He was already dead; that was the samurai belief. With no fear of death, anything could be accomplished. He did not fear death, but this thing would not harm Kiosé and the baby. If he had to die to destroy this creature, to protect them, to avenge his friend, he would die.
Ken’ishi limped forward. The creature clutched his savaged left wrist, a stream of gore running under his arm and dripping from his elbow.
With each pulse like the thunder of a taiko drum, Ken’ishi’s strength returned. His wounded leg could almost support his weight, even though pain shot through him with every step. He knew he must find the emptiness, the Void. There was no before, and no after, only the Now. Only the moment of the strike, the perfect strike. He attacked.
The creature drew his katana and blocked the blow in a single lightning motion. But the mirthless triumph was gone from Taro’s twisted, dark-streaked face, replaced by frustration and rage.
Ken’ishi struck again, and again, and again.
Silver Crane’s voice sang in his mind, as clear and pure as a temple bell, and the whispering song lent strength to his blows.
His spirit settled into the Void, and he found the timeless space between instants, and in that instant, he struck again.
The tip of Silver Crane’s blade slashed down through the creature’s face, from forehead to chin, slicing a deep gash between his eyes and splitting his nose and jaw.
The creature grunted and staggered back.
Ken’ishi struck again, and his blow cleft the creature from right shoulder to collarbone. The creature roared in pain, and blood sprayed on its horrid breath.
Ken’ishi struck again, cleaving the creature from left shoulder to breastbone. The creature dropped his sword and staggered back, arms wide.
Ken’ishi sliced across the creature’s belly, and entrails spilled out with a gush of gore. His opponent’s roar diminished to a groan, and he fell onto his back. Ken’ishi circled the body, raised his blade, and severed the head with a single stroke. The body spasmed, then lay still.
The baby was crying, and a surge of relief went through him.
Ken’ishi sheathed his weapon and ran toward the hut as quickly as his wounded leg would allow. Reaching the doorway, in the light of the lamp he saw Akao’s motionless form lying amidst debris from the shattered wall. The women sat near him, picking away the splintered wood.
Limping to his friend, Ken’ishi knelt beside him. Akao’s head hung limply to the side, blood trickling from his nose, tongue lolling, eyes staring. Empty. Tears burst from Ken’ishi eyes. Kiosé’s face was already wet. Gathering the dog in his arms, he lifted him up. His body was limp and broken and lifeless. He carried his friend outside, eyes burning, cheeks hot with tears, and placed him on the ground and stroked his soft ear one last time.
Norikage came running up carrying a lantern, his eyes wide. “What happened? The whole village is buzzing from the noise of the fight. What—?” His gaze flicked to the headless corpse a few paces away. “Who is this?”
Ken’ishi looked up at him, and Norikage’s eyes fell to Akao’s lifeless form. His voice fell. “Ah, my friend, that’s a terrible pity. What happened?”
“He saved us all.” Ken’ishi could hardly speak.
Norikage nodded. “You’re wounded.”
Ken’ishi’s wounds had stopped bleeding, but he could see the paleness of breastbone exposed in the gash across his chest, and his thigh burned like fire. Looking out into the darkness, he saw numerous shapes lumbering toward them from the village, bearing lanterns and improvised weapons like clubs and tools.
Then his strength left him like water from a shattered bucket, and his vision faded into blackness.
* * *
When he awoke, he was in a room filled with light and warmth. He was covered with blankets. His body ached as if a hundred clubs had beaten him, and he was soaked with sweat. He felt bandages wrapped around his chest and leg. He looked up at the ceiling of his own house. Kiosé’s knees slid into his vision, and he felt a cool rag placed on his forehead.
“You’re back!” she said, and happiness filled her voice. “The fever is gone!”
“How long?” he croaked.
“Three days.”
His vision swam and his mouth felt like it was full of sand. “Water.”
She brought a small cup of water to his lips, and he drank from it.
“Is the baby . . . ?”
“He is fine,” she said, giggling, “and energetic!”
He heard the baby mewling and saw a small basket resting in the warm sunlight.
“Akao. Where is he?”
“Norikage gave him a hero’s burial.” She leaned over him, and her eyes glistened with tears. “He was so brave!”
Ken’ishi’s eyes burned. “Where is the other man’s body?”
“His body was burned and his head was mounted on an old spear near the road, as a warning to bandits.” Kiosé’s work-roughened hand touched his cheek tenderly. “Norikage says now that your fever has broken, you will begin to mend.”
“Where . . . is my sword?”
“Over there,” she said pointing. But he already knew where it was. He could feel it. His gaze followed her gesture, and he saw it leaning in the corner, with its mother-of-pearl cranes flying through a black-lacquered sky toward a silver moon on the battered old scabbard. It seemed the cranes were flying away, into the night, toward some shared secret, a secret they would reveal to him, in time. The silver on the hilt gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the open windows.
Indeed, it looked freshly polished.
Sixteen
On this plain of mist
Nothing but flat endlessness . . .
And red-rising sun
—Shiro
At the urging of her sister-in-law, Lady Yukino, Kazuko hosted a dinner party during the Harvest Festival for all the nobles, high-ranking samurai, and officials of the region. She had even invited her father and was delighted when he arrived. She was surprised with herself that she was so pleased to see him, considering how he had handled her betrothal. During the visit, her father and her husband shared much time together, as if further trying to cement their alliance. Lord Nishimuta no Jiro was valuable to her husband because Lord Tsunetomo needed the support of smaller fiefs nearby to maintain his superior position. Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo was valuable to her father because Lord Jiro needed the protection of a powerful neighbor. And even she, in her ignorance of the ways of ever-shifting politics, knew that she formed the hub of that alliance. Her husband had been pleased when she asked his permission to host the party, and he had been just as pleased with the results. Sake, plum wine, and shochu flowed like a river, and in spite of the drunken revelry, the guests behaved themselves without fail. Fresh rice cakes and vegetables and sweets, delicacies from the sea, summer buckwheat noodles, all kept the guests pleasantly stuffed for the duration of their stay.
Even the sullen, sometimes spiteful Hatsumi appeared to enjoy herself. She smiled and giggled, and Kazuko could almost believe she was her old self again. Hatsumi traded coy, meaningful glances with Yasutoki, glances pregnant with the knowledge of shared secrets. Kazuko allowed Hatsumi to think that her affair with Yasutoki was still a secret within the palace walls, even though nothing could be further from the truth. Hatsumi seemed to need the illusion that her liaisons with Yasutoki were hidden, secret trysts. But then, part of the allure of such affairs, Kazuko knew, was their secret nature.
The party formed the beginning of Kazuko’s realization that perhaps the bleeding rift in her belly had begun to heal. She had found solace in applying herself to naginata training. She discovered that it helped lift her spirits more than ever. The weight of the weapon and her growing strength with it gave her comfort. Her husband retained one of the most renowned naginata masters on Kyushu especially to teach her. Taking advantage of the man’s services to train his troops, of course, was an afterthought. Her husband was nothing if not pragmatic.
Lord Tsuneto
mo even commissioned for her a special suit of armor. He had surprised her with it a few days after the party. It was uncommon, but not unheard of, for samurai lords to present their wives with armor. In the old days of warfare and strife, women had often been called to fight. She had been truly pleased, and her reaction had pleased her husband as well. It was as beautiful as it was functional, made in the haramaki style, with small, black lacquered steel plates, bound together by silk cords of deep red, with lovely yellow and orange accents. The yellow faded into orange and then deep red and made the armor look as if it were aflame. It was light and flexible, smaller and less bulky than o-yoroi, great armor. It was made to fit only her, and designed to be used with the naginata. When she tried it on, it was comfortable and well fitted, and it gave her a feeling of strength and deep satisfaction. For a moment she remembered the thrill she had felt after she and . . . Ken’ishi had defeated the oni. She felt invincible.
Master Higuchi beamed at her, exposing his gap-toothed gums as she entered the practice yard wearing her armor for the first time. “Good morning, my lady,” he said as she bowed to him. “You look like a fierce, exquisite flame this morning.”
“You flatter me, sensei,” she said. But her heart swelled with pride, and her limbs vibrated with excitement.
Together they turned toward the yard’s guardian shrine, knelt, and bowed their respect to the guardian kami of the practice yard and the castle. After they finished the necessary rituals, she began her practice routine.
Master Higuchi watched her with a sharp eye. “You see now why I have you practice in your armor. It changes your balance and weighs you down.”
“Yes, sensei, it is more difficult than I expected,” she said, her breath huffing as he lunged and stepped and twirled and struck. The naginata grew heavy sooner, and her steps were not as quick or as sure.
“But fear not, before long, the armor will become like a second skin. You will not mind the chafing. When you get used to wearing armor, you begin to feel naked without it. Nothing can hurt you when you wear it. Maybe you will want to wear your armor all the time!” Then he laughed.
“Yes, sensei,” she said. In a strange moment, she wished she could put armor around her heart, so that nothing could hurt her there ever again. No more pain of remembering the look of a ronin’s face and the feel of his hands on her. No more bouts of stabbing sorrow.
“Harder!” Master Higuchi scolded. “Your movements are already growing weak!”
Perhaps, with practice, she could indeed armor her heart. With that silent resolve in her mind, the strength returned to her naginata blows and the precision to her movements.
Seventeen
“Looked for, they cannot be seen; listened for, they cannot be heard; felt for, they cannot be touched.”
—Old Ninja Legend
Yasutoki welcomed the earlier departure of the sun on these autumn days. He was more comfortable in the dark, in the shadows. Only after the sun had set would Kage appear. Yasutoki received Kage’s message one evening at the local sake house. The message had been written in the bottom of a sake cup in ink that dissolved once the sake was poured.
“One last time. Payment due,” the message said.
The man known as Kage was nothing if not ingenious.
So Yasutoki waited in the same sake house, one day and one hour later, as was their predetermined arrangement. Even though it was autumn, the air was warm and thick and heavy, with no breeze. He fanned himself aggressively, keeping his eyes open. The windows of the sake house were flung open wide, but no breeze came through them, only mosquitoes, drawn by the smell of blood. So many succulent, drunken targets, Yasutoki mused. Such easy marks. The smell of burning incense made to drive away the mosquitoes was pungent in the air. Yasutoki waved his fan at a tiny, shrill buzzing in one ear.
Despite his outward demeanor, his guts were a swirling tumult of suppressed excitement, for two reasons. One was that all of the spies he sent in search of the ronin with Silver Crane reported no success, and all of them reported on schedule, except one. That one had not reported at all. He did not employ men who missed appointed times. Something had happened to that man. Perhaps the man’s disappearance was significant, perhaps it was only a quirk of fortune, but it warranted further investigation. It was a clue he could follow.
The second reason for his excitement was that this meeting with Kage should be the last. After this, Yasutoki would be able to send his information to the Great Khan. The Great Khan would be pleased. Yasutoki remembered the one and only time he had been in the presence of the Khubilai Khan. That one time had been enough for the young man called Yasutoki to recognize a true power in the world. Khubilai Khan, grandson of the Great Khan Genghis, who had conquered nearly the entire world, would be the man who could exact vengeance on those who had slaughtered Yasutoki’s ancestors. Some men were drawn to power, and some men liked to accumulate power for themselves. Yasutoki was both. The empire of the Golden Horde reached to the far corners of the known world, and it was only a matter of time before his own country fell under the Golden Horde’s dominion. Only the difficulty of crossing the sea had kept them at bay this long. The Mongols knew nothing about sailing the high seas. They had to rely on the recalcitrant Koryu people for that. But now, the Great Khan had set his sights on the palace of the Emperor in Kyoto, and nothing would stop him now.
Yasutoki had been little more than a boy when his father took him on a journey across the sea. Even then, his family had been scheming against the Shogunate, looking for allies abroad to help bring down the hated Minamoto and Hojo families. He and his father had traveled in the guise of simple merchants. With a wry smile, Yasutoki realized that was indeed what they had been. They were selling their homeland to the Great Khan. And the price was vengeance.
Yasutoki had seen much of these tribal barbarians during that journey. He had seen their uncouth, almost demonic customs, heard their barbarous songs, eaten their almost unbearable food, and smelled their overpowering stench. They reeked of horseshit and the dust of the steppes. But more importantly, he had seen their vast numbers, and the matchless power and speed of their armies. Samurai were tough, potent warriors, formidable swordsmen, and skilled archers, but they could not hope to stand against huge units of Mongol horsebowmen that moved with the speed and precision of a flock of birds, in perfect unison.
Samurai fought battles largely as individuals, seeking opponents of renown to face in single combat, to heap honor and glory onto their own names. The Mongols fought with their entire army acting as a single entity. This unity had driven all enemies before them like chaff in a great wind, and the same would happen to the Shogun’s samurai.
Yasutoki noticed the serving woman and turned his attention to her. She was the wife of the owner of the Plum Blossom Sake House, and just as much in Yasutoki’s direct, secret employ as her husband.
She stopped beside his table, bowed deeply, and said, “Yasutoki-sama, there is a message for you.”
“What is it? Who sent it?”
“A man named Akihiro reserved a private room, my lord.”
“Excellent. I will go immediately.”
“He is not there, my lord. He said that you had something for him and that you should give it to me.”
Yasutoki frowned. He suddenly felt the weight of the pouch in his sleeve. The pouch contained the last of Kage’s payment.
“I am sorry if this displeases you, my lord.” Her voice began to quaver.
“Where is he?”
“I do not know, my lord. But he left something in the room for you.”
Yasutoki nodded. “Very well, but you will accompany me. Only after I see what he left will I give you what is his.”
“As you say, my lord. I am sorry.” She bowed several times. “Very sorry.”
She showed him to the private room at the rear of the establishment. Inside, the satchel rested in the center of the table. He kept his movements calm and measured in spite of his desire to rush across the r
oom and seize it. He opened the satchel and revealed another nest of precious scrolls. He opened one of them and skimmed the detailed report of the fighting strength of the Shimazu clan, a powerful samurai family in the south of Kyushu. A sigh of relief escaped him, a sigh so profound it surprised him.
He reached into his sleeve and withdrew the pouch full of coins and precious stones. He opened the pouch, extracted a small handful of coins, then retied the pouch.
He handed the coins to the innkeeper’s wife. As her hand closed around them, he seized her wrist and squeezed so hard she gasped with pain. Then with his other hand, he snatched a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. She choked in surprise, her eyes bulging with fear.
His voice was cold and deadly, and he glared into her eyes. “This is to remind that you work for me! No one else! Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” she stammered. “I understand! I am sorry for your trouble!”
“Good.” He released her hand, then gave her the pouch. “You can give this to the man called Akihiro.”
“Yes, my lord!” He released her hair, and she bowed again several times, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you, my lord, thank you!”
“You may go.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She departed quickly, fear lending quickness to her step.
Yasutoki turned back to the table, with the satchel. He had a great deal of interesting reading to do. And quickly. His carefully laid plan was finally coming together.
So ends the Second Scroll
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements and Thanks
The First Scroll: Journey’s End
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Heart of the Ronin Page 37
