The first Mongol managed to cross blades, but Silver Crane hummed with power. The force of the blow shattered steel, cleft the Mongol’s helmet, then his face from pate to chin.
Another lunged at Ken’ishi, but he sidestepped the blow, pivoted behind the Mongol’s movement and slashed across the base of the man’s neck, neatly severing his enemy’s spine.
The last one bawled like an enraged bear and threw himself at Ken’ishi, locking his arms around the ronin’s body and pinning his arms to his sides. Beneath the Mongol’s coarse, smelly clothing, his arms were solid as trees, and his grip, iron. The Mongol threw him hard onto the ground, forcing Silver Crane from his grip. One hand released him, and Ken’ishi heard the slither of a drawn weapon. Just in time, he caught the Mongol’s wrist as it swept around with a wicked, broad-bladed knife. He redirected the stab into the earth, a finger’s breadth from his side, then cracked the Mongol across the cheek with his elbow. Once, twice, three times, but the hideous, blunt features of his enemy only spread a bloody, gap-toothed grin. The Mongol raised the knife for another stab.
Ken’ishi grabbed the knife wrist again, and then struggled to throw off the knotty weight, managing to writhe free. He rolled to his feet, facing his leering, demonic enemy. Silver Crane lay a few paces away. The Mongol grinned and kicked the sword further away.
Then the Mongol with his arm nailed to his torso groaned and clutched feebly at Ken’ishi’s foot. Ken’ishi snatched the Mongol’s short sword from his belt, hacked open his throat, and faced the last enemy with the unfamiliar blade.
The Mongol circled cautiously, feinting, taunting, but Ken’ishi did not move, did not even look at him.
Ken’ishi merely waited.
The Mongol charged.
Ken’ishi allowed the incoming blade to slide past and slashed as the Mongol stumbled off-balance. The Mongol’s enraged gurgle told Ken’ishi that his slash had struck home. The Mongol fell into the dirt, blood spurting, clawing at the earth.
Ken’ishi retrieved Silver Crane and took the wounded man’s head.
Norikage had been right. They were demons. They drank blood. They were as tough as hardwood wrapped in leather and iron, but they could be killed.
He could reach Dazaifu in an hour or two. But before he left the campsite, he slashed the throats of the Mongols’ demonic steeds. The shaggy ponies could be little else than monsters themselves if they allowed these barbarians to feed upon their blood. The horses squealed and shied and struggled against their tethers, but they could not escape his blade.
Speed is not the true way. Speed is the fastness or slowness that occurs when the rhythm is out of synchronization … What a master does seems to be done with ease and without any loss of timing. Anything which is performed by someone who has experience does not look busy.
— Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings
A few hours in the saddle with no prior experience turned Ken’ishi’s backside and thighs into a mass of chafed bruises. The steady moan of the night wind chilled him, and he was grateful for the sweaty warmth of the stallion beneath him. A veil of swift-moving clouds obscured the moon, casting darkness so dense that Ken’ishi had to trust the stallion’s eyes to see the road. The horse maintained a steady trot, and his breath puffed out of him like the steam of a rice pot. As he felt the noble power of the stallion under him, he could not fail to compare it to the short, shaggy ponies the invaders were riding, nor could he free his mind from the images of the barbarians drinking their blood.
They must be nearing Dazaifu by now, having passed through two deserted villages, but the night was so dark he could discern few details.
Suddenly, he heard the distinctive twang and hiss of an arrow, the wet thud as it embedded in the road at his steed’s feet. The stallion reared and neighed a warning.
A bark sounded from the darkness ahead. “Halt! Announce yourself or die!”
Ken’ishi squeezed the reins and called out as he had heard other samurai announce themselves. “I am Ken’ishi. My father was a great swordsman of northern Honshu. Tonight I single-handedly slew five of the barbarian invaders. Their bodies lie dead and cold on the road from Hakozaki. I heard news that a defense force is gathering at Dazaifu, and I have come to lend my blade. Now, I have announced myself. You do the same!”
There was a moment of pause, then the man in the darkness answered. “I am Ota no Nobusada. My family has served the Shogun since the days of Yoritomo. My great-grandfather was with the first Shogun, Yoritomo, when he crushed the Taira. You are welcome here, samurai.”
Pride bloomed in Ken’ishi’s chest.
A dark shape emerged from the deeper shadows. The sentry bowed, and Ken’ishi returned the gesture. “I am at your service, Master Ota. May I speak to your commander about joining the defense?”
“Of course, I will take you to him. Sergeant Masamori, stay at your post. I’ll be back soon.”
The grunt of acknowledgment came out of the darkness from another location on the opposite side of the road.
The sentry led him down the road at a brisk trot. After a few hundred paces, they emerged from the forest above the city of Dazaifu. Unlike the dark, desolate villages Ken’ishi had passed through, Dazaifu was alive with activity. Lanterns, torches, and campfires danced in the darkness. All available open spaces were crammed with tents or warriors sleeping on the ground beside flickering campfires. A dark chill raced through him. The faces of these warriors were the faces of weary, beaten men. He smelled the blood, saw the dark stains on their bandages and the haunted looks in their eyes.
Nobusada led Ken’ishi to a teahouse that had been commandeered as a command post. Ken’ishi took stock of his guide. Slightly older than Ken’ishi, Ota no Nobusada was dressed in a fine suit of heavy armor, well made and practically sparkling in its pristine condition. From the man’s uneasy demeanor, Ken’ishi wondered if he had ever seen war or battle firsthand.
Nobusada went to the door and announced. “My lords, another samurai has come to join the defense.”
A voice came from within. “He may enter.”
Nobusada stepped aside.
Ken’ishi bowed to him and went inside. Seated around a large table were three armored warriors. Their helmets rested on armor trees behind them, dusty and scuffed. All three looked as if they had not slept for days.
The man in the center appraised Ken’ishi. He was middle-aged, handsome, with sharp, wide-set eyes that mirrored a well-honed intelligence. He wore elaborately decorated armor, but scuffs and scratches bespoke a seasoned martial history.
Ken’ishi placed his sword on his right side as he knelt before them and pressed his forehead to the floor.
The man in the center spoke. “I am Otomo no Tsunemori, officer in charge of emergency recruitment. You wish to join the defense forces?”
“Honored commanders, my name is Ken’ishi. Until recently, I came from Aoka village. Earlier today the village was destroyed by the barbarian invaders.”
Tsunemori said, “Aoka village is north of Hakozaki.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“The enemy holds that area. Do you mean to say that you came through the enemy lines?”
“Yes, Lord.”
The three officers glanced at one another. One of them said, “You were not captured.” The words stopped just short of being an accusation.
“No, great lords. I killed five of them on the road here, a scouting party.”
Their eyes widened.
Tsunemori said, “Five, you say! We could not get close enough to fight them like honorable men. They just shot their arrows at us and ran away on their ugly little ponies. Clouds, storms of arrows. I have never seen so many. Our men were shot to pieces before they could even issue challenges. How did you manage it?”
“I came upon their sentry post and surprised them. They are demons. They are tough, but they can be killed. I saw them … drinking the blood of their steeds.”
The officers’ faces twisted in disgust.
<
br /> One of them said, “You did not bring us any heads.”
Ken’ishi shook his head sternly. “They were too ugly. And carrying the heads of five demons this far might have tainted me beyond all hope of purification. But I do have this.” He reached into his pack and withdrew one of the Mongol swords, with its broad, curved blade and simple wooden hilt. He offered it to them with both hands, head bowed.
The sour one took it, examined it with a warrior’s eye for steel. “Crude craftsmanship. Our swords are infinitely superior.” He passed it to Tsunemori.
Ken’ishi said, “That is true, my lord. My blade shattered one of their weapons in the fight.”
Tsunemori nodded thoughtfully. “But we must find a way to fight them. Right now, they outnumber us. Their ponies are quick and agile, and their bows have a longer range than ours. They never walk on their own two legs.” He took one of the scrolls and turned it around to face Ken’ishi, pushing forward a brush and inkwell. “Ken’ishi, sign your name to the roster. Fight well tomorrow.”
Ken’ishi felt a flush of pride and vengeance on his face. He had much blood to repay. With determined movements, he took the brush and signed his name.
Tsunemori said, “Have you any armor?”
“A light breastplate, my lord.”
“That will have to do for now. Report to Kono no Kiyonaga. He is the captain of one of our scout units. You can find him in the white tent at the end of the street. At dawn, we march.”
* * *
“We will be ahead of the main force.” Captain Kono’s gaze swept over the group of twenty kneeling men. Most wore armor of varying types; some wore helmets, some did not. All around them, the encamped troops were coming to life with the growing dawn. “We will observe the enemy and report back to the main force. All of you know your duty. You, Ken’ishi.”
Ken’ishi bowed. “Yes, Kono-sama.”
“Have you no armor?”
“I have a light do-maru.” He tapped his chest with a knuckle. “It might turn aside an arrow or two.”
One of the other samurai standing in the group laughed brusquely. “Then you will have the honor of being the first among us to die!”
Several of the other samurai laughed.
Ken’ishi failed to see the humor, but he did not take offense. If he died, who was there to pray for him? He had no one, no family, no clan, and no lord. With no family or priest to pray for his soul, his spirit might be trapped in this world as a ghost. The only one in the world he could call friend was not even a human being; Hage was unlikely to pray for anything, ever. “If it is my destiny to be the first to die with honor, then so be it, but I would not seek to hold anyone else from claiming that honor themselves.”
This brought another gust of gruff laughter, and he allowed himself a small smile.
Kono said, “Ken’ishi, you have a horse?”
“I have a horse.”
“Where does a ronin find a horse?” said a man.
Ken’ishi fixed his narrowed eyes firmly on the man who had spoken. “The same place you did. The gods granted one.”
More laughter. The man held his gaze for only a moment before looking away.
Captain Kono said, “Save your blood for the enemy. May the Buddha grant us victory.” He stood, and the other men followed suit. Servants led their horses forward.
One of the samurai approached Ken’ishi and said, “I am Otomo no Ishitaka.” He clapped Ken’ishi on the shoulder. “I like your spirit, Ken’ishi! You will fight well today.” He had a broad, round face, a flat nose, and eyes that sparkled with vigor and intensity. Only up close did Ken’ishi realize how young Ishitaka was, perhaps no more than sixteen.
Ken’ishi bowed. “I’m sure you will take many heads today.”
The young warrior smiled wanly and stood straighter.
A servant brought Ken’ishi’s stallion forward.
“A fine animal!” Ishitaka said.
“He is indeed,” Ken’ishi said. “He saved my life yesterday.” Then he said to the horse, “Vengeance today. Battle.”
The stallion snorted. “Are you ready to die, Warrior?”
“I am ready. But perhaps death will not come today.”
“Perhaps you will live to gather your own herd, and sire many more strong sons.”
Destiny.
Ken’ishi suppressed a flinch at the power of Silver Crane’s resounding thought.
Ishitaka said, “What are you saying? It almost sounded as if you were speaking to the horse.”
“I was. He is a strong, fierce steed.”
Ishitaka gave him a puzzled expression. “You are an interesting man, Ken’ishi.”
Ken’ishi tied his bow and quiver to his saddle and made sure that his scabbard was tied securely to his sash. Some of the other warriors had swords that were considerably longer and stouter than his, some so long that the point of their scabbards almost dragged the ground. Most carried bows, some lances, but all wore faces of grim determination.
Captain Kono spun on his mount and called out to his warriors. “Ride!”
I have only one possession —
My life, so light,
Like this gourd.
— Basho
The road flew past under pounding hooves. The new day was cold and dreary and gray, with darkening clouds. The air was moist and heavy, a cold, wet washcloth across Ken’ishi’s face.
After half an hour of hard riding, his already weary legs felt like limp seaweed.
They paused where Ken’ishi had slain the five Mongols. It lay just as he had left it, but the road was dappled with fresh hoof prints. At the next crossroads, the dirt was so freshly pounded by the passage of riders that discerning which direction they were going was impossible.
Captain Kono said, “We must watch our backs now as well.”
The day had warmed like a balmy, late summer afternoon, but it made the air seem thick, like a damp, smothering blanket. The tops of the trees waved and rippled in the warm wind. Dark clouds roiled above.
One of the men said, “Perhaps the gods will favor us with a rain to ruin their bowstrings!”
Another said, “Yes, and ours as well.”
Ishitaka pointed. “There!”
Down a branching side road, several Mongols stood, staring at the samurai. With lightning speed, the invaders spun their stunted ponies and galloped away.
“After them!” Captain Kono shouted.
Without hesitation, the samurai spurred down the road after the barbarians. Kono and the other leading warriors readied their bows for shots at the fleeing Mongols. The longer-legged Japanese horses gained on the ponies. Kono and some of the others attempted bowshots, but shooting directly over their mounts’ heads was difficult on a winding road with branches that dipped low enough to sweep a man from the saddle. None of their shots found a mark.
One of the Mongols raised a long horn and blew it as they fled.
Ken’ishi and his comrades pounded down the forest road. Perhaps a ri down the road, the forest receded, and the pursuers barreled into a patchwork of harvested rice fields filled with low-cropped, golden-green stubble.
The far end of the valley swarmed with horsemen.
On either side of the road, large groups of enemy riders closed on them like the pincers of a crab.
Ken’ishi shouted a warning, but Kono had already seen their peril. Kono hauled on his reins and spun his horse back the way they came from. The rest of their band followed him. If they could clear the tips of the pincers, they might escape.
Ken’ishi glanced over his shoulder and saw perhaps a hundred riders peel off from the larger swarm and charge in pursuit. They drew their bows and loosed. A cloud of arrows hissed into the air, and Ken’ishi could only watch as they arced high, hung against the gray sky for long moments, then fell toward him. The air around him hissed and buzzed with the falling arrows. Horses screamed and stumbled as the arrows sank into their haunches or shoulders. A samurai ahead of Ken’ishi fell out of the s
addle and under the hooves of Ken’ishi’s stallion. His horse stumbled, but kept his feet. Another horse and rider went down together into a flailing heap. Ken’ishi kicked the stallion’s flanks. Its eyes bulged, and its breath huffed as it summoned a fresh burst of speed. Two of the other men ahead had arrows protruding from their armor, but stayed in the saddle.
The pincer-tips reached thirty paces between them when Ken’ishi and the others galloped past, back into the forest. Just as they did, the snap and pop of another flight of arrows tore through the branches above. A few shafts trickled ineffectually through the canopy.
The enemy horsemen gathered in pursuit.
Captain Kono rolled out of the saddle, falling heavily to the dirt, snapping the arrow embedded between his neck and shoulder, eyes wide and staring and dead.
Ken’ishi galloped down the narrow, winding road, hemmed on both sides with trees and undergrowth. A flash of silvery web brushed over his face, through his thoughts. The enemy would not be expecting a handful of scouts to turn and fight, and the road was too confined for flights of arrows. He hauled on the reins, bringing his steed to a skidding halt.
“Enough running!” he shouted. “Fight!” He whipped Silver Crane out of its scabbard and turned to face the oncoming pursuit.
His comrades heard him. They reined up.
Otomo no Ishitaka drew his sword and unleashed a high-pitched war cry, spurring his mount back toward Ken’ishi. The others, not to be outdone, did the same. The rumble of the pursuit rose. Ken’ishi and Otomo no Ishitaka stood side-by-side, blades in hand. Wielding his sword one-handed would be difficult enough, but he had never fought from horseback before.
The Mongols thundered into sight.
“Vengeance,” he said to the stallion.
“Vengeance!” the stallion snorted back.
Ken’ishi charged, building a long kiai from the depths of his belly. A grim smile stretched his lips when he saw the surprise on the faces of the lead Mongol riders. The first rider’s sword was only half out of its sheath before Ken’ishi was upon him, slashing as he rode past, severing the man’s arm.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 33
