Free Damoren by Seth Skorkowsky Page B

then loaded his gear into the car. Not all of their baggage could fit in the trunk, and he and Allan constructed a makeshift wall of bags and suitcases in the backseat. They held it up between them as Jean drove. Matt held Dämoren’s case in his lap, his shoulder pressing against the precariously stacked luggage as he stared out at the rolling hills. Picturesque houses of wood and stone sat perched above the lush farmland and vineyards. Ancient low stone walls draped in moss divided the farms. After forty minutes they turned up deeper into the hills and came to a large chateau nestled in a valley.
    Passing through an arched gate they entered a wide courtyard. Large gray blocks formed the corners of the imposing brick building, three stories high. An Asian man in gold and white stood in the courtyard twirling a long pole with a curved blade on one end. Jean pulled into a red brick off-building, likely a barn in a previous life, but now a garage with nearly a dozen other vehicles housed inside, and parked in a vaulted alcove.
    “ If you want to wear Dämoren in here,” Schmidt said stepping out of the sedan, “you may. We are holy knights, protectors of God’s weapons. We wear them with pride and to ensure their security. However,” his blue eyes hardened, “if it is ever unholstered outside your room, it will be considered a threat. Understood?”
    “Understood.”
    “ Allan will show you around and to your room. I hope you find our home to your liking.” He turned and walked toward the manor, Jean in tow, carrying the old man’s bags.
    Matt looked up and around, admiring the ornate stonework of the garage. He could make out what appeared to be boxes and stacked furniture stored in the old hay lofts above. “Nice place.”
    Allan opened Ibenus ’s case and put on a dark clamshell sheath. The stitching was open along the top two thirds of one side, allowing Allan to draw the curved khopesh. Following his lead, Matt opened his locker and removed his shoulder rig. He kind of wished he had Clay’s old holster of tooled leather and brass that hung low off his belt, rather than the plain black nylon.
    “ She’s a lady. And the lady likes leather.” Clay’s voice echoed in his head.
    Their weapons in place, the two men shouldered their bags and headed out into the courtyard. As they neared the man twirling and swinging the bladed pole in mock combat, Matt recognized his gold and white attire as some form of gi. A younger man, maybe seventeen, stood nearby. His sharp features appeared to be Japanese.
    “ That is Takaira Susumu, and Riku his apprentice,” Allan said. “The naginata is Shi no Kaze. Theirs is the last existing samurai clan. Their sole existence is to protect Shi no Kaze, a duty they have performed for four hundred years, even after the official abolishment of the clans in the Nineteenth Century.”
    “ Are they Valducans?” Matt asked, watching the samurai deftly swing the long blade back and forth in a series of rapid steps.
    “ No. But the Takaira clan has been on good terms with us since after the Second World War when we helped smuggle out many of their relics during the American Occupation.” His voice lowered. “They are very proud and undoubtedly view joining us here as more of a favor than actual need for protection.”
    They followed short stone steps up to a pair of large doors. Inside, Matt found himself staring into a massive floor to ceiling mirror. Pale green masks looked out from glass cases hanging on either side.
    Matt stepped closer to one of the jade masks. Tingles of discomfort rippled through him as he drew near. While at first they seemed identical, with their bulging eyes and scowling mouths filled with fangs, they were different. One’s teeth curved outward, its short horns straight up. The other’s teeth jutted forward before a rippled tongue. “What are these?”
    “ Chinese mask demons,” Allan replied, stepping beside him. “They were bound to these masks in the