The Jinni and the Isekai (The Jinni and the Isekai, #1)

By Lawrence Caldwell

Shiro Takeda, a samurai deep in debt and forced into a swashbuckler’s life, wanders in search of dungeons to raid so he can pay back his loans. Unfortunately, his lenders have already sent headsmen after him. His fortunes change when he finds a piece of legendary loot—a jinni lamp. But before the insolent spirit can bestow her gifts upon him, Shiro must find and kill the Jinni’s current master; a sultan of vast wealth, power and harems.

Perhaps with the help of his newfound companion, Shiro can discover who isekaied him into this strange land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Caldwell
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005390471

Lawrence Caldwell

Lawrence Caldwell is believed by some to be a wandering samurai, or a vagrant, or possibly a ninja—though perhaps in his infinite mystery, he’s none of these things. Whichever the case, he wanders home as Odysseus did after the great Trojan War in some realm unbeknownst to our world. And—by direct theft of a quote from a certain dwarf named Varric Tethras—he "occasionally writes books."

Book preview

Prologue—Isekai

Shiro Takeda had come to the house to kill the samurai Waraba Hito who had insulted his honor by calling his family poor dogs who served a traitor.

The duel had been going well, Takeda clearly having an advantage over the other man because of age. At only thirty-four, he had far more stamina than the fifty-six-year-old. But now the other samurai’s skills were showing.

Rain poured down atop the machiya townhouse, tapping the tiles on the roof and splashing on the ground beneath the eves.

Thunder cracked.

Shiro held his katana high in a ready pose to strike in either attack or defense. Waraba-san kept his blade low, angled at forty-five degrees, his grip low to his waist.

There had been a pause. Both warriors stood still, regarding the other.

And then they screamed, rushed forward and blades flashed.

After crossing the other samurai’s path, Shiro spun on his heel, his blade ready for another quick flurry. The pain on his left hip stung like a yōkai curse, but he ignored it completely. He had taken a strike, albeit, a shallow slash that did little terrible damage—only superficially wounding him.

That did not mean that his blood was not flowing. The wound would not slow him.

This, the older man said, his tone scratchy and old, is where you end, boy.

Shiro narrowed his eyes, feeling both outrage and also something deep down telling him the old samurai wasn’t simply bringing bravado to this duel. He would end Takeda Shiro here, now on this evening.

The young samurai did not fear his imminent death.

The old man made a face, screamed.

Shiro screamed.

They lunged toward one another, the old man raising his blade for a death strike, Shiro angling to parry his blade, but then something happened.

Something strange.

The world suddenly folded in on itself. Shiro spun. At least he thought he spun. The acute sense of vertigo travelled through his body.

He was falling?

And then he hit ground, grunted with the force of the blow as his shoulder impacted first, taking most of his weight.

Shaking his head, he leaned up, looked back and forth quickly.

What is this?

Getting up, he felt the air was warm, dry. The sky was gold-orange, and the machiya was nowhere. Waraba Hito was nowhere.

There were no hills—no trees and no rain. Just this… this desert, the skyline visible in every direction.

"Kuso," he muttered, cursing this strange turn of events.

What had happened to him just now? One moment he was—he was dueling Waraba Hito for his honor, and then he landed here!

Here!

Shiro looked down at the ground. Rocky. Dusty. A dry desert.

By the kami, he thought. Did the old man send him here? Does he have these powers? No, that hadn’t been it. The old man had been in mid strike with his blade. He had not reached into his kimono for a hidden magical item.

Looking at his hands, and the sword hilt therein, he realized he didn’t even have his sheath. His waraji sandals had bent put aside for better mobility for their fight.

Barefooted and naked blade in hand, Shiro cursed again. "Kuso!"

Chapter One—The Bazar of Atoulia

It was market day and the bazar of the city Atoulia was packed with local townsfolk, municipal farmers and travelers from out of town. Both humans and demi-humans alike roamed the streets, buying, selling and haggling in the early morning heat.

The sun had crested the desert dunes on the river Yara only hours before and already the heat was making Shiro’s back itch. Thankfully he had never needed to get used to this much drier heat.

The heat of his homeland had been almost wet. In the summers, it was cloying and sometimes difficult to breath.

The stranded and deeply indebted samurai did not miss it in the least. But he still wanted to find his way home.

With the headsmen hunting him—Shiro had had a run in with them thirty leagues to the south in the tiny valley oasis of Oshir—he needed to make some money, and fast.

With the loot bags he had just purchased, he shouldered his way through the crowds. The meat sellers, with their sizzling kebabs made his stomach grumble. Shiro was so poor right now, he had spent the last of his money on these bags. But they were good bags, leather, stitched well. They would last and do quite well for whatever they found.

There would be loot. There had to be, or he was finished.

Ali wasn’t the most reliable of partners—and it was said by some that he was unreliable and untrustworthy, but what did the herb smokers know of adventuring in dungeons?

Ali was waiting for him on the edge of town near the river. They had provisioned fresh camels for the trip and many jugs of water and some dried meet.

They would head out into the desert, through the Valley of Knives and to the dungeon, of which only they knew where it was.

Shiro felt the inner pocket of his leather vest, checking to make sure his half of the map was still intact. He had been so nervous he would lose it, constantly checking it dozens of times daily.

Hopefully that crazy old man who sold it to us wasn’t running a scam.

Yes, yes, he had said, nodding vigorously with a mouth of mostly missing teeth. Legendary loot!

Regendary loot?

Yes! Legendary!

He had purchased the map and split it in two with Ali’s wavy blade.

Now, walking through the dusty, sweaty bazar and looking over his shoulder—he did that a lot these days, what with the headsmen after him for his inability to pay back his loans—he strode off the pal treed thoroughfare of sand stone structures, awnings and stalls, and cut his way down a quiet side street.

A woman from above yelled at him, then dumped something out her window.

Shiro stepped to the side, dodging the chamber pot contents. Watch out!

"No, you watch out, foreigner! she growled and shook a fist. Infidel!"

The rudeness of these barbarians was hard to get used to, even after being in these lands—through no action of his own!—a year. Had she been a man, Shiro would challenge him to a duel here on this walk!

The young samurai came to his business partner at the edge of the river. In the distance, some women were scrubbing laundry atop the rocks, their children there to help as they laid the clothes out on the green grass to dry in the hot sun.

He had said he would meet Shiro in the bazar, and he never showed up. Oh, did he like the punctuality of his countrymen from his own lands.

And of course, he found Ali, lying down against a palm tree, his leg propped up on one knee and his arms behind his head. He chewed on a wheat grass twig, the seed pod bouncing about. Ah, he said, smiling largely. There you are, my good adventurer friend. He got up. "And I see you procured our loot bags, haha! Wonderful!"

Yes, Shiro muttered.

Come now, Ali said, scratching the black stubble of his beard just below his turban. Don’t be so dour my friend. He put his arm around Shiro’s shoulders.

It was far too hot for this nonsense as Ali guided his eyes off into the hills, By the gods! Legendary loot awaits us!

Shiro hummed thoughtfully to himself, nodded.

See? See! We have every reason to be cheerful—so smile.

The nature of his partner made him sniff with mild amusement, and he shook his head as Ali clasped his hands together.

Two bags, Shiro said, sliding one of them off his shoulder and handed it to the other man, who has his jacket undone, his shaven chest completely visible.

Even Shiro wore the low neckline vest that so many men preferred to wear in this region, but he didn’t parade about with it open.

Ali needed a bath. Now, he said, tucking his bag onto his camel. We ride to our destination. Do you have your half of the map?

"Hai."

Then bring it forth and let us divine our path once more to be sure.

Shiro did just that, and the two men set off toward the dungeon, called by the map by the name Akarilion.

Chapter Two—Valley of Knives

For its name, it seemed a good description, Shiro thought, as the rocks in this valley were strange jagged things, sharp—like knives.

Shiro’s camel groaned and he patted her on the neck.

Ali turned, regarded him.

"Nani?"

Why do you do that?

Do what?

He scratched the back of his neck. Talk in the words of your homeland.

Shiro frowned. He didn’t really think about it very much.

In any event, Ali continued, we should be turning up that mountain when a path presents itself.

Shiro looked about as a gust of desert wind pushed some dust along the road. He lifted his face covering to keep the sand from going into his mouth. What makes you think a path will ‘present itself’?

Ali leaned a bit, then threw out his arms in a shrug and laughed. I have no idea! But I am certain we will find this Akarilion dungeon. Have a little faith, my friend. Was it not I who had convinced you of that toothless old man’s veracity?

This veracity you speak of, Shiro said, pausing for a moment. It still remains to be proven.

Ha! And it shall be in due— Ali leaned forward, then glanced back at Shiro. Look!

There was a dead horse in the road, a woman sitting next to it. She got up, waved and screamed for help.

What is this? Shiro asked?