Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  Tsunemori removed the man’s dented, battered helmet.

  Blood reddened the man’s lips, his eyes rolled back and fluttering.

  Tsunemori tried to hold him up, to prevent him from falling against the arrows. “Who did this? Who are you? Why have you come?”

  The man’s family crest painted on his armor was Hojo.

  The man struggled to speak, his voice an all but unintelligible gasp. “Battle! We are invaded! Ships! Hakata … Hakozaki … under attack! We will fall!”

  “Under attack!” Tsunemori exclaimed. After studying the unfamiliar craft of the arrows, a look of comprehension spread on his face. “Barbarians!”

  The man coughed wetly. “I was sent from Hakozaki … but they caught me! We must …” The man sagged in Tsunemori’s arms.

  Tsunemori eased him down, and noticed Kazuko. “Milady! Do you know where he is?”

  She nodded, still shocked at the implications. “I think he is in the practice yard.”

  “No,” said a deep voice from behind her, “I am right here.”

  Her husband strode toward them, wearing only his practice trousers, naked to the waist, still sheened with sweat. His broad chest and shoulders were strong and hard, especially for a man of his years. His swords were thrust into his sash, as if he were already prepared for battle.

  Tsunemori bowed to his elder brother, and Kazuko was struck for a moment by their resemblance. Tsunemori, the younger and more handsome; Tsunetomo, the elder, more muscular and swathed in an aura of command.

  Tsunemori repeated what the man had said.

  Lord Tsunetomo’s eyes narrowed as he listened, and his lips hardened into a thin, dangerous line. “So,” he said, “the Great Khan did not receive his tribute. The day we were warned of has come.”

  He raised his voice to the assembled throng. “The Khan thinks we are soft, like the Koreans and the Chinese. We must show him that his judgment is in error. We march in one hour!” His gaze swept over the surrounding warriors.

  Tension stiffened the crowd. Tremulous murmurs spread through the crowd of commoners, along with numerous cries of “Yes, Lord!”

  Tsunetomo faced his younger brother. “Send a patrol on horseback to scout the road to Hakozaki.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Lord Tsunetomo spun on his heel and stamped back toward the house, his back straight and his step sure.

  Kazuko felt a sudden burst of pride in her husband as she watched him go, then gathered up her robes and hurried after him.

  In their chambers, he called for servants to help him into his great armor. His o-yoroi rested on its tree. Servants buzzed around him like bees, preparing the undergarments.

  She did her best to direct them, even though her belly fluttered and her neck tightened. Her face flushed at how the servants knew how to help her husband into his armor, but she did not.

  He took her hands. “Kazuko, my dear.”

  Her eyes teared. “Yes, Husband.”

  “After I leave, only a few warriors will remain behind for the castle’s defense.”

  “I know, Husband. I understand.”

  He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “You are a good wife, a true samurai woman. You know that today may be the end of our time together.”

  She nodded and fought back the tears.

  He raised his arms to the sides as the servants brought forth his under-robes and began to dress him. “I am leaving you in charge of the castle. You must command its defense if the enemy comes. The men are loyal, but you are a woman. If there is a man who refuses to obey your orders, you must kill him immediately. I know you have the skill. A sudden display of force will keep the rest in line. At a time like this, you must countenance no disobedience. Do you understand?”

  The hard bluntness of his words shocked her, but she nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. You are a smart girl.” Then he seemed to study her face, as if for the first time. “You are so beautiful, my dear. I pray to the gods and Buddhas that I may see you again after today.”

  She threw herself against him and pressed her cheek against his breast, and he hugged her back. His breathing was deep and warm in her ear. She said, “Maybe it is not as serious as it seems. Maybe it is only a large band of Koryo pirates.”

  Lord Tsunetomo shook his head. “This has been coming for years, and the Mongols do nothing by half-measure. Those were indeed Mongol arrows. We do not yet know the size of the force, but I fear that things might actually be worse than they appear. Hakata and Hakozaki may already have fallen.” He raised his arms again as the servant brought forth the lacquered breastplate. “The barbarians must not gain a foothold on Kyushu. If they defeat us here, their armies could sweep all the way to Kyoto, to Kamakura. Shed no more tears, my dear. Don your armor and take up your naginata. Defend our home.”

  She stepped away and wiped her eyes. “Yes, Husband.”

  Laugh lines formed at the corners of his eyes. “Good! I regret that I have not taught you the ways of battle strategy and defense. I have a book on my desk, a treatise on the art of war by a Chinese general. If you have time, read it. You may find it useful. It is a man’s book, but you have a good head. You will understand, I think.”

  “Yes, Husband. I will read it.”

  “If Yasutoki were here, the duty would fall to him. I can only hope he survived the initial onslaught. Perhaps he might make his way back here.”

  The very thought of Yasutoki in charge of anything repulsed her. These last few weeks of his absence had lifted the mood of the castle considerably, as if his very presence brought gloom and distrust with him.

  She stopped all but a single tear. “Be careful, Husband.”

  He nodded and stroked her cheek with his callused finger. Then, he raised his voice to the servants, “Bring Lady Kazuko her armor. Immediately!”

  * * *

  Kazuko stood on the steps of the central keep, armor-clad, newly sharpened and polished naginata in hand, surveying the ranks of foot troops, archers, and mounted samurai.

  Lord Tsunetomo sat astride his glossy black steed, clad in his great armor, with its polished lacquered plates, broad rectangular shoulder guards, intricate embroidery and rainbow of silken cords and laces, plus his massive helmet, two swords tied to his belt, plus a bow and quiver of arrows, and a nodachi—a greatsword that stood taller than him—slung behind his saddle. He was a born general, appraising his troops as they formed up for departure.

  A small contingent of fifty warriors would be left behind to defend the castle. The thought of asserting command over them still made Kazuko nervous. She believed they would obey because her husband had made it clear that she was in command, but many of them wished to be in the main force, chafing at being forced to remain behind. She dreaded that moment of having to assert authority over such a pack of barely tamed wolves.

  Lord Tsunetomo gave a signal, and Captain Tsunemori ordered the troops forward. The drums began to pound, and the ranks of warriors started forward, the curved blades of the spears and naginatas glinting in the iron gray light, all swathed in the brilliant scarlet of Tsunetomo’s domain. It was a solemn procession that marched out of the castle, down toward the town. As soon as the last of the column had passed through the outer gate, Kazuko ordered the gates closed.

  Standing at the fortifications, she watched the troops march out of sight down the forest road.

  What would happen to her if her husband were killed? Since she had not yet given Tsunetomo an heir, Tsunemori could claim his brother’s title and lands. Tsunemori already had a son, an heir to continue the family line. Perhaps Kazuko would have to return to the Nishimuta clan to live out her days as a widow in her father’s house, or shave her head and become a nun. If that was to be her fortune, so be it. Tsunetomo’s wealth and power meant nothing to her.

  With a deep breath, she summoned the officers who commanded the remaining troops. She had heard her husband say once that wise leaders take advantage of the wisdom of their subo
rdinates. Captain Nobuhara was a seasoned veteran. He would know the immediate details that needed to be addressed.

  As her mind whirled with imagined horrors that might be coming, her thoughts turned toward Ken’ishi. She had so often tried to expunge his name from her mind, a memory too painful to allow a name, but there he was again, at the forefront of her worries. Where was he amid this growing turmoil? Was he still alive? Had he been killed in some ignominious brawl, or had he found someone to serve? Had he found someone else to love? Yes, love, flashes of tingling, gushing ecstasy, and then the old longing to feel that searing flame once again, even though she knew that if she touched it she would be forever scorched.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Milady?” Captain Nobuhara said.

  She dragged her mind back to the task at hand—a castle defense to organize, even though she as yet had no inkling how. Nevertheless, her husband trusted her. Hakata Bay was a half-day’s ride, perhaps a day on foot at hard march. Perhaps the enemy would be crushed before they got this far. Perhaps fortune would smile on her, on her husband.

  “Captain,” she said, “let us discuss the defenses.”

  In a world of grief and pain,

  Even flowers bloom,

  Even then …

  — Issa, on the death of his child

  Norikage squealed as the horse reared above him, thrashing the air with its hooves. The ferocious, hairy rider laughed in a voice like gravel and raised his ensanguined sword. Norikage darted for the narrow gap between buildings, too narrow for a horse, so tight that he could not turn his body or kneel. He scrambled like a rat for the other side and emerged into the street. Or maybe it was a hell.

  Arrow-pierced bodies lay pounded into the bloody, hoof-beaten dirt. Three riders crowded their mounts around one of the fishermen and his wife, forced them into a huddled pair, then hacked them to pieces.

  Where was Hana? Was she safe for the moment within his house? Had she gone out on an errand? He had grown fond of her since he had taken her into his bed, and she him.

  Little Frog wandered out of the inn and into the street, looking to see what all the noise was about. Norikage stared in horror, unable to move.

  Where was Kiosé?

  The look of curiosity on the little boy’s face changed to fear at the sight of the thundering marauders. One of the riders spotted him. The boy froze.

  “No!” Norikage cried, as if to draw the rider’s attention away from the boy.

  The barbarian spurred. Norikage wanted to close his eyes, but he could not. Little Frog started to cry. Kiosé appeared in the doorway of the inn, eyes wide and searching, fixing upon her son with growing horror. The short-legged, hairy pony broke into a gallop as it bore toward Little Frog. The rider leaned down and snatched the boy off the ground by the back of his neck.

  Kiosé screamed, a wild, ragged, helpless sound.

  The rider paused and turned, holding his squirming prize up high for his compatriots to see. They cheered him and laughed, eyes filling with cruel glee. They spurred toward the man holding the little boy high in the air, as if this was a familiar game. The man grinned like a shark. He charged away from his comrades, still carrying Little Frog by the back of the neck. The child wailed. Then the man spun his horse and charged back toward his comrades. Just before passing them, he lobbed the child high into the air.

  The boy tumbled as if time had stopped.

  Norikage closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, Kiosé flailed out of the inn, her mouth opened into a shriek of madness, pelting toward the small, bloodied figure on the ground. She threw herself down beside it, unaware of the rider behind her, the blood-smeared glint of cruel steel. Her scream ceased and she fell forward, a crimson gash across her back. The barbarian rode past. She thrust herself up onto her elbows, gathered up Little Frog’s mangled form, fought herself upright, staggering toward the inn, lips of the monstrous gash drooling crimson down her back.

  Norikage’s heart clenched. Another rider turned toward him. He dashed into his office, praying the barbarian would seek a more available target.

  Moments later, he peeked outside, until a flaming torch arced through his back window, crashing onto his desk, flames licking at the stack of documents, his records, his histories, his poetry. In moments, his office would be engulfed in flames.

  He rushed out the back again and sprinted toward his house. The distance was only perhaps a hundred paces, but the moment he stepped outside, it became the longest hundred paces he had ever encountered. On one end of the street, a horseman crashed outward through the door of a house, dragging a woman by the hair. Yumiko—her name was Yumiko. Her scream ripped the air and lent wind to Norikage’s heels. He had forgotten his shoes. Pebbles tore at the bottoms of his pounding feet. His breath wheezed and gasped. His robes fluttered around him in his flight.

  Not Hana. She would not be dragged through the street by the hair to be raped to death.

  Somehow he reached his front gate and flung himself inside, lurching into the house, gasping her name.

  Hana burst out of a closet and flung herself weeping into his chest. He held her for a long moment, feeling her cling to him with something aside from desire. Trust. Comfort. She looked to him to protect her. The thought landed on him like a sack of rice. He could hardly protect himself!

  His heart clenched. The last time a woman had looked at him that way, she had been with child, and soon after that, he had been banished from the capital.

  Their only hope was to flee. But to where?

  A crash sounded at the front gate.

  * * *

  Ken’ishi knew of a well and water-trough near the outskirts of Hakata, at a shrine where carters and riders often took their animals. He led the stallion by the reins. Before he rounded the last corner before the well yard, a strong warning from the kami stopped him. His senses snapped alert, his entire body tingling. A group of gruff, unintelligible voices echoed around the buildings with the clatter of weapons and horses’ hooves.

  He crept to the edge of a building and peered around. Ten barbarian horsemen clustered around the well, watering their mounts. He had never seen their like—except in a lotus dream. They were almost bestial, riding shaggy ponies that stood so short the riders’ feet almost brushed the ground. The warriors wore fur-trimmed hats—no, helmets—with conical tops of dull metal and leather draping the ears and neck. Scruffy faces, pointed beards and mustaches, and strange, blunt features. Metal scales glinted on their arms and chests. Their clothes and boots were dun-colored or gray, trimmed with fur. In spite of the horses’ small size, they appeared to be heavily laden with equipment, bags, pouches, even cooking pots. Each of them also carried a thick, strangely curved, symmetrical bow, three quivers of arrows, and a sword. They stank of unwashed bodies and horse dung.

  Ken’ishi knew some Chinese from his lessons; their speech did not sound like Chinese. One of them barked a command, and the group of gnarled, knotted men turned their mounts away, trotting up the street. They rode as if they had been born in the saddle; each rider and horse moved almost as one being.

  As their sounds dwindled into the distance, his ears caught something else coming from the direction of the sea. More thunder crashes, dozens of them, faint and echoing with the hazy distance. The horse shied and stamped at the sharp reports. Ken’ishi had never heard thunder crashes so abrupt yet repetitive.

  The Mongols were gone, so he hurried the horse to the trough. The enemy had gone down his intended road. Somehow he would have to find—or fight—his way through them if he was to make it back to Aoka. The village might already be under attack, or destroyed.

  Ken’ishi asked, “Are you swift?”

  The stallion tossed his head and sniffed. “I am swift as a typhoon wind.”

  “We may have to outrun pursuit.”

  “My legs are alive again,” the stallion said, “and the day is young. Vengeance awaits us. Climb up, Warrior.”

  “I don’t know
how.”

  The horse snorted in contempt. “I’m not going to wait for you. You may have helped quench my thirst, but I’ll let no coward upon my back.”

  “Very well, Sir Stallion.” Ken’ishi grasped the reins with one hand, and the saddle with both, and pulled himself up, throwing his leg over. He reminded himself suddenly of Little Frog’s first attempts to climb steps—clumsy, ungainly, but determined. He hoped the boy was all right.

  Now astride the hard saddle, Ken’ishi adjusted himself to get a feel for it under his backside.

  The stallion said, “Put your feet in the stirrups, fool.”

  He slipped his feet into the cumbersome boxes that dangled on either side. They did help him feel more balanced in his seat, however. It was a peculiar sensation to sit so high above the ground upon a living creature.

  He did not know what to do next. He tried bouncing on the saddle. He tried flicking the reins.

  The horse looked back at him. “Well? What do you want?”

  He kicked the horse’s flanks, and the animal reared. As it launched into a gallop, Ken’ishi nearly tumbled backward out of the saddle, but he snatched its front and managed to right himself. The unfamiliar rhythm of the horse’s movement flopped him about like a fish held by the tail. Struggling for balance, he stood in the stirrups, using his legs to dampen the violence of the horse’s movements. As if by magic, the ride smoothed, like the difference between violent whitecaps on the water and gentle ripples. A broad grin stretched his lips as he leaned into the horse’s run, bending over the animal’s neck, feeling the wind in his face, synchronizing his rhythms with those of his steed.

  As the horse charged down the empty street toward the countryside, he hoped he could make it stop more easily.

  Chilled through, I wake up

  With the first light. Outside my window

  A red maple leaf floats silently down.

  What am I to believe?