by Barry Sadler
At dawn they fed from the rations the vassals of Sakai had carried with them, sticky rice with pieces of dried, smoked fish and strands of gray yellow seaweed for flavoring.
Muramasa smacked his lips over the meal. Casca wanted to kill something and get a piece of meat down his gut. He had never understood how a people, those of Chin included, could be so warlike on a vegetable diet. He needed some red meat or at least some fowl of one kind or another. After what he thought was a meager breakfast, with little if any flavor, they saddled back up and headed out on the mountain trail. The day was crisp with the high morning mist that rested on the tops of the mountains, then slid down into the valleys and lowlands before being burned off by the new sun.
The trail narrowed even more as they passed over one mountain range, then another. At clearings along the way, Muramasa would halt and point off into the distance at a village or castle, telling Casca who controlled it. Then he would tell him who was daimyo of the lands they were crossing, which Muramasa explained meant great landowner. So far none of the names had brought anything to Muramasa's lips except anger.
It looked as if the Taira were the bosses of most of this area. Casca wondered when they would reach the first stronghold where Yoritomo Minamoto had followers. He hoped it would be soon. Several times Muramasa tried to explain to him the relationships between the great warring families and their god-king who lived in a great palace in the city of Heian-Kyo, somewhere near a mountain called Hiei. None of it made any sense to Casca, but he listened intently, each time picking up another word or two. One day what Muramasa was telling him might be of value.
When at last they came off the mountains and into the lowlands once more, he could see they were at a narrow strait separating the island they were on from another. Here it grew more crowded as they passed through village after village. There was no way to avoid them. All the surrounding land was used in farming the fields of rice. If they had gotten off the road, they would have had to trek through miles of soggy, stinking rice paddies. As usual, Casca drew the most attention, not only because of his size and coloring, but because of the robes he was wearing, ones he'd taken from one of the slain samurai of Lord Sakai Taira. They were the Taira colors but he certainly did not have the look of the samurai of the lands of the Sun Goddess.
Casca was as curious as they were. Several times he saw women moving daintily along the streets, their feet clad in white tabi resting on wooden sandals with two high ridges on the bottoms to keep the wearer's feet from the dirt and mud. These women had faces covered in masks of thick white powder and the most elaborate hairstyles he'd ever seen. Their robes were costly and of many colors, one color overlaying the other in eye pleasing patterns as the women minced and bowed their way along the streets, hiding their faces behind gaily painted fans. Several of them eyed Muramasa with obvious speculation since he was well dressed and riding a fine horse. As to the barbarian behind him, he hardly entered their thoughts, and if he did, it was no more than idle speculation of how unpleasant it must be to pillow with one so large and so ugly.
They let their animals do the hard work and push their way through the throngs. Fishermen from the sea were hawking their early morning catch, conical straw hats and capes over weathered shoulders and bent backs. Street stalls with pots of steaming noodles and vegetables were everywhere. Casca's mouth watered when he saw a cage filled with pigeons, but Muramasa had his mind on something else: getting across the Straits of Shimonoseki to the island of Honshu where he could find supporters of Lord Yoritomo. Only there could they find sanctuary. Every second spent on Kyushu was a second of danger where they might be questioned. If that happened and the packs on their animals were inspected, they were surely doomed to a most unpleasant death. For in their packs were the swords and accoutrements of the Taira samurai they had killed.
As they neared the waterfront, Muramasa stopped and spoke briefly to a fisherman who refused to look directly up at the face of the horseman as he spoke in a quick, frightened burst. He pointed with a black-nailed, calloused finger down a cobblestone alleyway running between houses of bamboo set off the ground. Between them were strung lines on which all types of fish were hung out to dry in the sun. Aromatic!
At the end of the street, they found themselves at the edge of the sea. The tide was just beginning to turn. Resting in slimy, fish head littered mud was a flat bottomed boat with one mast. Casca figured that Muramasa was going to hire the boat, not wishing to take one of the others that regularly carried passengers and cargo to Honshu. He obviously wanted to avoid contact with any of Taira's men.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The ritual haggling did not take very long. The look in Muramasa's eyes when he touched the hilt of Well Drinker made the bargemen come to a rapid agreement. Laying down weathered, half soaked planks, he led their horses aboard the flat bottomed boat, explaining with much bowing and scraping that it would be half an hour before the tide was in enough to float the contraption off the mud banks. Muramasa puffed out his cheeks at the delay as if it were the personal fault of the bargeman that the tide wasn't ready at the same time he was.
Casca noticed the anxious look in Muramasa's eyes as he kept glancing to the shore and the alleyway leading to their water logged barge.
The rosin was very concerned. He had no doubt that word of the two strangers' entry into the city would be rapidly passed to the shugo, constables, samurai police of the Taira. Every breath he took might be bringing him closer to death. Death he did not mind. It was natural, expected. But to die before achieving his goals that was a thought which was unbearable. Even with Well Drinker in his hand, one could only resist so many opponents before he had to fall.
The incoming tide lapped slowly, sluggishly, brown and filthy against the unpainted, weathered sides of the barge. Inch by dragging inch it slowly applied lift against the soaked hull. Whistling under his breath to attract Muramasa's attention, Casca pointed down the alleyway. Coming to stand beside him hand on hilt, Muramasa squinted his eyes to see better in the reflected glare of the sunlight on the murky waters.
Two women were approaching them. One wore a wide brimmed hat with black woven strands of cotton hanging down to conceal much of her features and protect her face from the rays of the sun. The other was obviously of the servant class and trotted behind her mistress carrying two large bundles, one on her back and the other under a fleshy arm. She was of no interest, being short, plain and very fat. But the other was of definite interest. As Muramasa had often stated, he was cursed with great curiosity. She moved with rapid yet dainty steps that bespoke a lady of quality or perhaps a woman of the Willow World, such as they had passed earlier in the streets.
Casca stood back as Muramasa advanced to the plank walkway to greet the woman and her companion as they stopped at the water's edge and waited.
Muramasa didn't feel very sure of himself when dealing with ladies of quality. Men were something different. Highborn or low, the katana was the final judge when you met one on one. But with a woman, who knew what the contest really was? "You wish something, mistress?"
The woman's voice was not low or high. It stayed in the middle range but was very melodic. She bowed, her face still hidden for the most part by the hanging strands of black cotton dangling from her wide brimmed straw hat.
"Indeed, honorable sir. I wish to join you and your associate and cross to the mainland. Is it possible that you would grant a desperate and defenseless woman and her companion the honor of accompanying you?" She bowed deeper. Her form was graceful, studied, as was the manner of her speech. It was not the voice of a woman of rural origins. She used phraseology and accents of the highborn. But of which family?
Before he had an opportunity to reply, Casca whistled at him again, this time more loudly and with a feeling of urgency to the pitch. Coming down the alley, two abreast, were four mounted horsemen. Behind them came six men on foot, all wearing the dai sho. They were samurai, most probably shugo, police of the local Taira daimyo.
"Of course. But if you wish to come aboard, may I suggest that you do so quickly." He glanced at the water level. Only an inch or two more to go and they should be able to float free. As the shugo neared them, Muramasa ordered the bargeman to make ready with his long pole to push them out. He started to call out an order to Casca, then saw the barbarian was already prepared, having taken one of the Mongol style bows from its case. He had already notched a shaft and was waiting. Muramasa grunted under his breath. From the manner in which the long nose held the bow, it was obvious he knew something about its use. Perhaps he was not going to be such a burden after all.
The women hurried aboard, moving to the rear of the barge behind the horses. The bargeman looked as if he wished to abandon ship, but the big barbarian with the scarred face indicated with his bow that if he made such a move, the first shaft would be for him. He had no choice but to stay and do as he was ordered by these, what he now believed to be, outlaw ronin.
Knowing they had no other options and seeing that it would be incredibly foolish to let the advancing shugo get any nearer, Muramasa nodded at Casca and waited to observe the quality of the barbarian's marksmanship. Casca raised the bow, holding the string by an ivory thumbgrip next to his ear. Then he extended the powerful laminated bow forward with his left hand, bringing it down from above his head to eye level in one smooth motion as he completed the draw. Then the arrow was released, leaving the string of the bow humming. The first shaft hit its mark, the leading horse, in the chest. The shaft penetrated into the lungs. The beast screamed like a wounded woman and fell to its forelegs, kicking and screaming as its mouth filled with blood. The rider went over its head to crash in the alley and lay motionless. With any luck, he broke his neck.
The next shaft was in the air before the first rider touched the earth. This one struck the second rider in the chest, penetrating his lacquered armor in the style of dhotoke-do, a shining black human chest. The arrow was driven with enough force that the barbed point protruded out his back. He fell over his horse's neck, trying to hold on as his lungs filled with blood. His horse ran into the flailing legs of the leading animal who screamed and writhed on the earth in its death spasms. Its hind legs kicked out and knocked the second horse down.
Behind them, the samurai on foot paused in confusion. They wanted to attack, but the horses in front of them were screaming and kicking so much that none wished to venture near and risk a broken limb.
Muramasa admired the barbarian's logic in the selection of his targets. Quite good. Pushing the gangway free with his foot, he drew Well Drinker and waited. Not looking back, he barked harshly at the bargeman, "If this thing does not move soon, you are going to die. For if we do not kill you," he pointed at the samurai who had finally found their way around the kicking and dying horses, "then they will!"
The bargeman found new strength in his ancient frame as he dug the pole deeper into the mud, his tendons stretched to the breaking point in his neck and back as he shoved against the sucking slime. He thought he felt the barge give an inch or two and pushed harder until he thought his heart was going to burst.
Casca let loose three more arrows, only one of which struck its mark as the on rushing samurai were dodging and weaving. But he did have the satisfaction of hearing one scream as the man went down with a shaft of the leaf pattern stuck deep in his leg, the tip just touching the deep artery in the thigh. The samurai didn't know it, but the first time he got up and tried to move or pull the shaft out, he would bleed to death.
Slowly the barge began to inch out into the slimy water. Muramasa studiously ignored the women who had taken cover behind the horses, but he did not fail to notice that the lady in the hat had a namban-bo, a chisel edged knife, in her delicate hand and stood ready. Well Drinker was beginning to hum in his hand, sending the now familiar, and at the same time welcome and dreaded, vibrations up his arm at the prospect of blood.
The three shugo did not hesitate when they reached the edge of the water. They leaped in full stride to reach the decks of the slowly retreating barge. Well Drinker hummed in the air, catching one of the samurai with a junmoji, a crosswise cut, while he was still in the air. The effect was quite interesting for Muramasa as he had never seen the cut made in that fashion before. It sliced the man from the left lower hip to his right clavical, splitting him open. His body collapsed in mid-air as though the spring in his leap was suddenly removed. He fell half on the deck.
The other two made the crossing. Casca met one with his sword, blocking the man's first cut in an arm jarring counter. His opponent's blade flashed in front of his face, nearly giving him a mate to the scar he already wore.
By all the gods of hades! These small bastards are fast, he thought.
Knowing the man was quicker than he was, he did the only logical thing – something illogical. He threw his weapon straight at the samurai's grinning face. Instinctively, the man had to duck, blink, and block all at the same time. When his eyes opened, Casca had his sword wrist in one hand and his other arm around his back, twisting both. The samurai's arm came loose, first at the shoulder as the sockets separated. Releasing his grip on the now useless and empty sword arm, Casca transferred his grip to the man's head. Grasping the samurai's topknot in his hand, he held the body rigid as he twisted, turning the man's head to an impossible angle. It gave way. The neck cracked at the sixth vertebra. Casca let the body slide over the side. His man was done. Picking up his katana where it had fallen to the deck after being blocked by a frantic wave of the dead samurai's sword, he turned to see if Muramasa needed any help. He saw he was wasting his concern. The last samurai was half kneeling, his head split open to the chest, the two halves pulling apart with a distinct sucking sound. Then Well Drinker rose and fell again, completing the halving process. Muramasa cut the man in two parts from head to groin.
Muramasa groaned in pleasure. The feel of the cut was so... so perfect. The feeling of the steel slicing through flesh and bone was not to be equaled by any other sensation. Raising the bloody steel above his head, he marveled at the beauty of the contrasting colors of the watered steel blending in a thousand different shades with the blood as the light of the sun reflected off the blade. It was glorious. Each time he drew Well Drinker to fight, it was shini-mono-gurui, the exalted "Hour of the Death Fury," when nothing can touch you save death, and that has no importance.
"Ikaga desu ka?" Casca asked, careful to keep his distance from Muramasa while he held Well Drinker. He didn't know just what it was, but when Muramasa had the sword in his hand and had killed, there was something different about him and it wasn't good.
Carefully wiping the blood from Well Drinker. with a silk scarf, Muramasa replied quite pleasantly, amused at Casca's use of his few words in the human tongue. "I am quite well, domo arigato."
A movement in the rear of the barge caught his eye. He had forgotten about the women. The woman in the hat placed her namban-bo back in her robes and bowed gracefully to him. Her servant was in a near state of shock, as was the bargeman.
To the bargeman, Muramasa barked roughly, "Get us out of here and raise the sail. I do not wish to spend any more time on this unclean device than is necessary."
The bargeman made no verbal response, but if he had, he would have replied in the same manner that he wanted them off his boat as fast as possible. He was not certain in his mind that he was not going to lose his head anyway, for the samurai of Taira had been killed on his property. Miserable, he railed at his misfortune and did as he was ordered. Raising his single tattered sail of rattan, he made for the Straits of Shimonoseki and the main island of Honshu, where, if Amida Bhudda was kind, he wou
ld put off these people with their swords and never see them again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Lady Yoshiko no Hirimoto bowed to the ronin with sincere respect. Although she was samurai, never had she seen sword dance such as she had just witnessed. The man might not be of her class, but he was without a doubt a warrior to be reckoned with. And there was his strange companion who had killed the samurai by snapping his neck as if it were no more than a rotten twig. Such strength, though certainly there was a certain lack of finesse to his technique.
Her maid began to whimper. Quickly she corrected her. "Quiet, remember who you serve! We are samurai. Never let common people see you with weakness!"
Yoshiko was absolutely sincere. If the ronin had not been able to dispose of the shugo, she would have killed herself before permitting them to take her captive. She could not let her life be used to threaten her family. Her delicate, well groomed manner covered a heart as fierce as any of her family. Samurai women had their duty also, even to the death.
Perhaps these men might be of service to her, for she had far to go and alone it would be difficult. Even more important, they had horses.
As the gray eyed big man was obviously a barbarian, she felt, no need to address herself to him. "May I ask as to the name of our rescuer and most humbly apologize for being the instrument by which you have become involved with our problems?" She removed her hat.
Casca felt his chest clench. Her face was bare of the white powder of the women he had seen earlier. Her complexion was very pale gold with roses and milk for accent. Her hair was set high on her head, bundled loosely under her straw hat. She was without question one of the most beautiful and exotic women he had ever seen in all his years of wandering.
Muramasa felt his face flush with awkward emotion. This was the first time in his life that a highborn had ever spoken to him as if he were a true man and not just another peasant soldier to be thrown away like so much chaff before the winnowing winds of war.
