Night, in the walled city of Vedun, manifested itself in exotic mist and shadow. The southern third of the girdling wall abutted the steep precipice of the plateau on which the ancient city had been built, and the sprawling valley below served up a carpet of steaming vapor as the sun set.

To the north, where forested foothills sloped upward to the castle of the Lord Protector, the shadows of clouds danced in the moonlight along treetops and verdant pasture, mingling with forest murmurs to evoke a multitude of unearthly images. One could not help but wonder what interpretations were wrung from these by the forgotten race that had hewn the stonework of Vedun.

But on this night, as the gaping disc of the full moon glowered through threatening cloud cover and down upon the whispering knots of frightened people gathered on the rooftops of the city, a terrible stillness gripped the elements. Time itself was held in abeyance in deference to the awesome drama unfolding at the castle of Baron Rorka.

The chill air amplified and echoed the din of clashing metal and the cries of dying men. Rorka’s city guards banded together on the walls in tight groups of two and three, muttering and gesturing animatedly as the storm suddenly broke.

Flavio, the city council Elder, was the first to spot the prophetess Tralayn on the now rain-slicked wall near the north gate. He pointed her out to Garth, Michael, and Lydia, as the mysterious holy woman spread her arms and gazed into the roiling heavens. The whispering on the rooftops ceased as the populace paused to scrutinize Tralayn’s actions. Her appeal to the Lord for insight and guidance had evidently been intercepted. The answer was instantaneous and perverse.

Tralayn stood in defiance of the shimmering visage that blotted out the sky above the castle and leered obscenely at the city of Vedun. People screamed and scurried off the roofs as if they might be singled out by those fathomless eyes. Domesticated animals snapped their tethers and attacked one another with strident, frenzied cries.

Soon Tralayn alone glared upward into the naked face of Satan.

PART ONE

BUSHIDO

CHAPTER ONE

To be alone among companions is the most dreadful sort of loneliness.

Yes, that is so.

The rider clopped along the dusty street as he thought on these things, the nagging itch of heat rash in his privates and a saddle kink in his spine. The chestnut stallion’s hooves kicked up swirling eddies of dust, and the animal’s ears flicked back to ward off the buzzing flies.

Man and beast alike sweltered under an unmerciful late afternoon sun. The horse’s sauntering gait attracted a yapping dog, which quickly darted away in obedience to its master’s harsh reprimand. Somewhere behind, mutton was being roasted. Probably at the village’s sorry excuse for an inn.

The warrior snorted, his lip curling in disgust.

Stupid fools. He had had to eat stale dried beef.

The road widened at the edge of town, and he could see the track ahead, meandering through the thickening larches until it disappeared into the forest in a sloping curve. Ahead, the pine-blanketed foothills that rose upward, ever upward. Another world seemed to beckon from beyond the mist on the lofty horizon.

Passing the last of the humble village dwellings, the warrior glanced lazily to right and left. Sullen eyes, fearful faces. He spurred Tora onward at a bit faster pace, suppressing an urge to wheel around and snarl at the ignorant peasants, just to see them scramble for cover.

What was the sense?

That would mark him for a lesser man. Instead he pulled himself erect in the saddle and shifted his swords to a more comfortable position. He spoke affectionately to his mount and urged him forward under a lush green umbrella of shade-dappled forest, the hot sun at his back only slightly more searing than the hostile eyes that burned into him like brands. He could imagine them crossing themselves in their superstitious way—but not out of concern for him, he was sure; more likely in gratitude that he was on his way.

Stale beef. What ignoble fare. No doubt the Englishmen were eating better right now.

Ah, but the few hours he had spent with them had been enjoyable. For the short span until they had ridden into town it had been the same old thing; another village of ignorant peasants, another impossible dialect, more suspicious stares and mutterings.

Then the two Englishers, merchants traveling to Turk-held Buda and Pest, had clattered into town with many a hearty laugh and trifling concern over dirt and discomfort. The affable, red-raced Goodwin, with his ready horselaugh, riding a splendid Arabian charger on which he looked positively ridiculous; the somber walking-stick Lancaster, with his bloodhound eyes and ironic wit; their three dourly officious bodyguards, grimly sizing up the onlookers with darting eyes, rapiers bouncing comically on their hips like clinging waifs.

They had spoken French—loathsome, twisted language!—and the warrior had found them eager to exchange tales of adventure. They had tipped many a flagon of wine and ale to each other’s good fortune and to surcease of evil and all manner of mortal terror. The merchants had been intrigued by the strange warrior who had mastered tongues so alien to him, eagerly drawing from him the endless tales of a life of high adventure, of bone-shattering clashes of men and steel; of fragile love, won, lost, and squandered; of monsters and magicks and valiant death. And the warrior had found companions.

But then he had pressed matters too far.

When they announced their intention of riding on into the nighted hills on a course matching his own for a time, he had thrust forward his sloshing flagon in a grinning toast to their continued fellowship on the road.

No cup was proffered in return. The smiles melted. Undisguised glances passed from one Englisher to the next. Nervous throat clearing, followed by all manner of illogical arguments to the contrary. They began excusing themselves from the table.

The clown had finished with his entertainment.

What had it been this time? The hair tied off in its peculiar topknot? The narrow, angular eyes?
(anxious whispers)
Did he wear his swords too confidently?
(nervous hilt-clenching by the bodyguards)

Damned ignorant fools! Snobbish, money-grubbing merchants! I’m no highwayman. If so I could have hefted their burden of gold with little trouble. I’m not some hell-spawned satyr come to ravage the countryside. Let them stumble along their course, then. Let them trust to those three dolts with the dangling rapiers—probably each with a virgin edge,
neh?
They’ll be fair game for bandits and night fiends before long. I need no puffy-faced riding companions with sagging behinds. They’re a burden, worthless in a fight—a bane on all of them! Friends often turn traitor. More often turn up dead. If I’m to ride alone, then that’s my course. Chosen. Ordained. That is karma. Am I not my father’s son? Above them all in the scheme of things, firstborn of the great
daimyo
of the Sadowara clan, birthed of the womb of the storied golden she-wolf of the northern ice lands?

I am Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara....

...and I am
samurai.

He had sat alone for a time, feeling the tension grow thick at the inn, staring into his sullen reflection in the pale wine. Guarded whispers wafted over to him through the musty smell of rotting floorboards. The fat innkeeper fluttered about the Englishmen like a wet nurse, jabbering in mixed French and Slovak: “
Pan
Goodwin!
Pan
Lancaster! Let me put you up for the night. Do not venture into the hills after sunset. It is not
safe,
good sirs!”

More toadying, more simpering.
(The clink of their coins was truer than his.)
Then a snatch of something barely whispered:

“—the Weeping Sisters—”

A pang.

He had risen with an appropriate flourish, cast some coins noisily on the table,
(hearts skipping a beat)
and strode out of the squalid inn with a pride born of his noble heritage.

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