“No. We will dismount here and creep forward on foot. No one will be looking for an enemy laid in the undergrowth. We’ll get ahead of them and lie in wait. If we are lucky, we will be the first to sight Kurohoshi and then…!” Thom pulled the pistol from his belt and pointed it at a tree pretending to fire.
“Brilliant and reckless! You either careless fool Thom Devlin or bravest man I know,” Karasu grinned realising that for the first time in his life, and inexplicably, he was not afraid.
They dismounted and hurried forward, careful not to make a sound. They saw that Furuki and the main bulk of the Samurai had withdrawn amongst the trees waiting in ambush. It was a simple but ingenious trap, but were they enough? Karasu thought yes, if he could kill Kurohoshi. Mizuki had seen that he would and so any nagging doubt disappeared. He had complete faith in his sister’s Sight. He could not fail.
It was too late that Kurohoshi smelt a rat. He thought he saw movement, thought he heard the stamp of horses hooves. He held his hand up to stop his men when a mighty cry echoed from all around and the thundering of hooves and crashing of undergrowth assailed his ears. He heard gunshots fired and saw some of his men fall, he shouted at them to come together, to form a circle. They did so with interminable slowness and to his horror riders dressed in the armour of the Oyama family hurtled into them slashing with swords, levelling rifles and firing. The air became an dreadful din of screams of dying men and horses, of the terrifying war cries of his assailants. As his fear heightened he could smell the sweet stench of blood and sweat. He drew his katana and joined in the fray.
Karasu and Thom looked on at the melee of fighting bodies. It had happened much faster than either of them had anticipated and they had been almost as surprised as Kurohoshi at the suddenness and ferocity of the attack. For some minutes they watched with awestruck fascination and then the fever of battle took hold. Throwing off the stifling helmet and with a manic glint in his eye Thom exchanged a comradely look with the ronin and lifting his pistol in his left hand and his sword in his right he charged into the whirling mass of men and animals. Karasu swallowed rapidly, his mouth dry and his body shaking. He saw Thom dive into the midst of the fight, shoot a man who fell stone dead from his horse and the next minute the Kapitan sat astride the animal, slashing at their enemy with one hand whilst shooting at men with the other. He fought like a mad man, a macabre, twisted sneer upon his face.
Karasu swallowed again, but his spittle had gone and he almost gagged on the awful dryness of his throat. He pulled his katana from his armour and, with a cry that sounded totally alien to his ears, he lunged forward.
Immediately he was in a seething, bloody hell. He stumbled over the bodies of men and horses, some of whom he recognised as his brother’s Samurai. He looked wildly about amongst the flailing arms and petrified stamping animals for Kurohoshi but he could see nothing only blood and gore. A blade clattered against his back and he was acutely aware that he had dropped his guard, been too obsessed with finding the Warlord to use his senses to protect himself. Without thinking he spun around rapidly the swords in his hands flashing in the dappled sunlight through the trees as he deftly carved them towards his attacker. He was vaguely aware that as the man lifted his own weapon above his head to plunge it downwards that a gush of scarlet stained the soldier’s throat and spewed onto his shoulders. The man sank to his knees and fell face down into the soft earth. Karasu leapt over his still twitching body and pushed deeper into the battle, slashing and thrusting as he went.
It felt like a dream to him. He did not recognise the men around him anymore. They became faceless beings, their features obliterated by mud and gore, their cries like demons from the abyss rather than human voices. The frantic squeals of horses and the screams of slaughtered men only added to the sensation of gruesome fantasy. The sounds mingled together in a cacophony of horrifying pandemonium. Fuelled by the fight hormone and the conviction that Mizuki had prophesised his place in history he fought like a man possessed, slaying his enemy without compunction or remorse.
Hiraiwa saw the young ronin from his mount as the boy charged in front of him, his katana slicing like butter through the men who dared to stand before him. For a moment the old Samurai was astounded and gaped with disbelief at the lad he had thought too pure for such an act as murder. He was brought only to his senses by a cry at his side. He saw the flash of a blade and sucked in his breath thinking he was dead, when his attacker fell from his horse, a bullet through the back of his skull. Behind where he had sat, Thom Devlin winked at Hiraiwa and then pushed his mount with a devil-may-care scream at a group of dismounted soldiers. When Hiraiwa turned his eyes back to where the youngest Oyama boy had been, he was no longer there.
Karasu had driven further into the skirmish. He had no idea how the tide of battle flowed. Did not know how many men had died. He simply knew he had to find Kurohoshi and that the Warlord would be at the centre, protected by his elite. Dodging and weaving, stabbing and parrying blows, he plunged ever deeper into the fray. Finally he found what he sought, but Kurohoshi was locked in combat with Furuki Jun and the latter was severely wounded.
To Karasu’s horror, Jun had a deep gash in his leg, a jagged rip across his chin through which the ronin felt sure he could seen the bone. He noticed blood on the First Samurai’s flank and knew he could not fight on. With a bloodcurdling cry he lunged forward.
“NOOO! FIGHT ME YOU BASTARD!” he shouted and as Jun dropped to the ground Kurohoshi turned to face the frenzied boy. He smiled confidently as Karasu brought his katana singing through the air and he deftly sidestepped the young man spinning on the spot with the grace of a man half his size.
Karasu felt the sting of steel across his cheek and was aware of the warm trickle of blood running down his neck, but he experienced no pain. He saw that Kurohoshi was an adversary not to be underestimated. That was a fool’s downfall. He mustered all the calm nerve he could, allowed his stressed, taught body to relax, set his mind to think only of this one task. Aware of men rushing towards him and then a shout.
“NO! The pup is mine,” Kurohoshi cried and absurdly the soldiers backed away, some of them to fight the advancing Samurai of Oyama and others to watch as if spectators at some duel.
The two men circled each other, neither breaking eye contact. Kurohoshi leered like a demented fiend. He threw off his helmet and revealed a face blackened by dirt, blood and sweat. The face of the evil one, Akuma, himself. Karasu forced back the tide of fear that threatened to overwhelm him. The Warlord saw a momentary hesitation and charged forwards his two katana working in long swirling arcs before him. Karasu met their assault with his own; felt the powerful strength of his opponent, spun his body allowing it to sink under its weight as he did so, and twisted away. Kurohoshi’s momentum carried him forwards and he staggered, almost stumbling to the ground. With a mighty roar of rage he lifted his frame and met the Ronin’s attack with the full might of his strength. He felt the lad buckle and stagger backwards, but again Karasu was too adept at escape. He dropped to the floor and rolled back and then to the side, springing to his feet with lightening speed. He struck with his right sword and felt it falter in something more resistant that air. He heard the moan and roar of pain from Kurohoshi and saw him stagger, one blade dropped on the ground the hand holding it now clutching at his left side.
The Warlord steadied himself and looked with bemusement at the young face before him. He had underestimated this boy. His skill with a blade was formidable. But Kurohoshi was not dead and buried yet. He saw his faithful general creeping up behind his opponent. All he had to do was distract the lad. He looked down at his blood stained hand and then back at his adversary.
“Who are you?” he asked wanting to know who had almost killed him, before the life was snuffed by the silently approaching Samurai.
Karasu pulled his helmet from his head and shouted back defiantly.
“Oyama Karasu, youngest son of Lord Naoki, brother of Hayato. And vengeance is ours.” He felt ex
hilarated and invincible, but something was not right. Something in the way Kurohoshi’s gaze occasionally flitted beyond him. Almost too late Karasu realised his mistake. His eyes widened with fear and he dived to his left just as the sword came swinging downwards. It caught his left leg and he felt it sting as it cut through his hakama pants to the skin beneath. He rolled away, bounded upright, and before the soldier could recover from his lunge forwards, Karasu’s two blades plunged into his back. The man sucked in a terrible gasping breath and fell. The ronin pulled his weapons from the body and advanced towards the Warlord.
“Kill him!” Kurohoshi cried, but no one moved. A mass of horses and men encircled them, blades lowered and rifles uncocked. They were trapped and defeated. Hayato and Hiraiwa stood at the front of the victors.
Thom jumped from his horse and pushed through Oyama’s men. The sight he saw was both terrible and uplifting. Kurohoshi stood clutching his left flank, Jun lay on the floor, motionless, covered in his own blood, but breathing still. And Karasu, the priestly boy who abhorred violence circled the Warlord, his own face stained and bloody, unrecognisable as the sensitive young man Thom had come to know.
With a swift and unexpected movement Karasu lifted both katana and sliced them horizontally one over the other. Thom was at first unsure what had happened and stared with shock as a widening gash opened across Kurohoshi’s throat. The Warlord sank to his knees his face frozen into petrified realisation of his death and his severed head dropped with a sickening thud into the wet earth.
Silence reigned for one glorious minute and then as the remainder of Kurohoshi’s army threw down their weapons a tumultuous roar of victory frightened the handful of riderless horses into charging away to the forest.
Hayato and Hiraiwa jumped from their rides to congratulate and rejoice with the slayer of the tyrannical monster that had been Kurohoshi. The Lord winced at the pain that shot through his splinted leg as he hit the floor, but he wrapped his arms around his brother and held him in a tight embrace.
Remembering Jun, Karasu gently pushed himself away and hurried over to the First Samurai whose head was now cradled by Thom Devlin.
“You have saved us all Shukke. Your father would be proud and I am proud to have known you,” the General whispered, his voice laboured by heavy breathing. He closed his eyes and his breath faltered.
“No Jun. Hold on, we will get help to you,” Karasu cried and looked helplessly from the General to Thom. Devlin shook his head sadly and stroked the matted hair from the dying man’s face.
Karasu picked up Jun’s hand and kissed it.
“I am unworthy of your praise Jun-san, noble and most wise warrior,” he uttered lowly and as Furuki sighed his last shuddering breath Karasu did not check the tears that fell.
With great effort Hayato also sat beside the dead body of his most senior Samurai and great friend, he sighed and bowed his head holding it in his hands whilst Hiraiwa, similarly grief stricken, thought as any general should and ordered the remaining men to secure the prisoners. Thom lowered Furuki’s head to the ground and walked away leaving the brothers alone to say their goodbyes. He noted that Karasu chanted lowly, making signs over the body with his hands. He presumed these were some priestly prayers, a rite of passage given for the soul of the fallen warrior.
Hiraiwa and the Oyama Samurai herded the fifty or so enemy into a tight circle. They disarmed them and then bound them together. Thom limped through the fallen bodies of men and horses suddenly and acutely aware of the pain from the gash in his leg. Curiously it had not bothered him during the heat of the battle. Adrenalin was a far better pain killer than any opiate. He discovered a dreadfully injured horse, its forelegs broken and a massive rip in its flanks, laid with rolling agony filled eyes. He cocked his pistol and shot it through the head, ending its misery. The crack of the gun seemed deafeningly loud over the now deadly quiet scene. Startled birds crashed into flight around the battlefield and clattered away. A few jumpy Samurai reached for their swords or rifles and then smiled at their unease when they saw Thom standing over the body of a horse.
The enemy bound and guarded, Hiraiwa gave orders to search for wounded and he sent a rider on a mission of mercy. Hayato joined him and the two conversed, their heads bowed close to each other in secret conspiracy. Thom glanced their way as he made his sweep of the dead and dying. He did not know what orders had been given and he had begun to feel sickened and appalled at the gore around him. The dead and dying men, the severely injured to whom no one attended. No one seemed interested. Karasu still mumbled prayers over Jun, and Lord Oyama and his remaining General were in what appeared to be secret council. Did these people not care about their fallen comrades? He felt his anger rise as he looked around him with increasing despair and frustration. He was about to shout at Hayato, to challenge his apparent lack of compassion when a fallen soldier caught his eye. It was the flailing movement of an arm that first attracted his attention, but then he recognised the face. His heart quickened and his blood ran cold.
“Dear Gods!” he muttered under his breath and then shouted loudly, “Karasu! Over here!” He leapt forward, ignoring the stab of pain in his leg, and dropped to his knees by the side of Taku. The warrior turned his head slightly and offered a weak smile. Frothy, crimson blood oozed from between his lips and his breath made an odd crackling sound.
Taku lay supine; his arms flung above him as if a babe asleep, his lower torso trapped beneath the body of a horse. His Samurai helmet was half off his head and seemed to be impeding his breathing so Thom gently removed it catching the vague nod of thanks from the dying man beneath. Karasu rushed to where Thom sat and dropped to the ground his eyes shining wetly and his bottom lip trembling.
“Not you too,” he cried and looked from his protector and friend, to the horse trying to assess what could be done, to Devlin. His face wore a mixture of emotions from abject misery to anger and he shook from head to toe.
“Help move him Thom. Get men to help move horse,” he demanded his voice urgent and commanding.
Devlin shook his head sadly.
“Tis no good. He is dying Karasu. If we pull the horse from him it will not only cause him unbearable pain, but it will kill him faster. I have seen this kind of thing before on a ship when a man was crushed so under a fallen mast,” he said sympathetically.
Karasu’s eyes flashed with rage. He shouted out to his brother and Hiraiwa and glowered at Thom.
“If you not help others will,” he spat and Devlin sighed.
“I will help you if you wish it, but bear in mind what I have said. Maybe you should ask Taku what he wants. He is still lucid, but he does not speak Westlandish,” he smiled with pity.
Hayato hobbled over with Hiraiwa’s help and both men looked down upon the trio. Karasu stared at Thom, aware that the others had joined them, but not ready to acknowledge their presence. Slowly he lowered his eyes to those of Taku, searching the pained face. The fallen Samurai tired to smile, but the expression became a grimace of agony that stabbed through the heart of his young master.
“Taku, my dear friend, we are going to pull the horse away from on top of you. It will hurt and I ask you to bear it bravely, but then you will be free,” he said softly reverting to his own language. Taku closed his eyes and shook his head. With great effort he spoke. His voice was so quiet that the ronin had to bend his head to the dying man’s lips to hear him.
“No. I am a dead man Karasu-san. Let me end it now?”
Karasu shook his head violently, tears spilling from his lashes.
“No Taku. You cannot die. My sister will make you well. She has a gift for healing and is knowledgeable with medicines. You will ride again my friend,” he protested.
Taku coughed and more frothy spittle covered his lips. He screwed his eyes tight shut against a tearing spasm that ripped through his broken body and he barred his teeth in an agonised grimace, sweat standing proud upon his face. He turned his eyes to Thom. They held a plea there that would have torn at the
hardest man’s soul.
“Devlin-san?” Taku uttered in a desperate cry for understanding.
The pirate Kapitan understood the unspoken question, the implied and wretched request. He pulled his pistol from the sash around his armour and checked the chamber for bullets. He held the weapon before Taku and held the Samurai’s eye, his question answered by a short determined nod. He placed the gun in Taku’s right hand.
“No! What are you….? I forbid it!” Karasu cried and lunged forward for the pistol. Strong hands grasped his shoulders from behind and prevented him from reaching it. He struggled, but Hiraiwa had him in a tight grasp across his neck and upper chest. Taku smiled once at the ronin and then put the gun under his chin and fired.
“NO!” Karasu shouted and fought himself free, throwing himself onto the body of the man whom he had once defeated in a fight to prove his worth. So much death, so much pain. Was it worth all this suffering? The exhilaration of battle had long since died and now all he felt was misery and the torment of losing close friends.
“He is at peace now Brother. Let him rest. He died for our honour and to free our people as did Jun. Do not dishonour him by lamenting him as a child does its father. Be proud instead of what he has achieved and that you knew and loved him,” Hayato said his tone soft yet also slightly reproving.
Karasu glowered at him biting back the words of rebuke that sprang to his lips. He took a deep quivering breath and forced himself to stand, tearing his eyes from the body and swallowing back the grief that so desperately wanted to break free.
“Karasu, there are many others who need attention. What is Hayato going to do for them?” Thom urged remembering his indignation at the seemingly lack of care for their injured comrades.
The ronin did not answer immediately but seemed to be doing battle with his own emotions. His face darkened briefly and a new resolve was born within.
Raven's Quest Page 31
