by E. M. Hardy
And even though the samurai were outnumbered eight to one, they still managed to bring down more than two thousand walkers all on their own. The remaining six hundred samurai were annihilated to the man by the time the ashigaru could get to them. Only the screaming, raging undead remained to greet the light footmen. They grounded their pikes and systematically tore up the charging husks as they mindlessly flailed their limbs in a desperate attempt to end the living arrayed before them.
The samurai were the best of the best, chosen warriors capable of unlocking the power of blood—both their own and the blood of their fallen opponents. Witnessing a thousand of the elite warriors felled in such a manner left the ashigaru in shock. Martin could only sigh with disappointment as the ashigaru opted to retreat, shaken by the loss of so many samurai.
“That would have been a nice dessert,” Martin said to no one in particular, examining the situation through the eyes of a walker peeking out of the tunnel entrance. “Now let’s see how many more I can kill. Hee hee!” Martin startled at his sudden outburst, caught off-guard by the giggle he couldn’t quite control. He just felt so… so happy in a way that he couldn’t explain—especially when he thought about all the blood-bound weapons he salvaged from the fallen samurai. Long blades, short blades, bows, arrows—he had so many deadly toys to use, and he was just so eager to use them to harvest more souls.
Yes... more souls. More. Souls.
Chapter 13
Ishida double-checked the straps on his laminated armor before nodding in satisfaction. The same for his katana, wakizashi, and yumi. He looked over his arrows, just over twenty, and decided that he could stand to use more in the coming battles. Better to bleed himself now than in the thick of combat.
He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and found the familiar scar on his arm. He gently slid the tip of a plain dagger into the old wound, drawing a small amount of blood that trickled down his arm and into his palm. He reached out with his will, coaxing the blood to flow in a straight line instead of flowing down to the earth as liquids tend to do. He kept whispering to the blood as it pooled in his palm, swirling gently as he reached out for an arrow. He placed it into his palm, instructing the blood to flow all over the arrow. His blood settled in the shaft, then the fletching, and finally the head. Ishida hummed in contentment as the blood flowed true and steady, responding easily to his will. He could repeat the process nine more times before he would feel too light-headed to draw more blood.
“The things you can do with your blood never cease to amaze me,” boomed a voice with a chuckle from the flap of Ishida’s tent. He startled as he turned around, one hand placed on his short sword and ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. He breathed a sigh of relief and settled down when he realized who it was.
“And a good day to you too, Maharaja Venkati. May I just say that it is a very bad idea to interrupt someone when he is binding blood? It will be a great waste if the binder’s concentration is ruined and the blood falls off unsealed.”
The big man chuckled in reply as he twirled his moustache. Ishida sighed once more, long giving up on his dreams of cutting off those infuriating tips of facial hair. He just came to the point where he simply accepted the act as one of those things that defined the Maharaja.
Ishida caught the man studying him for a few more moments. “Can I help you with anything, Maharaja?”
The muscled leader of the Sahaasi Dominion scrutinized him with eyes narrowed not with hostility, but with curiosity. Venkati slowly switched his gaze from Ishida, kneeling awkwardly on his rug, to the array of weapons laid out on a cloth.
“Would you like a gift, Ishida Daimyo?”
“A gift?”
“Yes. What if I and my gurkhas taught you and your men how to harness the power of prana?”
“Where did this come from?”
“I have sent my own people north, to see what they can in the Empire. I am already aware of the way that the Imperials use chi. It is very similar to prana, but they draw the energy from their environment as needed. They are masters of manipulating it, from creating fire to coaxing crops to grow strong and healthy. Our way involves collecting the breath of life and storing it within our bodies, stoking a furnace of strength that allows us to thrive under the harshest of conditions.
“And yet my spies have uncovered something new in the Empire. They report seeing otherworldly creatures walking alongside their Imperial partners. They call these others jinn, and they assist their partners in ways that my spies cannot even begin to comprehend. Some act like bodyguards, skilled in all sorts of weapons. Others are capable of casting strange magics on their own while enabling their partners to cast similar spells of sand and earth, light and shadow. There are even some that handle mundane jobs exceptionally well. One of my spies came across tales of an Imperial historian with a jinn skilled in memory, a young woman tasked with training others to contract and bond with their own jinni.”
“I thank you for this information, Maharaja Venkati, but what does this have to do with your offer of teaching me and my men how to utilize this… prana, you called it?”
The Maharaja shook his head, for once forgetting to twirl the tips of his moustache. “Everything, Ishida Daimyo. I am saying that the Empire is quickly assimilating knowledge from its neighbors to the far southwest, from the people of the lands known as Bashri. We normally hoard our secrets, our special techniques to strengthen our own people. We guard them jealously, for they give us an edge over our enemies. Yet things have changed after this Martin and his constructs arrived. The Empire normally devotes itself to the purity of chi, pointing to any and other techniques as inferior. Now? Now their people are summoning entities and binding themselves to these things. They are growing, reaching out for more… and we need to do the same.”
“I see where you are coming from, Maharaja Venkati. You want us to share knowledge, is that it? You teach me the secrets of prana, and I teach you the secrets of blood-binding, is that it?”
“More or less,” Venkati said, nodding with a slight grin.
Ishida eyed the Maharaja with concern. Trading techniques was not like trading gossip; even chefs were reluctant to share their own unique way of cooking noodles and preparing fish. What the man proposed was practically impossible, considering the realities of cultivating abilities. Many gifts were born from specific bloodlines, from peoples who had honed and mastered their respective capabilities over generations. This was why those capable of binding blood were often inducted into the elite warrior class. Most samurai came from families with a strong affinity for binding blood. It was, however, entirely possible for an ordinary family to give birth to a child capable of blood-binding. It was many a peasant’s dream to wake up one day to find blood from a cut extending crimson tendrils across their clothes, ready to move according to their will. And even then, it would take years to master one’s control over blood. Extensive training was necessary for a novice to imbue his first blade or will the blood in his body to support the legendary speed and reflexes the samurai were known for. Inagaki Shogun’s ashigaru could barely tap into the power locked behind their blood-weapons, much less unleash their full potential upon the enemy.
Ishida frowned as he realized the same could be said for harnessing prana. It would be impossible for him to attain the same power, the mastery of the body that the Maharaja’s gurkhas possessed. He had no ancestors with an affinity for prana, he did not have the training for the ability, and he didn’t even have the tattoos that the Sahaasi used to channel prana. Surely the Maharaja knew this… so why was he making the offer in the first place?
The Maharaja smirked, clearly reading everything that went through Ishida’s head.
“Where is the harm in trying, friend? There is, after all, plenty of time before Martin engages the Shogunate army. Better we start now with nothing more to do than wait for Martin to return with word on how your men will proceed.”
This conversation took place a week befo
re Martin’s first engagement with the Shogunate forces.
***
“Good. Good. Breathe deep. Cycle it in, cycle it out. Feel it building up within your center. Just like that.”
Ishida focused his attention inward, drawing himself away from the world as his breathing stabilized. He felt the embers of a fire warm his chest, calm his mind. He found his center, just as Venkati instructed him, and he relaxed. His shoulders fell, and his legs loosened from the lotus position. His arms drooped, and he—
“Focus, Ishida. Come back to focus.”
Ishida didn’t snap back to rigidity, but he did remember himself. He breathed in once more, felt the embers warm his chest, and focused on those embers until they grew into a respectable flame.
“Good. Now hold on to that feeling… and open your eyes.”
Ishida did as was instructed, and very nearly gasped at the world around him. Everything seemed so much more vibrant, so much more pronounced, and he could almost see the prana as it flowed into the small tattoo over his heart. He risked a glance down, and saw the mandala pattern glow as it absorbed prana.
Venkati smirked, pleased at himself and his student. “It is a good first step, being able to draw prana in from your surroundings. The next step will involve working on your stores of prana, purifying the ambient energies you collected so that they blend harmoniously with your body’s innate energies. The final step will involve cycling the prana stored inside your body to generate even more prana as you need it.”
The Maharaja’s smirk widened as he laughed and shook his head. “My gurkhas hate you and your men, do you know that?”
Ishida lost his focus at this sudden statement, breaking the flow of prana into his center. He cursed as the tattoo on his chest dimmed, cut off from its supply. “What do you mean? Have we done something to offend them?”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that it takes even the most gifted of my warriors an entire year to grasp the basics of prana cultivation. You and your men? You did it in a matter of days!”
Ishida cocked his head, genuinely surprised by the Maharaja’s pronouncement. “Is… is that true?”
“Yes!” retorted Venkati, still shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m considered a prodigy of cultivation, and it still took me two months to grasp the basics of cycling as a child. You took just four days to begin cultivating prana, and many of your men are well on their way to achieving the same. Can’t blame my people for holding a grudge, considering the time they spent learning, training, and honing themselves.”
Ishida smiled broadly, then grinned back at the Maharaja. “Well, then let’s see how you and your people fare with binding blood.”
***
Ishida gaped at the sight before him. It was impossible, simply impossible! He said so multiple times—shouted it, even—to the great amusement of the Maharaja Venkati.
The wrappings around Venkati’s fist glowed red with activated blood that flowed according to his will. The Maharaja punched the training log experimentally, and Ishida winced as the wood creaked, the shockwave of the impact hitting him. The Maharaja laughed boisterously as he followed the punch up with another straight punch, a hook, an elbow and then a knee for good measure. By the time he was done, the log was reduced to shards of wood, with some bits even smoking from the force of the blows.
“By the gods, that is an unholy amount of power!” he exclaimed, staring at his smoking knuckle while chuckling like mad. “These blood-binding techniques of yours are the best, Ishida. Coupled with prana, I feel like I could punch a mountain into a pile of rubble if I was so inclined.”
“That… that’s… I thought it would take more time than that. And then you, you just… HOW!?”
The Maharaja gave up chuckling and just roared with laughter as the men around them shared Ishida’s shock. Even Ishida’s stoic bushi could not help but goggle at what they just witnessed. They knew all too well just how much effort and concentration it took to grasp even the most basic of blood binding techniques. The gurkhas just smiled as they watched their king, their maharaja, flaunt his apparent mastery of blood. All of them were masters with the khukuri knives that the ghurkas were most known for, but some followed in the footsteps of the Maharaja in cultivating the unarmed masteries of striking, grappling, and breaking. Others wielded traditional weapons such as the sword, spear, club, and bow. Every single ghurka was making good progress in their studies of blood—insanely good progress, by the standards of Ishida’s bushi. Even the Sahaasi regulars showed promise, coaxing veins of blood to creep into their equipment.
“Seriously, Venkati. There’s something unnatural about how quickly you and your people master blood binding. There is no guarantee you will have the gift, especially if you are born outside of families with a strong affinity for blood-binding. And even if you do have the gift, it would take years for you to simply understand the basics. This binding, what you have done with your wrappings… it’s just… it’s impossible!”
“I could say the same for you and yours,” the Maharaja said with a smirk, as he undid the red wrappings covering his knuckles. The wrappings pulsed with life, then dimmed as he finished folding them into a neat bundle. “Are you even aware of how much purified prana you have begun to store within your center, friend Ishida?”
Startled, Ishida inhaled deeply and willed himself into a waking trance. He peered into himself, just as Venkati taught him, and he peered into the area just under the tattoo covering his heart. He shivered in excitement when he saw a sizeable ball of energy filling a quarter of his center. He broke his waking trance and focused on the Maharaja, answering the man with a smirk of his own. “A quarter of the way full.”
The Maharaja nodded grimly, serious for a split second before breaking out in a hearty guffaw. “Once your center fills up, you should be able to begin purifying the stored energies into usable prana. Once that happens, you won’t even need to absorb the ambient energy in the air. No, you can generate it all on your own in even the most hostile and lifeless of environments. You probably won’t even need to eat if you can generate and collect enough prana to sustain yourself. You are well on your way toward mastering what we know of prana in a matter of weeks, yet you think that I and my people are achieving the impossible?”
Ishida had received little praise through his life. Always expectations, more expectations, and even more expectations that he could barely live up to. Every achievement was to be expected from the heir of the Ishida clan, and there was no room for compliments. He fought valiantly against the redness creeping up his neck and ears, but it was a battle he found he could not win. He simply coughed into his hand to hide his embarrassment, which only encouraged the Maharaja to laugh even louder.
“But how is this possible?” interrupted Ishida, desperate to change the flow of discussion. “How is it that you and I can so easily progress in learning the other’s respective techniques, which should normally take years to master?”
Venkati’s roaring laughter subsided into a chuckle, then lapsed into silence as the ruler of the Sahaasi peoples began stroking his chin. At least, he wasn’t twirling his moustache anymore. Or so Ishida thought; the man began to do just that as he stared off into the distance.
Ishida followed Venkati’s gaze, which settled on a tall structure jutting out from behind the fortress before them. It was one of Martin’s obelisks, a strangely phallic symbol that towered over the walls of clay choking the valley’s entrance.
“That’s the only thing I can think of that has changed, friend Ishida. That obelisk over there emits a strange kind of energy, a power that I cannot fully understand. Martin Fuller said little about it, as he does not completely trust us at this moment. Your Shogun’s Rats, however, described those obelisks as tools that allow Martin to control his clay constructs. They function like lighthouses, where his influence reaches as far as their invisible light touches. Perhaps this thing influences us as well, in ways that we don’
t quite understand?”
Ishida blinked once, then furrowed his brows in worry. “Is this a bad thing, Venkati? Are we somehow at risk?”
“I don’t know,” the Maharaja replied with a shake of his head, his scraggly beard and long moustache following his motions. “But if I had to guess, I would say that the strange power from that obelisk plays a role in our quick absorption of one another’s techniques.”
Ishida nodded, rubbing his chin in thought. He startled at the fact that he was rubbing his chin, something he never did before. He silently chastised himself for copying the habits of the man before him, but a sudden idea interrupted his musings.
“I have an idea to test your theory,” he said, as he perked up and locked eyes with the Maharaja. “Multiple ideas, actually.”
These events unfolded just as the Shogunate army entered an unnamed forest, relentlessly harassed in every direction by roving groups of walkers.