Previously on Coiled Fates, the Mara infiltrates the stranger’s lair. There, she discovers his plans to unleash the ancient evil buried in the Shadowlands Marsh, and to capture the Pearl of Mists—the legacy of the naga, the source of the Unity.

Now, you can read or listen to the sixth chapter of Robert Denton III’s new serial set in the world of Legend of the Five Rings and part of the saga of the Clan Wars. Discover the heroes and warriors of the naga before the release of Champions of Rokugan, coming soon from Monolith Board Games. Sign up to the Legend of the Five Rings newsletter and subscribe to the Aconyte Fiction Podcast to make sure you catch the rest of the series.

Coiled Fates

by Robert Denton III

Chapter Six

Torn from his dark thoughts as he stepped from brittle leaves onto ancient bricks, Mirumoto Daini wasn’t sure he could trust his eyes. A city this large should have been visible long before now, even through the thick Shinomen trees. Stone towers plunged through the canopy like spears, sunlight bleeding down from golden wounds.

In stunned silence, he treaded past cracked foundations and ivy-choked plaster.

He stopped at a naga statue. Its mottled head was hooded, like a cobra. It towered higher than the naga he’d previously encountered, wearing robes suggesting ceremony.

The stone was cold under his hand. No reaction to his touch. Did a heart truly beat under all this stone? Was there really a conscious mind within?

Further exploration brought him to a dry fountain in what he supposed was a city square. Stubborn brambles wormed from thin cracks but left the many statues untouched.

A naga ruin. One of many, scattered throughout the Shinomen. But why did these naga resemble cobras? Why were they so much larger?

If the Mara was here, she would know.

A wave of shame washed over him. He pulled his legs in and sat, back straight, in the lotus position. He emptied his mind, focusing only on his meditative breaths.

Just sit. In calm, one finds direction, even in such a place. Do not resist thoughts, nor conjure them willingly. Let them arise and fall as they–

Something pinched his heart and twisted, bunching it like a wet rag. Daini slumped under a wave of memories. The last time he’d meditated, the Mara watched so intently that he almost broke into snickers. And when he finally did, she made this annoyed scrunched-nose face that made him laugh outright. She asked why he looked so constipated and there was no way he could meditate after that.

Which reminded him of when she tried to teach him to use the spearbow. It was too big for him; he had to lay on his back and use his feet to draw the string. “So resourceful!” she’d said, and her laughter was like a chiming bell.

Were those memories real? Or did the Mara put them there when she read his mind?

And why did the notion that they were real hurt more than the possibility they were fake? Because if they were real, it would mean he’d thrown away their friendship in anger, out of stupid pride. Thrown away someone who had seen into his mind and witnessed the ugliness he hid from the world and nonetheless stayed. Chatted with him. Made him laugh. Fought for him. Championed his cause.

She’d been a true friend. Maybe the truest he’d ever have.

Fortunes, what have I done?

A samurai’s heart should have no room for doubt or regret. But what good was a samurai who cast away a true friend? Who’d conceded to anger? A samurai should have command over their emotions, not be led by them. The Mara had not betrayed Daini; he’d betrayed her. He’d never let her in.

“Because you don’t want to depend on anyone,” echoed a familiar voice.

In the golden light, Asagao looked peaceful, unlike the day she died. She wore her straw cloak, but her legs faded away at the ankles, leaving her floating. She made a chiding sound. “The conquering hero gives in to self-pity. What happened to you, my lord?”

He felt that he should be afraid. Instead, he felt choked up with comfort in seeing Asagao again. As if his own foolishness hadn’t gotten her killed, that a part of her continued on.

“The naga happened,” he replied. “The Mara.”

“So you say. But now you’re alone.” The ghost crossed her arms. “As you prefer.”

“Why are you here? What summoned you?”

She smiled mockingly. “I’m your loyal servant, trying to advise you. Why did it spark your anger so to have your thoughts read by another?”

His fists clenched. “It was disrespectful. It proved she thought little of me.”

“She sought to understand you,” the ghost corrected. “You fascinated her. The naga read each other’s thoughts like we exchange words. It’s second nature to them.”

That much was true. He’d observed it himself.

He shook his head. “If she can read my thoughts, then she can control them. How can I trust–”

“Trust your memories? You say that like any memory can be trusted. But as the Little Teacher said, they’re not real. This is a form of attachment.”

“What do you want me to say?” he conceded. “I believed my thoughts were private.”

“Since when have you kept any thought to yourself? You never did when I was alive. I wanted to bury my head, you talked so much.” The ghost leaned in. She was made of dust motes floating in otherworldly light. “It upset you because if she knows your thoughts, then she knows your vanity. Your hypocrisy. She knows that your brother was better than you, and that’s why he died, and why you can’t bring yourself to be as virtuous as he was.” Her eyes glazed sadly. “You don’t want anyone to know you, Daini. Isn’t that why you pushed me away?”

“It’s the reason you died,” he admitted. “I wanted to outdo him.”

His hands were so dirty, but the fountain was dry. There was no way to cleanse them.

“Should I give up?” he finally asked. “Cast myself to the winds, as perhaps I deserve?”

Her ghost laughed. “Then what will all of this have been for, idiot?”

He blinked, and she was gone.

And he realized, with the hairs rising on his nape, that he was being watched.

Daini spun to his feet, seeing a massive, blurred figure cross the courtyard ruin almost instantaneously. He was dwarfed in its shadow by the time he fully faced it, gaping into the creature’s crimson eyes that held golden pupils like fire. Daini’s limbs locked. It was too late for him to do anything.

Spiderlike appendages dangled from the naga’s monstrous visage, its shark-like mouth drawn into a grimace. Splashes of orange peppered its hooded head, while stripes zig-zagged across its rippling green body. A string of fist-sized beads hung from its shoulders. It pointed at Daini with a black claw.

“You’ve kept me waiting,” the naga rumbled. The pupils narrowed. “I wonder how you survived this long, daydreaming in the Shishomen.”

Daini swallowed around a lump in his throat, willing his hammering heart to slow. “Are you the… the steward of these ruins?”

“Not inaccurate,” he replied. “And you are a samurai of the Dragon Clan.”

“You speak Rokugani well.” A chilling thought occurred to Daini. “Did you enter my mind to learn my people’s tongue?”

The massive naga tilted his cobra-like head. “Enter your… How would I do that? I know your language because I’ve heard it spoken. Many times, over centuries.” His gaze grew distant. “Crawling in your gardens. Seeking rats between your walls. We’ve had so long to learn.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Besides, I am untethered. Like your friend. Where is she? Surely you didn’t come alone.”

An isolated naga. Perhaps there were others, scattered and hidden, awakening every day.

The naga spoke before Daini could respond. “We know why you’re here. Come.” He gestured for Daini to follow. “You will have your answers, but then you must bow to fate.”

You sound like Lord Yokuni, Daini thought. The giant naga twitched erratically, halting at intervals before starting again. He murmured softly, as if arguing with his own thoughts.

Better ask his questions now. “May I know how to address you?”

“We are the Shashakar,” the naga said. “That will suffice.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’”

The naga paused. “Am I?”

Daini decided not to belabor the point. “Where am I now?”

“The City of Three Waterfalls. The Domain of the Cobra Jakla.”

“Jakla.” The word was unfamiliar. “What is a jakla?”

The naga gestured to himself, and then the motionless statues.

That only helped a little, but Daini assessed this would be the general caliber of the Shashakar’s answers. A thought occurred, and he produced the map the Mara had given him.

No, the map he’d taken. Because they parted suddenly, on bad terms, and he’d left her to fend off the Foul alone, abandoned by someone she trusted.

Enough. Fallen leaves would not return to their branches. Daini unfurled the paper and tapped on the depiction of the strange city. “Are we here?”

The Shashakar tore the map from Daini’s hands. His fiery eyes grew wide, his fingers curling into fists. Twisting orbs of flame flickered into being around him, spinning hotter and brighter with each furious inward breath.

Startled, Daini stepped back, hand hovering over his blade. He’d seen this once before, in an Agasha temple, when an initiate lost his temper and caused a forge to explode. So, the jakla were shindōshi, which made them dangerous, and here one was losing his temper, losing control–

The Shashakar dropped the paper. The lights blinked away. “Ah, no matter. It changes nothing.” He regarded Daini with a cooler expression. “Oh. I frightened you.”

“No,” Daini lied. His hand remained near his sword as he picked up the map.

They came to a massive bowl-shaped amphitheater, set into the ground like an inverted dome. Long ramps corkscrewed toward the bottom, where a pillar stood behind an ivy-strewn gate.

“We owe you an apology,” the Shashakar said as they descended. “But if I hadn’t called down the blizzard, you would have stumbled across these borders too soon.”

“That was you?” He remembered the unseasonal snowstorm mere days ago, entrapping him and the Mara in the cave. He considered drawing his sword. “You almost killed the Mara.”

“But we didn’t, thanks to you. You care a great deal for her. She also cares for you.”

Daini looked away. “Perhaps she once did.”

A long silence prevailed. The Shashakar laid a massive hand on Daini’s shoulder, nearly crumpling him. “No gloom! It is better to be on one’s own, isn’t it? I certainly prefer it. I’ve kept to myself all these centuries, maintained this city on my own! And look how it strengthened me!”

Daini watched the Shashakar twitch, the unhinged gleam in his eyes, his dagger-mouth in a grimace-grin.

“Ah, yes. I see.”

The Shashakar resumed, mumbling, and Daini quietly reconsidered his entire life. Was this what became of those who relied only on themselves?

“Regardless,” the naga continued, “I meant no true harm, but I had to be sure you were not enthralled by the Foul. The Foul has sought this city for ages, and for ages I have foiled it. Until today.” The Shashakar looked back at his guest. “Now that you are here, the Foul will be shortly behind. You were followed, after all.”

“Followed?” His heart leapt into his throat. The sorcerer, the shambling undead…

“Yes,” the Shashakar replied. “They’d hoped you would lead them here.”

“Impossible. I didn’t even know I’d be here. I didn’t know this place existed.”

“Ah, but you were led here by the traitor who is in contact with your stranger. They collaborate. We’ve heard them many times.” The naga looked at Daini like he was a child fruitlessly shaking a puzzle box. “Did you think you could find this place by accident? With all my protections? Worry not, that is what the Foul does. It makes one assume things. Incorrect things. It happens to the best of us. Ah, we’re here.”

The pillar at the amphitheater’s base was a gray marble, drawing Daini’s eyes to a perfectly circular orb the size of a kemari ball embedded at the top. The orb was iridescent. It wasn’t stone, Daini realized. It looked more like a pearl.

A flawed pearl. Cracks snaked across the orb, filled with a glitter-green substance, reminding him of kintsugi pottery, where broken ceramics are repaired by pouring gold in the gaps.

The Shashakar hovered by the massive pearl. He looked sad, gazing upon it.

“We meant well. Save our people, bring about a great unity. But are we any more unified? Did we only create the means by which the Foul can seize control?”

“Who meant well? The jakla?”

The Shashakar nodded. “The weavers of the Great Sleep. It was the Pearl of Mists that allowed us to attempt it. We knew the Foul would not stay imprisoned, but its conquerors could be set aside from time. The naga would awaken to fight it again.” He grimaced. “But we… miscalculated. The pearl fractured. Only some have awoken. Did the Great Sleep end too soon, or too late?”

The clatter of falling stone came from behind them. Together, they spun. Shambling forms gathered in a growing line across the top of the amphitheater. The stranger loomed, hood drawn over his face.

Daini bared his teeth. What Dragon family had given birth to this madōshi? Whose shame was he?

The Shashakar raised his arms. “Behold! I told you they would find their way here! They have broken through! And now, my lord’s victory isssssssaaaaargh no! No!” The jakla screamed, doubling over until his voice broke. Daini stared aghast as the Shashakar thrashed, stones splitting under his bulk.

He grew still. “No,” the Shashakar repeated, quieter, resolute. “You have not won yet, traitor. We are still in command.” The great naga clapped, and Daini felt a wave pass from the orb and through him, rippling over the dome and forcing the undead to the ground.

The wave made gray stone molt from the cobra naga statues, revealing their scaled flesh. Blank-faced, hissing like animals, they slithered up the ramps towards the gathering Foul. The stranger drew his blade. Beyond, there was a rise of rattles and hisses.

“They won’t last long,” the Shashakar said, mournful. “Do me a boon, samurai.”

“What is this?” Daini breathed. “You awoke your people just to sacrifice them?”

“Their bodies are empty. They are still with us. Their memory pools, they are–”

“They’re in you,” Daini realized. Dozens of jakla memory pools, inhabiting a single naga: immortal, cursed, in vigil over lonely ruins, over the pearl. They’d put all their power together in one body, each sacrificing their own.

The Shashakar nodded. “Including the traitor. The one who sabotaged the Great Sleep, who hid among us and gave themself to the Foul.”

Daini gasped. “That is why you untethered yourself. To prevent the traitor from escaping to the Unity.”

The jakla did not correct him. Massive hands grasped the flawed orb, fissures spiderwebbing down the column as his arms rippled with muscle, until the pearl was freed with a loud crack.

He surrendered it to Daini. The naga artifact was warm and heavy in Daini’s arms.

“Perhaps, one day, your people will learn how to fix it,” the Shashakar said, solemn.

Daini’s feet turned to lead. This pearl was too precious to be entrusted with him. What had he ever managed to protect?

“Take the pearl to your lord in the mountains. Keep it far from here. Far from the Dark One. If the Foul were to possess this, it would gain the power to attack the naga through the dream. Through the Unity. It will corrupt everything. Do you understand?”

“But why does this madōshi want to corrupt the naga? What could he possibly gain?”

The Shashakar clasped his hands. Dozens of voices arose from his lips, a rhythm of twined mantras. The flame-orbs appeared again, and as he drew his hands apart, crimson lightning crackled between them.

The naga’s voice spoke clearly above the others, but another voice emerged, buried under the rest, which began to mock them all. “Go, samurai. Never return here.”

Were his arms not laden with the massive pearl, he would have drawn his sword. “A samurai does not flee his enemies.”

“This one will,” said the Shashakar.

With a sweep of his tail, Daini was pushed back and away. He stumbled and then ran toward the edge of the dome and through the crumbling streets. Undead bandits barred his path, but he slipped past their clumsy grasps. The slain bodies of cobra naga bled onto the stones. He bit through the shame of retreat, drawing his resolve from a single thought: he was the Shashakar’s last gambit, the naga’s only hope.

A thundercrack shook his teeth. A flame pillar rose from the amphitheater, tossing his shadow forward, and he imagined the mindless undead rendered to ash. Consumed by the light of the last jakla.

“It is futile,” came a voice in his ear.

The stranger. The bush warbler tattoo. He could speak to Daini whenever he pleased, apparently.

“What do you care what happens to the naga? You’re tired of being a Go stone of the High House, as I once was. We should talk, Lord Mirumoto. There is no reason we should be enemies.”

His feet thudded on dry leaves. Brambles reached to drag him back into the darkest corners of the Shinomen. Daini ran faster, without knowing where to go.

But one thing was certain. Daini would make the Shashakar’s sacrifice worth it.