Advance to be recognized!”
A man peeled off from the head of the formation. It was the Westerner who had prostrated himself earlier.
Robertson conferred quietly with the guard. Moments later, the three men swung the gates wide open.
“You may pass!” the guard shouted.
Past the walls was a village. But it wasn’t like any kind of village Yamada had ever seen.
The main road lead to a central plaza, where a massive well awaited. Two more roads branched off, forming a ‘Y’. Light spilled out of windows and doors and street lamps, revealing rows of wooden buildings and thatched roofs squashed close to each other.
Longhouses occupied the fork of the ‘Y’. Low and squat, they were built in the European fashion. To his left were a series of two-story buildings enclosed behind thick wooden walls. The houses in the last sector were built in the classical Japanese style, boasting sharply arched roofs overshadowing narrow verandas.
This place was uncanny. It was like someone had dumped people from three different civilizations onto this patch of land, and they were all forced to build homes with what they knew and what they had on hand.
And, for all Yamada knew, that was exactly what had happened.
The elders led the newcomers down the narrow road to the right. Passers-by scurried out of the way, while others observed the procession from their windows.
Pale yellow light burned from brass street lamps, emitting faint clouds of greasy smoke. Signboards announced names and services. Yamada saw the kanji for ‘tailor’, ‘carpenter’ and ‘crafter’, but there were other words written in archaic script that he did not understand. Whatever magic that allowed him to hear English as Japanese didn’t extend to the written word.
Oil sizzled, kettles whistled, smoke drifted. The aroma of fried meat wafted into Yamada’s nose, underscored with charcoal and lard. No, not lard, not quite, but close. Yamada’s belly gnawed at his insides, and he wondered if the villagers had prepared food for the newcomers.
The road looped back around, leading to a wide open space. Here, a ring of torches burned, surrounding a huge bonfire. Near the flames, people bustled back and forth, shuttling between a series of tables. The scents and sounds of cooking grew stronger, emanating from huge iron pots resting near massive fire pits. His mouth watered, but he remembered Sensei’s words.
“We have prepared a welcome meal for you,” the Japanese elder said. “Please line up at the tables one by one.”
As the newcomers organized themselves, the soldiers stepped away. Some left to attend to duties elsewhere. But the rest were standing around, watching the crowd, no doubt ready to respond to trouble.
The queue snaked ahead, quickly and efficiently. At the first table, a middle-aged woman handed Yamada a wooden plate, a bowl and a spoon. At his next stop, another woman filled his bowl with soup. The third serving lady dumped vegetables on the plate. The fourth issued a helping of mystery meat.
That was all. The servings were small, barely enough to fill his belly, but Yamada wasn’t going to reject free food, and he didn’t think the villagers had much for themselves either.
Wandering away from the queue, he found a large group of people seated by the fire, in front of the three elders. In the dark he couldn’t tell who was who from behind, but he recognized Sensei’s voice.
“I noticed we are speaking different languages,” Sensei said, “yet I hear only Japanese.”
“It is one of the mysteries of this island,” the Chinese man replied. “We come from different countries and different times, and we all speak different tongues. But here, when someone speaks, we only hear our own language.”
“It makes life much easier for us,” Robertson added.
“Excuse me, but did you say ‘different times’?” Sensei asked.
“Yes,” the Chinese man said. “I served in the Secretariat of Emperor Xuanzong. Kojima was a government official under Emperor Meiji. Robertson worked in the Department of the Interior in the era of President Ronald Reagan.”
“How is this possible?”
Robertson shrugged. “We don’t know. The demon didn’t explain anything to us; we’ve had to figure things out as we went along.”
“Is this gift of tongues a boon from the demon?” Sensei asked. “Or from someone else?”
“I don’t know if Akuma intended it,” Kojima replied. “When we first arrived, we could already understand each other. When I asked Akuma, he said that he was speaking to us with our native tongues.”
“But he did not answer the question of how we could speak to each other,” Robertson said.
“Sou desu ka,” Sensei remarked. “You call the being Akuma?”
“In Japanese, yes,” the Japanese said.
“In English, we just call him the demon,” Robertson said.
“We Chinese named him Gui Wang,” the Chinese elder said. “People of other nationalities gave him different names. As you have heard, you can hear us use our own languages if we will it to.”
“It seems the others are almost done,” Kojima said. “Please excuse us while we take our food.”
The elders stood and left. Sensei watched them out the corner of his eye. Yamada guessed that he needed to ensure the elders partook the same food as the newcomers. Other people—locals, not the new arrivals—lined up also, and the elders took care to position themselves at the end of the queue.
“What do you think of the food?” Hiroshi asked.
Yamada poked the contents of his plate with his wooden spoon. “I’m not sure what this is.”
“I think there’s seaweed in the soup.”
There were clumps of strange matter floating in the liquid. Yamada hoped it was seaweed.
“What about the rest?” Yamada asked, gesturing at Hiroshi’s plate.
“Pickled vegetables, something starchy, and meat. It’s too dark to tell anything else.”
“No rice?”
“It might not be rice season.”
“Or the right climate for rice, for that matter.”
“True. The servings seem a bit small, don’t you think?”
“Un. Everybody else received the same amount, though. Perhaps there’s only so much to go around.”
“Perhaps. Speaking of ‘everybody else’, where is everybody?”
The settlement seemed large enough for hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people, but as far as Yamada could tell, there were only the newcomers here, along with their escorts and a dozen other locals.
“Indoors?” Yamada suggested.
“Perhaps. And is it just me, or are there no children here?”
Yamada replayed the walk from the gates in his mind.
“I haven’t seen any children,” Yamada said.
“Odd,” Hiroshi said.
“Very odd,” Yamada agreed.
“Is the food safe to eat?” Hiroshi asked.
“Maybe. Everybody else is eating from the same pots.”
“Good enough for me.”
Hiroshi carefully set down his dishes and utensils, lowered his head, placed his palms together and whispered a prayer. For as long as Yamada had known him, Hiroshi had always prayed to his God before a meal. Yamada simply waited until he was done.
A moment later, Hiroshi looked up. “Itadakimasu!”
“Itadakimasu!” Yamada echoed.
Yamada sipped at his soup. An umami bomb exploded on his tongue. It was the distinct taste of miso, strong and salty, richer than anything he’d ever tasted before. The seaweed had been boiled for so long it disintegrated in his mouth.
“It’s miso soup,” Yamada marveled.
“The miso is stronger than what we’re used to at home,” Hiroshi said. “Must be made of soybeans.”
Home. Would they ever return home?
No time to think of home. He had to accept the present, accept that he was in another world. Survival was his first priority.
Tasting the vegetables, he discovered a mix of pickled cabbage, beans and sweet potatoes. The meat was tough and gamey and chewy. He wasn’t sure what it was. It wasn’t beef or chicken. Perhaps something more exotic, like goat?
“What kind of meat is this?” Yamada asked.
“I don’t know,” Hiroshi admitted.
“There’s actually something you don’t know?”
“Of course. I am only human.”
As they ate, Yamada overheard whispered conversations all around him. His seniors were discussing their current situation, some striking up conversations with the other newcomers. But for the most part, they kept to themselves or in the groups they arrived in. They spread out across the field, clustering in small knots. Yamada craned his neck, looking for the miko. He didn’t find her, but he did hear a voice cut above the buzz.
“I’ve eaten breakfasts larger than this feast.”
Yamada knew that voice. One of his seniors, a man named Sato Shinobu.
“Sato-san, we have food to eat and soup to drink. What more can a man ask for?” Sensei said.
“There isn’t enough for everyone.”
“You are not compelled to eat it, na?”
Hiroshi chuckled into his soup. So did Yamada.
“I’ve never seen this side of Sato,” Yamada said.
“Me neither. He usually keeps to himself,” Hiroshi said.
“The stress is getting to him.”
“Un. But the sooner we accept reality the better we will be.”
Presently the elders returned, meal in hand.
“Thank you for waiting,” Kojima said. “Please excuse the meager provisions. Food in this place is hard to come by. I trust that it is acceptable to your tastes.”
Not that they had any other choice, Yamada mused.
“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” Kojima continued. “My name is Kojima Hideki. To my left is Anthony Robertson, and to my right is Liang Wen. Together, we form the council that runs this village. With us are the heads of the village guilds.”
One by one, the guild leaders stood and introduced themselves. There were many guilds: fishermen, artisans, builders, blacksmiths, laborers, farmers… and soldiers. All of them were in civilian dress, save for the last one.
He was a tall white man with pale blonde hair and a trim white beard. Stout as an oak, all muscle and no fat, he was completely at ease in his chainmail.
“My name is William Marshall,” he said, “and I am the supreme commander of the human military on this island. I look forward to serving with you.”
Cold and dispassionate, he radiated an air of dignity and death. Yamada had no doubt he would see plenty of Marshall in the days to come.
With introductions out of the way, Kojima spoke again.
“We will come to know each other better in the coming days. Once more, please forgive us for summoning you.”
“What do you mean by ‘summon’?” the black man asked.
“When the demon brought us to the island, it told us the same thing it told you: we were here for its entertainment, and if we took offense with that, we had to conquer the dungeon.
“We… tried. We sent expedition after expedition into the dungeon. Not everyone came back. And sometimes, monsters crawled out of the dungeon and raided our village. Eventually, we found ourselves with too few soldiers to continue the campaign.
“The demon came to us. He offered to bring more people here, in exchange for a sacrifice. And… we accepted.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” the priest demanded.
“Food. Clean water. Iron. Essential resources, in other words. In exchange, the demon kidnapped you.” Robertson paused. “And, before you ask, no, none of us worship it. We never will.”
“But you asked it to bring us here?” the priest asked.
“Not directly. It chose you. We had no say in who it picked, only the kind of talents we needed. But, yes, we asked it to give us more people, people with specific skills and knowledge, and for that we are terribly sorry.”
“Why did you do it?” the black man asked.
“We had no choice. We barely have enough soldiers left to defend the village from monsters, much less invade the dungeon.”
“Unbelievable,” the black man said.
“Akuma just wants to play with us?” Sensei asked.
“Correct,” Liang said. “We believe it sees everything on this island and sends monsters to harass us at the worst possible time. But it won’t wipe us out in one stroke, even if it could. We think it delights in seeing us suffer.”
