The magician-ninja’s eyes glistened like the wall of water behind her. Tomoe imagined that the mysterious woman grimaced behind her wrappings, perhaps guessing Tomoe’s hateful thoughts.
“You are samurai,” the priestess said, as though it were a grave concession. “But jigai is not your prerogative. You cannot regain honor in this fashion, for no master has given you permission, and you have tests before you. I do not threaten, but warn: If you die for seeking honor, you will search in hell and never find it.”
The arrogance of the magician-ninja roiled Tomoe’s blood, for she knew the prerogatives of samurai far better than this descendant of spies who sniggered in darkness and spread the most terrible secrets of others while guarding their own like treasures. Tomoe sprung to her feet, swords drawn in an instant, and slashed twice at the jono priestess, the dark Shinto warrior. But the jono was intangible as smoke, as an eclipse. Tomoe’s swords struck behind the magician-ninja, finding no flesh or bone.
The word of a magician-ninja had no meaning to Tomoe. She crossed both swords against the back of her neck, prepared to pull the blades with enough force to behead herself.
“Do not! I beg you. Set aside your resolve.”
Arrogance was gone from the posture of the magician-ninja. She fell upon her knees, the grey robes flowing around her, her head bowed as if to honor or to yield. She said, “The only possessions of the ninja or the jono are our names and our faces.”
She looked up at Tomoe, and fingered at the cloth covering her face, pulling it down. Tomoe gazed upon beauty unlike any she had ever seen, like the very face of Amaterasu, blinding in its bright perfection. Tomoe averted her eyes and gasped, and the magician-ninja said, “My name … my name … is Noyimo.”
Then the bright lady cloaked in darkness was gone, leaving Tomoe seared and cleansed of guilt, empty of all but the memory of a face. She sheathed her swords, and walked into the light. The wall of water cooled her of the remembered fire of Noyimo.
In the valley, a few hundred persistent samurai fought without hope. The last of the united clans might not fall until the sun was nearly down, but Tomoe saw no reason to rejoin the battle. She felt helpless in the face of Huan’s magic. It was hard to know what direction to turn. She did not want to think, to question, to look ahead in time. These were not a samurai’s duties. A samurai was meant to serve; and Tomoe’s master was Toshima. “I will find Toshima and beg instruction!” she told herself, and considered the route by which Goro Maki led Shigeno’s wife and daughter to safety.
Tomoe’s plan was predictable, and someone had foreseen it. An unexpected adversary strode the path from beyond the valley.
“I have come for you, Tomoe Gozen,” he said. “I am sent to deliver the Mikado’s justice.”
The magnificent warrior’s armor was studded with emeralds and rubies, his helm rimmed with diamonds. The wood of it was lacquered in rich colors, so that he seemed to be clad in enamel, shiny like a beetle’s shell, strong like a turtle’s carapace. The glitter of the warrior was dazzling and Tomoe wondered what famous, rich family this noble samurai represented.
“A grudge match?” Tomoe asked. “Who bears me animosity?”
“Not a grudge match, Tomoe Gozen. You will know me by my name: Ugo Mohri.”
Tomoe started, and moved back. She said it aloud: “The Mikado’s executioner.”
He came at her. An honorable act would be to bow and accept the killing punishment; but the magician-ninja had said there would be no honor if Tomoe died with tasks undone. She fled up the path, toward the waterfall. Like a frightened animal she hopped away, seeking some hole in which to hide. She would have slunk to some distant sanctuary and stayed there, but she was quickly backed against the sheer cliff from which the waters poured.
Fear upon her face, Tomoe scrabbled up the stone wall, a surprising feat, and clung there, high enough that the executioner’s blade could not reach her. In all her life, she had never met her match in swordplay; but Ugo Mohri was already a legendary figure, and even were he not, could any lower samurai think to defeat the Mikado’s executioner?
She was not surprised that her execution day should come. The past weeks had found her in dubious occupations; and although a generous judge might find her behavior in accordance with the bushido in spite of Lord Huan’s manipulation of her strength, deeper seeds had been sown for the harvesting of her head. Once, and not so long ago, a prince had come to Tomoe and entrusted her with an important mission. She was to travel to the Celestial Kingdoms and seek out a renegade swordsmith from Naipon. It had been a successful venture, and she had performed all but one part of the Mikado’s will, as outlined by the prince. Against what she was bidden, she had saved two of the slain smith’s finest swords, neglectful of the command to destroy them all.
The mission in Ho had changed her in many ways, she knew. She combined samurai training with mainland ki’ung fu. No school taught her unique style, and none would do so unless Tomoe herself became a master of a school, and even then it might prove difficult to acquire students. None emulated her, for there were those who whispered, “The style of Tomoe Gozen is an evil style.” Yet Tomoe was perfectly committed to the seven virtues and all the tenets of bushido, so that none dared say she was renegade, for she was not. Even to insult her methods led inevitably to a fight to preserve face, a fight without quarter, and thereby death came to Tomoe’s detractors. Those deaths upheld her honor, and the honor of her style, so that she continued to fight with two swords. All the same, Tomoe knew she would be forgiven less easily if she ever strayed from the Way, for not all samurai were devoid of jealousy, and some would declare her a malignancy if given the opportunity.
The last month had given detractors ample opportunity.
But Tomoe was not for a moment convinced that her enemies were motivated as much by truth as jealousy. She perceived how the things she had learned during her campaign in Ho had made her mightier. The ill words of her enemies reached the Mikado, that was clear, and although the Mikado was all-wise, she would not believe her style corrupt.
“I am guiltless!” cried Tomoe from her perch. Her hand clutched a slender root, so that she was in a most precarious state. Ugo’s longsword wavered hypnotically, waiting for her to fall.
“There are those who say,” Ugo Mohri began, “that Tomoe Gozen does indeed have two souls—her own, and that of Jingo the ancient amazon. Therefore fate necessitates that she wield two swords in order to bear the burden of her mightiness. A wonderful story!”
He laughed at her.
The root to which she clung tore a little ways from the cliff, and Tomoe raised her feet lest the executioner cut her tendons.
“You think you have doubled the might of your spirit, but you have only cut it in half.” To punctuate the statement, he swung his gleaming blade. “You think the philosophy of Ho has strengthened you, but it has not.”
“No one has bested me!” she said, the boast sounding silly given her position.
“Come down to me and duel.”
As if by his command, the root broke in her grip. He stepped aside to let her land safely. Her swords flashed to her hands before she had struck the ground.
In a swift flurry of motion, she strove in a murderous fashion, but Ugo Mohri evaded her cuts, and laughed at her again. His sword moved only once, effectively slicing the armor of her shoulder so that it hung loose.
“Your soul is divided, not doubled,” he said again. “You still have one soul, but it has become like the eyes of a bird. I can approach you through the middle. You cannot see me.”
It was infuriating that he should lecture her, like her master of the samurai school. Another flurry of assaults met no result, and the woman shouted angrily, “No one defeats Tomoe Gozen!”
Ugo replied, “Ugo Mohri defeats Tomoe Gozen.”
Proud of the synthesis of sword maneuvers she had devised and practiced, Tomoe could not believe hers was an evil style. The honor of her weapons was at stake, and she fought with intense ferocity, th
e while saying, “You too have two swords! I see one sheathed across your back!”
“I have never drawn that one,” he said cryptically, and his one sword slipped toward her, cutting her waist-guard so that it flopped loose.
“You were soiled by your mission in the Celestial Kingdoms,” said Ugo. “You went away with the balance of a samurai, strong like a tower. You returned with the balance of a scale. What becomes of the scale that loses one dish? It falls! It is not samurai.”
“I am samurai!”
“In the name of honor, you have slain many to uphold that status. But could the sorcerer of Ho have contained a true samurai for the span of a month? You bear steel wrought on foreign land. It binds you to that land.”
“These were wrought by a Naiponese smith!” she shouted, shaking her swords in feeble threat.
“Who conspired against his country!” The executioner was wise, and angry. “Your mission was to kill him and destroy his offensive weapons. You disobeyed, so great was your attraction for the alien blades. The glamour began then, the glamour which Huan magnified to hold you. With a proper soul, you could not have been so captivated. With a proper sword, even the Mikado’s executioner could not laugh at you.”
They had stood each other off a while, glowering, Ugo’s footwork and eyes a perfect lesson in watchful balance. He held his sword firmly in two hands, out to his left with point up, and scooted the left foot nearer Tomoe, daring her to challenge. She held one of her swords over head, the other straight out from her side.
They clashed, fell away, clashed again, then stood like frozen dancers back to back. Ugo’s sword moved under his arm to reach behind, but Tomoe had leapt forward to evade the point, and turned to face Ugo once more. He turned slowly, with absolute precision, and held his sword straight above his head as if to condemn Tomoe’s two-sword style by his singular upright stance.
His certainty burned at her, and she knew she must defeat that self-assurance which marked Ugo’s face with serene pride. Even if they must die together, at least she would not die alone. So without regard for her own life, Tomoe Gozen screamed in rage and moved violently to the kill.
Although she moved with the swiftest grace, it seemed that all occurred at a slower pace, giving her ample opportunity to observe every motion and counter-motion. She held Ugo in her sight, but for the briefest instance it seemed that he had winked out of existence, passing as he did through some blind spot in her vision. When he reappeared, she knew that her onslaught would fail its mark and his would not. She raised her swords, crossed to fashion an X, and caught a blow which otherwise would have carved her in twain. The power of the executioner forced her to one knee. She grimaced, tried to push his one sword upward with her two so that she could stand. Sweat broke across her brow, but the bejeweled Ugo could not be budged, and more, he seemed wholly unstressed.
He spoke down to her without strain, “I can spare you, Tomoe Gozen. I am told that if you throw down your swords, and return to the one Way of the Warrior, I am to set you free.”
Through clenched teeth she demanded to know, “How can I be a warrior without my swords?”
He leapt back so quickly that she almost fell forward, and certainly in that moment he could have beheaded her had he chosen. He sheathed his sword with care, and removed the scabbarded blade from his back, saying, “You shall have another sword.”
She looked at him with scorn.
“A sword made properly for a samurai.”
Still, Tomoe sneered.
Ugo said, “Only one hand has drawn this sword since Okio, Master Smith of the Imperial City, placed it in its sheath.”
“Whose hand has drawn that sword?” Tomoe asked, half in contempt, half in curiosity.
“No hand that soils the soul,” said Ugo. “It has the blessing of the Mikado, who says Tomoe Gozen will be his samurai if she throws down forbidden weapons and takes up this. You will never see the Mikado, but you will serve him with vigilance and loyalty.”
Tomoe’s face flushed, and she spoke with anger, “I have always served him through the warlords. All samurai are his servants.”
“That is both more true, and less true, than you may understand. Already you have served the Mikado better than other samurai.”
“Eh?” She cocked an ear, interest gathered.
“Far more. You are too far from the center of Naipon’s intrigues to realize the levels of internal conflict. The Shogun vies for the Mikado’s power …”
“That is not so!” She could not believe such treason of the highest personage of samurai caste.
Ugo threw the undrawn sword with its sheath upon the ground, and half-drew his own. “It is so! If twice you call me a liar, I will kill you for my honor and for nothing else! The Shogun undermines the Mikado, would reduce him to an honored figurehead. But without faithful warlords and fighting samurai, the Shogun cannot prevail. Today, you helped weaken the Shogun by more than eight thousand of those samurai who were swayed to his will, reducing four powerful clans to a few dozen ruined members.”
This made awful sense to Tomoe, and she said, “This is why the Mikado treatied the sorcerer Huan! So that samurai would die!”
The executioner did not reply.
Tomoe rose from her knee, her two swords still in hand. “If the Mikado kills samurai, how can I hold faith in him? How can I throw down two good swords for one untried?”
Her words were blasphemy and treason, for Huan had filled her mind with heretical notions: the Way of the Warrior was not for the honor of samurai, but for the power of whoever would rule, whether it be Shogun or Amaterasu’s godling child.
“This is your choice,” said Ugo, and drew his sword full length. He held it upward and to one side, and slid nearer the two-sworded woman.
Anger was intense within Tomoe, but she knew that this was true: the Mikado was Naipon, the supreme ancestor incarnated. Whatever Tomoe did in her life, she did it for Naipon the Eternal Isles, and thereby for the Mikado. Even if bushido were a lie, still must she serve the living flesh of Naipon. Even if a Shogun stole power from a Mikado, still must that Shogun use the stolen power to serve Naipon’s highest personage.
She threw down her swords, waited to see if the executioner would still kill her.
Ugo’s sword re-entered its scabbard, and he stood impassively, watching. Tomoe picked up the new sword, judged it by its scabbard, drew it and weighed it in her hand, then sheathed it once again.
“You will not feel your prowess for a while,” Ugo said, “for you have incorporated much of Ho into your fighting style—ki’ung fu instead of jujitsu, two butterfly-longswords instead of one daito. But when you regain all of your samurai spirit, you will reclaim your previous strength, and more. Until then, you may think you have tied your limbs, for the forbidden style has become a part of you and will beckon exercise, will tempt you with its seeming merits. Never trust it! Never weaken. Never use it again! You will discover that skills born of Naipon are the best borne by samurai.”
She did indeed feel unbalanced as she discarded two scabbards and placed one new one at her side. But it was a disorientation she knew would pass with time, once she learned again to find balance at her center rather than at the width of her arms.
“Your honor can be saved by one deed,” Ugo began. “Now that you bear a weapon forged, tempered and blessed in Naipon, the sorcerer of Ho will have no more control over your mind. Huan has served the Mikado unbeknownst, but now will be a threat unless you intervene. No one but you can walk unhindered through the walls of sorcery he has woven about his palace.”
“I am not the only one,” Tomoe amended. “Ushii too has free movement through Lord Huan’s palace.” Yet she knew Ushii had sworn fealty and could not strike Huan. Tomoe alone was free to act.
“Ushii has another task,” said the executioner. “There is still the army of monsters, brought through a door Ushii was tricked into carving to save you from hell. The magician-ninja have said only Ushii can stay the ghouls from t
heir march to the Imperial City. Even if they stray from that course at the moment of Huan’s death, they would yet bring wrack and terror to Naipon if left to haunt the living earth.”
Tomoe felt responsibility for Ushii’s madness, at least in portion, and she hated to see him ill-used now. She asked,
“How can it be that Ushii can accomplish this alone?”
“You will see. You must return to Huan’s mansion by route of the battlefield. The battle will be over. Dally if you will, and see the deed Ushii will perform.”
“Will this deed cleanse his burdened soul?” she asked.
“He has sheathed his sword in the blood of madness. He will never be whole. Yet if he succeeds at this last important task, Ushii Yakushiji will be recorded upon the Tablets of the Samurai as a most honored and honorable servant of the Mikado.”
Tomoe bowed, feeling sorrow but also satisfaction, as well as relief that she could feel at all. Quickly, she started back into the valley.
The executioner called out to her once, and she turned to see him beneath the evening’s rainbow of the high falls, the colors of which his own gaudy armor rivaled. “When your strength is centered, Tomoe Gozen, it would be interesting to be sent to you again. I am not certain I would like that day.”
The ghouls busied themselves feasting. Beneath the pending, brooding dusk, Ushii fought unaided. He strove without thought or impression, his long shadow darker than all others. His sword worked alone, his body its extension. There was scarcely any balance remaining to his fighting style, the lasting day of battle having left him worn and tired, though maniacal and unrelenting. Yet there remained a kind of grace in the awkward manner by which he stumbled, jerked, and spun around. On every side of him, death was his guard.
When the last fingers of the Shining Goddess played gently over the field, there were but five samurai left of the eight thousand. They surrounded their one mad opponent. The sword of Ushii Yakushiji raced upward in a shower of blood, felling one. It bore left to sever the top half of another samurai’s head, that warrior’s brain tumbling to the ground with is body left standing. The sword slashed downward at a new attacker, splitting nose and teeth so that the stricken samurai staggered back and fell. It reached behind to stick into ribs, then wrenched loose to swing freely across the front of the last man’s stomach, spilling intestines.
The Disfavored Hero Page 6
