Archeologist Warlord: Book 2

by E. M. Hardy

  Martin mentally shook himself out of that train of thought. Even if he wanted to, he had reshaped his core to release the souls trapped within him. Even the shayateen came not to haunt him, not to possess empty husks, but to find peace within the confines of his core. They would lose themselves in the spirals of his mandala, eventually freeing themselves of the injustices committed upon them before rejoining the cycle of souls in this world. In fact, he kept receiving lost souls from the borders beyond his obelisks.

  Simply put, he could not—and would not—devour any more souls.

  So what could he do now? Where could he quickly obtain power for his crystal-bearing scarabs? Or better yet… what could he do with what he already had on hand? He looked upon the scarabs, who got back to playing with his dolls, and an idea stopped him dead in his tracks.

  Martin instructed the dolls to lead the scarabs closer to the nearest obelisk while a handful of walkers transferred the targets to the backs of nearby cow-boxes. They trooped together for a few hours, navigating the treacherous terrain of the Leizhu Swamp. The walkers set down the clay targets once they arrived at their destination, both dolls and scarabs alike curious about what Martin had in mind. Martin soon gave out instructions to his dolls. They morphed their hands into small tools, and began engraving mandalas upon the backs of the scarabs. The bug-like constructs seemed uncomfortable about the whole idea, but they let their pals go about their work when they realized that the dolls weren’t really harming them.

  Martin steadied himself, and began gathering the ambient chi around the obelisk.

  This chi would normally go into the walkers, strengthening their limbs, empowering their blows, and quickening their reflexes. The Renese did the same, gathering the chi around them for various ends. The Sahaasi practiced a similar technique, but their mandala tattoos helped them collect, store, and generate chi within their bodies. They called the energy prana, yet it was functionally identical to chi.

  This was what Martin attempted to emulate. The scarabs did not possess souls or living flesh, meaning the tattoos would not help them generate their own internal supply of energy like the gurkhas could. However, the mandala patterns could help them store the energy that Martin could draw from his surroundings. Martin instructed the scarabs to focus upon the pattern drawn on their backs, to lose themselves in the spirals. While the scarabs concentrated on the drawings, Martin poured the ambient chi gleaned from the area into the scarabs. The mandala patterns began glowing with energy after a few moments, a sign that they were truly storing up power as Martin intended. He held his breath, and instructed the scarabs to fire away with their lasers.

  Light shone through their crystals, striking their intended targets. Martin never felt a draw on his control, the crystals fueled entirely by the power stored within the mandalas. The scarabs continued firing for a few more seconds before Martin felt a slight pull on his control. He glanced down on the backs of the scarabs and noticed the mandala patterns dimming, their energy reserves depleted. The clay targets were reduced to smoldering heaps of rubble by the time he instructed his scarabs to cease firing.

  Martin smiled inwardly to himself. This would definitely help out in the war effort against the Shogunates.

  Then he got thinking again: what would happen if he carved mandala patterns on his walkers? On his obelisks? His generators? Or maybe even his pyramids?

  “Time to experiment,” said one walker to itself, as it stood vigil on the Bashri highways, baking in the heat of the desert sun.

  Chapter 19

  Ishida Nagatoshi clasped hands with Maharaja Venkati, as firmly and as affectionately as two brothers would.

  “The elite men of the gurkhas, the boats, the supplies… I cannot even begin to express my gratitude for your gifts, Maharaja of the Sahaasi Dominion.”

  “Think nothing of it, Daimyo of the Ishida Clan,” Venkati shot back with a grin. “You know as well as I do that I have a vested interest in your success. If it will ease your conscience, think of all this not as a gift but as a trade. My aid now for your aid later on.” Venkati’s grin grew even wider as his eyes twinkled in mischief. “And besides, I’d rather help eliminate an annoyingly ambitious pain than wait for it to bite me in the ass later on, if you know what I mean.”

  Ishida returned Venkati’s grin with a smirk of his own. “That makes the two of us, Maharaja Venkati.”

  Ishida turned to face the Imperial General of the Vermillion Bird, Qiu Ja. He inclined his head to her; he couldn’t give her a full bow as they were still enemies at this point, but he still gave her a solemn half-nod to acknowledge his respect for her. “When you return to your Empress, General Qiu Ja, I hope that you paint a generous picture of my people. I do not wish for brutal conquest like Inagaki, for innocent blood to whet my blade with, but I do wish for the Empire to view us as neighbors to treat with—not vassals to press into service. The next time we meet, I wish to do so as friends and not as enemies.”

  Qiu Ja sniffed at that last statement. “I and my people are still prisoners of war, Ishida Daimyo. I cannot guarantee that your message will be delivered. And even if I do manage to deliver it to the Empress, I cannot make any promises on how she will react to your demands.”

  Ishida favored Qiu Ja with a smirk, the mandala patterns on his exposed neck and shoulder blades glowing with glee. “Oh, I am pretty sure that Venkati here will free you eventually as his agreement with Martin hinges on your release. And besides, he likes you too much to keep you imprisoned here. He would much rather woo you as an equal, as a woman who can say no, than woo you as a prisoner whose only choice is to say yes.”

  Venkati laughed out loud, his mandala tattoos bursting with all shades of color. The Maharaja may be acting tough and manly right now, but Ishida understood him well enough to recognize the deep purple motes on the patterns as signs of embarrassment. Qiu Ja pretended to nod gravely, but the small mandala on the back of her palm glowed pink with desire and affection. She may be quite stoic when she wanted to, but she wasn’t quite as skilled as Venkati in masking the emotions playing out in her aura. Which wasn’t all bad, considering how new she was with keeping her mandala in check.

  Ishida granted himself one more chuckle as he turned to face Martin’s walker. “I do hope that you can pull through with your promises, Martin Fuller. I do not mind dying, but I would like my death to mean more than just another chore for the ‘great’ Shogun Inagaki Nobumoto to clean up.”

  Martin shook the head of his walker at that. “Imperial scouts have reported that the Shogun has already pulled another fifty thousand of his troops out of the Isles. That brings his total to seventy-five thousand soldiers in the mainland, leaving only a token force to maintain order over in the Isles. They are already marching upon Shen Feng’s army as we speak, determined to break the back of the last Imperial army standing in his way. Most of the new arrivals look like conscripts pressed into service, but they would still be a dangerous force once equipped with blood weapons.”

  Ishida furrowed his brows in worry. “And they’re all equipped with blood-bound weapons?”

  Martin’s walker nodded its head. “That’s what the scouts say.”

  Ishida blew out a breath in frustration. “Enough blood-bound arms for seventy-five thousand men? I shudder to think at how many people Inagaki slaughtered for their blood.” Martin nodded solemnly at that, the memories of Yan Bao and the villages surrounding Wu Er still fresh in his mind. Ishida returned his nod with a shake of his head before turning to face Martin’s walker with a scowl on his face. “You’d think he would have learned his lesson the first time you trounced his forces, yet he still insists on pressing with the attack.”

  Martin’s walker shrugged. “He technically won that battle since I withdrew from the fighting. He smelled weakness, and he’s going all-in to capitalize on that weakness. Once he breaks through Shen Feng’s army, he’ll be free to take the Red Throne before plowing ahead and destroying my pyramid in the Lei
zhu Swamp. Once he does that, I’ll lose most of my ability to produce constructs as well as a major source of raw materials. The lands of the Ren will be his, and he will have enough slaves and sacrifices to overwhelm anyone else who gets in his way.”

  Ishida nodded gravely at that. “All the more reason that you need to succeed, as everything rests on your victory. My forces and Venkati’s gurkhas will be able to take the Isles in its undefended state, but we will not be able to hold out against the full might of the Shogun’s army if it turns the tip of its blade toward us.”

  “The battle will not be as one-sided as you think, Ishida,” Martin said. “The General of the Azure Dragon Bai Yu has replenished his army and joined up with the General of the White Tiger Shen Feng, bringing their numbers up to almost seventy thousand. I’ve got seven thousand walkers pitching to help, putting us on par with the Shogun in terms of numbers.”

  Ishida scowled at that. “Numbers mean nothing if every single one of the Shogun’s men bears blood-bound arms. All it takes is a hail of blooded arrows followed by a charge of blooded spears to stab through un-blooded armor like butter, and your formations will crack under the pressure. You may not fear death because you send clay men to fight, but ordinary men and women will buckle under such bloodshed.”

  “The Shogun exhausted many of his arrows on my walkers back when we first fought,” Martin replied. “No, I don’t think the Shogun has many blood arrows left. He might have enough for a volley of a few thousand arrows, but that’s it. He’ll be down to using regular arrows once those are exhausted.”

  Ishida struggled to understand why Martin didn’t simply end the Shogun when he had the chance. Martin said it himself: he was able to beat back the Shogun’s army. Fifteen thousand of these clay walkers of his, up against fifty thousand Shogunate soldiers each armed with blood-bound weapons and armor, and he slaughtered them like cattle.

  He didn’t even fight smart in the end. No, Martin staggered his attack upon the Shogunate forces. One force attacking first, demolished in the process, then another force attacking later on. This tiny force of just six thousand walkers may have cut apart a force more than six and a half times its size, but it was still a stupid move. The only reason the Shogun and his forces remained alive was because Martin got sick of blood and just walked away from it all. Why didn’t he finish them off then and there?

  “You should have finished him off when you had the upper hand,” Ishida retorted with a black look—finally giving voice to his doubts.

  Martin simply shook his walker’s head, slowly and somberly. “The danger to me was too great, Ishida. I could feel myself slipping, losing my mind in the process. You and Venkati saw what was happening to me, to my core. If I let that happen, lost myself as I gorged on more souls… let’s just say that things would have turned out very badly for everyone—not just the Shogunates.”

  Ishida felt his spine stiffen up at the words, the hairs on his neck stand on end. Ishida was no stranger to boasts and threats as he grew up among the ruling class of the Taiyo, many of whom marked themselves samurai. Many would say whatever they needed to in order to make themselves appear greater than they really were. Some would rely on past experiences, others would twist the truth, and still others would formulate complete fabrications. Some threats were made overtly, an insult to the recipient who must address the threat or lose face. Other threats were more implicit, meant to warn off their intended recipient without forcing a challenge in public.

  This was no boast, nor was it a threat. No, Martin simply stated his deep-seated fear of what could have been. Ishida understood this from the grief, the regret in his voice. He quickly nodded his assent, ending the discussion.

  He bid his final farewells to the others he had come to know in the Sahaasi camp. After a while, Ishida and his men marched toward the eastern coast of the Sahaasi Dominion, to the ships waiting to bring them back to the Isles of Taiyo.

  Back home, where his destiny awaited him.

  ***

  One month later…

  “We are approaching Chishima, my liege.”

  Ishida nodded to his retainer, Iwasaki, as he attempted to make out his clan’s home island somewhere in the distance. None of the two moons flew in the night sky, clouds obscuring what little light the stars could provide, slightly choppy seas to mask their approach—it was the perfect opportunity for a landing under the cover of darkness.

  A hundred seafaring vessels, each holding a hundred men and their supplies. Five thousand Taiyo soldiers sailing to take back their homes from the Shogun; five thousand Sahaasi gurkhas sailing into the Isles of Taiyo for the first time. They had enough men to take and hold three of the smaller islands, those most likely to rebel against the Shogunate’s rule. Chishima, Ishida’s home. Kuroshima, home of the Taira clan. Kinoshima, holding the forests of the Kikori clan. The three most troublesome islands with Daimyos opposed to the Shogun’s rule. Inagaki had executed the lords of these islands, leaving their heirs to rule in name while his cronies handled everything from behind the scenes. Inagaki Shogun had thrown all the fighting men in with Ishida before sending them off to the Sahaasi Dominion, confident in his ability to blackmail them until they died fighting.

  Too bad Maharaja Venkati didn’t play into Inagaki’s schemes and that Martin chose to parley instead of fight. Ishida grinned as he finally spotted the faint lights of the island, braziers and torches lighting the coast.

  The invasion fleet split off into three groups, one for each island. Ishida led the group going for his home island, while senior officers from the Taira and Kikori clans led groups to their respective home islands. One of the ships sailed closer to shore before casting off multiple rowboats. Ishida joined the first group of soldiers disembarking from the boats, eyeing the hidden cove that masked his forces as they made their landing. The Shogun’s loyalists may be watching the open coasts with keen eyes, but they knew nothing about this cove hidden by vines and roots.

  Ishida and fifty others got off quietly and began wading out of the wet muck as the rowboats returned to their mother craft to ferry a second load of soldiers to land. Ishida wanted to wait until he could disembark his entire force, but he did not have the luxury of just sitting around. The Shogun held Ishida’s family hostage, as well as the families of his retainers and those loyal to his clan. They needed to be rescued, brought away from the blades of their guards, before the full-scale invasion could begin.

  And they needed to move fast, before the sun rose and revealed the fleet waiting out in the open waters. He only had until sunup before the fleet forced a mass landing on the shores, whether he succeeded in safeguarding his family or not.

  He watched the rowboats meet up with the much larger ships, tapping a finger on his gauntleted fists as he willed his mandala patterns into darkness. The last thing he wanted to do was give away his position because he couldn’t control his antsiness. He turned around, whispering to his men to do the same and keep their own tattoos under control. The gurkhas knew all too well how to control their mandalas, but some of his bushi nodded sheepishly as the glow underneath their armor dimmed. Ishida turned away, scowling into the darkness as he watched the tiny rowboat disconnect itself from the mother ship.

  “Just a few more moments now, mother, Shioyo… just a few more moments, and I’ll be able to free you and the rest of the clan from these Shogunate dogs.”

  ***

  Three hours later…

  Ishida advanced into the main building through the servant’s entrance, his blood-bound sword shining bright red with power as he pulled it out of its sheath. No more creeping about in the dark, no more waiting for the right moment. All that remained was the violence of the moment, the call to action before the usurpers could understand what was happening.

  The mandalas on his body flared to life, empowering his churning arms and legs as he raced through the receiving area of his family home. Ishida flashed his blade upward, cutting the arm of one guard and
slashing the throat as he brought his blade down. He pulled his blade back up, thrusting its tip into the heart of the second guard before eviscerating the man with a sideward sweep of his blade. He pulled his sword all the way toward the neck of the third man, severing his vocal cords before decapitating the rest of his head. All this, in the span of two seconds.

  The prana flowed through his muscles and veins as he searched for more threats, swiveling this way and that. Iwasaki and two other bushi quickly stepped in behind him, forming up beside their liege. Ishida was so busy assessing threats that he didn’t even see the surprise on their faces at how quickly he dispatched the three samurai guarding the front door of his estate.

  “Sakuma, Fukui, clear the east wing,” Ishida hissed in a whisper, as he came down from his battle high, the world speeding back around him as his blade and tattoos dimmed. “Iwasaki, you and I will take the west wing. Go. Go now!”

  The two bushi nodded curtly before dashing ahead, blades and mandalas glowing with power. Ishida simply turned and sprinted off into the western wing, Iwasaki following suit.

  Ishida drew power into himself, purifying prana from the energies in his surroundings to bolster his reserves as he rushed through the familiar halls of his home. A Shogunate guard stepped out of one of the rooms, fastening the strap of his pants. He didn’t even have the time to shout out in surprise as Ishida poured prana into his legs, closing the distance in a flash, before slamming the point of his katana into the man’s neck and pinning his body to the wall. He reached for the shorter wakizashi sheathed on his waist, burying it in the man’s heart. He stared hard into the man’s eyes, watching his life leave, before pulling his katana and wakizashi out of their bloody sheaths.

  Ishida turned his head to find Okabe, one of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting, covering her mouth in a silent scream. Ishida took in her disheveled hair, the bruises on her naked body, and understood just what the guardsman was doing in her room. He nodded to her, and she nodded back as tears of joy dropped from her red eyes.