A Sword's Poem

by Leah Cutter

  “You know what your problem is?” Norihiko said, turning his head to one side, no longer even watching Masato. “It isn’t that you’re lazy and undisciplined. It’s that you know you’re right, and refuse to change.”

  “I am right,” Masato said, stung. “Buddhism will sweep over Nifon.”

  Norihiko nodded, finally turning to look at Masato. “True. It might. But not in the way you believe. There’s always a merging. Both ying and yang. Push and pull. Straight and sideways.”

  Masato shook his head. “You’re wrong. The pure Amida Buddha will save you all.”

  Norihiko pointed at Fuko with his chin. “Not all of us,” he said softly.

  Masato raised Fuko high. “Those who are deserving, will die.” Once he finished this battle, it would be off to the greater war, destroying all the kitsune.

  “And who decides who is worthy?” Norihiko challenged.

  “We do,” Masato replied. How dare this upstart question him? Without another word Masato rushed forward, attacking.

  He was right. He would win.

  Ξ

  Masato gave Fuko his head almost immediately. While he wanted to fight Norihiko, punish him, maybe force him to his knees to beg for mercy before Masato killed him, he also didn’t want to take the time.

  They needed to win this battle. Kill Norihiko, then start the slaughter of all his men, all those who called the mountain home. Purify the region. Bring in his own priests.

  Plant the Buddha’s feet firmly on the mountaintop. Let the burning begin.

  Norihiko seemed more prepared this time for Fuko’s wildness. He sidestepped Masato’s wild swings, attacked using steps that defied patterns. Then he’d change, flow straight forward again, then change again.

  Masato wanted to scream as his sword arm grew tired. Fuko was taking everything Masato could give, eager to win, to start the devastation against his sworn enemy.

  But Norihiko refused to accept the demise Masato had promised him. Again and again he slipped out of Masato’s grasp, answering with his own punishing blows.

  Masato couldn’t fight to a tie this time. It had to be to the death.

  It wasn’t until the very last moment that he realized it was to be his own.

  The killing blow came from above, when Masato had been ready to block a lower thrust. Norihiko had reversed blow from low to high without warning, cutting deep into Masato’s neck and shoulder.

  Masato stumbled back, shocked. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” he complained.

  Norihiko showed no mercy. He stepped forward and thrust his sword directly into Masato’s center, in a chink in his armor that he hadn’t realized was there.

  “I think the kami would disagree,” Norihiko told Masato as he stepped back.

  Junichi was going to have a field day between Masato’s life force and all the soldiers dead on the battleground.

  The arc of Norihiko’s sword was perfect as it swung around. At least Masato had died at the hands of a worthy swordsman.

  Then his head toppled from his body, and the world was no more.

  Ten

  Like Autumn Leaves

  Hikaru

  Like autumn leaves, the heads went tumbling.

  Or at least that was what I tried to tell myself. The first time I’d been in a battle, just before Iwao died, I saw men getting killed. Heard the screams, smelled the blood, tasted their fear.

  But it didn’t really affect me. They were merely humans, after all. They were destined to die after a short while.

  This time I felt their pain. The devastation as each man lost his life. How cruel it was for the potential in each individual to be cut short. How awful the waste.

  Could I have stopped it all with just a wave of my hand? Ended the destruction? I was magical, full of my powers, stronger than ever before.

  However, I knew I couldn’t. My magic didn’t work that way, not on a mass scale. I couldn’t influence a large crowd, let alone entire armies. All I could do was help one man at a time, turn a sword stroke away, give him another chance.

  Let him thank his luck.

  From my nest, I watched many men die, the air heavy with fall rains and anticipation. Grass had sprung up since the last conflict, hiding the scars of the previous battle. Men trampled it again, then ground it into the mud. I moved around, staying hidden, watching and waiting.

  It was midday before Masato finally realized he was losing. He had more men. He had more ghosts and wraiths who drove fear into the winds.

  But he couldn’t compete with Norihiko’s brilliant wildness. My Norihiko, who had finally tapped into his true nature.

  Watching him climb the small hill where I hid made me weep. He was already covered in mud and gore. Exhaustion lined his face. His eyes still shone as he surveyed the field. Scouts and messengers came running up to him with news or questions, and Norihiko directed them, made suggestions, and also waited.

  Masato came riding up behind a unit of well–trained fighters. I made the way easier for them, clearing other men off the hill, distracting them, turning them away.

  How I shuddered when Masato went striding up the hill! Not because of fear. My hands had formed into claws and I found my teeth bared. I hated him. I wanted to make him suffer. I’d let him touch me. He didn’t make me unclean—I’d washed all of him from my skin, my soul, and my magic.

  I just didn’t want him to live, to breathe the same air.

  The sword he carried was evil as well. I hissed at it, glad to be hidden from its evil gaze. It seemed to sense me anyway. I would have thrown it into the deepest sea to be rid of it.

  The battle between Masato and Norihiko took longer than I would have expected. I don’t believe Norihiko was playing with him. He was, however, showing Masato just how talented a swordsman he was, how outclassed Masato truly was.

  In the end, when Masato’s head also went rolling away, I thought that was it. I waited for the relief I should feel.

  It never came.

  Though the man no longer lived, I would always carry his actions with me. I was the one who had to let go, to not let them define who I was.

  I stumbled down the hill, weeping with joy and sadness.

  The estate was safe. Masato had been defeated.

  I was who I was, alone again in the world. Norihiko had just been a dream, a brief time when I hadn’t been on my own.

  A dream that I also had to let go of.

  Ξ

  The battle didn’t cease immediately. It took time for the word to spread to Masato’s generals.

  In the meanwhile, I made my way to Masato’s camp. I wasn’t planning on any destruction there. Maybe a little mischief, though.

  Few men remained in the collection of tents. The ones who were there weren’t staying. They looted the flimsy, unguarded shelters, stealing blankets, clothes, tools, anything they could carry. Most of them were grimy from battle—many of them injured.

  Why weren’t they going to the priests’ tent to get healing? I made my way to the tiny black canvas tent. No guards stood watch. The stench was worse than a graveyard, containing not just putrefying flesh but the smell of foul magic that clogged the back of my throat.

  The door of the tent had been tied open. Inhuman groans and cries issued forth. I peeked inside. It was as bad as I feared.

  Three animated creatures stood in the corner, moaning, bumping into each other. They’d been men, once, but were now mindless beasts. They knew nothing but destruction and chaos. There was no reasoning with them. All they would do would be go out and kill, until they’d been slaughtered.

  Two priests wearing dirty brown robes worked on a third such creature lying on the table between them. The fat one carved esoteric runes into its belly, while the older one poured a magical mixture of tar, blood, and rotting herbs into the wounds. They both chanted a spell of power, a harsh song that promised pain and suffering to all those who came across the being they were animating.

  Were they just planning on let
ting these creatures go, to terrorize the mountainside? There was no way to direct them. It wasn’t as if they were creating guards who could defend them.

  More mischief than I would tolerate.

  I stayed hidden, but caused a great wind to gush into the tent, making the one priest curse as he lost his grip on the bowl with the nasty concoction, dribbled it down the side of the creature and splashed the robes of the other priest.

  This disrupted the song they sang, as the priest with the knife cursed the other.

  The wind also caused the creatures in the corner to stir, groaning loudly in complaint. They must hate all life. So I caused a second wind to blow, directing it at them. They turned as one, staring out the open door.

  The two priests didn’t notice. They had begun their chant again.

  I crafted a spring wind, the kind that makes young lovers sigh, and directed to the three in the corner. They grew restless and agitated, crying out for their own lost lives and the destruction of all those around them.

  I didn’t know how to stop these three beings, except maybe to sing them to sleep.

  First, though, they had a job to do.

  I continued to blow winds at them, happy winds, winds that stirred the blood and carried promises of green growing things and hope. I also protected the priests, letting them focus and concentrate on their other creation.

  Finally, the beasts had had enough. They erupted out of their corner, attacking the only other living things in the tent—the two priests.

  The priests were caught off guard, as I’d hoped they would be. I made myself watch their deaths: I had caused them, after all.

  I put a barrier up against the door so the mindless creatures couldn’t escape and cause more harm. Once they were finished doing my will, I did sing them to sleep. They would expire before they awoke, the magic bled away.

  I sent a quick prayer at them as well, for the poor men whose souls had once inhabited those hulks.

  As I finished, someone behind me said, “Well done, lady.”

  I whirled around. There stood Junichi, a terrible, maniacal grin on his face. He held a box in his hands. I instantly recognized it. It wasn’t the same one that had encased Norihiko’s soul, but it was a sister to it, a box designed to hold the soul of a fox fairy.

  Junichi looked fat, like a leech that had spent all night supping on blood. His off–white robes were streaked with tar, blood, and gore. He held a glittering knife in his hand—the light it gave off chilled my very soul. I could taste the magic even from a few feet away.

  It, too, was meant to work against my kind.

  “Thank you for taking care of those two idiots before I had to,” Junichi said. “Now, are you going to come along nicely, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

  “Do you truly believe I’m just going to lie down and die, so that you can take my soul?” I asked, incredulous. Really, the arrogance of the man!

  Junichi just shrugged. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me. I’ll still have your soul in the end.”

  I shivered at his assurance. I didn’t know how to fight him. I’d never really trained with a sword. The kitsune battled with words or misdirection. Not with action.

  Still, I drew my shoulders back, ready to face him, determined to win.

  Norihiko wasn’t the only one who had learned. I would defeat this sorcerer. Finally get my revenge for him killing his love and my one chance for happiness.

  I couldn’t lose. No matter how alone I might be for the rest of my days, I wasn’t about to die.

  Even if it meant killing him.

  Ξ

  Junichi attacked, swift and hard. I swirled away, dancing out of range.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t need to stay. That I could just flit away. I didn’t actually have to fight him.

  But this was the man responsible for Norihiko’s death. For the creation of Fuko, the sword that lusted after all my kind.

  If I didn’t take care of him, he’d just continue to cause me and my people harm.

  So I stayed. Engaged the madman. Watched carefully how he held his knife, how he fought. Stayed out of his way while I sent my winds at him, trying to confuse him, to distract him.

  But how was I going to harm him? I didn’t want to get close enough to use my hands. I had no weapon other than my wits and my magic.

  So I used my words.

  “She must have been beautiful, the one who rejected you,” I taunted him. I allowed him to swing very close to me, but still miss. “But always out of reach.”

  “She was nothing,” Junichi declared. “Just a blight. Like you. Like you all are. None of you deserve to live.”

  “Did she promise you immortality? The hope of never dying?” I asked as I brushed by him, coming close enough for him to smell my perfume. “Or did she promise you love?”

  “She didn’t promise me anything,” Junichi said. “I was going to take it all from her.”

  “She defeated you, didn’t she?” I asked. “And that bothers you most of all. Defeated. By not only a woman, but one of my kind.”

  “She should have just given me what I asked for,” Junichi admitted. He drew himself up. “Like you will.”

  Did he really believe that I didn’t know there were creatures behind me? Even enhanced, these former–men couldn’t hide their stench.

  I had to laugh at Junichi’s surprised face when the man missed grabbing my arm by several feet.

  Then I had to whirl faster to get out of the way of a second. These creatures were a threat. But I had watched Norihiko’s men disable them.

  With a quick burst of song, I directed strong winds to swirl around their centers, push into the flesh of their core, and disturb the characters carved there.

  The creatures were far enough past life that they collapsed, falling hard, like old oaks whose roots had failed.

  I knew it was just a matter of time before more came to join us. Perhaps Junichi was right, and I would lose.

  But the animated beings gave me an idea.

  Junichi’s long life wasn’t natural either. He used the lives of others to extend his own.

  He probably didn’t have characters painted on his skin. They were likely to be imbedded there, with ink and needles, like the warriors from the far off islands.

  However, I would bet everything that he did have them. Covering his round belly. I just had to get at them.

  The most direct way would be to stop the fighting and seduce him, get him to remove his clothes for me.

  I shuddered at the thought as I slipped. Junichi’s last pass with his knife came dangerously close.

  I would never seduce another man like that again. No man would touch me unless I truly desired him. I would not hurt my soul like that again.

  But then Junichi slipped on the same patch of blood–stained ground. I didn’t know who had died there, but I guessed it was one of Masato’s own men, killed by his own hand.

  And that gave me an even better idea.

  I slipped again and started panting, as if I was tiring from our little dance. Junichi immediately pressed his advantage, as I hoped he would.

  With a cry of despair, I struggled back, out of the way.

  Junichi paid no heed at all to where I was directing his feet.

  It didn’t take much. Just a quick wave of my hand behind me to slick up the grass.

  Junichi slipped as I’d planned.

  With only the slightest effort, I turned his hand at the same time, directing the blade straight at the core of him.

  Junichi slipped again as the blade easily parted his robes, like a fish diving for water.

  With a gasp, Junichi asked, “What have you done?”

  His face contorted horribly, growing gaunt, like an apple shriveling. He dropped his accursed knife and put his hands over his belly. It reminded me of Ume, trying to stop the flow of blood back in the carriage so long ago.

  But blood wasn’t pouring out. Or rather, not just bl
ood. Black filmy clouds also puffed out, smelling like a rotting monastery, with putrefying walls and souls just as corrupt.

  “Please, please! Save me!” Junichi cried. He clawed at his armor, trying to get it open, maybe to heal himself. Then he reached for the box, that dreaded box that would hold souls, behind him.

  “Keep me alive,” he begged.

  I didn’t want anything to do with his black magic. Deep inside of me, however, whispered a dreaded truth: I could use his soul for magic. As he’d used Norihiko’s.

  Not for evil, not as he had. But for honest good.

  I dragged myself past the wounded sorcerer, staying well out of his reach. Even though he was on his knees, he was still as dangerous as a snake.

  The box felt cold in my hands, and heavy, as if it already carried something inside. It was beautifully carved out of mountain ash wood, with a lovely red polish rubbed into it, to make it shine. Bas–relief decorations surrounded the lid and sides, mainly of the sanzashi thorn bush, showing it blooming with its sickly–smelling flowers on one side, and with its great thorns on the other.

  I carried the box back in front of Junichi. His breathing was labored, his once dark hair had gone gray, and spots lined his wrinkled hands.

  “Open it,” he said, his voice gravelly and rough.

  I did as he said.

  With a sigh, Junichi leaned forward. I could tell he was willing himself into the box, willing his soul to live on.

  It wouldn’t be enough. Too much was dribbling away.

  I gave my own sigh and called up yet another wind, a gentle, cleansing wind, to carry the rest of Junichi’s soul away and into the box. It flowed faster now, encouraged to slide into its new home.

  It wasn’t enough.

  At the end, I had to start tugging gently, pulling on the soul to make it leave Junichi. Finally, like pulling a thorn from a wound, I jerked Junichi’s soul free from his body and snapped the lid shut on the box as the sorcerer fell on his face.

  I was surprised that the box didn’t seem any heavier now. Was it just Junichi’s soul had so little weight? Or were all souls as solid as sunlight and steam?

  Regardless, I knew that Junichi’s soul was a heavy responsibility, a burden for me to carry until I decided what to do with all that power.