Warrior Born: Book 1 of the Katana Series

By Kathrine Leannan

Epona, Goddess of horses, dogs, healing springs and crops, prays for the coming of the girl child prophesized to be born with the sight for the magnificent Friesian horses.
Yokami Sukani’s Katana recognises Marie MacDonald.
A bargain is struck.
In modern Australia, the awaited one, Connor MacDonald is birthed, awakening the ancient Scottish Horsemen from their three-century slumber.
Brutality finds her.
Bishamon, made with rage, hunts for his blade,
Born of the blood of the ancient Scots, named Daughter by the immortal Samurai; doubly blessed or doubly cursed. Will Connor MacDonald be Bishamon’s instrument of revenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathrine Leannan
• Release date: Mar 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370044726

Kathrine Leannan

As a career nurse/midwife, I have celebrated life and birthing all of my adult life. Study and research has always been my playground. After being awarded a PhD, I turned my attentions to my other passion—writing. A love of the Scots and their history is a common thread in my works of fantasy.I smell rain before clouds gather across the sky. I feel the dawn before the sun paints my world the colours of the earth. It is the flit of gossamer wings above my head as I walk through the garden that warms my soul and makes me glad that faeries exist. The universe is my mistress and my strength. Things that growl in the shadows or snap at my ankles in the night are my dark friends—the source of my creativity.

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Acknowledgements

To Brad, the beat of my heart—eternity will never be enough time together. I thank you for your endless support and encouragement. To Nicholas and Abbey, my greatest creations, I will love you both, forever.

To the lovely Erin Grace, for always having the kettle boiling on the hob. You are the best critique partner I could have ever asked for. It is because of you my dear friend, that I kept going and finished the book.

To Faith, for always believing it would be ‘when’ not ‘if’. To Cate, my book signing goddess, your support is most appreciated.

To Mary Harris, editor extraordinaire – where would I be without your eagle eye? I thank you for the lessons I learned on our journey. I am looking forward to working with you again on the rest of the Katana Series.

To the universe, I offer my gratitude for your wisdom and guidance. You are my strength and the source of my creativity. I am grateful.

The Scots knew she would come...

The katana called her daughter...

Prologue

Imperial Samurai leader Yokami Sukani shook his head as his wife Tomoe Gazen stared longingly to the Earth far below, listening to and watching the mortal children. His heart clenched when her lips pulled upward in a sad smile, knowing they would never create a life between them. He muttered to the four walls of the celestial Kingdom of the Samurai. What is the point of being a God if I cannot give her a child, a daughter to inherit her sword?

In the twelfth century, he had found her and loved her, both as a woman and as a master Samurai warrior. She was his partner in immortality, the beat of his heart.

Unable to watch anymore, he turned and walked away. Sadness painted his soul with the patina of despair, as images of bloody conflict, when she had fought by his side, flashed vividly in his memory. Her skills in battle were revered whispers of bravery and of a perfect example of a Samurai goddess. He knew she suffered the gnawing pain of the unfulfilled, both as a woman and in her destiny to train the next Daughter of the Sword in the ways of the Samurai Masters and of the blade. Perhaps it amused Chimati no Kami, the ruler of fertility and God of crossroads and footpaths, to have interfered, to ensure she remained childless, all to prove some poignant point understood only by him.

His melancholy thoughts were shattered when a berserk scream cut through the palace as Bishamon, the Japanese God of War, strode through the halls traipsing mud and blood onto the pristine polished marble tiles. The vivid red stain of slaughter smeared the blade of the katana—the Holy sword of the Samurai, which hung from his equally bloody hand. His malevolent laugh, a tsunami of blackness, bounced off the walls and coated everything it touched in a blanket of fear.

Yokami strode toward him; his sword hand flexed open and shut as he walked. Long fingers worked furiously, warming his hand, readying his grasp. Bishamon! In the name of the Masters, what have you done?

The God of War stopped just out of lunge range. He wiped both sides of the bloody blade of his sword down the sleeve of his robe, his favourite badge of honour, always worn with pride. He cocked one eyebrow, his face a mask of arrogance. This day, Genghis Khan and I spent a little time together…a true warrior, a man after my own heart; a man not afraid to spill blood and enjoy it. He told me the greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies…to chase them, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters. Such a great man, for a mortal. Pity he wasn’t a God. We could have been friends.

He sneered and slit his eyes in a look that screamed challenge.

With a flourish of his hand in a wide arc, Yokami replayed a vision of the battle. His face hardened as he gripped the handle of his katana hard enough to shatter it, had the sword been of mortal beginnings. Staring at the battle, horror crept along his flesh when Bishamon assumed the form of the thirty-year-old Mongol leader. He ambushed and annihilated his mortal form’s father-in-law along with his ten-thousand-strong army, left with swords glistening red. Dead and mutilated warriors lay bleeding, littered on the ground, staring up at the heavens with sightless eyes.

Bishamon shrugged and sighed theatrically, his face a lament. Pity they were mortal. Cursed weak creatures that they are, their screams hardly lasted a day. Such a shame. I do so love the sound of defeat in the back of a man’s throat as he perishes. Twisting his wrist back and forth, he admired the blade of his blood-streaked sword as he chuckled. You should have heard Ung Khan beg for his life before we crushed him and his army into the dust.

Spitting on his index finger, he swiped it across his bloodied cheek. His tongue unfurled like a serpent and licked the red stain clean. Ahh, he groaned in pleasure, the taste of terror. There is nothing like it.

Yokami summoned the katana. The sword screamed where it lay gripped in his hand. The lethal point of the sword lodged just above Bishamon’s Adam’s apple; he jerked his chin upward in reflex. God of War, again you have interfered with the mortals and their world. You fool! Your arrogance has caused a forbidden change to the course of history. Genghis Khan was destined to die in the battle of Germaghah! Now he is victor! He and his son, who would not have been conceived without your interference, will leave a trail of blood that history will never forget.

The clash of blades rang shrill along the hallway as Bishamon thrust his sword toward the centre of Yokami’s chest.

He threw himself backward, balancing on the balls of his feet as he dodged the blade, then lunged, slicing through the silk sleeve of Bishamon’s robe. The God of War roared, his face red and damp with sweat. He slashed, parried, then stabbed and swung the sword wide, leaving his sword arm vulnerable. The battle cries of the immortal swords reverberated off the walls. Yokami raised his sword and brought it down hard. The blade collided with the other weapon, sending it crashing down upon the tiles. Bishamon stood disbelieving, wide eyed, with both hands hanging by his sides as he frowned down at the sword. The tip of the Imperial Leader’s blade made a tiny dent in the silk covering his heart. The God of War stood disarmed and dishonoured.

Without taking his eyes from the face of his opponent, Yokami called the katana from the floor to his hand. It vibrated on the marble tiles and whined as it flew to his palm. He gripped the hilt tightly to prevent it from returning to Bishamon. For your crime against humanity, your sword is forfeit. You are no longer fit to carry or fight with the holy weapon. From this moment in time, no sword will answer your Summon or call you Master ever again.

Bishamon’s face blanched white with fury. He spoke through hard, flattened lips, teeth bared. Return the weapon! I know you see this as a change to mortal history, but what does it matter? The end is the same, if I kill them or they kill themselves because of greed, lack of care, stupidity, or abuse of their planet. The human loss is inconsequential. He shrugged again, deliberately softening his voice. Imperial Leader, you are a God, as am I. Why do you care? What good is a God of War without a sword?

The Samurai leader gripped a katana in each of his hands and spoke through gritted teeth. You are no longer the God of War. You are not worthy of such a sword. Disgrace will be the only word spoken in history when your name is mentioned. Yokami brandished his katana mere inches from Bishamon’s face. The sword screamed the Death Song of the Samurai, longing to take the head of the deposed God. You know my sword to be the God Killer. Interfere again and your death will come from my blade. I command from this moment your confinement to our Kingdom. Banishment for eternity will be your punishment if you leave here. Be warned, Bishamon, the other immortals are brutal to rogue Gods.

Bishamon screamed. White spittle sprayed onto the blade of the God Killer; sizzling heat hissed, then rejected the moisture. You think to threaten me. I have been the fucking God of War for centuries! I do not fear the other Gods! They fear me! He leaned his face a fraction closer so the tip of the God Killer was a hair’s breadth from his skin. Only you and your sword have the power to kill a God, to kill me.

The God Killer gravitated to the warmth of its intended. Yokami gripped the handle to hold the sword back as the blood of Bishamon called for the death strike. True. However, the Samurai are not currently at war with anyone. The other Gods, out of political courtesy, would return you to me. Well, after they have finished with you, that is. You know what bloodthirsty bastards some of them can be. The torture could last for centuries.

Yokami lowered his sword, bowed to the blade in each hand, turned and walked away without offering the other God the customary bow of respect. The walls around him vibrated as Bishamon roared and screamed at the blatant insult. The Sword of War, thirsty for blood, cried out its lament, in farewell to its master.

In his quarters, Yokami paced across the marble tiles; the staccato of his boots heralded his worry. Tomoe Gazen walked up to him and circled his waist from behind, leaning her cheek between his shoulder blades. What is to be done, husband? Bishamon will do anything and everything in his power to regain his position and his sword.

He closed his eyes for just a second, enjoying the spread of warmth from her body into his. I know. His love of bloodshed and violence is legendary. As Imperial Leader, I cannot allow him to abuse the katana, or his powers, again. Death and destruction comes so naturally to him. His ability to assume control of humans and command them to his will threatens not only the balance between the Gods, but humankind itself. He must be stopped.

What will you do?

He turned and gathered her in his arms. For now, the sword is secured under wards in the vault, guarded by a company of fifty from the Imperial army. He sighed heavily, kissed the side of her neck, then pushed her gently away, holding her at arm’s length. Despair lined his face. Now that I have had time to think, I realize the sword cannot remain here in the Kingdom. It must be removed and hidden away forever. He must never find it. Without the sword, he cannot make war.

He gathered her in his arms again and whispered into her ear. I will be away for as long as it takes to secure the blade. I have instructed the Imperial commander to regard you as Leader in my absence.

Nodding, she placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed his lips gently. Take care, husband mine. Bishamon is heartless; he would not think twice about killing you.

His head rested against her brow. I know and that is why I must leave. He walked over to the wall and lifted down the leather scabbard that contained his katana—the God Killer. I will go and collect the Sword of War and do what I should have done a long time ago. I will not return until the sword is secure.

He draped the scabbard over his back, then returned to stand in front of her, gathered her to his chest and held her tightly. His lips found hers. Her breath was warm on his face as she whispered, Where will you hide the sword?

He brushed the point of his nose against hers, once…twice…three times. In a place so remote and harsh, even he would not think to look there. Ask me not for the location, wife of my heart. I will not risk you. His brutality toward women is surpassed only by his love for bloodshed and war.

His arms tightened protectively around her.

Her words were little more than a whisper. When will you leave?

"Tonight.

14 April, 1746

The morning was cold when Yokami materialized on the Highland soil of the Scots. Cutting, frigid wind buffeted his imperial robes as he walked toward a giant monolith split almost in two by the force of an ancient earthquake. The downpour of rain shrouded the early morning sunshine. Snow-capped mountains appeared grey and hostile in the fog and the cloudburst. His thoughts were of Bishamon and whatever chaos he was creating back at the Imperial palace.

In the distance, a tall woman dressed in a long drab homespun dress walked through the heather, seemingly oblivious to the rain and the cold. Over her arm, she carried a basket. Her long blonde hair was wound into a bun, from which tendrils had escaped to curl around her face. The bite of the chill wind made her cheeks the colour of roses. Praise to the Masters, she was beautiful.

Fading to invisibility, he tucked the Sword of War, wrapped in ceremonial silk wraps as befitting its importance, under his arm. The blade was warm against his side. The woman bent down to pick some plants and added them to her basket, when the purr of his katana vibrated along his back, signalling its welcome. The woman’s head shot up abruptly, then she stared in his direction. Although she could not see him, she squinted like someone trying to peer through pea soup fog. Shaking her head, she shrugged and returned to gathering the plants.

Footfalls nearby summoned the katana from the scabbard to his open palm. He flicked his wrist and extended the blade. The Sword of War tingled and vibrated through the silk wraps pressed against the side of his chest.

A tinkling voice laced with laughter came from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he took a couple of seconds to recognise and take in the sight that was Epona, the Scottish Goddess of horses, dogs, healing springs, and crops. He smiled and relaxed as the katana returned to the scabbard. Seated on a sidesaddle, positioned on the back of a black Friesian mare, she extended her hand. Well met, Lord of the blade. To what do the Celtic Gods owe the pleasure of your visit?

Lowering the sword, he bowed his head onto her outstretched fingers. Well met, my Lady.

The smile died on her face when her gaze tracked to the wrap of silk under his arm. The mare pranced as agitation overcame her mistress. Glaring at him, she hissed, You would dare to bring the blade of treachery to our lands? Why? The Sword of War has no place here.

Yokami nodded and acknowledged her concern. You are correct. This sword is an instrument of death and destruction. It has taken many lives. Too many souls have already been lost, because of its love of bloodshed and power.

Her eyes lingered on the wrapped sword, then she stared unblinking at him and nodded. It is right that you would rid yourself of such a weapon, but why bring it here to the Scottish Highlands? Do we not have enough strife already with the wretched English and their greed for our land?

Joining both hands palm against palm just under his chin, he bowed his head in reverence. I mean you and your race no harm, Lady. My intention was to hide the sword here in the past, in a place hidden for all eternity. I intended to drop it down the crater and let the Earth take it back to base metals.

The corded muscles in his back and neck relaxed slightly when a small smile lifted the corners of her lips. Confused, he cocked his head to the side and frowned. Have I amused you, Goddess?

I was watching you before you realized I was near. She inclined her head in the direction of the blonde woman. I see you are a man who appreciates beauty.

He nodded and followed her gaze. She is indeed beautiful—a puzzle, but beautiful

Epona’s brow wrinkled. A puzzle? What do you mean?

The sword in the scabbard sang as it flew to his palm. Lifting the blade, he raised it slowly to the outstretched position. Watch.

The audible purr from the katana caused Epona to gasp as she flinched and startled her mare, who danced on the spot. Stroking the long black neck in soothing lines, Epona looked to Yokami and frowned. The sword recognizes Marie MacDonald?

Lowering the blade, he returned it to the scabbard, then placed a hand on the forehead of the beautiful black mare. So it would seem. What do you know of her?

Epona returned her gaze to the young woman, who was now making her way back down the hillside. The purple heather seemed to stroke her ankles as it swayed in her wake.

Angus, her husband, is of the blood of our ancient Horsemen. His clan has bred and reared Friesians for eons. The breed was a gift to Scotland from our Gods. It is our greatest hope that his genes will pass to a girl child, a daughter of the Highland horsemen. You see, for the Scots, it is only female children who are born with the Sight. We hope for a daughter who not only hears and talks and is one with our Friesian bloodline, but who also has the skill and courage to promote them as the best this world has ever seen. As our Gods intended—the pride of Scotland.

She tapped her index finger lightly on the side of her mouth, as if deep in thought. Perhaps your sword recognizes Marie because she is of pure warrior blood. Her clan is fearsome and undefeated in battle. Each child born to this clan is practically birthed with a broadsword in their fist.

Yokami flinched, as adrenaline surged at her words. His jack hammering heart seemed to be trying to erupt from his chest. He swallowed the quaver he knew was in his voice, then spoke. "She is warrior born? Of the sword?"

Aye. We have great hopes for her.

Stricken, his shoulders slumped as the colour drained from his face. The sword in the scabbard screamed in pain. A deep whine came from the Sword of War, vibrating within the silken shroud. I am sorry…so very, very, sorry…

Epona leaned forward in the saddle, reached out and laid a gentle hand on the leather that housed the sword. The screaming ceased at her touch. Wide-eyed, fear painted her face. Tell me! What do you know? Is there a threat to Marie? If so, you must tell me. She is too important to come to harm. My Lord, I beg of you…we have waited more than two hundred years for the coming of another who has the Sight. One who will show the world the might of the MacDonald Friesian line. Please…

Head bowed, his shiny, straight, black hair fell forward, shadowing his face. His voice, little more than a whisper, was laced with regret. History will come to pass, my Lady. All will be lost for the Scots and life will never again be as you have known it.

White-knuckled from her grip on the reins, her hands shook. Show me.

Hand outstretched, he made a wide arc. A vision of Culloden Moor appeared, trampled by the English redcoats, soaked with the blood of the exhausted, ill-armed Scottish soldiers. In less than forty-five minutes, the Highland clans lay decimated, leaving the women and children to starve, in favour of growing sheep for the fat bellies of the English.

Her pale hand flew to her mouth as she screamed, No! Oh Goddess, no! My people… When?

Reaching out, he grasped her hand. In two days…all will be lost for the way of the clans.

She cannot die! The old mothers believe Marie MacDonald is the mortal woman who will birth the saviour of the Friesians. Help me! Lord of the blade, I beseech you. In the name of the Goddess, please, do not let this happen! A single tear tracked down her cheek. My race does not have the way of altering events and time shifting—you do. Help me! Save her!

He shook his head. It is forbidden to interfere in the events of the mortal world. You know of the past misdeeds of the Gods. That is the true reason why I have come.

Gripping a handful of mane with one hand, she ran the other hand along the agitated mare’s neck. The horse side paced and stamped nervously. Desperate, she pleaded, What if I can shield the sword? She leaned forward and grasped his forearm. A bargain then. In return I vow that I will do all I can to keep the blade hidden from your God of War?

Squinting at her, his voice dripped with suspicion. How would you shield the sword? If we struck a bargain, what assurance do I have that you will keep your word? You are a God. History is littered with accounts of their deceit and manipulation.

Desperate, she dismounted as a flurry of white robes tangled round her legs. She went down on one knee. Looking up at him, she pleaded, Save Marie MacDonald and I will allow your sword to choose her child, to protect her.

Yokami’s head jerked backward in surprise.

My Lord, I will do whatever is necessary to fulfill the prophesy to ensure the safety of the long-awaited bairn of the Scots.

Blood roared in his ears as he chose his words carefully. "You would see a girl child born of the Highlands to be doubly blessed or doubly cursed with the prophecies of the Ancient Highland Horsemen and the Samurai?"

Epona paused, then, nodded once. Yes. If it means that our prophesy will be fulfilled…yes.

Visions of Tomoe Gazen’s beautiful face filled his mind. A chance, at last, to fulfill her destiny, to pass on the katana to this child—the next Daughter of the Sword. Elation rose in his belly, while his face remained a blank canvas. The Sword of War? How do you propose to conceal it, so the blade can never be used as an instrument of destruction ever again?

Rising to her feet, Epona turned and walked back to her mare, then grabbed a handful of mane and swung herself up onto the saddle. There is no better place to hide anything than in plain sight.

Staring up at her, he stood as still as if he were made of stone. We are agreed? The Samurai will spare Angus and Marie MacDonald and in return you agree to hide the Sword of War forever?

To this I agree. The word of the ancient Horsemen is given. Pointing to the silk-wrapped package still tucked under his arm, she nodded, Lay the sword on the ground.

With his other hand, he grasped the sword, then knelt. After peeling the silk cover free, he raised the blade in front of his face. The cold metal kissed his nose. He bowed his head, then lowered the deadly weapon to the hard, frozen earth.

Leaning forward in the saddle, her hand rose from its resting place on her lap as she moved her arm in a wide arc over the space where the sword lay. I am Epona. I command you to a renewed life, not as destroyer, but as protector. I draw your form from ancient blood that knows persecution and hardship. It is right that you suffer in penance for your thirst for blood.

The sword screamed in terror as it shimmered and distorted, taking shape as a huge red dog from an ancient land.

She looked to Yokami and jutted her chin in the direction of the beast. Let her be your companion, Lord of the blade. We are now partners in this child of the Highlands that is yet to be conceived, a child who will also become your Daughter of the Sword. Make it so.

In a flash of golden light Epona and her mare were gone as abruptly as they had appeared.

The dog rose to her feet, leaving paw prints on the silk wrap that fluttered in the wind, bereft of its precious contents. As she lifted her head, her eyes flashed the colour of molten steel. She moved cautiously forward, resting her head under the Samurai’s hand. The flash of metal in her eyes betrayed her true identity.

You are released from your bond to the God of War. Now, you are bound to me. You will protect the awaited child, the next Daughter of the Sword, with your life.

Yokami sat on a granite rock overlooking the house into which the beautiful woman had carried her basket. He patted the head of the red dog. Stay and wait for me. There is much to be considered.

The dog growled, then lowered her head to the ground. Her long snout rested on her two front paws as the Samurai disappeared into the vapour.

Inside the house, Yokami stood invisible against a wall in the room where a family was gathered. The blonde woman sat on a chair at a rough wooden table; her basket, still filled with plants, sat in front of her, as a babe suckled at her breast. She looked pale with worry. I spoke with ole Granny McLaughlin this morn. She said the English are comin’. What will happen to us if they come? What of the Friesians, Angus? The English will surely take them or slaughter them if they find them. What are we to do?