The spinning glass surface beneath Batal cleared of condensation, while everything above him grew thick with it. His body grazed the glass cylinder, but he got used to it and no longer attempted to stop it. He gave in to the movement and trusted his shiny new suit to keep his skin from rubbing off. He rotated around, face looking outward into the depths. Rushing over the tops of buildings, some towering along the sides of the flow with their coral tops kissing the surface.
Whales entered and exited with great force while other forms of sea life were torn and shredded in the Torrent’s flow. The speed was stunning, turning everything into blurs at the edges of his vision—some objects appearing as big as a triton or maybe whales that chose not to enter. It had to hurt even the biggest and strongest of creatures, he thought as another beast entered up ahead and was twirled into a frothy pulp.
And here I sit, carried in a glass egg toward a woman I have not seen since I was a boy. It hit him, rushing in like his surroundings. I am not a boy, nor a young man or fisherman. I am a Guardian. A killer…and all in less than a few seasons’ time. He let the thought pass, disperse like the frothy pink pulp. He did what he’d had to. Would you’ve let Danu be kicked to death? Let Jenna die in the bowels of a giant octopus? “Lusca,” he whispered to the voice in his head. “Slayer of luscas.” What of Tashi and the rest of your family? Let the cockless monks butcher and feast upon them? ‘I am Baba, I am whole.’ One day, I will remove the end of that sentence. See, you are a Guardian of those you love.
The magical glass egg moved hard to the left, and Batal’s body pressed against the side until the cylinder straightened out again.
Kaminari Akiro, warrior and seeker of the Untouched. Now why would she choose you to partner? This voice was familiar, one of the earliest memories torn from his childhood. The opportunity to kill the Untouched and end this senseless quest to father children resistant to the radiation of this world? “A large man…” Batal mumbled. “Angry, yelling at father in the market, even Father looked scared, said nothing, but moved so he stood between us.” The voice intruded into his thoughts again. How many will die along the way? And for what? Whelps free of lesions to feed the Varghori Monks or slave out to the Horde King?
The bottom of the current exploded and a vast shadowy form entered the flow. Batal stared downward at the black mass only a meter or so below him. It rose, and for a moment, seemed to touch the glass but stopped. The filtered light from overhead accentuated the rubbery surface. It rotated, the glass cylinder passing it by, meter by meter. A dorsal fin larger than Batal and with a bite mark passed by and an eye the size of Batal’s head appeared and remained. He placed his hands, palm down, on the glass to each side.
“You are the triton from the before. When laughter sounded from each end of the Aeolus. When brothers quarreled and smiles came without cause.” Batal placed his face on the glass, the material of his hood scratchy and rough, but the cool glass was blissful, and the eye of the triton kind. The eye closed, and the triton dropped to the edge of the flow. Then, just when it appeared to be leaving, it shot back up and slammed into the glass.
Batal’s eyes opened, he was on his back again, the visible skin around his face matched the bluish hood. Light filtered in from above. His hands were wrapped around his neck, his chest burned, and the inside of the glass cylinder spun end to end and up and down. “Pocket,” he sputtered and fumbled around, clawing at his stomach, sucking in but nothing filled his lungs. He no longer controlled his hands, and a numbness consumed him.
A shadow crossed the surface of the water, then grew bigger and bigger. The glass of Batal’s vessel shattered, and the sea pulled him down. A pale form approached from above, arms outstretched, her silver hair flowing, eyes as bright and green as they were when she was a child. His lungs burned with incoming saltwater.
But I have seen you at my end and that is enough, Batal thought. That is enough.
“Listen, Batal Spartan of Skye Stone and don’t speak, for it will hurt,” a familiar female voice whispered close to Batal’s ear. “Don’t open your eyes. The bandage will block out most of the light, but keep them shut. Within a few hours the pain and pressure will fade, and your lungs and throat will burn no more. The straps on your arms and legs are part of the ceremony before combat. My choice, my clan’s rules.”
Every part of him ached, thumped, or was just numb. Whatever he was lying on, it was damn soft for the parts he could feel. Besides, where was he going to go, anyway? So, he laid there and listened to the woman who had saved his life. The last vision before he gave in to the sea. Kaminari Akiro. Her voice had changed from their childhood. Deeper, powerful, and yet he heard the emotion in the whispers. She still cared for him, even after all these years.
“You are far more handsome than I remember,” she said. “Excellent muscle tone and that cute mushy part around your belly is gone.”
“I was seven,” Batal croaked.
“See. Hurts.” She sat down near the bed. “All this way, just to die in my care or at the end of my sword. Strange, I never thought you’d come, or at least, I didn’t think you’d make it.” She leaned closer. “Thirteen hundred kilometers. You travelled thirteen hundred kilometers in a fucking glass egg with fins, in only six hours. Tashi is a wonder. The oldest twelve-year-old I’ve ever met.”
She laughed. Batal remembered that most; Kaminari laughed easy and often. Would she laugh when standing before him, before combat?
“Bet she never told you what the Gurkhas call it? The current. The Rogue Torrent!” She slapped her legs. “Your little egg was traveling at over two hundred and sixteen kilometers per hour! Best estimate was five-and-half hours of oxygen. You went six. I’m impressed with the man version of you, Batal. Why would anyone do such a thing? “
“You,” Batal replied, swallowing the little spit he could make. “You sent for me.”
“I said the only name I could think of when forced to decide. Warrior or not, every member of the Akiro clan must partner.”
Maybe, Batal thought, but there was more in her voice; the words rang hollow. Warrior-speak to instill fear and not show weakness. Just like the Guardians…he hoped.
“My name was there, when no other would rise.” His throat felt better already, even the burn with each breath was subsiding.
A chair screeched across the floor, then Kaminari’s voice came from above now. “Hopeless. We will meet at sunrise with weapons of choice. I will not submit. One of us will die. Someone will come to remove your straps and bandages.”
“What about the clan rules?” Batal asked.
“I wanted to see you first. On my terms, there are no rules, but you will be sore for quite some time.” Her laughter then faded. “Batal, you should have stayed a fisherman. I will kill you tomorrow.”
And she was gone.
Batal woke to the gentle pull of the bandage leaving his eyes. A slight form moved from strap to strap until he was free to sit up.
“Who are you?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s dark. What time is it?”
“I am Itō-sensei or Sensei. I am the lead scholar for the Archipelago.” He placed another pillow behind Batal’s back. “And you must be Spartan-san, Akiro-san’s choice for partnering. We have heard much of your quest.” He turned a dial on a nearby lamp and the flame grew tall and bright. “The sun will soon announce itself. Your match is still a few hours away.”
He was small of frame, but Itō carried weight. Batal couldn’t see an ounce of fat on the man’s bare torso, which was roped with sinewy muscle and covered from the base of his neck to his waist in black tattoos turned gray from too much time in the sun. He wore loose black pants with brilliant daggers hanging on each hip. The tattoos partially concealed them, but judging by the number of lesions on Itō’s arms and sides, Batal guessed he was in his forties.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Itō.” He noticed a frown forming on the man’s face. “Itō-sensei.” The frown vanished and a smile appeared.
“Though the Archipelago swells with new arrivals from the remaining isles, we choose to hold on to a few of the old ways. Use surnames with ‘san’ at the end unless instructed otherwise. Easy and always respectful.”
“Sensei.” Batal swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then realized he was naked under the sheet and lumped it in his lap. “Lead scholar of what?” But he knew before he asked: Itō-sensei was a warrior scholar, a Senshi.
“Teacher and student of the fighting arts. Chosen leader of the Archipelago.”
Batal slid off the bed, dropped the sheet, half-bowed, picked it up to cover himself and finished the bow. Itō-sensei doubled over, hands on his knees, the kind of laughter drumming out of him that Batal would expect from a man three times his size. Batal liked him immediately.
“No bowing, that tradition died centuries ago. But thank you for the effort.” He extended a hand, which was inked to the tips of his fingers. “Welcome to the Hiroshima Archipelago.”
Batal shook the offered hand. “Thank you. I hope to be around for a while.”
“Yes, don’t we all. Akiro-san will have much to say in that matter. Soon you will prepare for the event, but first let us talk of your travels. Sit.” Itō-sensei pulled out the chair next to the bed and sat. “The Northern Horde is pushing south. New vessels, increased numbers, using weapons and warcraft never seen before.” He slunk back, hands behind his head. “You should know, Queen Zasar has held Zaeafran.” He then looked at the smooth wood floor. “At a substantial cost to her forces.”
“I felt she still lived, thank the gods,.” Batal said. Aunt Zasar was not one to die easily.
“Which ones?” Itō-sensei asked, “Which gods?”
“All that would listen. She is a General Queen. Acts for the people and not the one. I believe…she means well for the new world.”
Itō-sensei nodded, then stared through Batal.
“Itō-sensei?”
The Senshi master shook off the thoughts distracting him. “You went through the Trials. I can see it in your eyes. Not an easy task, as many die sparring or succumb, having lost the will to continue. All the Archipelago’s Senshi enter and we lose many, just as the Guardians and the rest of the clans who send their people.”
“May I ask a more personal question, Itō-sensei?”
He nodded.
“Kaminari is an Akiro and you are an Itō, but your ancestors are from the Archipelago and hers are from a northern land.” Batal adjusted his position. “I only knew her as a young girl for a few days when your trade ships were at the port in Skye Stone. Where—”
“The island once known as Greenland. Her people fled the coming Horde. Few made it. Our leader, Akiro-sensei, found her in a small boat hiding under the bodies of her slain family. Gave her his name and trained her as his own. And you both share something far more than childhood memories. The Horde King who killed your father murdered her family only weeks later.”
A small child floating through the ocean in a small boat filled with the dead bodies of those she’d loved, Batal thought of the monks and the crates. “How long? How long was she out there?”
“Akiro-san doesn’t know. But based on her story and the amount of food and water she ate and drank after, maybe three weeks.”
Batal sat there, taking in the horrors of another’s tale of survival. To stand after all around you are slain before your eyes. What type of person survives? A Senshi, he thought. “How good is Akiro-san?”
“As Senshi?” Itō-sensei’s hands came together in his lap. “None more deadly, none more honorable.”
He then straightened and leaned toward Batal. “Now tell me of the Horde. Every detail, and after you have finished, I will feed you, give you armor, and let you choose your weapons.”
“I will tell you of many things, Sensei. I will tell you of a great hero who killed a mighty lusca!” Batal raised his hands high in the air, embracing the art of storytelling. “But first, the attack on Skye Stone. The Horde rose into sky and rained down upon our village…”
Roast chicken, eggs prepared in ways Batal didn’t know existed, and the wine! Red, white, grape, rice, berries of varieties only a trading nation could acquire. Robed in fine silk, he sat in a great hall with the glow of dawn filling the windows that ran from the floors of fine-sanded wood to stone and more wood high in the vaulted ceiling. Another stunning display of craftsmanship, and even more of a people who found it important to create such beauty. He reached for another clay mug of wine. If I die today, he pondered, it will be with a full stomach and a light heart, or a drunk head…same thing. Then he tipped back the mug.
“That may not be a sound tactic. Didn’t you learn from Queen Zasar or Drago a bit about the art of strategy?” Itō-sensei asked from tall double-doors at the end of the great hall, a grin on his face.
“Join me, Sensei!” Batal said much louder than intended. “Yes, I’ve learned much over these past months. Taught by mothers, warriors, uncles and aunts—and deerhounds, the greatest of all!” A belch escaped somewhere in the middle. “And one cannot forget the lusca! Or gutted friends in crates and cockless monks…except one monk had one, but only one! Only Baba can be whole!”
Itō-sensei nodded as he stepped to one side.
A group of Senshi then entered. Each was bald, bare-chested, and covered in tattoos with silver daggers that matched Itō-sensei’s hanging at their hips.
Batal stumbled to his feet, got caught between the bench and table, but finally stood facing the warriors and assumed one of the many fighting stances he had learned during his quest. “Ooh, this is rather silky,” he said as he twisted and wiggled in his robe, his butt sticking out, swaying back and forth. “Yes, silky indeed. Can I have this, Sensei?”
“Yes, young Guardian, drunken warrior of Skye Stone, you may keep the robe, and these Senshi are here to take you to choose armor and weapons.” His hand moved to his hip, head easing side-to-side. “This is tradition. You honor the Senshi and yourself by allowing them to guide you.”
Batal straightened. “Yes, Sensei.” He started to bow but fought the urge. “I am sorry, Itō-sensei. I mean no disrespect.” His head dropped. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t kill Akiro-san, or even try to kill her, and I rather like being alive.”
“The rules of combat are simple. The one who chooses the partner must submit”—Sensei raised his hands, palms up—“or someone must die.”
“What kind of rules are those?” Batal proclaimed more than asked.
“Under normal conditions, the one choosing wants the union. The combat is ceremonial only,” Itō-sensei explained. “Submitting is the act of giving oneself to the other. You find yourself in another Trial. Different, but the same. You will know what to do based on who you are. Now go choose your armor and weapons and try not to die on this day, Batal of Skye Stone, Untouched, and a man I respect. A good man with an honorable soul.” As he turned to leave, he paused and instructed one of the Senshi, “Strong tea, lots of tea.”
The warriors led Batal through a long corridor filled with sketches of Senshi through the ages in centuries of battles. Each hung on a wall panel fashioned of wood and white paper. Batal recognized the Spice Islands, Skye Stone, and even the Emerald Towers. He stopped in front of a grand mural that covered ten panels. “Beautiful,” he whispered, studying the group of islands. Each sketch showed extensive walls around the islands’ edges and within trees blossomed in gardens, and there were temples and clusters of homes and shops. Outside the walls, each island had a protected harbor with the entrances facing inward toward the other islands. Each a stunning fortress, beautiful and sad.
“Gone.” One of the Senshi pointed at a smaller island at the top of the group. Above the tattoos covering her breasts was a single red symbol inked at the base of her collarbone. She pointed to another of the islands. “Gone.” And another, “Gone.” Another Senshi, this one with a blue symbol inked above his naval moved to the mural, waited for the first to nod, then preceded to spread both hands over the lower islands in the group. “Gone.”
Batal pointed to the lone island in the center of the group. “Hiroshima?”
The Senshi with the red mark, who he assumed was the highest ranking of the group, nodded. “Home and all that remains.” Her tattooed hands moved across the islands around Hiroshima. “Horde.”
Her tattoos contained the shape of the uppermost island, almost like the old maps Batal had read as a child that showed the height and depths of mountains and hills with rings and lines. Each Senshi wore the markings of their home islands and its people. And they all live on Hiroshima now. Even the mighty Akiro clan is being decimated by the Horde.
The Senshi’s hands moved over the tattoos covering her chest and stomach. “Red canna flowers.” And then each arm. “Gingko trees.” Her muscles flexed as her hands formed a single fist. “Hope and power.”
Each of the Senshi had the same markings on their arms, beautiful gingko trees that reached around with their elegant branches, roots twisting and turning into beautiful knotwork that reminded Batal of home. They started down the hall again, and he followed them in silence. So much lost and still their hope prevails.
They arrived at a small square door, maybe a meter and half tall and wide. The wood had been sanded to a glass finish, and there were three iron cylinders protruding from the center. The ranking Senshi pushed the cylinders like keys in a memorized order until all three slid into the face, disappearing into the wood. She then placed both hands in the center of the door. The other Senshi followed suit, one after the other.
“One, two, push.” The door slid ajar, revealing a three-meter tunnel of wood that gave way to stone and finally opened up into a cave carved out of a mountainside that was lit by the light of the tunnel. Lamps blazed and Batal watched the cave grow. Thirty meters? Maybe more to reach its smooth domed ceiling. In the center were racks of armor: steel, chain mail, plate, the black pants of the Senshi, and even a woven material that reminded Batal of the clothes he’d received in Jiuhua. And leather, too. “Skye Stone? Guardian armor?”
The Senshi nodded as one. “Trade with all the isles,” a new voice stated.
Batal grabbed the tanned leather pants and boots from the rack, then pointed at a cave wall where every imaginable weapon leaned against the stone. “And that one. I want that one. And a pair of scissors…”