Child of Vengeance

by David Kirk

  An archery contest was under way. A track four hundred paces long had been cleared, and men would gallop down it controlling their horses with their knees as they tried to hit three small targets with a full-length longbow. To hit even two was a feat. A crowd watched, the samurai among them shouting boisterous encouragement while the lessers there clapped and sighed in polite and deferential amazement.

  A platform surrounded by a burgundy palisade had been erected for a collection of lords and dignitaries to observe from. Bennosuke allowed himself a few moments to look within as he rode past. Hayato was not there, but the old Lord Nakata was, his eyes squinting more than usual as he strained to see whether the targets were being struck. In between riders he spoke and laughed with the nobles with him, oblivious to the boy’s gaze.

  The Gathering itself would take place in an enclosed field, heavily guarded at the boundaries. To sneak in unnoticed was impossible, and to try to charge through and batter his way to Hayato would be the ignoble kind of suicide. Bennosuke would have to enter like any other man, by registering to compete. A line of men stretched some distance as they waited to give their names to Nakata’s bureaucrats. He hitched his horse, joined the line, and kept his head down.

  Large boards were being erected above and around them, with freshly carved wooden plaques being hung upon them showing the names of the entrants and which lords they were riding for. Each name carried a little dedication beneath it:

  MAY AUTUMN NEVER FIND THE CLAN NAKATA!

  SOUTHERN WINDS BORE ME HERE, AND TO THE NORTH I

  SHALL RETURN UPON THE GRACE OF THE NAKATA!

  NAKATA! NAKATA! A HUNDRED GENERATIONS! NAKATA!

  Behind his mask, the boy’s lip curled. He wondered if they were genuine or if the burgundy lord was employing some poor man with a chisel to think up a thousand different variations on the same theme.

  The line moved quickly; soon it was Bennosuke’s turn before a registrar. He was a harried man with ink-blackened fingers, and though he spoke the formal introductions to the boy in the polite courtly tongue, not once did his eyes leave the heap of documents he was rifling through.

  “Greetings to thee on this day, brave rider,” he intoned in the throes of routine. “The thanks of the most noble Lord Nakata are extended to thee for coming to add to such a marvelous spectacle. It is assured your participation shall be just, and memorable, and glorious. Might the honored rider who stands before this one who thankfully serves the most noble Lord Nakata write his name?”

  The man gestured to a brush and ink, and as he continued to sort through his papers the boy wrote the name he had prepared. He had given it some thought, well aware that using his own was impossible. When this was all done he would be unable to speak for himself and there was a chance his body might not be recognized. Therefore the name he gave here might be the one that was carried with the news, and if that was the case then this needed to be a message also; a covert affirmation to those who could guess the truth.

  The four characters were quickly written. The registrar took the document and examined it, checking he had the reading of the name right:

  “The most honorable Musashi Miyamoto?”

  “That is so,” said Bennosuke.

  The Musashi of the village indeed, as Tasumi had called him after he had fought Arima. He hoped that his uncle would smile when he heard the tale of the death of Hayato Nakata, would know that the boy he had trained had proved himself.

  To the registrar the name meant no more than any other, though. He picked up a brush of his own and began scrawling quickly on a separate document.

  “And the matter of the fee, most honorable Sir Miyamoto?” he asked as he wrote.

  “Fee?” said Bennosuke.

  “Yes,” said the registrar, “the fee of entry—from which most noble lord shall we ask it? Whom shall you represent in the Gathering of the most noble Lord Nakata?”

  Panic took hold of Bennosuke for a moment. The announcement boards had not mentioned any cost. But why would they? That would be rude and presumptuous. Of course Nakata would take any chance to earn money, and of course he would look to weed out any scoundrel. The boy had but a handful of coins left, nowhere near enough.

  The registrar looked at him expectantly. Before that could warp into outright suspicion, something clicked in Bennosuke’s head.

  “It is the honor of this rider to represent Lord Ukita,” the boy said.

  It was a reasonable gamble—Ukita was a powerful man, and perhaps there would be enough riders already representing him that one more would go unnoticed. It seemed to work; the registrar nodded, and continued writing without a fuss. Bennosuke allowed himself to breathe again as he waited for the document to be finished. But then the man looked up.

  “Ahh, Sir Kumagai?” he called beyond Bennosuke. A short, wiry samurai turned. He had been talking jovially with a few other men wearing livery different from his.

  “Another one of your men,” said the registrar, and he politely gestured toward Bennosuke.

  “Eh?” he said, and came to stand before the boy. He looked up at him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”

  “The most honorable Musashi Miyamoto,” the registrar informed him.

  “All mine are in, I thought,” said Kumagai, and he squinted closely at Bennosuke, eyeing up the size of him. “Take that helmet and mask off, I can’t see you properly.”

  Bennosuke hesitated, but he had no choice. With his face truly bared, Kumagai’s suspicion changed to surprise.

  “Frost of hells,” the man said. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” lied Bennosuke.

  “Ha! Try again, son,” said the man.

  “Sixteen.”

  “That’s better,” he said, satisfied. “What’s a lad like you doing here, Musashi?”

  “Want to ride in the Gathering, sir,” Bennosuke said, and he affected sheepishness.

  “Why didn’t you come with the rest of us?” asked Kumagai.

  “Thought you wouldn’t let me,” said Bennosuke, improvising wildly. “I just want to bring honor to Lord Ukita is all. Sorry, sir.”

  “Well,” said Kumagai, and he softened slightly, “I suppose I can’t fault you for that. Weird-looking bugger, though, aren’t you? What happened to your hair?”

  “An accident, it’s …” he stammered lamely, a nervous hand running through his short mess of hair. There was the urge to bolt, certain that some guard of Nakata’s must be looking now, recognizing him. Kumagai tilted his head, clucking his tongue behind his bottom lip.

  “Ah, why not?” the man said with a shrug eventually, and then he turned to the registrar. “Please add this man’s name to our entrant list.”

  “As you wish,” said the registrar, and bowed low. “On behalf of the most noble Lord Nakata, good health and fortune are wished for thee.”

  Kumagai tapped the boy on the arm and led him away. When the registrar was finished writing, he handed the document to a craftsman who knelt behind him. Quickly the man began to carve into waiting cedar. A short time later, though Bennosuke would not see it, the name Musashi Miyamoto was hung up alongside the hundreds of others. Beneath it was written:

  MY LIFE FOR THE NAKATA!

  WHEN BENNOSUKE HAD retrieved his horse, Kumagai led him through the checkpoint that separated the samurai preparing for the Gathering from all others. The boy held his breath, again sure that he would be singled out with his face exposed, but the Nakata guards there recognized Kumagai. They passed pleasantries with one another, and then the guards smiled at Bennosuke and wished him good luck. The muscles in Bennosuke’s back loosened gradually, the unseen knife he was certain was waiting slowly vanishing from his mind.

  Kumagai seemed friendly, speaking freely of nothing with a casual warmth in his voice and an affable glint in his eye. Bennosuke would have guessed his age at somewhere in the early thirties, not yet marked by lines of age or gray hair. His nose had been broken at some point and had healed slightly out of line. Though he wa
s short and thin he did not seem slight, and he carried himself with a solid, considered poise.

  He offered no reason why he had allowed the boy to join him, but then, why would he? This was just an afternoon of sport for him, and the decision no more than a harmless kindness to some impetuous young fool.

  “Miyamoto, you said your name was?” he said. “Are your family horsemen?”

  “Not especially,” said the boy.

  “I can’t say I know your father.”

  “I don’t much know him either,” said Bennosuke. “He died in Korea. My uncle too.”

  “The first one?” said Kumagai, and the boy nodded. “Ah, I see. I was there last summer. That was bad enough. You ever hear of a hwacha?”

  “No,” said Bennosuke.

  “A devil’s machine made for cowards,” explained the man. “So it follows the Koreans use them. It uses blackpowder like the European muskets do, or more like skyrockets I suppose, but … it’s not either. Imagine a cart with a box with two hundred holes in it on top, and in each one of these holes is an arrow or a rocket—or both. I don’t know. They light it somehow, and then all two hundred arrows fire at once, screeching like falcons and fast as lightning. It’s like the rain of hell, focused on one little bit of earth. Took us to bits, it did. Killed near fifty of the men I was marching with, just like that. Tore our formations right up, again and again.”

  “How many times did you encounter them?” asked Bennosuke.

  “Enough,” said Kumagai.

  “And you just kept marching right at them?” asked Bennosuke.

  “What else are we supposed to do?” said the samurai, and he laughed. “What are we, bloody Chinese?”

  The other men of Ukita met Bennosuke with indifference. There were nearly thirty of them huddled around a tall banner in Ukita’s livery, saddling their horses and tightening their armor as they eyed the clusters of other samurai, gauging their threat. Kumagai explained the boy’s circumstances, and the men nodded disinterest and then turned away.

  “Now get suited up, and be ready within the hour,” said Kumagai. Bennosuke said nothing. “You did bring armor? A banner?”

  “No,” said Bennosuke, and Kumagai laughed again.

  “How are you going to bring honor to our Lord Ukita if you’re not wearing his colors, lad?” he said, smiling. “My word. Your heart’s golden, but your head’s addled.”

  Kumagai went and fetched a toughened underkimono and an old cuirass, which he dropped casually at Bennosuke’s feet, and then placed a banner that carried his lord’s livery carefully into the boy’s hands. Still smiling, he left the boy with his men and went back to his post at the registrar’s desk.

  The material of the underkimono was coarse and stank of sweat and grass. The cuirass was worse. It matched his helmet in a way, a ratty old thing that was in essence little more than a heavily padded overjacket. It was too small for him, pinching at his shoulders and pressing down into the top of his stomach. He felt restricted. Another man helped him mount the banner on his back. It stood a full body’s length above him, the rectangle of material held open always by the right-angled frame. It was clumsy and awkward, and he worried about his balance atop the horse.

  But if it was a hindrance, it was a shared one. All wore banners, even the lordless men, but underneath them men were clad in everything from full suits of armor to little more than strips of cloth protecting modesty, depending on whether they valued protection or agility. Bennosuke was just another shabby and faceless participant among them, and that was perfect.

  Kumagai came back some time later. The registry was over, the ride soon to begin. He held his arms out to his sides and the other samurai wordlessly placed his armor upon him as a team, quick and efficient. His armor was fine, his helmet crested, and his face hidden by a red lacquer mask that was carved into a snarling demon’s grin. Auburn horsehair had been fashioned to form a drooping mustache and a fierce, bristling beard.

  “Swords, boys,” he said, and gestured at a crate.

  His men began to strip the weapons from their sides and place them inside it one by one. Though etiquette technically permitted them to carry the shortsword anywhere in daily life, this was sport; passions sometimes flared beyond control, and with a sword to hand regrettable actions could be undertaken. It was a mark of common respect for honest competition that any weapon be relinquished.

  Bennosuke lingered, suddenly unwilling to part with his blades. It was stupid, he knew. For a year now he had committed himself to what he would soon do, but to place the swords down for the final time would be a severance of sorts; like cutting loose the anchor that bound him to this world. He wondered what would become of them—would they be smashed to pieces by a vengeful Lord Nakata, or would they simply be left to molder in the crate, to be foisted off on some new recruit?

  Or would the swords be taken away, stolen by some disciple, and placed in a shrine dedicated to ideals noble and pure? Would young warriors make pilgrimages to see them ensconced above incense-burning braziers, the mournful bells of a shrine pealing as the yet-to-be-born bowed low, their eyes misting with envy and longing as they read the words of an ancient scroll that marked Bennosuke Shinmen as a samurai who knew the righteous order of the world?

  He blinked. Perhaps the delirium of exhaustion had not quite left him. But the vision had come to him so suddenly and vividly that he wondered if the breath of Munisai’s ghost had stolen into him. Could that be so? If it was, then it was vindication; it must mean that some entity of heaven favored him and his course by allowing his father to communicate with him. Warmth—or at least a glowing determination—filled his heart.

  Swords were symbols. Souls had worth. For the poems yet to be written about the latter, he lowered the former into the crate, closed the lid, and then pulled himself up into the saddle.

  A GONG WAS being struck slowly, a call to assembly for those riding in the Gathering. Kumagai led his men at a brisk canter toward the field, weaving their way through other bands of samurai either mounting or already on the move. Ukita, as a greater lord, commanded a deal of respect, and Bennosuke could see it in the looks of apprehension his livery caused. It was a strange sense of anonymous and assumed power, mounted on another man’s horse in another man’s army, his face hidden from the world. It felt good. He leaned from side to side in the saddle, testing the weight of the armor and the encumbrance of the banner.

  “Musashi,” called Kumagai, and gestured for him to ride alongside him. The man’s voice was muffled behind his snarling mask, his eyes barely visible. “Don’t do anything stupid, you understand? This is dangerous. Stay with us. You fall and you’ll not be walking away. The last thing I want to do is bear a lad with a mashed head home. That’s … dishonorable.”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” said Bennosuke.

  “Stay with us, don’t even think of going for the ball,” said Kumagai. “I’ll look out for you. Don’t get any stupid ideas of glory into your head.”

  “I understand,” said Bennosuke.

  “Good lad,” said Kumagai, and he laughed. Bennosuke thought he could see the glint of an eye in the dark holes of the face guard. “Rare fun, this.”

  They rode on. A familiar shade of blue lay up ahead; Lord Shinmen’s riders stood, finishing their preparations. Bennosuke recognized some of their faces, most of all the young samurai who had struck Munisai’s head from his shoulders. None of them seemed enthused, grimly looking back at Ukita’s men as they passed. Kumagai snapped his head down in a battlefield bow, which was returned without luster.

  “Surprised they’ve got the nerve to show their faces,” said one of Kumagai’s men once the blue samurai were behind them. “It’d take more than a wooden ball to get back their honor.”

  “The pride of Munisai Shinmen,” said another, and there was cruel laughter.

  “Silence!” barked Kumagai, fiercely whipping around to face them in his saddle. “They are allies of our Lord Ukita, I remind you!”

  “
More’s the cursed pity,” someone muttered. Kumagai pretended not to hear it.

  BENNOSUKE LET HIS horse fall back into the body of the pack and glanced sideways at the men who had spoken. He was not angry with them. What they had said was proof that what he was doing needed to be done. The boy put his right hand to his left wrist, and he felt the hardness of the knife even through his armor.

  They rode into a bottleneck of men and horses that waited to be allowed into the arena. Above them, on a platform that had been erected over the main gateway, a man stripped to the waist continued a steady beat upon the large, burnished gong. Bennosuke felt the hairs on his body stand on end, the reverberation scintillating as it counted onward, counted downward.

  THERE WAS NO check for weapons; that would be insulting. Men and horses shuffled flank to flank under the gong and then into the field proper, which was enclosed by a palisade of burgundy and white material. Bennosuke felt a stab of apprehension as he took took it all in, the arena a lot smaller and the number of riders a lot greater than he had anticipated.

  Men called greetings to one another as they sat waiting in their clan groups, the bamboo slats of their banner poles cracking in the gentle wind. Around the outside of the palisade, onlookers had gathered, jostling one another for position while the children they held on their shoulders giggled and waved.

  A lordly platform overlooked the field, large and tiered. The lords sat highest upon it, and arrayed below them in descending importance were the lesser nobles, consorts and wives, dignitaries, and guests of the court. To Bennosuke they were nothing but distant balls of seated, colored kimonos, but he could guess who sat highest of all even without the hint of his burgundy attire.

  Let me meet Hayato before that platform, Bennosuke prayed. Let him have a good view. Let the old man see blood.

  What seemed to be the last of the competitors rode in. Men waited as their steeds nervously hopped from foot to foot. The horses could sense the anticipation in the air. Samurai twisted in their saddles, clutched their reins tighter, looked to one another, and smiled maniacally. It was war without weapons.