Fully awake from his slumber, Hayato threw himself onto the floor and pulled his futon over his head. Several pieces of masonry fell around and on top of his meagre protection as the ground lurched from side to side, shuddering and groaning as if some awakening, giant beast. He began to pray rapidly and audibly to whichever Kami he thought might afford him protection and begged not to be fated to die buried beneath the rubble of his prison. The fear of such a claustrophobic end drove his usual scepticism of the world being governed by divine and evil entities from his terrified mind. He trembled as the earth unleashed a power he had hitherto thought impossible.
“Please Jishini, spare me this death,” he cried out loud to the earth Kami and cringed into a tighter ball under the futon as a sizeable chunk of debris rebounded from its surface. Hayato fought the urge to whimper childlike, forcing himself to master his terror. This was not the way of a warrior, not how a man should die. If his life was to end here and in this dreadful way then he should face it with the dignity his father had taught him. He closed his eyes tight and recited the Samurai mantra he had learned from General Furuki. His fear began to subside and his heart slowed its frantic pace. He could breathe more easily despite the choking dust and gradually he became aware that the shaking was subsiding, the deafening roar diminishing, and then it stopped.
For some minutes Hayato waited under the futon not quite trusting the world to remain still. He coughed as the pervading, powdered masonry seeped into his sanctuary and finally he had to break free and seek fresher air. He threw off the mattress and blinked rapidly to clear his eyes of smog while he retched uncontrollably for what seemed like an eternity. Finding his pale of water tipped onto its side, yet with a mere handful of fluid remaining, he picked up the vessel and poured its scanty contents into his mouth. It was a poor offering indeed and scarcely helped his burning throat, but it offered enough respite to ease his coughing to a raw gasping for air instead.
He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Pale orange light streamed into the dungeon casting the squalid hole in a soft, natural colloidal glow never before witnessed below the formidable fortress. Blinking rapidly once more Hayato slowly became aware that the shaft of light came from a break in the dungeon wall somewhere ahead and as his eyes, stinging from the onslaught of lime dust, became accustomed to the unusual flickering orangey, brightness around him, he realised that his cage had partly collapsed. If he wanted he could break out of his cell and possibly even escape through the hole above. But did he dare when Mizuki was still a captive and his broken leg insufficiently healed to withstand the rigours such an escapade demanded?
TWENTY-FIVE
As dawn broke with a wet downpour upon the city of Kyo-To-Shi, Thom Devlin, Oyama Karasu and Hiraiwa Daiki rode through the North gate under the watchful gaze of Lord Kurohoshi’s occupying guard. All three were dressed simply in Hakama pants and Haori coats, their feet in sandals and their only weapons a knife concealed within each belt. Thom wore a straw hat to hide his western features, his long, dark hair pigtailed and he kept his head down, risking only glances at the city around him. He still thought he must be mad to agree to this, especially in broad daylight and he gave thanks to the Gods for the heavy rain.
Karasu had thought it wise to reconnoitre the steamer, arguing that they must ensure she was sailable before they risked bringing more men to her. Thom had argued for a night time excursion, by boat, but the ronin insisted there was no time to wait and when the rain had started his conviction that the pirate could pass as Ashiman was not so easy to dispute as poor logic. Eventually Thom had given in, but had drawn the line at taking any of his own men. He persuaded Karasu and the haughty Taku that there should only be three riding to the city, that Taku was probably too well known there and that he was the nearest in colouring and stature to the natives, although he stood a good hand’s width taller than the ronin. However, persuading Hiraiwa that he also was too prominent a figure in Kyo-To-Shi fell on deaf ears and both he and Taku argued loudly that one or other of them should go.
So they had finally agreed. Some clothes had been found, borrowed from a slightly taller warrior who almost matched Devlin’s height, and given to the Kapitan. Some help had been required in donning the attire and Thom had cast dark looks at Densall and the other two men who sniggered unashamedly at their leader as he transformed into a local merchant or farmer. Then they had left as the rain began to get heavier and long before the light returned to the sky, leaving instructions for the remaining men to cut wood; dead wood, lots of it, and load it into boats.
Through the torrents of water cascading from the brim of his hat, Thom caught glimpses of the scars that battle had left on the city. Many of the wooden buildings nearest to the walls had been burned to the ground or smashed by cannon fire. There were blast holes in the city walls which were in the throes of being repaired and it was apparent that the gate was such in name only as the wooden barricade had been violently removed. A few weary citizens shuffled through the ruins, pushing carts and clearing debris, their demeanour one of a beaten people, broken and low. Amongst these sad figures, well armed soldiers paraded, shouting instructions, striking freely at the workers with hefty sticks. The conquerors enforcing their will upon the conquered.
Thom was surprised that he felt sympathy for the subjugated people of Kyo-To-Shi. Somehow their plight struck a chord and he cast a sideways glance at Karasu trying to discern what emotion the scene raised in his young companion. Whether the ronin felt the anger he did. It was, after all, his home, his people. But if Karasu had been appalled by what he saw, it was impossible to tell from his mien. He bore himself as always, with quiet, priestly acceptance. The fact that the young man boiled inside neither the Kapitan or Hiraiwa could tell.
The emotion shocked Karasu. Never in his life had he felt something a strong as hatred, but he experienced it now and it took all of his will power and all of his training to quell the rage within. He told himself that now was not the time to unleash that energy, that it would be counterproductive and wasteful. It should wait until it could be put to better use. So though a very observant man might have seen a momentary hardening of his eye and set of his lips, a flicker of hate that was rapidly and expertly quelled. No one saw it.
Devlin was both puzzled and impressed at the ronin’s calm composure. He knew only too well that he could not have remained so unmoved. Thom let his eyes wander to Hiraiwa, who evidently struggled with his ire. His stiff, upright posture astride his horse and down-turned mouth with knitted brows paid testament to his feelings. Here was a man deeply angered by what he saw and struggling or unable to hide it.
A child ran across the road in front of them causing their horses to start. Karasu grasped his ride’s neck in sudden panic as the animal wheeled nervously. He closed his eyes and clung on desperately hoping, but knowing he was going to fall off the thing. They had assured him the horse was docile, but it seemed at that moment anything but as it tossed its head and skittered around almost in a full circle. He felt himself sliding and then a firm grip held him fast and he was aware of the sodden flank of another horse against his leg and Devlin’s voice in his ear. He opened his eyes and smiled his thanks at the Kapitan whose broad grin he just made out under the shade of the hat.
“Not used to riding Karasu?” Thom asked quietly in a slightly mocking tone.
“No Kapitan. Thank you for preventing my fall,” he answered surprised that he experienced annoyance at the pirate’s barely disguised ridicule.
“You are welcome. Try to relax. He knows when you are tense. They are not as stupid as people think,” Thom advised still smiling and let go of the ronin’s arm.
“I will try, thank you,” Karasu returned and averted his face to hide his chagrin. Thom smirked and reined his mount away from its stable mate, returning his interest to the city from the safety of his wide brimmed hat and the pouring rain.
As they progressed further into Kyo-To-Shi the scene of devastation grew less. Further away from the No
rth walls the ravages of battle were barely evident. Only the occasional blood spattered stone or wood work gave any clue that violence had torn through the streets. Even the white walled castle battlements appeared untouched by war save a few bullet holes and scorch marks. Only the desperate and frightened citizens told of the horror that had unfolded here. They, and the gruesome display of severed heads lining the wide thoroughfare that led from the grand splendour of the castle to the affluent centre of the city and eventually its harbour beyond. It was into this avenue that the three rode from the Northern Quarter.
The castle, that had until recently, housed the Presidor of Kiki Province, sat precisely at the centre of Kyo-To-Shi on a low hill fringed by tree lined streets. Four major roads led to and away from it, but the widest was Sakura Street whose glorious cherry tree splendour was now soiled and defiled by the rotting skulls of over two thousand men and women, soldiers and civilians alike. The heads were rammed onto lances fixed into the ground between each leafy cherry tree, their lifeless eyes gone, pecked out by crows and their skin turning green with purification. The smell was diminished by the heavy rain, but the stench of rotting flesh, strong and sickly cloying, still hung heavy in the warm air.
“Lord Abyssi have mercy,” Thom uttered under his breath in reference to his sea deity and in horror of the scene before him. He felt the bile rise in his stomach and strove to fight the urge to retch. He reined his horse to a standstill and for several moments simply stared at the gory avenue before him.
Karasu and Hiraiwa Daiki stopped also. The latter muttered dark words in his own language and spat on the ground, but the ronin said nothing. His eyes filled with tears and he gently kicked his ride forwards into the street and began to push towards the harbour. He turned once to look at his companions with an expression designed to show confidence and mastery over the horror he felt. He saw the anger on Hiraiwa’s face turn to sympathy when he caught his eye. The mocking grin had long fallen from Devlin’s visage, replaced with pity and shock that was plain to see as he had pushed his hat to the back of his head. Karasu indicated rapidly at the head gear noting that there were a number of people hurrying down the avenue, although he need not have worried. They kept their gaze riveted to the ground and scurried about their business like terrified mice.
Thom pulled his hat back to hide his face but not before he had searched the ronin’s face for signs of horror, or hate or any show of emotion at all. He saw none. When every fibre in his body shuddered and recoiled in disgust at the barbarians that had done this he wondered at the apparent lack of compassion in Karasu. He understood exactly Hiraiwa’s anguish and anger. How many of these bodiless souls were comrades or friends? But he did not understand the cold calm of the outcast priest. As a shudder coursed down his spine he kicked his horse forward and joined Karasu and the Second Samurai in the road of death.
A small group of soldiers marched towards them in the direction of the castle. Thom and Hiraiwa pulled their hats even lower over their faces and looked only at the back of their horses’ heads. It appeared as if they were merely putting their heads down against the deluge. Karasu sat bolt upright and stared directly ahead. He felt the soldiers’ gaze upon him as they drew near, their vague curiosity at the three riders, but either they deemed the trio unworthy of further scrutiny or they were in no mood to stop in the torrential downpour that showed no sign of ceasing. They marched on by, their footsteps splashing into the distance. Karasu exhaled loudly keeping his eyes fixed upon the long avenue and the faint glint of the harbour and sea at its end.
They plodded slowly along the macabre boulevard noting the scurrying of frightened passers-by hurrying to their work. The citizens never cast a glance in their direction, never took their eyes from the road. Dare not set sight upon the severed heads that still lined the thoroughfare, unlike the disguised pirate who could not prevent himself from staring at the terrified townsfolk and the rotting skulls alike. As they neared the harbour the heads were less decomposed, more recent; the blood still fresh upon the stakes that held them.
“Dear Gods in heaven,” Thom whispered almost inaudibly and reined his horse to a standstill. His companions followed suit and, drawn in the direction of the Kapitan’s gape, Hiraiwa swore loudly and made to dismount.
“No Daiki! We must not be diverted by this horror. The time will come but this is not it,” Karasu cried his whole body shaking with emotion.
“But Shukke,” Hiraiwa began to protest.
“We must get to the ship Daiki. I swear you will have your revenge, but it must wait,” Karasu pressed. Reluctantly the Samurai grunted his agreement and both he and the ronin urged their rides forward.
But Thom had not moved. He sat with his mouth open and his face set in an expression of horrified disgust. He had heard his companions conversing together rapidly and somewhat heatedly, but had not understood their words. Their babble was a distant cacophony in his head and even if he had understood the language it is doubtful he would still have comprehended its meaning. He stared transfixed, his eyes riveted to the edge of the road. Slowly he dismounted and began to walk across the cobbles, his feet splashing through puddles, towards the lance that had so cruelly drawn his attention. He vaguely heard his name being called, but chose to ignore it. He knelt by the body and gently untied the bonds that fastened the corpse of a young woman to the stake. Her clothes were ripped and exposed her bare breasts; her kimono was pulled open showing most of her pale, thin legs. She looked little more than a child although above her, skewered like some gruesome bait was an infant, naked and blue. Both mother and child were not long dead. They still had their eyes and showed no sign of decay. If it had not been for the anguish upon the woman’s frozen face she would have appeared asleep; but her dark eyes were wide open and displayed her dying terror still.
Thom felt the warmth of his own tears spill down his cheeks surprising himself at the compassion he felt for this dead and ravaged girl and her infant. He pulled her kimono close around her body, covering her nakedness. He stood and, biting his bottom lip to quell his squeamishness, he lifted the babe from the skewer and wrapped its pathetic form in its mother’s arms. He then closed her eyes. A hand on his shoulder made him start and he spun around his heart beating fast and hard in his chest.
“Come Thom. We have to go. There is nothing you can do for them now,” Karasu uttered gently.
Devlin pushed the young man’s hand from his shoulder angrily and shoved his contorted face into that of Karasu.
“These are your people! Have you no compassion, no sympathy for them? Do you feel nothing? The Gods alone know what evil was done to that girl and all you can bloody well say is we have to go. What kind of heartless dog are you? You show no emotion, had no desire to restore her dignity,” Thom raged causing Hiraiwa to look around in alarm.
“She dead Thom. My grief not bring her back. Neither will it bring back child or any of others. I understand anger, but it is illogical and achieves nothing,” Karasu replied, his voice calm though the pirate’s words hurt more than he care to admit.
“You cold bastard!” Thom cried and spat on the floor at the ronin’s feet. “You feel nothing. You’re no better than the filth that did all this,” he snarled knowing he had gone too far. Karasu flinched at Devlin’s words his choler rising and the emotion pricking at his eyes. Thom saw the change and sneered.
“Come on then. Show me that you are human. Take a chance you piece of shit!” he provoked.
Karasu shook with passion. He understood that Devlin was trying to push him into striking, that at this moment the Kapitan hated him and wanted nothing more than an excuse to vent his own frustration and anger upon the object of his hate. He knew also that Thom was afraid, that much of his anger was born of that fear. It had taken Karasu all of his will power to maintain his composure, to not break down with grief at what he saw and to not swear to the heavens that he would wreak vengeance upon the monsters who had done this to his people. He had been determined to hide his emoti
on, to carry out his task with cool detachment, but the pirate’s accusations, were the last straw. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to wipe the nasty smirk from the Kapitan’s face, to give him what he desired. He clenched his fists by his sides, his eyes became narrow slits.
“Oyama-san!” Hiraiwa called sharply with urgency. Both Karasu and Thom turned in his direction. Two soldiers, in full Samurai armour were running towards them. They were shouting, words that were unintelligible to Thom but told his companions that they were in danger. That they would need to play this carefully.
“Put head down and keep quiet,” Karasu hissed. Thom made to object but thought better of it and as the men splashed to a standstill in front of them he gazed rigidly at the floor, his hand hovering over the place where his knife was stashed.
“What are you doing here? Who untied the woman? Speak!” the taller of the two Samurai shouted. They smelled strongly of alcohol and their eyes roved constantly from the young man in sodden black garb to his tall friend and the man on horseback.
“You, get down!” the shorter soldier ordered Hiraiwa. Karasu nodded and the Second Samurai dismounted but did not move away from his horse. He too fingered the hilt of his knife. He keenly watched the two guards willing them to give him reason to use his weapon, noting also that the westerner had shifted his stance ever so slightly to afford himself a better line of attack. He tried to catch the pirate’s eye but the latter was looking at the ground, hiding his features from the soldiers. Hiraiwa turned his attention back to the ronin.
“I am sorry Sir. Have we done something wrong? I am a Sento priest. This man is my servant and was acting on my instruction. We are just passing through and meant no harm,” Karasu explained hoping that his holy status would persuade the drunken soldiers that they were harmless and naïve travellers and nothing more. The tallest guard grunted.
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