Wrath from the mountains.., p.1
Wrath from the Mountains (The Bane Sword Saga Book 2), page 1
The Capitane gestures with open palms and greasy smirk; a Basho tea set, battered, chipped of its beauty lays on a small table. Three cups … oh, I grit my teeth when I realise what he’s doing. I will not stand mockery to our customs, nor will it put me on the back foot.
“Yes, good Capitane,” I say, “play your games. Cut my hands free, and I’ll teach you what it is to mock me.”
By D. A. Smith
The Bane Sword Saga
The Blood of Outcasts
Wrath from the Mountains
Short stories
Honour’s Pride
The Bane Sword Saga
D. A. SMITH
Copyright © 2022 by Daniel A. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
D. S. Publishing
www.da-smith.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2022 Book Design Templates
Book Cover Illustration: Martin Mottet
Map Illustration: Tilly Moss
Book Design: D. A. Smith
Wrath from the Mountains/ D. A. Smith. – 1st ed.
ASIN B0BMW84D82
To those who have always had to fight.
Get Honour’s Pride, the prequel/alternate story that inspired this novel, FREE if you join my mailing list da-smith.co.uk/newsletter-signup/
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
PART 2
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
PART 3
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTYONE
TWENTYTWO
PART 4
TWENTYTHREE
TWENTYFOUR
TWENTYFIVE
TWENTYSIX
TWENTYSEVEN
TWENTYEIGHT
TWENTYNINE
THIRTY
THIRTYONE
THIRTYTWO
THIRTYTHREE
THIRTYFOUR
THIRTYFIVE
PART 5
THIRTYSIX
THIRTYSEVEN
THIRTYEIGHT
THIRTYNINE
FORTY
FORTYONE
FORTYTWO
FORTYTHREE
FORTYFOUR
PART 6
FORTYFIVE
FORTYSIX
FORTYSEVEN
FORTYEIGHT
FORTYNINE
FIFTY
EPILOGUE
A Foreword from Learned Aribito, recorder of the Dying Scrolls, on the Hawk’s story so far …
Masako, the Hawk of Fenika, warrior of the Dattori clan, fled her execution with mortal wounds. Her lord was left dead in her wake; her entire clan had been destroyed at the hands of the godlord’s Okami Captain, The Fox, and Taosii sorcerers, Soshists Ti and Po, for false crimes the capital pinned on them. And yet, this was still not cause for her to stop her campaign. If one thing was recorded about the Hawk, it was her tenacity for causing trouble, destruction, and inflicting mayhem on Basho, and never letting anything lie. It was said she cried out with blood-fueled magic, mistakenly opening a gate to a godsborne, a demi-god who renewed her life in exchange for bringing down the Lord Council. Though, little evidence is left of this bargain, if it happened at all.
With the help of fugitive mercenary leader Genaro Kekkei, she took back her clanlands. Well, it has to be said that without Jinto the Beast, she would have died at Chisai, at the end of an Okami’s blade, but there’s little room for thanking Greed in these pages.
As far as records show, she had to leave Jinto at the Dattori estate, her reason is little known now. Though, one could deduce her story would have held less tragedy if she travelled with such a being.
It was from here she went to the Samaki Lords, namely Lord Shuji, in vain hope they would listen, they would truly heed her command. It is also said there she faced a Soshist and won, though how she would have killed one of those sorcerers back then would be a mystery unto itself. All we do know is the Samaki Lords gathered for a time, waging war on the Yokusei, but ultimately Masako’s pride won out and she murdered a young Yokusei lordling over some unrecorded feud. Verbal accounts said it was because of a lover, some say a student. We do not now know who Mako Tetsuya was to her.
Masako was imprisoned, Kekkei captured by the Soshist Po. But somehow, not even Samaki chains could hold Masako. Some suppose it was from there she made a deal with the Okami known as Baraki, Godlord Akuto’s third son. It would make sense that she then was able to kill the Fox. Such a swordsman would have only fell to one of his peers. And that Baraki was, his peer.
The rest, they say, is history. Genaro Kekkei was thought to have died in captivity, a victim of the Soshist Masako and Baraki chased to the capital.
Little did that matter: they played into Taos’ hands and it was said a man worse than all Soshists awaited them in the godlord’s castle, where they witnessed Godlord Takahashi Akuto’s murder.
Worst of all, they fell into Soshist Po’s trap and right into the magical bombardment of the Whitan Trading company: the Spear Rain.
And well, the rest follows in the overly-proud first-person account that was written by Masako herself …
MASAKO
ONE
“You. Gods-damned whoreson!” I spit at his feet and my vision whites at a sharp boot to the stomach; my rib, broken still, is a hot poker tearing through my torso. When I look again, it is into the overly-wide eyes of the Capitane, a man who commands the strange, dragon-like ships that reduced Orika, our beloved city, to rubble. His long cloak shines with gold usually only seen in Basho on a godlord, his skin so red it throbs in my eyes, skin that flakes off as he scratches at it.
“No, no. My mother, she was a woman who took her goddess to bed. Not a man.”
“Where are my men, Whitan?” Baraki growls from beside me.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t try me, you know–”
“Perhaps ... all dead. Yes?” Capitane Dickson pauses in picking his dirty nails clean with the jagged, broken end of CrowKiller and smirks a gap-toothed and yellow smile at me.
“I’ll kill you for that.” I nod to my beloved sword. The man who broke it, Kekkei, will die, too. “And for the mess you’ve made of Orika. I’ll make sure your death is not slow, just as soon as the Samaki arrive. My Samaki. You won’t be smiling, then, foreigner.”
The Capitane tuts, shaking his head side-to-side. “Look at your city.” His Bashoan switches uncomfortable between High and Low, but strangely it becomes less broken. And quick. “We have the power to force you, girl.” That yellow streak of a smile lights up his face.
“When our forces arrive, you – will – not still threaten me.” I force a laugh. “I only need to wait you out.”
The Capitane has a penchant for shaking his head and tutting that annoys me. “We will. Indeed, we will.” He waves his sinuous, hairy arms about himself like a flailing beast. “See this here, this one ship. This wood beneath your feet, this … Vulcan ship. It is just one of these that destroyed this city. One.” He wags a finger I want to rip off in front of me, tutting again. “Just one ship that rained our black spears upon your city. Out beyond the bay, I have many more ships. Many, many more. And with them, power that has destroyed countries before. Countries you will not know and will never know.”
I swallow then, grinding my teeth so as to not show the weakness. I flick a look to Baraki and see none of the confidence, none of the bravado in his eyes. “Fuck you!” I say back, because I’m out of wit. “Try it and I’ll cut you–”
That yellow smile widens, cracking the grime he seems to wear on his face, stopping my words because he finds it so funny.
“Do not be foolish, Masako, aye. You say it was a foreigner from across the border, hmm. You have told me it was a
Taosey–”
“Taosii. A wretched twat from across the border, yes. One of the coward mages from Taos! Do you see me throwing fire from my hands? I’ve got a sword and skill with it, you moron. I do not command the elements like those inbreds.”
“A Taosey, yes. It is what you want me to believe. You have seen it, hmm. See it around you now, look out the window. I will allow it. See your country strongest city in ash and in flame and know it was one ship. One ship of many, many more I have under my control that did this. And know it is within my power to burn your country and sail away. Hmm.”
“Tsk, Dickson!” Baraki says from beside me. “Have you no honour? What of the promise you made me – is it as thin-skinned as your patience? Let me settle this, bring out your strongest–”
I cannot help but let the laugh roll from my lips. The wolf is yet young, delusional.
“He’s seen you fight,” I say, “you think just a duel w
I turn then back to the captain and say, “Go on then, what is it you want?”
“Me? Nothing. We come in the name of our Queen Victory Marseille and her goddess.” The Capitane does something with his hand then, it darts about his person and he mutters something. “She wants agreement with all country we find. She want a piece of everything, and for it, we will offer our gun at great price, eh? You can kill each other better with this, bitch!” He pulls out a gunna and I smell burnt metal, something off, like the potions Cat Food would make, all mixed into a strange smell as he holds the end of it in my face.
It is with a long sigh I stare into his eyes. “I’m in no position to make any such deal.”
“Get into the position then, eh?” The Capitane withdraws his weapon, winks and finds something he said funny. “We don’t want stay here. Don’t want destroy … but we will only try this peaceful thing first. It is easier.” He throws his head side-to-side to cracks and he yelps, bringing his hand up to the left side of his neck. “Ahh, I am old see. If we can avoid fighting, we will. But if not, then, boom!”
The Capitane’s hands grip my chin, pulling my face upward and I would spit in his if my mouth weren’t so damned dry.
“First,” he says, “should there not be punishment, eh? You attacked me.”
*
Armpits ached, rib echoed in dull pain, until they hauled me up over something that stabbed at me, and I hissed through my teeth. If there’s one consolation, it’s that Baraki is definitely with me. Our bond is there, and he made such a fuss they ripped open his Okami Wolfplate, dispelling the extra strength it gave him, from what I could make out. It’s hard to tell with a bag over your head.
Master would be laughing now, he always chided I’d look better with a face covering to hide the creased anger, the hawkishness.
Not the insult though. It is dishonourable to treat even an enemy with this little respect. He would’ve killed them for this.
I knew my captors couldn’t be Taos. The Soshist Po sowed this mess so he wouldn’t have stayed around to pick through the dirt. Clever, really. In one move, he had pitted both his enemies against each other. So, it had to be the Whitans who dragged me through the streets they levelled – the scene of black-spear bombardment played in my mind over and again, head split in agony and my world, from inside the bag, spun black and musty.
What could I have done differently? Was this my fault? Am I finally paying the gods’ price for my anger? What have I done? Am I better off dead?
Chest tight and with breaths quickened, I panicked for a while as we traversed the ruins. Try as I might, my hands were too tightly tied, and I couldn’t grab at the bag. Where is Oboro, the Sister of Aibo? I cried out for them and earnt a kick. Baraki didn’t talk, they’d beaten that out of him.
Again and again, for the long time it took to drag me downhill to the beach, I blamed myself, I wished for death – wanted no more than to have died on the banks of the Kirisam. When I dragged myself out and called out to live, and the godsborne calling itself the King of Furs answered, I wished then I’d said no, whoreson. Let me die.
But, thrown forward, Sukami’s orb so blinding when they pulled the bag from my head, and that burnt-red, ragged shorts and jacketed imbecile, the Capitane, stood smirking in front of me, I wanted nothing more to live again and cut him a red smile below his yellow one.
Behind him, five ships; their dragon-like faces leered down at me, dripping in sea water and weed, etched in barnacles, and carved in old, cracked wood. Heathen magic meant these monstrous ships had somehow crawled from the sea and now sat upright like proud, strange lizards, sails pulled close to their body and flapped like real wings in the sea wind. The sea literally burnt beyond them. And smoke twisted and joined the columns that trailed all around me in the grey skies above. The sand around me was black with ash that pattered down on my shoulders.
I double took at the sky, the black tar of the smoke coiled with the pale sky, tinged red in fire, or reflection of the blood spilt by the Whitans. A quiet laugh worked its way through my hoarse throat and out my sack-grazed lips, for it had the look of a new scab on one of their sunburnt, ghostly faces. A scab about to be picked by whatever moronic words these foreigners want with me.
I’d rather make the wound fresh, draw the blood from him as he has done my people, and burn his ships so their ash joined the swirl above. I laughed again – I rather liked the sound of that.
It was to my gods-damned dismay – and I made sure it was known in nips and kicks before they bagged me again – the belly of one of the behemoth ships opened in front of the Capitane and they dragged us into its bowels with him.
*
“No, no. It was us – we were a retaliation, you attacked us!” the Capitane answers me. “Iiit was you!”
“Do you not understand me, foreigner? We’ve been through this.” The words drip from my mouth, hot and insipid. “Taos are not us. The Republic of Taos, its people the Taosii, they’re evil from across the border. Another country we have long feuded with!”
A croak, Baraki’s either wet behind the ears, or in need of a drink the same as me. His swallow is loud, annoying. But we’re not to trust the brown liquid these people have tried to ply us with. “M – Masako, that is not going to help.” He is defeated, a wretch since he heard of his men’s fate. A wolf is nothing without its pack.
“It’s doing me fine–”
“Enough,” Baraki’s says, his word sticking me like the point of a sword. “Reason, as they have done. Peace, Masako. Peace.”
The corner of my mouth pulls up like a Soshist Puppetmaster has it on a string – I feel pity and feed it into the scowl I have for him. He does not deserve my ire, we need each other. But I’m a whoreson if there ever was one, so I say, “Coward, is that what you are under that Wolfplate? Gods –” I turn to the Capitane “– redress him, won’t you? I grow tired of his whining.”
The Whitan tsks as he slips, the broken edge of CrowKiller sliding too far under his nail so it draws blood; he shouts an array of short but loud noises in his monotone and tears some cloth from his already torn, dirty garments and swaddles his finger in sure infection. Inside this cabin, he looks nothing so gold and grand now, just dirty. Oily. I want to kill him all the more for how he slams down my precious hawk-marked hilt on a table covered in missives, or perhaps idle poetry for all the care he has for them. There are candles burning near us that are a fool’s gambit, what with the fact we’re encased in a would-be wooden tomb; the candles form a shrine around a leafy, green edifice that has me thinking of the hells again and whatever gods damned magic surrounds us. Only black smoke streams from the candles, though they are of white tallow.
I flinch back, something wet thrown on my face. Chapped lips drink it like the first rain of the Growth. Capitane Dickson spins on me with a yellow grimace, his bleeding finger stretched out as if to stab at me, blood dripping from the end.
“One God!” He cries.
Blood quickens in my ears.
Thud, thud.
My breath catches, Baraki’s eyes wear that watery, begging gaze of a hungry mutt. They widen with concern: his focus is on leaving here, living from here, so we may regroup. If the Whitans let us go, there’s hope we will again take Orika, we will again chase the Taos. Somehow, I know all this. The connection to the young wolf I gained by drinking his blood becomes annoying. But none of it will come to pass, not if a blood fever settles on me here, my muscles bulge like that of a demon’s. Though we’re taught they lie in wait for travellers in the Demon Mountains as children, to scare us, keep us close to home, I’m not sure what the Whitans are taught. With their brash attitude, it is certain they’d kill us both here.
Thud.
Again, I wince back from a spray that patters my face, but this is spit flung in the foreigner’s tirade. All his words swallowed by the ravening madness that seeks a way out from my blood. It does not find a way through though, remaining distant. Odd. Did I imagine its call? For the first time in my life, I breathe and let the hiss slow through my teeth and no rage comes. Why die here and mark my legacy in the bowels of a foreign ship when it is meant to burn down the northern lords, and lay claim to Basho?
