L5r - scroll 01 - The Scorpion

by Stephen D. Sullivan

  Prologue:

  THE GATES OF HELL

  Bayushi Shoju strode through the blood-clotted battlefield, looking for someone to kill. The land around him had been lain waste by war. Bare trees stretched bony fingers to a sky painted orange with fire and black with smoke. The blood of his enemies stained the land dark and made the small stream in Shoju's path run crimson.

  In the distance, the Scorpion daimyo heard the cries of the dying echo among blasted hills. Nearby, only the stream's weeping voice disturbed the silence. Shoju's eyes found no foes remaining to be slain.

  The veil of bloodlust lifted, and Shoju saw that many of his people lay dead on the battlefield as well. Eiji had long been a retainer for the daimyo's family. Now his eyes lay open to the sky and his mouth brimmed with his own blood. The retainer was not the last Scorpion casualty, not nearly.

  As he crossed the stream, Shoju noticed Rumiko lying in the water. Her helmet had fallen off, revealing a gaping hole in the back of her skull, a wound not even her long black hair could conceal. A twinge shot through his heart for the loss of the rare and brave samurai.

  Further heartbreak awaited Shoju as he topped the next rise. Before him lay another hill, covered with the bodies of Scorpion retainers. At the crest, propped against a pole supporting the clan's standard, stood Bayushi Tetsuo, Shoju's cousin's son.

  A black crow perched on the young lieutenant's helmet and pecked at his eyes, first one and then the other. Tetsuo's open mouth made no protest to the bird's molestation, nor did he wave his one remaining hand to shoo the crow away. Instead, he held his fist clutched tight to the pole, which supported the tattered battle flag of the Scorpion Clan. Tetsuo's other fist lay at his feet. His right arm had been severed at the shoulder.

  Shoju advanced quickly up the hill. Hot wind swept yellow dust from the battlefield and stung his eyes, making them tear. He reached the top of the hill, drew his sword, and swiftly killed the bird tormenting his lieutenant's corpse. The daimyo sheathed his katana. He slid the standard pole free of Tetsuo's dead fingers, and the young man's body eased gently to the ground.

  Tetsuo's mouth seemed to form an unspoken question: "Why?"

  Shoju had no answer. He stared down at Tetsuo's bird-damaged eyes. A reflection in the dead orbs saved the Scorpion daimyo's life.

  Instinctively, Shoju jumped back—just in time. A huge jade samurai rose up before him from the pile of bodies. The warrior appeared untouched by the battle; whether he had lain in wait for the daimyo or had arrived as Shoju attended to Tetsuo, the Scorpion leader could not say.

  The jade warrior raised his long sword high. The late afternoon sun reflected off it, splashing crimson into Shoju's eyes. The daimyo squinted against the glare and drew the sword of his Bayushi ancestors, bracing for the attack.

  The samurai came at him swiftly, silently, his huge sword poised over his head. Shoju stepped aside. Their blades met. The sound of steel on steel echoed across the fields of the dead. As their swords parted, the Scorpion daimyo aimed a quick cut at the samurai's neck. The giant parried effortlessly and returned the attack in kind. Shoju caught the slice with his katana. His enemy's blade slid off, barely missing Shoju's shoulder.

  The Scorpion circled left to gain the uphill advantage.

  The jade warrior pressed the attack. Kicking bodies aside as he came, he forced Shoju back down the hill.

  As he retreated, Shoju stepped on the helmet of a dead enemy. The lacquered bamboo gave way. There was no longer a skull underneath to support it. Cursing, Shoju toppled backward.

  The samurai bore in, sword raised for the kill.

  Years of practice took hold. Shoju lashed out with his right foot as he fell. His metal-shod toe connected with the samurai's left ankle—a vulnerable spot in the jade armor. The samurai lurched forward. Shoju rolled away from the intended blow.

  The jade warrior caught himself before he fell and almost recovered. The Scorpion didn't give him a chance.

  Lightning-swift, Shoju rolled to his knees and swung his katana in a wide arc. The sword sliced into the back of the samurai's knees, in a spot without armor. Shoju felt the satisfying bite as steel cut through tendons and muscles.

  To his credit, the giant didn't cry out as he fell. Instead, he tried to turn toward the daimyo, but his legs no longer obeyed him.

  The Scorpion thrust the Bayushi sword between the breastplate and the helmet of his foe. It emerged from the back of the jade samurai's neck. The giant crashed to the ground and moved no more.

  Shoju pulled the sword of his ancestors from the samurai. Curiosity overwhelmed him. Who was this man who fought so fiercely? Shoju reached toward the demon-masked helmet and opened it.

  A cold chill seized the daimyo's stomach as he gazed at the face of his foe. There was no one there—no body—nothing in the helmet. Only a mirror.

  Shoju cursed and rose. He'd seen evil magic before— though never any quite like this. He crested the hill once more and stood beside the body of his dead cousin, Tetsuo.

  A vast sea of corpses rolled down from the hill, blackening the plain below. Here great armies had met and fought until not one man remained standing. Nothing moved. No sound disturbed the gruesome tableau save the plaintive whispering of the wind. Even the birds remained silent.

  Before him, at the edge of the plain, Shoju saw the Forbidden City, sacred precinct of the emperor, rising like a monumental tomb in the land of the dead. Cautiously, with his sword still drawn, the daimyo walked down the hill toward the city.

  He passed more of his people on the way, their faces drawn gaunt with pain and death. At some he paused a moment in contemplation, always cautious not to be surprised again by hidden foes. No more samurai appeared to bar his path.

  At last the iron gates of the palace stood before him— silent, monolithic, impassable. Shoju wondered how he would surmount them, and what he would find within the sacred precincts.

  As he stood thinking, a sound came from inside the city. Slowly, almost silently, the great gates swung open to welcome the Scorpion daimyo. A droning melody washed over him as the gates parted—a song of blood and death and victory. Shoju had heard the song all his life, but he could not remember its name. The tune stirred the fires in his soul.

  Someone waited for him on the other side of the gate. Beyond the portal, Shoju saw his lovely young wife, Bayushi Kachiko. She smiled, stretched out her pale arms, and said, "Greetings, Husband. The day is ours."

  DREAMS

  The Scorpion daimyo woke from his nightmare, choking down the urge to scream. He sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring from his body, his right arm aching. He clenched his teeth and rubbed the arm vigorously.

  The tattoo on his right shoulder burned under Shoju's touch, just as it had the day his fathers shugenja scribed it upon his flesh. Gradually, the burning spread down the rest of the withered limb and restored it to life. The arm tingled, as if ants crawled over the daimyo's skin. Through the years, Shoju had grown used to the sensation. In fact, he almost enjoyed it.

  The tingling pain was far better than the alternative: an arm twisted from birth, almost useless. With spells, herbs, exercise, and the dark tattoo, Bayushi Shoju was the equal of any man in Rokugan—better than most. Far better.

  As the pain subsided, the Scorpion daimyo relaxed his jaw muscles and let out a soft breath. The sweat began to cool on his skin, and he shivered slightly in the cold darkness of his bedroom. Beside him, his wife stirred and sat up.

  Shoju could see her pale form in the moonlight leaking through the room's sole, high window. Even after sixteen years of marriage, Bayushi Kachiko was still the most exquisite creature in all of the Scorpion's holdings. No—in all of the Emerald
Empire itself.

  Her form was as shapely as a young willow; her skin pale and smooth like porcelain. Her black hair cascaded like a raven waterfall over her naked shoulders. Her eyes were as black as ocean depths and shone softly in the moonlight. Sea-green flecks danced within them. Her voice held honey and the mist of Rokugan's forested valleys.

  "What's wrong, Husband?" Kachiko asked softly, her voice barely causing a ripple in the darkness. She placed a pale hand on Shoju's damp body and stroked his back. The Scorpion could feel his tension ebbing at her touch.

  "I had a dream," he said, his voice deep and mellifluous. The Scorpion daimyo had spent years training his voice and even now, in the privacy of his own bedchamber, kept his tones under tight rein. "A dream of fire and death." He reached up and brushed a damp lock of black hair from his face.

  She leaned forward, kissed him, and then lay back, sprawling like a contented cat, inviting him to join her. The white expanse of her body was a seductive ghost in the moonlight. "Tell me about your dream," she said, gazing into his eyes.

  Despite himself, Shoju felt a smile creep over his hard face. It tugged at the corner of his lips—lips made crooked by the same accident of birth that had twisted his arm. Shoju knew he was ugly, even in the moonlight. His eyes were too large, his nose was long and hawklike, his lips thin, his chin sharp. But when he was with Kachiko, he seldom remembered this.

  She smiled at him and spoke with an affectionate tone reserved for him alone. "Come," she said, stretching out her arms.

  The Scorpion daimyo reclined beside his wife, leaning on his good arm and gazing into her deep eyes. He kissed her once, upon the lips. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

  "I dreamed of a final battle on the plain of Heigen no Utaku," he began. "Bodies lay everywhere, and fire burned across all the land. I killed many men: daimyo and commoner, samurai and ronin alike. So many that I no longer remember their faces. I waded through rivers of blood and, when the slaughter was finished, looked for more foes to slay.

  "Only then did I realize that the battle was over, and I was the last man standing. I saw the Imperial Palace in the distance and made my way there.

  "The Emerald Champion rose to bar my way, but he was nothing, just a hollow shell. I slew him as I had slain the others. Soon I stood before the gates of the Forbidden City, triumphant but alone."

  "Was I not with you?" Kachiko asked, her voice a distant memory of a song.

  "Always," he said. "You opened the gates of the city as I reached them and beckoned me inside. You told me we had won the war. Together we walked to the throne room. The throne sat vacant, and so I took it.

  "But, as I sat, a black fire coursed through my body. The arms of the throne grasped my arms, pinning me to it. It turned into a throne of skulls—laughing skulls.

  "Then I was in the fires of Jigoku. Demons sprang up around me, jeering obscenely and joining in the laughter of the skulls. The walls of the palace fell away, and I could see all the land that I ruled over.

  "But Rokugan was desolate, barren, destroyed—a kingdom of ash. My heart, like the kingdom, lay barren."

  Kachiko reached up and stroked his long, black mane. "Was I not with you then?" she asked.

  "Yes," said Shoju. "Even to the last you were at my side."

  "Then you need not fear," she said. "So long as we are together, your heart will never be lonely."

  He embraced her, and they kissed long and deeply. After a time they separated.

  "Those you killed, did you know them?" Kachiko asked quietly.

  Shoju nodded and laid his head beside hers. "Many of them. Yes."

  "Tell me."

  "Kisada of the Crab. Hoturi of the Crane, as well as their Emerald Champion. Ujimitsu of the Phoenix and Yokatsu of the barbarian tainted Unicorn. All of them fell before me like rice before a sickle. Even Yokuni—the Great Dragon himself."

  "Not the Lion, then," she asked, her voice drifting off into dreams.

  "Tsuko of the Lion, yes, but not Toturi." As he said it, Shoju felt a tightness at the base of his skull, like a snake twining around his spine.

  Kachiko stroked his chest. "Have no fear. If it becomes necessary, you will slay Akodo Toturi as surely as all the others. None may stand before my great Scorpion master."

  She embraced him once more, and the two of them melded into the darkness together.

  xxxxxxxx

  By the time Shoju woke early the next morning, his wife had already departed their bedchamber. Her perfume lingered, mingling with the scent of flowers. The carefully arranged blossoms sat on a low table in one corner of the room.

  The room was small, square, and sparsely furnished. Its walls were fusuma and shoji, many-paned rice paper screens. Bright morning light filtered into the room through the east wall. Atop smooth, dark floorboards lay a thick tatami mat that held the daimyo's futon. Embroidered scorpions and mythical animals danced across the quilt.

  The Scorpion daimyo rose, bathed in an adjoining room, and then dressed. His mood was still grim, so he chose a black and maroon kimono. He cinched it at the waist with a wide, midnight blue obi, and fastened the belt with a pin in the shape of a golden scorpion.

  For his mask he chose a simple one, painted pale with impassive features. For Shoju the mask served a dual purpose. It not only denoted his membership in the Scorpion Clan, but it also hid his true face from the world. Only three living people had ever seen the Scorpion without his mask: his wife Kachiko, Kiko—the old woman who had attended him as a child—and his half-brother Bayushi Aramoro. Not even his son, Dairu, had seen the face behind the mask.

  It amused Shoju that most of Rokugan assumed the mask hid a face as attractive as Shoju's words. Aramoro's mask, which barely hid his handsome countenance, reinforced this idea—as did the mask of Kachiko. In fact, the mask of the Scorpion daimyo's wife could hardly be called a mask at all. It wasn't even a veil, just silk fabric and paint applied to her face.

  Kachiko's mask enhanced her beauty; Shoju's mask hid his ugliness. It was the essence of the Scorpion Clan that no one suspected the truth. Who would ever believe the most beautiful woman in the world had married a man whose face could make an ox weep?

  Behind his bland mask, Shoju smiled. The art of the Scorpion was to lie by telling the truth and tell the truth by lying.

  To finish his wardrobe, Shoju placed the emblem of his house, the mon, on his left shoulder, the shoulder closer to his heart. He had to use his right arm to do so; the arm twinged.

  Shoju lifted a small blue bottle from a low table near his futon. He removed the stopper and drank. He held the warm liquid in his mouth, counted to five, and let the potion slide slowly down his throat. The tattoo tingled, and the pain in his arm slipped away—if only for a while.

  Every day of his life the Scorpion had performed some combination of rituals to give his right arm strength. Now he moved slowly around the smooth wooden floor of his bedchamber, executing intricate kata to exercise not only his withered limb but the rest of his body as well. Soon energy flowed through his supple frame, and he felt ready to face the day.

  He took the sword of his ancestors, Itsuwari, from its mulberry stand near his bed and tucked it into his belt. As he touched the hilt, the power of the katana hummed in his mind. In the distance, as always, came another song, soft but persistent—the song of a magical sword hidden deep within the bowels of the castle.

  Shoju pushed the song from his mind, picked up a wakizashi he had forged himself, and tucked the smaller sword into his belt as well. A final glance in his looking glass assured the daimyo that the cut of his clothing hid his deformity. Not even his eyes could be discerned behind his mask.

  He left the bedchamber and walked through the cool hallways of the Scorpion palace, Kyuden Bayushi. His wife would be breakfasting in the gardens; she always did when the weather permitted. Even at the height of summer, her beauty outshone the best of the castle's rare blossoms.

  Usually Shoju joined her, but today his mood wa
s too dark. Instead, he set course for an audience chamber off one of the fortress's eastern balconies. The balconies were a ruse, of course, to make the castle seem more vulnerable than it was. In keeping with Scorpion tradition, they created both that impression and its opposite. Could this castle be so impregnable, the thinking went, that balconies didn't hinder its defense? Not only did the balconies raise such questions, they also made Kyuden Bayushi one of the most ornate fortresses in Rokugan. People who beheld the castle's gracefully curved walls and high, balconied towers could not help being impressed. Bayushi Shoju smiled at the dual nature of the Scorpion.

  He passed a servant in the outer halls near the balcony room and ordered breakfast. He also requested that his cousin, Bayushi Tetsuo, be sent to him. Most daimyos had servants follow them around, tending to every whim—but that was not the way of the Scorpion. Shoju valued his privacy too much to have toadies fawning over his every movement. He preferred to roam his castle free from such interference. When he actually needed something, like breakfast, there was always someone close at hand to fulfill the request.

  He drew back the paper fusuma wall that separated the room from the hall, entered the chamber, and then slid the screen shut behind him.

  Walking to the far wall he threw open the shoji and gazed out into the sunrise. The sun loomed large and golden over the mountains to the east of the castle. Seikitsu san Yama no Oi, they were called—"The Spine of the World." Even now, in spring, their topmost peaks glittered white with snow.

  A wide road snaked away from the castle's eastern gate toward Roka Beiden. Behind his mask the Scorpion smiled. Many battles had been fought to control Beiden Pass, the only avenue large enough to move an army through the mountains. Though technically the emperor controlled the pass, in fact, the western end lay in Scorpion lands. Shoju's coffers had been bolstered mightily by the tolls his people collected from travelers.

  On the eastern end of the pass sat the Lion, ever vigilant, ever wary of both the Scorpion to the west and the Crane to the south and east. In the last two hundred years the Lion and Crane had largely restricted their quarrels to each other—a practice the Scorpion subtly encouraged.