The Samurai

by Barry Sadler

  On midday of the fourth day, Muramasa became a bit uneasy as they came down from the mountains. He pointed to a valley below where neat squared paddies were filled with young green rice sprouting as far as the eye could see until the fields reached the more brackish lands of the beach. Squatting on his haunches, Muramasa screwed his face up tight in deep concentration. Looking first back over his shoulders to the mountain path, then back down to the valley, Casca thought he was trying to make up his mind which was the best route to take. The nights were cold in the mountains, though neither complained. What concerned Muramasa was that the going was becoming slower. At last Muramasa arose, shook his broad shoulders, and pointed down to the valley. With a grunt he spoke one word, "Taira," and touched the handle of his sword, Well Drinker. Casca understood him. Whoever was master down there was the ally of the Taira, whose clan Muramasa had been fighting against and had been hunted by.

  Whatever Muramasa had in mind, he was in a hurry, and to journey the mountain trails was eating up too much time. They would take the valley road and hope for the best.

  As for Casca, his eyes were full of everything new. He'd not seen very much of this strange land of small, intense people, only a few villages from the distance which did not appear to be very much different from those he'd seen in the southern parts of Chin. Though he had the feeling that if all the men of this strange land were as intense as Muramasa, they would be very hard to deal with if they ever got together on a single project.

  Two hours before sunset they had reached a good well traveled road. Casca drew many curious stares from the peasants they passed, but none stopped or questioned them. For the two strangers carried swords. They would leave any questions to others with swords. And as Casca's luck would have it, that's exactly that they ran into. Coming their way were three men on horseback wearing armor of a kind he'd never seen before: over-lapping plates of red and black trimmed with gold, broad helmets of the same colors and face guards that gave them the aspect of demons. The leader was obviously more richly dressed than the two warriors escorting him. Over his armor was a surcoat of rich light blue silk and over that a longer robe of brilliant rainbow colors interwoven into a hunting scene with many swans, cranes, and waterfowl. His face, like the others, was covered by a mask that showed only his obsidian eyes peering fiercely through the slits.

  When they spotted Muramasa and Casca, they reined up their horses, blocking the road.

  Casca had been in too many of these situations not to recognize trouble when he saw it. Just the angles of their bodies and their postures meant these men were not going to let them go easily. He shifted his pack so it would be easier to drop and adjusted the grip on the naginata. It would be of more use against mounted horsemen than his sword. The leader of the horsemen called out to them. He couldn't recognize the words but the tone of contempt and anger was clear.

  Muramasa stood his ground, his back tensing. Under his robes he flexed his muscles, loosening them up while on the surface he appeared calm and detached as Sakai Taira spoke to him as if he were no more than the dust under his lowest samurai's feet.

  "Ho, dog. These are my lands and I have given no one permission to use my roads or carry weapons on them."

  Muramasa bowed slightly, only a half bow, a deliberate insult. "I regret that we found no one to ask permission of. But as you see, we are only poor wandering men of no value. We seek no problems and apologize most deeply if we have offended any by our presence." The words were mild but Sakai knew they were not sincere. He was being mocked by this unclean thing before him. However, the ronin and his incredibly ugly and large barbarian companion might provide him and his samurai a few moments of diversion.

  "It matters not who you might have asked. For I have already judged and condemned you. For I am Sakai Taira, kinsman, guardian, and lord of this province for Taira seii Taishogun. Wakarimasu ka?"

  Muramasa bobbed his head up and down. "Hai, so desu?" As he acknowledged that he did understand, he dared to question whether all that Sakai had said was indeed a fact.

  Sakai could not tolerate such disrespect from this eta, this handler of dead things and offal. He was beneath his attention. To his goke'nin, he would give the opportunity to cleanse his road for him. As his sworn vassals they had only one duty, and that was to do his bidding at the cost of their lives if he so wished. To fail to do his bidding was to achieve the same end, only in an extremely more unpleasant manner.

  He spoke, barely able to control the anger in his body. "Kill those things which walk like men, but smell as if they are already long dead."

  Without pause the two horsemen instantly spurred their mounts on, drawing their swords at the same time they rushed down on Muramasa and Casca. Dropping his pack, Casca moved to the side of the road, jumping on a small ridge, a channel used to irrigate the rice fields, giving him a couple of more feet in height and forcing the on rushing riders to come to him on his ground. They would have to rein up or their horses would go over the side into the rice paddies.

  He needn't have worried too much about both of them reaching him. As they rode down on them, Muramasa drew Well Drinker, made a low, whirling movement with his body, dropped to knee level in a powerful swing, then twisted his body up, leaping into the air at the exact time the lead rider reached him. The lead samurai's sword was on the down swing when Well Drinker came into contact with his body at the waist. The impetus of the horse gave the razor edged katana all the force it needed to slice through the plates of lacquered armor as if they were thin silk. It entered the softer, warmer tissue beneath with enough force to slice the man's body almost in two. The samurai keeled over backwards in his saddle, his body trying to break at the spine. As he bent, intestines bulged forth and out over the front of his saddle to trail along the side of his wild eyed horse.

  The second rider was heading for Casca, his sword cutting wheels in the air as he closed on the barbarian, thinking Casca was only another hairy Ainu tribesman from the northern lands. Casca had no trouble in his use of the naginata in locking the horns of the halberd on the blade of the samurai. A quick pull and a twist and the samurai's sword flew over his head to be lost in the mud of the rice paddy. Then Casca made a quick circular cross blow that brought his broad blade snapping back to connect at the junction of the jaw and the samurai's throat rings. It was not a particularly heavy blow, but sufficient enough to open up the man's throat so he was well on his way to whatever heaven or hell he believed in. The horse reared as it came face to face with the barbarian standing on the bank of the dike and nearly sat on its haunches as it dropped its dying rider off its back. Leaping down from the dike, Casca moved to stand beside Muramasa as they faced the last of the enemy.

  Sakai had observed the actions of his men against the two ronin with detachment. Obviously his vassals deserved to die if they could not take the heads of two such as these. They were of no import. He would attend to that small detail himself now that these two had proved themselves to be at least worthy of the effort of drawing his sword, Willow Song, from its sheath. He did, however, take notice of Muramasa's movements against his samurai. They were quick and skillful. He would do better to face this one on earth where his feet were solidly planted, for he was not known as a great horseman. As for the gaijin, he refused to let the odds of two against one bother him. He had dealt with greater odds before.

  Muramasa motioned Casca back. His blood was singing a song of blood passion. Well Drinker was ready. They were as one, the shining steel and the master. And he the student who stood apart, detached from the action, he was the servant of the blade. Never had he felt so alive. He did not wish to share any of the blood with his big nosed companion. There was even a slight sense of anger that the barbarian had taken one of his kills from him.

  Sakai Taira was no mean swordsman as he had proved time and again over forty three years of battles for the honor of his family. Stepping forward, he called to Muramasa, "Are you ready to die, slime from the gut of an eta whore?"

>   Muramasa bowed formally. Straightening, he brought Well Drinker up slowly, then instantly went into an eye splitting series of movements, slices, and cuts. He never left his basic position: right foot forward, body slightly leaning, his weight evenly distributed with his center, strong, ready to move in any direction as the katana danced in his hands, catching the light of the afternoon sun.

  "Hai, I am ready, are you, for this day another Taira worm will feed the earth with his blood. Now let us dance the dance of swords for the enlightenment of the gaijin."

  Sakai felt his face flush with blood, Stepping forward, he didn't wait, but went into a whirling attack designed to break down his opponent's defense by forcing him to respond to each attack, which would in the end leave him open for the killing blow. The opening did not come. Two minutes passed and the katana of the ronin never wavered. The detestable scum laughed at his feeble efforts, driving Sakai to greater fury in his attacks.

  Muramasa laughed evilly and with great pleasure. Half a dozen times he could have ended the contest. No! Well Drinker could have ended it. But the game had to be played a bit longer. Sometimes it was not enough to simply kill. The opponent must be humiliated, ashamed. That made his death sweeter, and Muramasa knew full well the shame in Sakai's soul, to be beaten by a common soldier. If there had been a way to stop the contest at this point, he had no doubt that Sakai would have had to perform seppuku to relieve his name of the dishonor being cast upon it with each block and counterblow from the bandit with the shining sword.

  Three minutes and Muramasa's arm felt as fresh as when the first blow was struck, but the strain was telling on Sakai. His face was florid and his movements were becoming slower and more awkward. The years of rich food and soft women instead of practice were taking their toll. He was going to die and now he knew it. Drawing back, he prepared himself for his final attack. From his obi he withdrew the companion to his katana, a shorter blade of something over a foot in length. Now that he had accepted his death, he would take this laughing ronin with him. A calmness pulled the blood back from his face. The trembling in his arms ceased as he regained control of his breathing, sucking the air deep into his lower abdomen. Muramasa knew what was taking place. Sakai was committing himself to death at this moment.

  Casca also sensed that the game was about to reach its finale.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Resting his weight on the haft of the naginata, Casca concentrated on the fight, if it could be called that. It was obvious from the opening moves that Sakai was seriously outmatched and Muramasa was toying with him. What he had seen Muramasa do in the past was nothing compared to the lesson he was giving the samurai lord. Muramasa began to surgically dismantle Sakai, cutting his expensive robes into ribbons, barely touching the flesh beneath. He cut only enough to open the skin so it would bleed but never enough to maim or kill.

  Sakai halted, drew back, and removed his mask. Beneath it his face was a combination of red flushed skin and white lips. He sucked in breath to feed his burning lungs. Muramasa gave him his chance to take in fresh air. And then he moved, this time with a difference. The game was over; now it was time to kill. And kill he did. Before Sakai could counter, his sword arm was taken off at the elbow, leaving him his shorter blade in his left hand. Then it, too, was on the earth. Sakai dropped to his knees, staring at his bloody stumps. He had only seconds to live and knew it. Raising his eyes to Muramasa, he pleaded without saying a word and leaned forward, extending his neck out. Well Drinker whistled through the air and Sakai's head rolled free of its body.

  Muramasa stood back from the body of his victim, eyes red with blood passion, chest heaving, sweat rolling freely down his face and arms. It was, again, beyond sexual experience. He knew he was close to the edge of some unknown nirvana. Casca's wondering eyes were ignored. If the gaijin had come to him at that time, he might have turned Well Drinker on him.

  Casca could feel the vibrations transmitting from Muramasa. Instinctively he waited for the trembling to pass and his breathing to return to normal. Then and only then did he speak. "We go now?”

  Muramasa turned to stare at the unexpected voice that had interrupted his thoughts. It took a moment for it to register. Then his eyes cleared, the fog lifting from them.

  "Hai. We go."

  Casca rounded up the horses. They had lost one but that left them two including the fine bay gelding Sakai had been riding. After stripping the bodies of goods and weapons, they were quite well outfitted. Casca tossed the naked bodies over the side of the ditch. That might give them a little time before someone found the remains and a search for the killers was started. Mounted on the saddles were zutsu cases with Mongol style laminated bows and shafts in them. Obviously the retainers of Lord Sakai had not deigned them worth killing by arrows.

  After tossing the last body over, Casca finished packing their goods in the saddlebags and tied down what was loose where he could. Like the deceased and mutilated Sakai, he was not a great horseman, though the gods alone knew how many thousands of leagues he had ridden on the back of a horse over the centuries. The only thing he liked about them was that he knew they would save a lot of time wherever they were going and give his feet a rest while he built up callouses on his ass. Settling into the saddle, he waited for the sword maker.

  Muramasa shook his head as he looked at the remains of Sakai. It was a shame; the fine robes of silk were so cut up and bloody. They had been of great value. Just the outer robe was worth enough to feed a peasant family for two years.

  With a sigh of regret, Muramasa swung up into the saddle of Sakai's animal. As for the clothes, as always he had taken the best. Once he had looked closely at Casca to see if this had caused the barbarian any concern. Obviously it had not, or perhaps he was just not able to read the face of this strange gaijin. To his eyes, they all looked very much alike – ugly. Turning his animal's head back the way they had come, Muramasa led them back up the trail into the mountains. Now that they had killed Sakai and his vassals, there would sooner or later be a hue and cry for them. The farther away they were by then the better. If they could make it to where one of the supporters of Yoritomo was in power, then they would have a chance.

  The swords they brought with them of the dead vassals of the Taira and their master would be their passports to honor and employment in the forces of the Minamoto – which would bring Muramasa that much closer to his heart's desire. He would be samurai. Perhaps even one day he would be daimyo, a great land owner with many koku of rice granted to him each year by Lord Yoritomo. It was good to have dreams, for what was one without them? And then when he had the right to the dai-sho, he would complete what he had begun at the spring of his fathers. When he had forged Well Drinker, he had not made a companion blade, for the temptation to carry it as dai-sho would then have been too much.

  When he was truly samurai, then he would forge the little brother to Well Drinker. The thought chilled him that the companion to Well Drinker might also have the same powers. He shook the thought away from him as a dog threw water from its pelt. No! That could not happen. It would be impossible for the elements to be brought together again in the same manner.

  It was dark by the time they had reached the spot where earlier in the day Muramasa had made up his mind to go down into the lowlands. He didn't have to try and explain to Casca the reason for his change of mind. Both men felt more secure, if not as warm, with the choice of paths. Muramasa led the way through groves of elm and pine, often dismounting to rest his horse as well as his own buttocks. He took them on narrow tree shrouded paths that grew darker by the moment as the sun goddess, Ameratsu, sank into the burning sea.

  When at last total darkness forced them to call a halt to their travel, it was with relief that both men gathered soft ferns with which to make their beds for the night around a small sheltered campfire.

  Casca was tired and knew that Muramasa had to be emotionally drained, though he made no complaint nor showed any overt sign of it. But Casca knew by the small lines
at the corners of his eyes and the way the mouth and shoulders set that the man was exhausted. Shaking his head in confusion, he knew only one thing for certain, that life around Muramasa was always very exciting. In the short time he had known him, they had killed seven men. He had the uneasy feeling that that was just the introduction to whatever play Muramasa had in mind.

  Muramasa was indeed tired, but he could make no complaint, nor show any sign of weakness. That was not permitted. Leaning on his elbow, he glanced at the barbarian Casca. What did he think of the events of the past weeks? The scarred man was not unlike himself in many ways. He never complained and was certainly a fierce fighter, though his style was a bit crude and in need of refinement. All he had been able to find out was that he had come from far away and was not a member of the tribe of pale red creatures who lived north in the farthermost part of Honshu and Hokkaido, the people called the Ainu.

  What could he tell this gaijin that might make him understand of the terrible hunger within his soul to be samurai. To wear the dai-sho in his own right, to have sons after him who would be samurai. How could this large gray eyed animal know that in these sacred islands of the gods only the samurai were human? Yet he knew that was not right. He felt, he hungered, and he had pride, but he was not samurai. And now he had this other kami – or was it ikiryo? – an evil spirit, riding him. Well Drinker, what had he done to deserve such a karma? To be burdened with a large ugly barbarian and a cursed sword. Aiie! It was too much for him. He would find a shrine and speak to the wise men there. Until then all was in the hands of the gods, all homage to Amida Bhudda.

  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.