Katana's Edge: Fountains of Power, #2

By Marcus Williams

In an ancient land with ancient secrets, the kamikaze, or "divine winds" saved Japan from Kublai Khan's invading Mongol fleet—not once, but twice, inexplicable but for the intercession of the gods. Or that's what the Japanese people believed...

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Archie and Zaira are shocked to learn that the Power they fought so hard to protect in Sicily is revered and sought after in other cultures as well. Archie once again finds himself on a dangerous journey to discover ancient secrets, this time hidden in the Aokigahara Forest of Mt. Fuji, Japan. As he teams up with Miura Osamu, the newly appointed Guardian, Archie must use his connection to the Power to help retrieve the sacred katana before a secretive extremist group uses it to their own political ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Williams & Co Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393924005

Marcus Williams

Marcus has written thousands of pages of law enforcement reports describing the details of cyber crimes, sexual assaults, drug trafficking, and murders during his career as a federal agent. He now uses all of that "practice" to tell stories that excite, entertain, and engage. While life doesn't always have a happy ending, there is always hope found in family, friendships, and kindness. He and his family have lived all over the world and love exploring and making friends wherever they find themselves: from California's high desert, to Sicily's historical marvels, to the beaches of the mid-Atlantic coast, to the rain soaked forests of Washington, to the base Mt Fuji, and to the majestic Rocky Mountains. The world is full of mystery and untold stories.

Book preview

PART 1

Chapter 1

Ise, Mie, Nippon

1281

The samurai pulled the reins of his war stallion as he reached the drawbridge of the monastery at Ise Jingū in Mie. Sweat lathered the stallion’s withers, and it snorted in agony from the long and demanding ride. The warrior had left Kamakura two days before and had ridden non-stop under order of the Shogun. The message was of the utmost importance, its delivery a sacred duty. The samurai clenched the reins to keep from falling from the saddle in exhaustion.

Thick stands of bamboo crowded the dirt path, deepening the late afternoon shadows. The warrior hailed the gate and demanded entrance in the name of the Shogun.

He watched as a door opened just far enough for a small statured monk to emerge, his head shaven, wearing the robes of the priesthood. The monk bowed low and stood in calm silence, waiting for the warrior to make his intentions known. The monk showed no fear facing the heaving war horse and armored samurai.

I come bearing an urgent message for the Daijō Tennō, the samurai announced, referring to the cloistered Emperor Kameyama.

After a long silence, the monk finally spoke, Daijō Hōō will not receive you; you must leave

Years previous, Emperor Kameyama had abdicated his throne to his son, Go-Uda, to reign as a cloistered emperor. He had entered the Buddhist monastic life and retired to Ise, where he still exerted control and influence over the imperial palace.

A look of rage crossed the samurai’s face. I will not leave, you fool. I will have every monk’s head on a spike if you refuse to allow me to pass. The fate of the kingdom is at stake.

The monk’s demeanor never changed and he did not respond, seeing no reason to reiterate his previous statement.

A breeze blew through the tunnel of trees, chilling the warrior’s sweaty back, causing him to shiver involuntarily. A crow cawed in the distance, flying from its perch in a loud flap of black feathers.

The samurai stared at the implacable monk. He reached for the hilt of his short wakisashi sword. Before drawing, he recalled the words of his teacher, the master Minamoto No Tameyoshi, "Your third sword is patience, the sharpest sword of all." The samurai had always shown more aptitude for action and bravery than patience and dialogue.

They were at a stalemate. The stallion stamped his paws and snorted, eager to get the samurai off his back.

The door opened again, and a priest emerged. He glanced at the warrior and then turned to the monk. They spoke quietly for a moment. When finished, the monk bowed and retired inside.

You have a message for His Holiness, Daijō Tennō? the priest asked.

"Hai, direct from the Shogun himself," the warrior responded.

The priest nodded. I am Myōkū, he said, formally known in Kamakura as Miura Kōjirō Yoshitada.

The samurai gasped in recognition of the name. Miura Kōjirō Yoshitada’s father had been a loyal vassal to the Shogun. The samurai had heard rumors that Miura Kōjirō Yoshitada had joined the priesthood when his honorable father died in battle. The samurai dismounted and grunted as he found his balance on unsteady legs. After so many hours in the wooden saddle, the earth seemed to move under his feet in a galloping motion.

The samurai bowed.

I will speak with His Eminence, Myōkū said. Follow me.

The warrior stepped forward, and two men appeared at his side to take the stallion’s reins. Alarm flashed across his face.

They will care for your horse. Come. Myōkū entered through the door without looking back to ensure the warrior followed.

The monastery was a maze of hallways, temples, and shrines. The samurai’s armor clanked loudly through the silent corridors as they walked. Robed monks deliberately looked down and away as they passed, none willing to make eye contact with the stranger disrupting their peace.

They arrived at a shoji door set in the otherwise unbroken wall of a long hallway. Two men dressed as monks stood on either side of the door, staring straight ahead. The samurai immediately recognized them as fellow warriors from their alertness and rigid posture. Myōkū indicated for the samurai to stand to the side before falling to his knees. With his forehead touching the floor, Myōkū slid open the shoji screen and shuffled on his knees into the room. One of the guards slid the door closed behind him.

The samurai found himself shaking in nervous anticipation. He had been so focused on fulfilling his orders that he hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was going to speak directly with the holy Daijō Tennō. He felt shame wash over him, his unworthiness a sharp pain in his heart. Perhaps I should pass the message to Myōkū and have him speak directly with the Emperor, he thought momentarily. But then he remembered his orders. If he did not fulfill those orders completely and as dictated, he would no longer be worthy to serve the Shogun, which would leave him no honorable alternative besides death.

Deep in thought, he did not notice Myōkū backing out of the room and sliding the door shut behind him. Myōkū stood and faced the samurai.

He will hear your message, Myōkū said, glancing down at the warrior’s weapons.

Yes, of course, the samurai said, understanding Myōkū’s unspoken meaning. The samurai removed his weapons and handed them to Myōkū. Myōkū passed them on to one of the guards, who received the weapons without word. The samurai also handed over his helmet. Myōkū nodded his approval.

The samurai bowed and fell to his knees. Myōkū slid open the door and the samurai crawled forward onto the tatami mat floor. He felt out of place. Normally, a samurai such as himself would not bow so deeply, because he had to be ready at a moment’s notice to defend his lord from any enemy. But in this place, he was but a messenger. The Emperor had his own guards.

When he was halfway into the room, he stopped and waited for permission to speak. After what seemed like ages, the Daijō Tennō broke the silence.

Speak, he commanded.

Your Eminence, the samurai began, I bear a message from the Shogun.

Yes?

Out in the hallway, Myōkū dismissed the guards. With hesitation, they reluctantly obeyed, leaving him alone in the corridor. He leaned close to the thin rice paper walls and listened intently to the message passed on to the Emperor.

Kublai Khan has again assembled his army to invade our homeland. He has amassed another great fleet of warships and is preparing to attack. The ships are innumerable, forming a bridge his warriors could traverse from Korea to our shores.

Myōkū covered his mouth and gasped. Again? Kublai Khan had attempted an invasion just seven years earlier, and it was only through the intervention of Myōkū’s family that the crisis had been averted. I must act without delay, he thought.

The samurai continued. The Shogun asks for your direct intercession with the gods to ward off this attack. We are preparing our defenses and have our bravest warriors ready to defend Japan, but need your help. You can turn the tide as you did during their previous attack.

A moment of silence passed as the Emperor considered the request. "Inform the Shogun I will pray to Amaterasu-Ōmikami, Goddess of the Sun, at Ise Jingū. Your warriors will have her protection."

The samurai felt a moment of shock as an unexpected teardrop fell from his eye to the tatami mat. He felt the Emperor’s words in the depths of his soul and bowed even deeper into the mat. He backed up slowly until he felt the wooden threshold press into his knees and then across his forehead as he reentered the corridor. The door slid closed, and the samurai finally lifted his head from the floor and blinked.

The two guards had returned to stand sentry, but Myōkū had disappeared.

Chapter 2

Ise, Mie, Nippon

1281

Myōkū dipped his quill into the inkwell and huddled close to the small piece of parchment. He squinted as he finished copying the message a second time. As he finished the last stroke, he stood, accidentally knocking over the inkwell. Ink flowed over the edge of the low table, dripping onto the mat and soaking into the straw. Myōkū rose from the floor and hustled from the room, not noticing the growing stain.

Exiting through the back door, Myōkū crossed the stone garden to the back corner of the compound where he kept his pigeons in a well-tended coop. The birds cooed as he opened the door, welcoming their owner. He took a handful of grain from a pot sitting just outside of the door and scattered the treat in the enclosure. He closed the door behind him and took the two small notes from the pocket of his robes.

He carefully rolled the notes and then picked his fastest bird. The pigeon wriggled in protest at being taken away from the feed, but calmed as Myōkū gently rubbed her head and spoke to her in a sing-song voice. He tied the note to her leg and then stepped out of the coop to release her into the air. She flapped vigorously, eager to be on her way.

Myōkū reentered the coop and chose his second most reliable bird. He repeated the procedure and watched as the two birds flew off into the distance. With a message this important, it was necessary to send two birds in case one fell prey to a hawk or other misfortune.

With hope and trepidation, he prayed that the message would arrive in time. He hurried back to the building to find the warrior messenger.

Chapter 3

Kamakura, Kanagawa, Nippon

1281

Miura Yoshiaki heard the flapping of wings before he saw the birds. Two pigeons flew out of the sun and landed gently on a perch outside of his coop. He blinked from the brightness of the day and saw that both birds carried messages.

Welcome, birds of Myōkū, my esteemed cousin, he said.

He gently lifted each bird in turn and untied the message roll from their legs. He then placed them in the coop and added an extra measure of seed to reward them for a job well done.

This must be a very important message to have sent his two favorite birds, Yoshiaki thought. He decided to read the messages immediately, eager to know what was so important.

He took a moment to read and fell into a stunned silence. Again? Yoshiaki finally asked of the birds. They cocked their heads as if engaged in conversation. We must hurry. The birds cooed in unanimous consent.

Yoshiaki re-rolled the notes and chose two fresh pigeons from his flock. He sent them on their way before hurrying into the house to inform his father of the call for help.

Chapter 4

Aokigahara Forest, Yamanashi, Nippon

1281

Miura Yoshimura stepped from the small cabin deep in the forest and poured out the bucket of dirty water. His back ached from carrying the heavy wooden bucket, even though it had only been a few steps. He knew his time was short and reminded himself of the importance of his duties every time his bones creaked and joints cracked.

He recalled his time as a young warrior, when he fought as a Minamoto ally during the Jōkyū War. He was full of energy and power then, his ferocity and bravery renowned throughout the clan. Now, most of his compatriots and family were dead, lost in battle or from age. Few, if any, even knew he was still alive.

He stepped back into the cabin and stoked the little fire. It was time to boil the water for tea. In his solitude, he passed each day from wake-up, to meditation, to tea not knowing if it would be his last. He laid on his mat each night hoping to awake not in his cabin, but in the next life.

His hair was long and as white as the snowcapped peak of Mt. Fuji; his kimono was old and tattered. His honored wife had died ten years ago, and so he found little reason to maintain his once distinguished appearance.

The nearest village was half a day’s walk, even more so now with his increasingly slow gait. Each time he made the trek, the children laughed and pointed at the old man from the haunted forest. He overheard them whispering "yūrei, or ghost" as he walked by. His cabin, deep in the forest, saw little sun, and he imagined his face was as pale as one of the fabled yūrei he had feared as a child. Mothers scolded their children and swept them inside when he passed.

But he rarely went to the village these days. His ancient body needed little nourishment, and most of what he needed, he could find in the forest.

He was awakened from his daydream by the whistle of the tea kettle. With a rag, he lifted the kettle from the fire. As he poured the hot water into his cup, he paused, thinking he had heard something.

His ears weren’t what they used to be, but any sound in the Aokigahara Forest was unusual. The forest was known for its deep silence, a silence that only fed the stories of ghosts and supernatural beings. Although considered fables by the local villagers, Yoshimura knew there was truth at the foundation of the stories. That was why he was there, after all.

He resumed preparing his tea and then stopped abruptly. There it was again, a fluttering sound.

Yoshimura rose slowly from his knees and walked to the doorway. He pushed open the door, peering outside.

He looked up and caught a glimpse of a bird circling over the cabin. That was curious. It was rare that a bird purposely flew into Aokigahara. He stepped completely outside and was surprised to see two birds circling frantically overhead. He blinked to adjust his eyes from the dark confines of the cabin to the sudden brightness.

Where have I heard that sound? he asked.

After a moment, he answered his own question. Ah yes, the messenger birds used by the general’s adjutant. Does the general have a message for me?

He paused again. No, no, you silly old man. The war is long over. These must be from your grandson in Kamakura. What could he want?

Yoshimura waddled back into the cabin to gather some grains of rice. He threw them out on the forest floor and began to coo, hoping the gentle sounds would calm the birds. Hesitantly, they flew in closer. He continued to coo and speak gently to them.

Come little birds, he sang. I will do you no harm. What message do you have for old Yoshimura-san?

They circled closer, and he tossed more rice onto the ground. Finally, their hunger won out over their fear and they landed to peck furiously at the food.

Yoshimura bent low and picked up one of the pigeons. He found the message tied to its leg and gently untied the string. He unrolled the message, but groaned at the tiny writing. He squinted and extended his arm as far as it would go. When he finished with the message, his fingers opened, and the paper fluttered quietly to the forest floor.

He felt a surge of energy flow through him at the thought of what he must do. He knew this would be his last journey into the forest. His aged body would not be able to handle the force of the Power more than once. He must ensure he completed every step with complete precision.

He freed the second bird of its message and shooed them away, commanding them to return to Kamakura. His grandson would know the message had been received when the pigeons returned. He must make preparations for the arduous journey.

Chapter 5

Zushi, Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan

Present Day

Miura Osamu slurped the last of his ramen’s broth and sat back in the chair contentedly. It is good to finally be home , he thought. Even the best ramen in the states couldn’t hold a candle to his favorite little restaurant in Zushi, located on the Miura Peninsula south of Tokyo.

He yawned and blinked. He had arrived back in Japan late last night, and his internal clock was still set on west coast time in the United States. He couldn’t even remember what day it was.

Unfortunately, he had no time to rest and adjust. He had received the call to return home the day prior, and immediately made arrangements to take the next flight from Los Angeles. He had hastily emailed his professors at USC that he had had a family emergency, requesting more time to turn in his assignments.

The restaurant was shabby and worn down, and it was not listed in any tourist guidebook. The mustard-colored vinyl seats were cracked and torn, repaired unsuccessfully over the years with different colors of tape. A two-year-old calendar hung crooked behind the register. The ubiquitous maneki-neko, or waving cat, sat on the windowsill next to the front door. Osamu knew it had once been white, but was now stained an unenticing yellow color from years of tobacco smoke hanging in the air. That was something else that surprised him. In the states, smoking wasn’t allowed in any restaurant, but Japanese law allowed for exceptions to the rule. Osamu’s favorite hole-in-the-wall was small enough to be given such an exemption.

Osamu coughed, noticing the pall of smoke hanging in the air more now that he was finished with his food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He reached down to the seat next to him and picked up the long tubular shaped package. What could be in this package that is so important? he wondered.

When he arrived at Haneda airport the night before, he had found a black-suit-clad driver holding a sign with his name, standing on the other side of the customs station. He had been expecting his parents or a cousin, but followed behind the driver obediently. When they reached the car idling at the curb, Osamu looked around, surprised the airport police weren’t there causing a fuss at the unattended vehicle. He peered down the walkway and saw a uniformed officer, but as soon as the officer made eye contact, he quickly turned away and bowed his head.

What in the world?

The driver ushered Osamu into the back seat before shutting the door and sitting behind the wheel. Without saying a word, he turned in his seat and handed Osamu an envelope. He then closed the dividing window, leaving Osamu to sit in solitude.

Osamu found the button for the overhead reading lamp and switched it on. He tore open the envelope to read the note inside, written in hiragana characters. It was written in his newly deceased uncle’s fastidious handwriting.

If you are reading this, it is your time to assume your position in the family. Your duties lie here now, as the Guardian, a protector of Japan, like your ancestors before you. When you arrive at home, a package will be delivered. Do not open the package. Take it to Hasedera and speak only to the head monk, Aishi. Take great care. May you continue the legacy of the Miura family.

Osamu dropped the letter in his lap, sitting back in exhaustion and confusion. What was his uncle talking about? His uncle was a businessman. He died of a heart attack in his sleep. What legacy? Osamu was too tired to think and finally decided to wait and see what happened.

Just as the letter said, the next morning a man arrived at the house carrying a long cylindrical package. Osamu hurriedly took it to his room and hid it behind his futon next to the wall. The package appeared to be for a poster or scroll, but it was surprisingly heavy. Whatever it was, it was solidly packed, making no sound when Osamu shook it. A strap attached to each end allowed it to be slung over his shoulder like a quiver of arrows.

Osamu tried all of that day to get away, but he had to attend his uncle’s wake and then stay for the family vigil. He was only able to sneak away when he convinced his mother he needed to rest for the funeral the following day.

Famished from sitting in on the wake all day, he had stopped in for a bowl of ramen at his favorite restaurant before taking the train one stop to Kamakura.

Osamu stood and approached the register, where he paid for his meal and received the owner’s condolences. He stepped out of the restaurant and took a deep breath of rain soaked, cool night air. He thought he could just hear the sound of crashing waves on the nearby beach, and remembered the time he had spent there as a boy. He remembered the first time he had seen an American sailor, his arm covered in tattoos, sunning himself at the beach. He had thought only Yakuza gangsters had tattoos, and recalled running to his grandmother in fear to report the supposed criminal.

It had rained while he ate. The flashing lights of nearby shops reflected in pools of shimmering color on the wet street. It was getting late. The shop owner next door to the restaurant nodded at him as he rolled down the metal security gate for the night. Osamu could smell the tobacco smoke that had seeped into his clothing while he ate. His mother would surely notice. Too late to change that now.

He turned left, zipping up his jacket against the rain as he walked towards the station. At one time, Kamakura was the base of the Japanese empire, the seat of government. Now it was a small tourist destination off a side track of the main rail line.

Osamu purchased a ticket at the kiosk and stepped through the turnstiles. He walked through the crowds heading out of the station, men in rumpled suits returning home from a long day of work, a little tipsy from the sake they had guzzled before their nightly commute.

The platform for the Kamakura train was mostly empty. An old woman sat on a bench, knitting. There was a young couple laughing and looking at the girl’s phone, and a lone man stood behind Osamu in front of the posted train schedule. His head swiveled left and right, taking in everything, but never stopping to look at or see Osamu. Osamu pretended to study the schedule behind the man.

The stranger seemed out of place. He wore a long black raincoat, and water droplets sat unmoving on his glasses, which he seemed not to notice. His black hair was wet and matted down on his forehead, and he had a white scar on his cheek. He stood with his muscles tensed, like an animal ready to pounce as soon as its prey came walking down the trail. There was an unnatural focus in his eyes and in his movements. He made Osamu nervous.

Osamu turned back toward the tracks and checked his watch just as he heard the squeal of brakes. The train turned the bend toward the station. Right on time, as always.

When the train came to a stop and the doors slid open, Osamu walked down the platform and entered the next car down. As he turned to sit in the empty car, he saw the man in the black coat enter through the doors in front of him and remain standing, holding the yellow