L5r - scroll 03 - The Crane

by Ree Soesbee

  Uji, commander of the Daidoji, looked up at the Asahina temple upon its singular hill. He wished for its stone walls and twisting corridors. There, the fight might have been even. They might have had a chance.

  Over twenty thousand undead marched on the roads to the north. Their rotting flesh sloughed on Crane land. Their leader, white hair shining above his black stallion, cheered them on with howls of rage.

  Uji closed his eyes, remembering the madness that had shone from Hoturi's face as he forced them from the cliff. Uji's wounds, barely healed, still felt the crash of rock and surf.

  The Crane troops had been told that the undead were led by a false Hoturi, but for most of them, this was the first time they saw the truth.

  One of the men stepped before Uji, kneeling as his lord opened his eyes once more. "Our true champion has arrived."

  The Daidoji Daimyo looked up from his reverie to see a parade of figures emerge from the temple gates. The Asahina shugenja walked in slow columns, their prayers whispering to the heavens in remorse and piety. But the figure that caught Uji's attention was not dressed in the wide robes of a shugenja, nor in the hakima of a courtier.

  Doji Hoturi, champion of the Crane, stood in his father's armor and gazed out on the field. His face was uncovered, and his white hair was bound in a samurai's topknot. At his side hung the sword of the Crane. Its ancient hilt was wrapped in new silk. The battered saya shone with care.

  As the troops noticed their commander, an audible whisper flowed through them. Some shook their heads in shame, fearing the demon that had destroyed them at Kyuden Doji and trusting only to their oaths to the Daidoji family. Fully one fourth of the men had asked Uji's permission to commit seppuku when they were told their leader would be Hoturi. Uji had refused them all. It was better that they live to see the battle to come. Then, if they had been deceived, they could die in honorable combat, defending the Crane.

  Smoke from the north began to rise, and Uji heard the marching beat of drums and thickly sandaled feet.

  Hoturi, too, heard it. As Kuwanan knelt to receive his orders, the champion of the Crane reached for the sword at his side. He drew it forth, and the echoing chime reverberated through the field. It seemed to gain strength from the whispers of the men. It gathered their doubt and changed it to a single ringing note. Each man raised his weapon to salute his commander. Their fears began to vanish beneath the light of truth.

  The sword's note faded. The drums ceased. In the silence, Hoturi lowered his sword. A golden ray of sunlight pierced the stormy clouds, sweeping across the battlefield with the light of Mother Sun.

  From the hills to the north of the plain, a black tide rose. It rushed down the plains with stomping feet. Broken weapons and mad shrieks drowned the sound of Hoturi's sword. Upon the top of the hill, surrounded by thousands of crawling, running, bleeding corpses, a single figure on a jet-black steed raised his hand in war.

  "It is time!" Hoturi shouted from the gates of the temple. "Show them what it means to be Crane!"

  Uji screamed a wild battle cry, sending his men forward through the thick grasses that waved waist-high around them. The field of Daidoji was weak to the right, and Uji knew it. Seeing the defensive line breaking, the false Hoturi punched his fist to the side, commanding a legion of men to take advantage of the flaw.

  Exactly as Uji had planned.

  He lifted the horn from his side. In a long, bloody line, his men clashed with the undead horde. Uji blew a high-pitched tone from the instrument. The lieutenant to the right flank raised his fan in understanding, and the Asahina shugenja ceased their chant.

  The golden field shimmered. Waves of light rippled through the high grasses and changed them to armored forms. The illusion of an empty plain faded away, and the Crane hidden beneath its power rose to join the battle. Behind the vanishing illusion, a thousand more Crane—two, no three thousand more—lowered their pikes to receive the undead charge.

  With a scream, the undead slammed into the spear points, impaling themselves on the thick iron shafts. The illusion shimmered once more before vanishing completely. Rows of marching corpses were slaughtered by an enemy they had not known existed.

  A cry rose above the fray: "Who are we?"

  "Kakita!" came the proud response.

  The samurai dropped pikes covered in black blood and reached for gleaming katanas. Raising his sword to join the fight, Uji smiled. That is what it means to be Crane, you filthy eta. It means you never fight alone.

  Hoturi led the second wave himself, marching his men down the field behind the Daidoji. The archers at the rear lifted their bows and sent arrows arcing toward the enemy. Under their fire, Hoturi's Doji guard leapt through the high grass and joined the fight. They were few, but stalwart, and their swords cut through the sluggish legions of the false Hoturi like sickles through rice. Still, it was not enough. With determination stolen from the gates of Jigoku, the undead relentlessly advanced, tearing with clawed hands and slashing with broken swords.

  Another horn trumpeted. The Asahina chant from the temple gates gained volume. The clouds above the plain began to open, pushed by an unseen hand to allow the sun's light through. Threads of gold pierced the storm, but the clouds stubbornly refused to part. More voices joined. Students, teachers, and every master of the Way stood as one before the gates, lifting their voices to the sun and beseeching the kami to hear their prayer. Again, the clouds began to part. Again, they were forced back, the light of Amaterasu forbidden by darker magic.

  Beside the man on the jet-black steed stood a dark-robed figure whose hands were circled by a powerful glow—a bloody aura of maho.

  "Necromancer!" Hoturi shouted to Kuwanan, pointing with his blade. "A strong one. This is his storm!"

  Kuwanan nodded. Together the two men charged the hill. They cut their way, step by laboring step, through the massed undead. More Crane samurai joined them, supporting their charge. They advanced up the churned dirt of the golden field. Every inch they gained was another swing, another dying corpse or injured Crane.

  With horror, Hoturi realized that he recognized many of the faces of those who stood against him. Stolen from early graves, their putrid corpses opened gaping mouths as if to speak, but only burbling gasps came out.

  Omoru, Hoturi thought, drawing his blade from one fallen man to slide it through another's grime-covered neck. As Oromu's head fell at the feet of the Crane Champion, Hoturi was overwhelmed by a memory of the man's palaces, his ten daughters, and their plump mother. He had been a vassal, a friend. He had died of plague, not nine months past.

  Two more took his place, their tattered blue garments hanging with soil and ash. There had been no time to burn the dead. They had died suddenly, the plague sweeping over their provinces like fire through thick brush. The two new monstrosities reached for Hoturi with new strength, and a thousand more stomped fleshy feet upon the cold ground.

  Not twenty thousand undead, but twice that number.

  A gust of wind screamed through the field, churning the high grasses in its passing. The undead swarmed over the hill like a great mass of black beetles, leaving torn ground and fallen bodies in their wake. The full might of the false Hoturi's army had arrived—and it was made of thousands of fallen Crane.

  The fallen legions of Kyuden Doji howled vengefully, their rotted eyes peering out from bare skulls, their teeth tortured into fangs. Each one limped eagerly toward the fight. Uji's line began to buckle. They fought friends, companions, brothers and sisters—those fallen and left behind.

  "Doji, help us," Hoturi breathed, lowering his sword in shock. "We fight against ourselves."

  But before the Daidoji could begin their retreat, another call echoed from the field. To the west, a smaller force marched. Their black banners waved in the wind. Leading them rode a tall man in an emerald-green cloak. He lifted a golden fan that bore the mon of the emperor. Perhaps three hundred men followed the grizzled sensei, their black cloaks unfurling as they marched. These were the Emerald Magist
rates, a new generation of guardians for the empire.

  "Toshimoko," Hoturi whispered. He repeated the name with a yell strong enough for ten men. "Toshimoko-sama!"

  "Toshimoko-sama!" echoed Kuwanan. His stoic face broke into a grin.

  Beside the Emerald Magistrates marched Toturi's ronin army, their scattered colors dyed a matching black. Only Hoturi could tell that the tall warrior who marched beside Toshimoko had once worn Lion colors, or that his newly shorn hair had once been dyed a bright Akodo gold. For now, it was enough that the Crane saw their brothers-at-arms in the Emerald Champion's guard.

  Toshimoko commanded the charge with a sweeping arc of his blade, which cut down the first zombie with a perfect strike. At his command, the black-garbed samurai charged to the field, covering the hills with another shade of darkness. Peeping sunlight glinted from shining blades.

  The dark rider turned his fanged steed to ride down Daidoji troops. The necromancer, absorbed in his magic, did not move from the hillock. Above him, the storm boiled and blew. Clouds chased sunlight through the sky.

  A great wind lifted ten undead from the ground, hurling them toward a line of Daidoji pikemen. Uji was among them. His enemies screamed and twisted upon his spear. He hurled them off and quickly rejoined the attack.

  Above, the storm clouds began to break apart, bombarded by the relentless prayers of the Asahina. The blazing rays of the sun began to cut through the undead, leaving them screaming with pain from Amaterasu's pure light.

  With a victorious hurrah, another unit of Daidoji charged the horseman, hoping to overwhelm him. The false

  Hoturi simply smiled widely and countercharged. His steed tore through flesh and bone. Before they could even reach the rider, the Daidoji had to face the onikage, blood steed of the damned. For a moment, Hoturi thought the Daidoji might bring the monster down, but then the sky grew dark once more.

  Another wind began. A bluish smoke churned in the center of the field, rising into a tremendous pillar of mist and swirling color. On the hillside, the necromancer's pained face smiled. He raised a bloody knife from a fresh cut on his arm. He cut once more. The smoke thickened, blocking the sun's rich light. A pall passed over the field, covering the battle in choking darkness.

  Kakita gagged, raising their swords only to fall before the false Hoturi and his army's renewed assault. Daidoji turned blue as they groaned for air. Galloping amid them, the false Hoturi raised his sword and cut a Crane soldier's head from his body. The onikage plunged through the rest of the unit with a dashing sweep.

  Gasping for breath, Hoturi shot a glance back toward the temple. Asahina Tamako stepped away from the knot of chanting priests. He raised pale hands to his shoulders on either side, stretched his arms out as if in benediction, and whispered prayers to the spirits of sky and air. He looked down upon Hoturi. Smoke clutched the champion's throat, choking the life from his body.

  Now, my lord, the whisper was carried by wind and feather. Leap.

  Trusting his vassal, Hoturi did. The force of his jump carried him above the stench and through the smoke. He landed on the far side of the field, beyond the zombies. Hoturi looked back at Uji and the Daidoji guard. The Daidoji shouted, rallying his men against the undead, and raised his spear to Hoturi.

  Nearby, the False Hoturi raised glowing eyes. Hoturi saw his own face smile. Jerking savagely on the horse's reins, the evil samurai turned the beast from the Daidoji and spurred it toward his foe.

  The field was chaos. High grasses caught at Hoturi's feet and the smoke burned his eyes.

  The false Hoturi charged, undaunted. He impaled three Kakita duelists with a single thrust of his yari. The spear caught against the third man's collarbone, snapping the shaft of the yari in two. Throwing away the useless weapon, the False Hoturi reached for the sword at his side and lifted it free.

  A bold Daidoji intervened, leaping for the man. The false Hoturi caught him and spun him about. With a single cutting pull, the horseman tore the Daidoji's belly open against his sword. As the soldier fell, the evil samurai lifted his bloodied weapon to point at Hoturi.

  The champion's eyes never left those of his insane double, understanding the meaning behind the stroke.

  Satsume's wound.

  The False Hoturi's back banner snapped in a sudden gust of wind. The silver mon of the Crane fluttered angrily behind him.

  Hoturi stepped forward to accept the challenge. He advanced over the corpses that littered the field and shook black blood from his sword. The enchanted weapon rang softly in his grip. The blade trembled with an eagerness he had not felt before. Its note chimed with increasing pitch, sliding up the scale of audible notes with a swift and almost intelligent howl. The sword sang angrily, prepared for combat.

  In the wide field around the two combatants, the Crane armies fought for their lives. The Daidoji had caught the first wave of undead, but the creatures of Kyuden Doji had beaten them back upon the plain, to the base of the Asahina hill. Though the ronin army hounded the zombie army at every turn, the overwhelming numbers were beginning to tell. Even Toturi appeared haggard.

  Still, the Emerald Magistrates did not lag. At last, after having been so long denied their place, they fought for an empire that truly needed their strength. The pride that shone on their faces did not leave them even in death. As each magistrate fell, the rest of Toshimoko's men redoubled their efforts, standing side by side against the demon horde.

  "Watch them, Father," the sick voice of his double hissed to Hoturi over the snorts of his demon horse. "Watch them die."

  "No, I will watch you die," whispered Hoturi, taking a duelist's stance behind the ringing sword.

  "You've killed one son, Hoturi," his own voice echoed with perfect timbre, and his own face smiled beatifically. "You don't have the strength to kill another." This time, Kachiko's voice purred madly from the man's lips, "My love ... come to me...."

  Sick to his core, his stomach churning with shock, Hoturi raised the sword of his clan and charged.

  The horse's head spun. It reared in surprise, and its iron hooves blocked his blow. The Crane Champion's move had been sudden, but the onikage was battle-trained. It kicked at his head.

  He ducked the blow and lunged toward the man that clung to the maddened creature's back.

  Its fangs bared, the horse lashed out, sinking iron teeth into Hoturi's shoulder. Metal shrieked against metal. Hoturi gasped with pain. Fangs cut through lacquered armor and tore into the flesh beneath. Hoturi punched with his other hand, trying to reach the creature's nose. The blow connected, driving the fangs deeper but injuring the creature enough that it pulled its face from his arm, releasing him.

  Staggering back, Hoturi took another stance. Fresh blood trailed down from his shoulder, feeling the pull of muscle against bone. The wound was deep.

  Laughing, the false Hoturi twisted the reins back and forth, teasing the giant steed with its own lust for blood.

  The horse leapt toward the Crane Champion. Its hoof caught Hoturi's shin. With a powerful kick, the beast knocked him to the ground.

  He struggled to rise, still grasping the ancient sword.

  Above him, the doppelganger released the reins. "Kill him," he snarled. It leapt forward.

  Hoturi lifted a spear from the ground, tearing it from the hand of a dead Daidoji and bracing it against the cold, hard soil.

  The spear slid between the horse's legs, through the barreled chest and the wide body, seeking the heart. It plunged with all the power of the demon horse's lunge. Shrieking in anguish, the creature staggered forward a few more steps, unable to comprehend the pain. At last, it collapsed.

  The false Hoturi spun in his saddle, leaping from the steed before it could crash to the ground. Enraged, he lifted his sword—a black blade, dull and foreboding.

  Despite his wounded arm, the son of Satsume lifted his own katana and heard the faint whisper of song within the steel.

  "No more," Hoturi said, staring into his own eyes. "There will be no more slaughter.
"

  With a snarl, the Egg of Pan Ku charged. Hoturi saw his own face contort with rage and madness. Two swords struck. Metal rang as both samurai thrust and spun.

  The movements were precise. The swordsmen had learned from the finest duelists the Crane Clan had to offer. Hoturi knew his opponent's moves almost before they were made. From intricate footwork to ringing steel, his foe's technique perfectly echoed his own.

  The false Hoturi's black cape swirled, hiding his movements, but the young champion did not need to see his stance. He knew the dance of strike and feint. He could not be confused by the blur of fabric. As they fought, Hoturi felt a kind of trance fall upon him. The clear sound of the sword in his hand grew, ringing with purity whenever it deflected the Black Crane's blows.

  The false Hoturi screamed. His blade began to glow, first faintly and then brightly as his blows rained down on Ho-turi's swift defense.

  Hoturi drew back, dazzled by the black radiance. He stared at the rabid glow in his duplicate's eyes. Lunge, twist, evade, slice, and lunge again—an intricate interplay of deadly katana, capable of cutting through the hardest stone.

  "Tired, Father?" The false Hoturi drove in, slashing at his knees with a savage strike.

  Nimbly, Hoturi stepped out of the way, but felt the cold steel of the blade close to his flesh.

  Angling his sword, he turned the blow and stepped inside the Black Crane's defense. His fist delivered a brutal punch to the wide chin.

  The false Hoturi staggered back, bringing up the strange black sword. The tip of the obsidian blade caught Hoturi just behind the knee.

  The Crane Champion staggered. Steel and grass, twisted together from the day's battle, curled around his ankle and dragged him to the ground. Hoturi wrenched his foot free, attempting to find firmer ground, but his wounded arm faltered. His balance lost, Hoturi fell hard to the side. Rocks beneath the grass drove into his skin. The impact ripped bone from tendon. Hoturi gasped. Pain lanced through his wounded shoulder.

  "Wonderful, Father," the false Hoturi taunted, cutting lightly at Hoturi's face with his obsidian blade. "On your knees. It is where you should have been, long ago."