As Ken’ishi waited outside the hut, thoughts came and went, like dogs passing in the street. He noted them and let them go. It was good not to worry about things for once.
What was Kazuko doing now? Was she happy? Perhaps she too had a child by now. Did she ever think about him? What was her husband’s name? He still could not remember.
Who was the spy in the guise of a monk who had come searching for him? Who was the spy’s employer? Why was he searching for Ken’ishi?
What secrets was Norikage hiding? The man had a deeper, more dangerous past than he had let on. They had become friends, but Ken’ishi still did not trust him fully.
Whose child was coming into the world, inside the little hut? Was it Ken’ishi’s child? Did it matter whose child it was? Kiosé would never be his wife, nor would the child ever be truly his, but he had made himself their protector. That was all that mattered. The child was being born into an existence of suffering and poverty, with little hope of escape from that fate, but perhaps Ken’ishi could ease that suffering as best he could.
How strange the scrolls of one’s life, he thought. His time with Kazuko, while just a year ago, felt like a different life, as if it was someone else’s existence, a different book. What other scrolls waited for him to live in the future, other lives to live before he died? The time of a warrior was usually short, so he doubted that he would live to be an old man. Who would want to be old and gray and weak, like the old beggar in the capital with no hands, slain by a callous, drunken bully? Not he, never. Better to die in his prime, strong and free. But he had things to do before then. He would make a name for himself. He would make his father, and his ancestors, proud.
Silver Crane was warm and comforting at his side, almost a companion like Akao. But even though it was as familiar to him as his own hands, he sensed that it still kept its secrets, as if waiting for the proper time to reveal them. At times, when that feeling was most acute, he wondered whether the sword belonged to him or the other way around. He had tried meditating with the sword, trying to probe the powers that it contained, but to no avail. The spirit of the blade toyed with him, shed his grasp like rain from feathers. He sometimes thought he sensed the spirit of his unknown father, speaking to him through the sword from beyond the veil of death. Or perhaps that was just his wishful imagination. Powers and secrets. Secrets and wishes. All in good time.
A new voice, a course, piercing wail, abruptly joined the women’s voices in the hut. Ken’ishi smiled and rested his head against the rough bark of the tree. A new life in the world. The wail subsided. Naoko came out of the hut and stood in the doorway, framed in lamplight. The afternoon had grown dark. She waved him closer. He stood up and approached her.
Years and weariness lined her face, but her eyes sparkled with relief and happiness. “Ken’ishi-sama, it is a boy.” Behind her, Ken’ishi could see bloodstained rags, and Kiosé’s pale, bare feet. Sobs of relief and joy bubbled from within.
Ken’ishi smiled and bowed to Naoko. She went back inside and closed the door, and he sat on a stone near the door. He looked up at the stars appearing in the evening sky, took a deep breath, and sighed, enjoying the pleasant night.
He walked back to his house, and for the first time in more than a year, retrieved his flute. Then he walked back to the birthing hut, sat on an old tree stump nearby, and began to play. The melody seemed to take shape in the air itself, and the tune was . . . contented. The baby’s voice cut like a knife through the thin walls of the hut, over Naoko and Kiosé’s quiet cooing at her new child, and Kiosé’s laughter of joy and exhaustion. Hearing her laugh was so rare that Ken’ishi wondered for a moment if he had ever heard it before. She sounded so happy, and that pleased him. Her happiness found its way into the tune emerging from his flute. Gone were the mournful, lonely notes he had played for Kazuko.
The sky slipped deeper into darkness. Stars emerged from their daytime slumber, and his gaze rose to meet them. His awareness of his surroundings dimmed as he floated on the music.
Then a harsh unfamiliar voice said, “You there! I’m looking for someone.”
Ken’ishi stopped playing, lowered his instrument, and regarded the man standing perhaps twenty paces away. He was tall and lithe, and wore a basket hat that concealed his face. He looked like a ronin, with his soiled, ragged clothing, two swords and something else that looked like a dagger thrust into his belt. With his music now fading on the night air, he suddenly heard the roaring, thrumming sound in his ears that was the voices of the kami speaking to him. He put down his flute and placed his hand upon his sword.
The man had approached without Ken’ishi noticing.
Ken’ishi said, “I’m the constable of this village. Tell me who you’re looking for.”
The man began to laugh, starting with a slow chuckle that rose in strength and volume until it reached the edge of madness. The voice was hoarse, dry, and there was no mirth in it.
Ken’ishi stood up and squared his body with the man. “Who are you?”
“I am. . . . Who I am is not important. I’m looking for a ronin. That is what’s important.”
Ken’ishi tensed for a moment, then let his body relax. His spirit sought the Void. This conversation was almost finished. “There are ronin everywhere.”
“The ronin I’m seeking, he . . . he must face my vengeance.” The man’s voice was queerly halting, as if he was struggling for words. “I have followed his . . . trail to this village. I have . . . been searching for a long time.”
“I think you have come to the wrong place.”
“No! I know he is near! I can . . . I know he is near.”
“Can you describe him?”
“He . . . he . . . he has a sword. A special sword.” The man’s breath became more ragged, and he seemed to be having difficulty speaking. “And he . . . he had a dog.”
“Who are you?” Ken’ishi asked again.
“It’s not important! Only when the ronin is dead will my vengeance be satisfied!”
“What harm has he caused you?”
“We . . . we fought. He . . . hurt me.”
Ken’ishi searched his memory. Why didn’t he remember his man? “Why did you fight him?”
“He . . . he killed . . . someone. Someone important.”
At that moment, Ken’ishi realized the man’s identity. The young deputy from Uchida village. The dagger-like weapon in his sash, the jitte. Takenaga’s swords. But he had severed that boy’s right hand. This man had a right hand.
“Tell me who you are!” Ken’ishi shouted.
“My name is Vengeance!”
At that moment, Ken’ishi’s spirit settled into the Void. Words were a distraction now. And this man’s identity was no longer important. Evil radiated from him like waves of heat, and Ken’ishi felt it on his face.
“You have found the ronin you seek.” He drew his sword.
The man chuckled again. He reached up and removed the basket hat, tossing it aside, revealing his face.
Ken’ishi could not see clearly in the dark, but his face appeared to be streaked with dark, vertical blotches, stretching from his chin up over his forehead and across his hairless pate. The whites of his eyes seemed to glow within those dark streaks, and his gaze fixed on Ken’ishi with unwavering hatred.
The man said, “You do not know me, do you.”
Ken’ishi did not reply. He raised his sword to the middle stance, holding Silver Crane before him with the point of the blade aimed at the level of his enemy’s throat.
The man continued, “I am not surprised. I look different now.” His voice took on a deep, rumbling timbre. “Are you so eager to fight me again that we cannot talk first?” The man laughed so harshly that the hair stood up on Ken’ishi’s arms. “Why do you not speak?”
“There’s nothing to say. You’ve come here to kill me. Why waste time with useless talk?”
“Oh, you’re wrong. I didn’t come here to kill you. I came here to cut you. I came here to carve off bit
s and pieces of you and feed them to passing dogs. I came here to maim you, and to burn you. No, not kill. You will die, yes, but I will not kill you. You will live until your soul longs for release from the agony, until your body can cling to life no longer. And when you’re dead, I will splinter your bones with a hammer and scatter them to the winds.”
A cold chill gripped the back of Ken’ishi’s neck, and it jarred him from his readiness. The point of his sword wavered a finger’s breadth.
Instantly the man leaped.
In mid-leap, the man’s sword jumped into one hand, and his jitte into the other. The sword glinted like an icicle in the starlight as it whistled toward Ken’ishi’s head, slicing the air with a sound only the razor-sharp edge of a sword could make.
Ken’ishi brought Silver Crane up to deflect the blow, and stepped to the side, but the sheer force of the blow knocked him off his feet and nearly tore Silver Crane from his fingers. He sprawled on the ground, and rolled to his feet just in time to avoid the slash that whished through the space his body had occupied in the dirt.
Ken’ishi no longer believed this was a man. No man could leap such a distance. And he had seen such a leap once before. At closer range now, he saw the man’s face. “I do know you.”
The man snarled, his teeth showing white in the night, and hatred pulsed from him like waves of heat from a sword smith’s bellows. “And I know you,” Taro said and leaped forward again, slashing one-handed with the katana. Ken’ishi blocked the blow, and the jitte came up the moment after their swords met, sliding onto Silver Crane’s blade and twisting, wrenching. He was losing it!
In sudden desperation, he fell back and dragged his sword with him, just barely jerking it free. This . . . creature had almost taken his weapon from him! He had never imagined such a thing was possible. That jitte would be his death if he were not wary of it.
The baby wailed, and Ken’ishi saw a sliver of light spilling from the interior of the birthing hut as Naoko peeked out the door.
Taro’s smile stretched into a lustful grin, stretching beyond the normal proportions of a human face. “Yes, watch, old woman. Watch him die!” He launched himself forward again in a flurry of blows that drove Ken’ishi back five steps, toward the edge of the forest. Taro’s raw ferocity shattered Ken’ishi’s rhythm and jarred his spirit out of the Void. He was fighting for his life, but the sound of the baby’s wail reminded him that he was fighting for more than himself. He had to protect Kiosé and the baby! But to attack, he had to find his rhythm.
Taro’s assault was relentless, driving forward with fearful blows and lethal slashes.
Ken’ishi needed a few moments to gather himself, but Taro pressed his awful advantage. Ken’ishi could smell Taro’s infernal breath, like a putrid belch of blood and pain. He noticed the unnatural look of Taro’s right hand. Somehow, it had been healed, but it was not . . . right.
With blinding speed, Taro lunged forward. The jitte swept Ken’ishi’s sword to the side, and the katana slashed toward his chest. He dodged back to avoid the blow, but Taro was too fast. He felt the merest tug at his flesh, and his breastbone felt as if a hand had punched him. Strangely, there was no pain, but the strength seemed to drain from his limbs, and he fell. Hot wetness spread across his chest as he landed in the dirt. He did not need to look; he knew the cut was bad. Silver Crane was no longer in his grasp. Where was it? He couldn’t breathe.
Taro stood over him, silently, primal glee in his eyes.
* * *
Pure exultation surged through every fiber of Taro’s being. He had won! The sight of his long-hated nemesis, bleeding and helpless, filled him with such joy and lust as he had never imagined. A shiver of exquisite ecstasy rippled through him.
He sheathed his katana and drew his short sword, then reversed his grip and drove the point of the blade through the ronin’s thigh and deep into the earth, pinning the leg to the ground. The ronin’s body convulsed in pain, and he bit back a scream.
“Wait here,” Taro chuckled. “I’ll be back.”
He turned and walked toward the small hut. The door slid closed, and a bar slid into place. He smelled something interesting inside.
“Grandmother, open the door. I’m coming in,” he said, his gravelly voice as good-natured as he could make it. Someone was weeping inside, and he heard the muffled crying of the baby, and desperate whispers. He drew back his fist and punched through the wooden door. The old, thin slats exploded into splinters, and he stepped inside. A young woman clutched her newborn infant to her chest and scrambled back against the rear wall of the hut, but there was nowhere for her to go. The smell of blood in the air was thick in here, and he breathed it deep.
The old woman was sitting on her knees and turned to face him. She bowed low, pressing her forehead to the floor. Her voice was calm. “Please don’t hurt them. They have done you no harm. This child has done you no harm.”
Taro stepped closer to the young woman. Her shoulder pressed against the wall, and she shielded the baby from him with her body. He knelt beside her. Her flesh was pale and glistening with sweat, and her lips quivered with delicious terror.
Taro said, “Let me see it.”
“No!” she gasped.
He reached out and wrenched her body around, enough to glimpse the small pink head wrapped in a blanket. Fresh sobs of terror spilled out of her. He leaned closer and drew a deep breath. The smell confirmed it. Another surge of mirthless glee washed through him, intoxicating. A son! The ronin had a son! Another victim to glut his lust for blood and vengeance! He laughed quietly.
“Leave us alone!” the young woman screamed.
She could not go far, and in any case, he could find her now that he knew the baby’s scent. He would deal with the ronin first. He stood up and gazed down at them for a moment, savoring his victory.
Then movement behind him, a low growling, and he glanced a low dark shape lunge from the doorway. Sharp teeth tore into his right heel, ripping, shredding. He grunted in surprise and pain, and slashed down with his jitte. The weapon had no cutting edge, but it was still a steel rod. The force of the blow tore the dog’s teeth from the back of his leg and swept the animal away. It yelped sharply, and its claws scrabbled against the reed mats as it lunged toward the door, out of reach. It leaped outside, then turned to face him again, snarling, white teeth bared in the starlight. A challenge.
He turned and tried to follow, but his right leg nearly collapsed under him. Blood poured from the ravaged gash in his ankle, slicking the floor, and his foot would not work properly. A sudden storm of rage swallowed the joy and elation he had felt moments ago. Growling, he limped after the dog.
* * *
As the creature strode away toward the birthing hut, Ken’ishi grasped the hilt of the short sword with both hands and pulled, but the grinding agony of steel against bone was too much, and his vision went black. It returned but slowly, and he heard a dog snarling nearby.
He propped himself up on his elbows. Agony tore through his chest, and his clothes were soaked with blood. Not far away, Akao faced the creature that was once Taro. It walked with a bad limp now, but his eyes blazed with fury and hunger unabated.
Ken’ishi grasped the hilt of the short sword again, but this time, he did not try to draw it from his leg. The short sword had been driven through his leg almost to the hilt, pinning him to the earth. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he pulled with his hands and his leg, and the short sword inched free of the ground, until it popped loose. Ken’ishi rolled onto his side, with two hand-spans of blood-and-earth-smeared steel protruding from the back of his thigh. He cast his gaze around for Silver Crane, but it was lost in the darkness.
Then he felt its presence, like a clear, silvery voice in the gloom, the whisper of promised salvation. A few paces away, hidden in the foliage. He dragged himself across the dirt toward it, feeling his strength ebb with every movement, his blood seeping away. He spared a glance behind him. Akao snarling, barking, feinting, retreating as the
creature lunged after him. The dog moved with a limp, favoring his front leg, but he was still quick, and dodged nimbly away from the creature’s powerful kicks and slashes.
Akao’s snarls sounded like nothing else to other human ears, but to Ken’ishi they were the vilest, most colorful insults and taunts he had ever heard.
Ken’ishi reached the edge of the forest foliage and cast about for his weapon, rustling the leaves and branches. The sound turned the creature’s head toward Ken’ishi, and it took a step toward him.
Then the creature grunted in pain, looked back, and saw Akao’s jaws clamped onto the wrist holding the jitte. Taro jerked away, lifting the dog’s feet from the ground, but Akao did not relent. He snarled and savaged at the wrist with his teeth, refusing to release his grip. The jitte fell to the ground. Taro roared and spun his body, flinging his arm. The force and speed of the movement wrenched Akao’s teeth free, and he went spinning through the air. His body crashed through the wall of the birthing hut in a shower of dust and splinters.
Ken’ishi lunged for the spot where he knew Silver Crane waited. His fingers closed around the familiar ray-skin hilt, and a pulse of warmth shot up his arm and spread through his body. The pain in his leg and chest diminished. Propping himself against a tree, he levered himself upright with his good leg.
Another pulse of warmth shot up his right arm, and his vision cleared. Another pulse, coming in rhythm with the thunder of his heart. He reached down with his left hand, gripped the hilt of the short sword piercing his leg, and pulled with all his might. The grinding pain in his leg sapped his strength, but the sword came free, fresh blood pumping from the wound. The wet blade fell to the earth, and he took Silver Crane in both hands. Another pulse of warmth, a pulse of strength, a pulse of courage. He stood taller, his legs firmer. There was still strength in him.
Heart of the Ronin Page 36
