Eric Van Lustbader - Sunset Warrior 3 - Dai-San

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DAI-SAN

ERIC V. LUSTBADER

By Eric V. Lustbader

Published by Fawcett

Books:

The Sunset Warrior Cycle:

THE SUNSET

WARRIOR

SHALLOWS OF NIGHT

DAI-SAN

BENEATH AN OPAL

MOON

THE NIN1A

SIRENS

BLACK HEART

THE MIKO

JIAN

SHAN

ZERO

FRENCH KISS

WHITE NINJA

ANGEL EYES

DAI-SAN

Book Three of

Me Sunset

Warrior Cycle

ERIC V.

LUS~ER

FAWCETT CREST NEW YORK

Sale of this book without a front cover may be

unauthorised. If this book is coverless, it may

have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or

destroyed" and neither the author nor the

publisher may have received payment for it.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, is purely coincidental.

The poem on page 204 is adapted from Basho's

Death Poem in AN tNTRODUCI1ON TO

HAIKU by Harold G. Henderson, copyright ~

1958 by Harold G. Henderson. Reprinted by

permission of Doubleday & Company, Inc.

A Fawcen Crest Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published

in the United States by Ballantine Books, a

division of Random House, Inc., New York, and

simultaneously in Canada by Random House of

Canada Limited. Toronto.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or

part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission. For information address: Doubleday

& Company, inc., 245 Park Avenue, New York,

New York 10017.

ISBN 0-449-21648-9

This edition published by arrangement with

Doubleday, a division of Bantam, Doubleday, Dell

Publishing Group, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: January 1990

Fifth Printing: October 1991

For the little boy who lived

down the lane Welcome home.

Contents

ONE DROWNED I

Sails 3

Heart of Stone 29

Godgame 57

Aviator 77

TWO BEYOND THE MYTHS

OF MORNING 77

Down the Kisokaido 79

Sakura 94

Bujun 128

Deathshed 138

THREE KAI-FENG 147

Horse Latitudes 149

Nemesis 172

Frozen Tears 193

The Dai-San 228

As in the play, the man

wears a mask. Beneath

the mask is the myth.

Behind the myth is the

image of God.

Bujun saying

One

DROWNED

sass

|`ONIN.

It floated in his mind like a scented jewel. An

island, an oasis in a turbulent, flashing stream.

Life in a shifting void where there should be no

other presence.

Ronin.

Soft and sensual; dusky, alive with a meaning

more than inflection. Crimson letters, a brand of

fire written across the heavens of his mind.

Ronin sat up, peered into the darkness. The

creakings of the ship cradled him; the gentle

sighing of the endless sea. The squat brass lamp

swung on its chain. Dimly, from above, he heard

the watch bell chime.

Imperceptibly, the gloom softened.

"Moeru?"

Yes.

He got up. His eyes roamed the small cabin.

Then, startled: "But you cannot speak. This is a

dream."

I called youirom sleep.

He turned slowly in a circle. The berths in the

sloping bulkhead, the narrow shelves, the basin of

water, a glint of the ocean's phosphorescence

reflected through the porthole burnishing the

brass compass. Splash of the creaming water.

"Where are you?"

Here.

He moved to the closed door. The tiny glow

from the spangled night played along the muscles

of his naked back.

In your mind.

He pulled open the door.

"Who are you?"

I do not know.

4 brie V. I'ustbader

And he went swiftly down the companionway,

silently as a cat, to her cabin, to meet her.

By the time he came on deck, it was already

midway through the dragonfly watch. He went up

the aft companionway to the high poop, crossed

to the stern rail. His dark green sea cloak

whipped about his legs in the pre-dawn breeze.

High aloft, the thick white canvas of the sails,

faintly luminescent with incipient light, cracked;

the yards creaked as the ship ran eastward.

Behind them, the night shrank back as if in terror

from the pearl light of the nascent sun. Their

wake was black.

There was already some movement around the

fo'c'sle hatch, but he ignored it, staring fixedly out

to sea, contemplating the vastness upon which

they rode.

"He spends precious time up there." The voice

came from behind him.

"Hmmm?"

"Morning, Captain."

A tall, thickly muscled figure approached him.

Deep hazel eyes flashed.

Ronin turned from the rolling sea.

"Are all navigators like you, Moichi? Sleepless

and ever vigilant?"

The wide, thick-lipped mouth split in a grin, the

white teeth made more startling by contrast with

the rich cinnamon skin.

"Hah! There are none so fine as myself, Captain."

"You mean none so foolhardy as to venture out

into uncharted waters."

The smile did not fade as the tall man

brandished a sheet of rice paper.

"This Bonneduce, he gave me the chart when

he hired me, Captain."

"Your ratter is thick with the details of all the

lands to which you have sailed. Yet there is no

mention of Ama-nomori."

Moichi put his hands into the wide cloth sash

banding his waist, looked down at his high shining

sea boots.

"This Bonneduce, Captain, he is your friend,

am I right?" His bearded head nodded. "Well,

should he lie? This chart says there is an island

called Ama-no-mori toward which" here he

made a swift sign across his chest "the Oruborus

willing we sail." He glanced up. "I have sailed to

many

DAI-SAN 5

ports, Captain; seen things so strange that I tell

them now as tall tales, sitting around a warm

hearth in the public room of a tavern in some

fly-blown port of call, half-drunk, while everyone

laughs and compliments me on my imagination.

Have faith, Captain "

There came a soft cry from aloft as the lookouts

changed with the watch. The rigging swung to the

men's weight.

"Hey, you see that sight, Captain?" He pointed

for'ard to the first pink crescent of the sun

climbing over the flat horizon. The color floated to

them, tiny scimitars on the sea's surface. "Long as

I see that come cormorant, I know that all's right."

He made a sound not unlike an animal's bark

but which Ronin had come to know as the

navigator's laugh.

"Let me tell you a thing about Moichi Annai-Nin

because I like you." He paused for a moment,

scratching his long nose. "I knew you were no

captain when first you set foot on board this ship.

You love the sea, yes, very much, but your time

upon it is short, am I right?" His dark head

bobbed. "Yes, well there is no shame in it, you see.

You are a man; I could see that too as soon as I

saw you, and now, sixty-six days later, I know I was

right."

The sun spilled its strange flat light over the

expanse of the ocean, lending it a dazzling and

illusory solidity. The topsails began to burn bright.

He squinted into the pink rising sun.

"Now most navigators want one thing more than

all else: silver. It makes no difference to them

where they sail, nor who their masters are, but

only if the cargo is valuable. For the dearer that is,

the fatter their percentage when they make port."

He slapped his broad chest. "I am different. Oh, I

will not lie to you and say that I do not enjoy my

silver for most certainly I do." The bright grin

came again, ivory cast in dusky granite. "But I live

to fill the ratter with facts and without new lands

to sail to, it does not grow. I tell you truthfully,

Captain, that when the Bonneduce showed me the

chart, I cared not one whit for the Kiaku's cargo.

'Let the captain, whoever he may be, care for the

cargo,' I said to myself. To sail a fast schooner to

an unknown isle; to turn myth into reality; the

chance of a lifetime!"

Moichi's wide-sleeved blouse rippled in the

strengthening breeze, rolling wavelike across his

broad chest. He put a hand on the silver pommel

of his thick broadsword, which hung within a wom

tattooed leather scabbard from his right hip. A

6 Uric lE Lustbader

pair of copper-handled dirks were thrust into his

sash. He turned his head into the rising sun, and

the light fired the tiny diamond set in the flesh of

his right nostril.

"This gimpy knows what he is talking about,

Captain. The chart is no fake, that I can tell you,

for many a forgery has been sold to me in my

youth. It is my great good fortune to take this

beauty to a land long forgotten by man."

"Then it is your opinion that Ama-no-mori still

exists."

"Yes, Captain, in my opinion it does." The

deep-set eyes raked Ronin's face. "But do you not

feel this already" he slapped his chest "here?"

Ronin's colorless eyes at last left the roiling sea

before them, swung to study the angular face with

its long hooked nose and hooded eyes. A depth of

strength was alive within that visage as solid as a

harsh rock promontory in a fierce gale, bartered

but victorious.

Ronin nodded and said slowly: "You are right,

my friend, of course. But you must also

understand that for me the search for this isle has

been long, has forged my life into a shape totally

unknown to me. Now it is almost too much to

think that at last it will be over."

Moichi's cinnamon face softened and he

gripped Ronin's shoulder momentarily.

"It is the truth, Captain. You live with an idea

for so long a time that, after a while, it is just that

which begins to have the reality. Be careful of

that."

Ronin smiled, then cocked his head. There was

a small silence.

"What was it that you said to me when you came

up?"

The navigator turned his head, spat over the

ship's rail.

"That first mate of yours, he spends too much

time for'ard."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"Mates rarely go before the mast, Captain, 'cent

to call a man out and administer discipline. His

place is aft."

"Then why is that one for'ard9"

Moichi shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Men at sea, they all have their particular

reasons for being here. They are misfits, Captain,

thus they avoid the land. No one asks questions

aboard ship. As for the first" he shrugged

again "perhaps there is something here he

wishes to avoid."

"You do not know this crew?"

"Captain, navigators rarely meet the same sailor

twice. This lot must come from the four corners

of the continent of

DAI-SAN 7

man. Nothing queer about that but I cannot

vouchsafe even one of them." He crossed his arms

across his chest. "Here, I can know only Moichi

Annai-Nin. And by the Oruborus, he is the only

one I care to know about" his mouth twisted into

a smile "save yourself Captain."

"I take that as quite a compliment."

"And well you might," said the navigator dryly,

walking off.

Ronin turned his gaze fortard, shading his eyes

from the ablate sun now plastered onto the

burning white sky like a hot rice paper lantern.

Lances of light shot from the moving crests of the

waves. The blue was very deep in the wide troughs.

Men had begun to play out lines along the

starboard side, fishing for breakfast. Scents climbed

from the tarred deck as the sun heated the wood:

the harsh, bitter stench of fish innards, the tang of

caked salt, the aromatic spice of warm pitch and

tar, the sour scent of stale sweat.

There came a hoarse shout and several men

starboard dropped their lines to aid a sailor who

was being dragged overboard by the weight at the

end of his hook. They hauled on the line, in

concert, singing, the quarter-rhythm coordinating

their efforts, and gradually, the dripping line piled

itself at their feet. Muscles jumped under

sun-tanned skin and sweat broke out across their

naked backs as they heaved.

A long gray-brown tentacle curled up over the

starboard rail, then an amorphous lump perhaps

twice the length of a man flopped onto the deck.

The men, seeing it at last, stepped away from its

writhing body. One shouted for Moichi, who

turned from his chart and went across the main

deck to where they stood. After a moment's

argument, he brushed through the tight circle and,

drawing his broadsword, slew the thing. Dull green

blood spurted and a tentacle quivered about his

high boots. Someone handed him a cloth and he

wiped down his blade before sheathing it. Gingerly,

as if with enormous distaste, the men heaved the

bulk over the side. Reluctantly, they went back to

their lines, talking among themselves in low tones.

Ronin leaned over the inside rail of the poop.

"What was it, Moichi?"

The cinnamon face peered up at him briefly.

"Devilfish, Captain," he said. "It is nothing.

Nothing."

"But?"

'The men do not like it."

He went back to his charts.

8 Eric ~ [u61bader

Fortard, Ronin could make out the gaunt figure

of the first mate, a black silhouette against the

low sun. His hideously misshapen face shadowed,

mercifully blank now. Ronin had seen him only

from a distance, as he had seen most of the men,

but he knew that the man had no lower jaw and

that his cheeks were deeply scarred. An accident

at sea, the story went, adrift in shark waters. And

by the time he had been pulled to safety It was

a miracle that he was even alive, they said.

Ronin shrugged and turned away. If the first

mate wished to keep to himself and spend his

days before the mast, he had no objections. The

man did his job, and as Moichi had said, no one

asks questions at sea.

His concern now was Moeru. Who was she?

After communicating with her for more than half

a watch he still had no idea because neither did

she.

He had picked her off the streets of

Sha'angh'sei, sick and starving, and he had saved

her. On impulse, out of instinct, call it what he

might. The fact remained that, from that moment,

their fates were joined. She became, in her

convalescence at Tencho, the guardian of the

strange root which, according to the apothecary

who had been its custodian, had been the catalyst

in the creation of The Dolman many cons ago.

The same root which Ronin had eaten in the pine

forest north of Kamado, the yellow citadel, and in

so doing had been reunited with Bonneduce the

Last and his more than animal companion Hynd.

And she had followed him north from

Sha'angh'sei in pursuit of the Makkon, to

Kamado, to the forest of the Hart of Darkness,

waiting patiently, mysteriously for him, riding with

him across the burning continent of man, to the

port of Khiyan while, behind them, the last battle

of mankind raged before the high walls of

Kamado. Dumb Moeru, who could not speak yet

now could form words in his mind. She was not

from Sha'angh'sei or its environs, her features had

not the characteristic cast. And although he had

discovered her among the refugees of the fighting

in the north who daily streamed into the streets of

Sha'angh'sei, she was hardly a peasant for her

hands were delicate and uncallused.

She could tell him nothing for her memory had

fled her, whether from a direct blow or from

shock and extreme exposure or from something

else entirely he had no way of knowing. She

remembered only Tencho, Kiri, Matsu and

Ronin. Who she was and where she had come

from remained

DAI-SAN 9

a mystery. Yet there seemed time now, while the

Kioku Flowed the vastness of the ocean in search

of the isle of the fabulous Bujun, on this long

voyage to the end of his quest, to discover Moeru's

past.

It was an enigma he wished to unlock, yet, too,

he longed to know the fate of those locked within

the great stone citadel of Kamado; whether the

forces of man were holding their own against the

rising tide of the human and unhuman hordes of

The Dolman. Had Kiri as yet returned from her

mission in Sha'angh'sei to unite the feuding Greens

and Reds? But, above all, had the four Makkon at

last appeared on the continent of man. Two he

already knew had been together. When all four

united, they would summon The Dolman again to

the world of man. Then surely Kamado would fall.

The bronze bell chimed the mid-watch and he

was brought breakfast: strips of raw white fish,

skinned and cleaned, and portion of dried seaweed.

He turned at a sound, saw Moeru reach the

poop via the aft companionway. She wore wide

cobalt blue silk pants and a quilted jacket, bottle

green, embroidered with leaping fish. As she

moved across the deck to join him, illumined by

the morning sun, he marveled once more at her

satin beauty. Her high cheekbones, accented by a

rather sharp chin and large bluegreen eyes, the

color of a far-off soundless sea, almondshaped and

tilted, were veiled by her long dark hair as the salt

breeze filmed it about her like a fine rain. She

seemed strong and fit. How different she was now

from the frail mud-soaked woman he had lifted

from the rutted streets of Sha'angh'sei. As she

stopped before him he saw that she wore the

slender silver chain with its canter flower what

was that blossom called.7 which he had given her

last night. A Bujun artifact that he had plucked

from a dying man in a dismal alley in Sha'angh'sei,

and which, later, amongst the Greens, had almost

cost him his life. He was unaccountably pleased

that she wore it.

"Hungry?"

Yes, came the sound in his mind and he started

in spite of himself.

He called to a sailor who brought her a plate of

food. For a time he watched her eat.

"Tell me again what happened," he said abruptly.

She lifted her golden face to him, her eyes

catching the sun, turning white, then black as her

hair caught up with the motion, shadowing her.

10 Eric ~ Lustbader

When I called to you in the night.

"Not before." He wondered if this was a question.

She drew a wisp of hair from in front of one

eye with her first two fingers and he thought:

Matsu, a wild uneasy cry in the night.

Moeru stared at him for a moment, a blank,

curiously opaque look. Then she blinked as if she

were trying to remember a stray thought that had

just crossed her mind. She steadied herself against

the roll and pitch of the ship.

What did you say?

"Not before."

No. Otherwise I would have called to you sooner.

Surely.

"I expect so." Turning from her to throw the

scraps of his meal over the side. He did not turn

back but continued to stare into the glinting

enigmatic face of the water.

Moeru went back to her breakfast but now her

eyes studied him with some deliberation.

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