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Two Bujun swords, one longer than the other,
hung from her hips.
All about them was frantic motion, carefully
coordinated and precise as the movements in the
climax of a Noh play, as Bujun worked to set the
vast armada's rigging.
Azuki-iro signed to him and Moeru murmured,
"We are ready."
There came a shout, repeated endlessly, like
the crying of the wheeling gulls circling the*
masts.
A rhythmic singing began as Bujun bowed over
the great flat windlasses on their ships and with
creaks and groans the wheels turned, bringing up
the heavy chains of the anchors from the harbor's
floor.
The Bujun's song, exciting and melodic, filled
the air, already rich with salt and phosphorus.
The last of the mooring lines were cast off and
made fast.
Bujun raced through the rigging.
The water was black with the bulk of the
armada, stretching away and away, westward.
He looked to port and starboard, at the fifty
score Bujun ships, cast off now from
Ama-no-mon, rocking gently off the coast of Eido.
"It will take too long," Moeru said. "How will
we ever reach the continent of man in time?"
"Nichiren," he said.
He left her, the sunlight spinning madly off her
ebon armor, white plumes shooting from his high
helm.
DAI-SAN 171
He braced himself against the base of the
bowsprit of the Shoju.
He drew forth his blue-green blade, Aka-i-tsuchi,
pale lavender running down its long double edges.
With both hands, he reached it forth, over the sea.
He closed his eyes.
And the last legacy of his beastly protector
flowed up from the dark depths, called by
Aka-i-tsuchi, by his mind.
In the east, clouds formed along the horizon,
building steep and purple. Yet where the ships
rocked gently in the water, the sun shone hotly.
It grew quite calm, not a breath of air stirring.
The clouds writhed out of the east, rushing at the
fleet.
The first hint of a wind from the east.
"Break out all sail!" called the Kunshin.
The east wind began to rise, cool, alive with
electric intimations, filling all who felt its touch
with a peculiar exhilaration.
The darkening clouds now raced across all the
skies for as far as they could see. Pink lightning
crackled, thunder wailed, echoing across the sea.
The wind tore at the armada.
With that, the Kunshin gave the last sign and
the ships rushed out to meet the storm.
The seas heaved and the wind howled through
the rigging, straining the sails to their limit, and
the vast Bujun fleet leapt westward across the
storm-tossed ocean of periwinkle and deep
lavender, racing faster than any ships made by the
hands of man.
Moeru stood in the bow of the Shoju, just
behind the tall figure standing athwart the base of
the bowsprit, watching the unnatural light undulate
along the great blue-green blade, and what
thoughts at that moment ran through her mind,
none could say, not even the Sunset Warrior.
lVemesis
r
~ HERE was a man within the teeming camp of
The Dolman who stayed close to certain people
even though they were relative newcomers to the
army. Obviously, they were leaders. And they did
not stink like the other generals. In fact, as far as
the man could tell, they were human.
The man was tall and thin, his muscles hard
and ropy. His face, with its long, drooping
mustache, was gaunt and haunted. Deep within,
he mourned for his people and that aching
frustration was built until it became an emotion
so bitter that he could not bear to live with it. In
desperate selfdefense he had turned it outward,
into implacable hatred so that at least he could
wake each morning and not plunge a short sword
into his lower belly.
Po had long ago aligned himself with the Reds
of the northern provinces for he detested the fat
bongs and eager rikkagin who held sway within
the walls of Sha'angh'sei.
As a trader, he made frequent journeys to the
continent of man's richest city, was even welcome
within the houses of many of its wealthiest and
most influential citizens, high up in the walled city
district. He forced himself to fall neatly into the
guise of a successful trader from the north,
burying his hate by looking to the future the
future that was now remaining sharp-tongued
but carefully concealing his true feelings.
Yet, as the time of the Kai-feng drew nigh, as
his time in the north revealed to him the true
nature of the burgeoning battle, while those
seemingly secure in their palatial homes in
Sah'angh'sei grew fat and complacent, his temper
writhed upon its tight leash, burning bright. Thus,
when he had been insulted or rather, when his
taut nerves had caused him to believe he had
been insulted he had lashed out, spilling his
guts, insulting in kind the people assembled at
Llowan's din
172
DAI-SAN 173
ner party. And so he had forever been banned
from Llowan's home. He had castigated himself for
days for his foolish lack of control. In disgust, he
slew three Greens on the northern outskirts of the
city. Then he vowed that never again would his
emotions betray him.
Now, as he picked his teeth after a satisfying
meal over a fragrant pine fire, he knew that it no
longer mattered. At last the war for liberation was
here and soon the rebel army, as he chose to call
it, would break through Kamado's defences. All
Sha'angh'sei stood before him, waiting like a fat
jewel to be plundered. These aliens, he knew, had
no interest in either silver or the poppy, had not,
he suspected, even the intelligence to understand
the concept of wealth. No, these peculiar creatures
lived only to kill and when they had sated them-
selves on the blood and the gore they would return
to whatever hellholes out of which they had first
crawled. He shuddered. Oh, how they stank! Then
he thought of the wealth that would soon be his.
With it he would assume control of the war-torn
city, establish a new line for his people. They
would stream in from the hills in the west,
becoming proud and powerful within the confines
of the new Sha'angh'sei. And the fat bongs would
be the first to die under his regime. This was why
he had resigned himself now to follow.
Confident, he strode through the vast stinking
encampment, alive with the discord of alien
languages, foreign dialects, winding his way
through the teeming, bristling bodies. Twice he
spied the black, beetling heads of the insect-eyed
generals and he gave them a wide berth.
At length, he came to the tent of the fat man.
He was a great general, Po knew, perhaps second
only to the disgusting Makkon. That was why he
had picked out the man when first he rode into
camp on the ebon animal that was hard to look at
for more than a few seconds. The fat man had
come from the heart of the pine forest, from where
Makkon were, and Po knew.
He went past the guards and, ducking, stepped
through the tent flaps into the covered pavilion
beyond.
"You sent for me," he said, bowing his head.
Three of the deathshead warriors passed in front
of him and, stooping, went out through the back of
the pavilion.
The fat man looked up from his charts.
"Yes," he said. "Come here."
A Makkon stood by his side, its hideous beaked
head swiveling. Its thick tail flicked at the air,
which was heavy with its
174 Eric V. Lustbader
stench. Po averted his eyes, clamped down on his
surprise at seeing the being outside the forest.
What is happening? His thoughts darted like
unquiet fish.
"We wish," said the fat man silkily, "for you to
do us a service."
"As you request," said Po, his head still bowed.
"Good," said the fat man. "Tonight you will
infiltrate Kamado."
Po concealed his surprise once again, said: "I
am, as you are no doubt aware, a prime master of
jhindo."
"Concealment and assassination," said the fat
man. "Yes, we know well. That is why we chose
you, Po."
The Makkon opened its hooked beak and
screamed, its grey tongue flailing at the scaled
roof of its mouth. Po shuddered and closed his
eyes momentarily, nauseated.
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