Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles (24 page)

Jacques poured another.
I am so sorry, Whisper. I do not know what you expected me to teach her. I have failed you.

UBF
Traveler

It was one
of Hattori’s fondest memories of his treasured master and teacher.

Lord Okubo sat upon the sand at the edge of a cliff and watched the sunrise. His loyal commanders knelt before him in the semblance of a makeshift court. Only a few days had passed since their battle against the Enemy in the deserts of Xinjiang, and Okubo was spending much of his precious time passing his accumulated wisdom on to his closest followers. It was as if during their struggle Okubo had achieved a new measure of enlightenment and now he wished to share it with his Dark Ocean.

“I was mistaken to think of it as a scout. That implies that the Pathfinder is a separate being from the greater Enemy. Do not think of it as a scout. Think of it as a tendril, a feeler. It is detached, but still part of the whole. Do you understand the vastness of space, Hattori?”

Being singled out from the group made him uncomfortable. “I . . . I have not dwelled on such things. I can look at the sky and see the stars . . .”An understanding fitting for a mortal man, but Okubo was no longer a mere mortal man. The Power had seen to that. Hattori was certain his answer would be insufficient.

“The heavens are larger than you can imagine. There are a multitude of worlds like unto our own, and then copies of those worlds existing in parallel, and realms between them beyond counting. We are only one of a multitude. Actions of significant enough consequence can be felt in these other worlds, like ripples across a pond.”

This would have been a blasphemous view of the universe coming from anyone else, but Okubo’s vision was not to be questioned, and none of the warriors voiced a disagreement. Their Russian monk seemed intrigued by these ideas, but he was a very philosophical individual, when he wasn’t molesting the peasant women, at least.

“The Power was born from one of these realms between. It was chased from its home, and has been chased from many others since. Like all prey, the Power avoids its predator. Like all predators, the Enemy must feed, or it will starve and perish. They are part of an eternal cycle, and because the Power came here, we are part of that cycle now as well. Tell me, Saito, how do we end this cycle once and for all, preferably in a manner which does not end all life in this world?”

“We kill the Enemy in battle!” Saito answered immediately. That was the proper answer for a member of the warrior caste to give.

“Incorrect. That is currently beyond our capability. How do we end this cycle?”

“I . . . I am unsure,” Saito said. Hattori was glad to see that the haughty former samurai was obviously ashamed by his ignorance. He had been badly injured during the battle and it had given him some measure of humility. “I do not know the answer, my Lord.”

Okubo gave Saito a patient smile, like a father would to an exuberant but inexperienced son. “Then it will be our sacred duty to find the answer.”

“I will.” Saito touched his forehead to the sand.

The master of Dark Ocean continued his lesson to his disciples. “The Enemy pursues the Power because it must. It spreads bits of itself across the vastness of space, searching on all worlds, hoping, waiting for one of them to discover magic, so that the rest of it may come and eat. As time passes, it starves and becomes more desperate. It will send ever greater portions of itself out, searching with increasing desperation, because it must find the Power, or it will die.”

He could not help but ask. “Can the Enemy truly die?”

“Anything can die, Hattori.”

“Even you?” Hattori was doubtful about that.

“Of course I can die. It is inevitable that something stronger will eventually take my place. That is the way of things. But back to the Enemy; it may seem incredibly strong. So strong, in fact that an incomprehensible being such as the Power quails in fear of it. Yet what happens when a predator starves?”

The Russian spoke for the first time. “It becomes more ferocious. It holds nothing back. It does nothing but seek food.”

“Exactly.”

“So there will be more, and stronger than this one?” Hattori asked in shocked disbelief, as if trying to comprehend how such a being could possibly be worse.

“Yes. It is easy to think of the Pathfinder as needing to absorb magic in order to send a message home. That is not the case. Rather, it is gathering the strength needed to put down roots. The Pathfinder is a seed. It is an anchor. If it becomes set, it will inevitably draw the rest of itself across the realms, until the greater whole of the Enemy is here, and when it does, we will all die.”

“So defeat is assured?”

“I do not think so. A starving predator is a ferocious predator, but it can also be a stupid predator. Desperation causes mistakes. Perhaps in time, if we can continue to defeat these Pathfinders, these desperate tendrils, we can starve the Enemy to the point that we can destroy it once and for all.”

And that concluded the lesson.

Such greatness. Such selflessness. Such honor.
Toru was humbled to have descended from and been tutored by the warriors of Dark Ocean. To think that Saito was insulting their sacred cause filled him with righteous anger.
He had been there!
Yet it also caused Toru to ponder upon his own failings. He knew abandoning his order had been the correct course of action, but if he was honest with himself, his dedication to the ideals of the Iron Guard had already slipped before that. He had been found wanting, and that weakness had taken him from the front lines to the Diplomatic Corps in Washington. It had been a fortunate circumstance, because otherwise he would never have been able to serve under Ambassador Hattori, but it had still been as a result of his weakness.

And now they were flying directly to the site of his past failings.

Toru’s meditation period was over. Someone had entered his section of the hold. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the creaks and the pops of metal shifting and the constant noise of the engines, but beneath all of that had been a footstep. His hands were resting on his knees, but near at hand was the hilt of the sword which had once belong to Sasaki Kojiro. As a Brute, he would be able to unsheathe the mighty blade and cover the length of the cargo hold before most men could react and pull a trigger.

Many of the crew had personal issue with Toru’s presence, and he knew it was only a matter of time until one of them broke their oath to keep the peace. Being forced to kill someone in self-defense could hardly be held against him. Another nearly imperceptible footstep vibrated through the floor grates. Toru had to resist the urge to smile. Let them come. He would slice them in half. Would it be a Grimnoir, angry at some loved one dying at an Iron Guard’s hand? Would it be the female Torch, who tried to hide the brands which marked her as an escapee from the schools? Or would it be a foolish pirate, bitter at having lived in fear of the Imperium? Did it matter? A third footstep. Toru relaxed his mind and prepared his magic.

“Mr. Tokugawa? May I have a moment of your time?”

Damn it.
He probably wouldn’t get to kill anyone today after all. “Come in.”

The blanket which served as a privacy curtain was moved aside, revealing the former prisoner, Wells. He did not look like much of a threat, but Toru had been led to believe that he was a capable Massive, which was a rare and truly dangerous form of magic.

The Diplomatic Corps had taught him how to read the subtle nuances of a man’s expression, his stance, his manner and attitude, these things were all clues to his true nature. Americans were especially easy, considering their complete lack of propriety and inability to control their faces, which was perhaps why Toru found that this Wells made him uneasy. Wells could control his face as well as any longtime member of the Imperial court, and often wore upon it a mask showing only that which Wells wanted to display.

What is under that mask, strange American?
Toru gestured for Wells to come closer. “What do you want?”

The thin man was holding a notepad. “I wished to ask you a few questions.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for a challenge. It’ll only be a few questions.”

Toru remained seated. “Of what nature?”

“I wish to know about the man you believe is impersonating the Chairman.” Wells made a show of looking at his notepad. It was an unnecessary gesture, but one designed to give an aura of human fallibility. “Saito?”

“Dosan Saito was a young samurai warrior who abandoned his family to become one of the first members of Dark Ocean and disciples of my father. He was a founding member of my prior order, and served as First Iron Guard for over a decade. He led with great distinction during the invasion of China and Russia. He went on to be the master sensei of the Iron Guard Academy and valued advisor to the Imperial Council. Now he is a traitorous dog in league with our greatest enemy, and I will end his life with my bare hands.”

Wells stood there awkwardly. There was no place to sit. Toru did not care to make the American comfortable. Perhaps the more uncomfortable he was, the sooner he would leave.

“Is that all?”

“How old would you say he is now?”

Toru scowled. Hattori’s memories suggested that Saito had been quite a bit older than he had been. “He would be in his eighties.”

“Remarkable. Yet he’s still a threat?”

“Yes.”

“That hardly seems likely.”

“Do you question my honesty?” Toru asked with a bit of menace.

“Of course not. I meant no offense.” Wells was very convincing at acting afraid, but Toru could tell Wells had no real comprehension of fear. This was not a normal human being. This was an abnormality skilled at feigning humanity. Toru had known Shadow Guard and Unit 731 Cogs like this Wells, brilliant men with far too much sophistry to serve as honorable Iron Guard. “But his age . . .” Wells just kept standing there, ready to take notes.

Toru sighed. “The methods are secret, but many of the Chairman’s most valuable subjects have lived capably far beyond their natural lifespans. It has something to do with the kanji they have been branded with. Okubo Tokugawa did not age at all. Many of his closest advisors aged at a slower rate. Saito especially, since Brutes tend to be extremely fit. Should I not be killed in battle, I would more than likely live to an extremely advanced age.”

“That’s not likely.” Wells chuckled. Toru’s expression remained frozen. “Never mind. Please continue.”

“Iron Guard do not retire. They either die in service or they are assigned somewhere where they can still be of value to the Imperium. Saito was an advisor to the council. I have not been home for many years, but when last I was there, Saito would often still join martial exercises at the academy. He is aged, not nearly the man he once was, but not yet feeble.”

“Can he still fight?”

“Whatever his current level of skill, it will not be enough to stop me.”

“So he’s a Brute, not a Ringer.” Wells scribbled some words. “How do you think he managed to change shape and appear like your father?”

“I do not know. Some manner of foul sorcery. It will not matter when I remove his head from his body.”

“Hmm . . . I’m sensing that you have a bit of pentup aggression relating to this man. Saito also seems capable of fooling nearly everyone with his impression, suggesting some form of mental control . . .” Wells began chewing on his pen, a disgusting habit of absent-minded Americans, but merely another act in this case. Toru was impressed. This Wells would have made a fine Shadow Guard. “He even fooled you into thinking he was your father. That has to be the ultimate betrayal, the sacred trust between a boy and a father. How did that make you feel?”

Toru’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What kind of doctor are you, again?”

“A psychologist. I specialize in understanding—”

“I am familiar with the term. I believe it to be a form of chicanery best suited for manipulating self-indulgent Europeans into not being disgusted by their obvious flaws. I am a warrior, born and bred to fight and die on behalf of the mightiest order of warriors of the mightiest nation in history. If you ask me about my
feelings
concerning my father again, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

“If it makes you more comfortable, then we can leave that topic off the table.” The person mask slipped. Rather than being cowed, Wells gave Toru an odd, absent little smile.
Yes.
Wells was eager for a confrontation. “As for killing me, you could try, but that would prove rather interesting since I’m indestructible.”

“I am not some Rockville miscreant wielding a sharpened spoon, Dr. Wells. You may be slightly more difficult to harm, but we are over the middle of the Pacific Ocean. How long can you tread water?”

The mask returned, and Wells appeared to think it over like a reasonable man should. “Valid point . . . Let’s put that aside for a moment, though, and concentrate on helping me better understand our mutual adversary.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t it said by Okubo Tokugawa in his own book, and forgive me if I do not get this absolutely correct, because I had to read the English translation; In order to assure victory, a warrior must understand his enemy better than the enemy understands himself. Anticipate their move before they make it and the tip of your sword will be there waiting to meet them. Is that about right?”

Toru nodded, suspicious. “That is approximately correct. In my experience. Westerners who memorize my father’s words have either come to truly believe in his vision or they are academic contemplators trying to understand greatness that they can never hope to achieve.”

“Perhaps I am a bit guilty of omphaloskepsis at times . . .”

“I do not know that word.”

“Navel gazing . . . Never mind. I will not be pigeonholed in either of your narrow categories, my good man. I memorized that quote because your Chairman was describing my career. You see, I seek to understand motivation and substance—”