by Rob Rosen
DRAGON’S SON
Evey Brett
“You should have been here sooner,” Shirou told me as I arrived at his father’s room, short of breath and limping worse than usual after tripping over bodies in the courtyard and climbing two flights of stairs. The attack on Hoshi Castle had come before dawn, finding us ill prepared. The castle, hastily built as Lord Ryunosuke’s last defense, was sheltered by the mountain on three sides. Unfortunately, that same protection also left us vulnerable to siege.
“I came as quickly as I could, Shirou-san. I was tending to the wounded.” A number of my assistants and the able-bodied were caring for the injured as well as they could, but the losses were going to be high.
“My father needs you more.” Shirou was acting impatiently to cover his unease. I knew those pout lines well; he’d worn them even when we were children.
He slid open the door and I ducked inside into a stifling but well-lit room. A mural featuring a golden dragon fighting a tiger adorned the far wall, the savagery of the entwined creatures reminiscent of Lord Ryunosuke’s feats in battle. The image was meant to symbolize duality and balance between opposing forces, but it was the daimyo’s constant hardness and refusal to yield that had left him lying on a pallet, a pale shadow of what he once had been.
“The physician has come, Father,” Shirou said, kneeling on one side while I knelt painfully on the other. The incense wafting through the room did little to cover the stink of battle and blood.
There was no answer save for hoarse, ragged breaths. The daimyo’s armor had been carefully peeled away, leaving him in his bloodstained kimono. There was a gaping slice across his belly and another in his thigh, but the cleanest—and worst— was the arrow that had lodged in his chest. I hardly needed to lift the bandage to know what I would find.
I exchanged a glance with Shirou. There were no words needed. He knew a mortal wound as well as I. “It’s too soon,” he said, looking away.
Lord Ryunosuke’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze fixed on his son and waited until Shirou had the courage to look back. The daimyo’s voice was nearly too soft to hear. “It’s her fault.”
Shirou’s face hardened. Behind that mask of stone, I sensed his building anger.
“Help me.” Lord Ryunosuke’s hand weakly lifted.
Shirou shuddered, but, being the obedient son he was, bowed and curled the daimyo’s fingers around the shaft. He left his hand atop his father’s. “Swift journeys, Father,” he said.
One swift yank, and it was over in moments. Shirou dropped the arrow as if it were poisoned. At his gesture, a priest and numerous servants rushed in. Several cried out and moaned, the start of ritual mourning, but Shirou’s face was taut and unchanged. He remained stalwart as he bent over and accompanied the priest in offering final prayers.
“There is work to be done,” he said before stalking out.
I saw little of him throughout the afternoon and evening as he accepted condolences and doled out the various honors due to his warriors whenever they brought him the head of an enemy. There weren’t many of the latter, though Shirou had taken a number of his own. Because the Katamura clan had used a number of firearms while we’d been forced to employ archers, the battle had cost us more than half of our men while our rivals had lost only a few dozen of theirs. The wounds were deadlier and more gruesome, not to mention difficult to deal with.
It wasn’t until nightfall, when a messenger fetched me to Shirou’s room, that I was able to speak with him again. I knelt and bowed low to my new lord and commander. “Shirou-sama?”
He shook his head wearily. “Don’t. I can’t stand it. Not from you.”
I waited, shifting just enough to ease the ache in my bad leg. We were all exhausted, but he was pale and weary to the point that I worried. I didn’t see any obvious wounds, but there could be others. I’d scolded him more than once for not telling me about severe blows he’d taken to his abdomen and kidneys.
His body servant helped him strip his armor, then fetched food, wine and a basin of clean water. Shirou said nothing, did nothing until the boy had returned with the requested items and again disappeared.
“Let me,” I said, indicating the basin. At his nod, I wet the sponge and washed his face and neck. A drafty room at the top of a keep was a poor stand-in for the luxuriant baths we’d shared at his father’s main castle, but it would do.
Without my urging, he shrugged off his kimono so that he was bare to the waist. Other than a few new bruises and scars, his lean, muscular body was the same one I’d known. I ran my hands along his head, neck, shoulders and arms, feeling tension but no heat that might indicate injury. He gave a little sigh as I swept his long ebony hair aside and sponged his back, cleansing the remnants of the day’s battle from his skin.
Much as I loved being near him once more, it pained me as well. My beautiful, bright-eyed Shirou was gone, replaced by a man old before his time. I longed to kiss him between the shoulder blades and do what I could to ease his anguished mind, but I feared adding to his grief.
When I was done and had helped him dress in a clean kimono, he poured a cup of sake for each of us and drank. “Tomorrow, I will take my father’s place. I will be the daimyo in his stead.” He spoke matter-of-factly, yet I knew him too well to miss the trembling in his hands.
“I’m sorry.” Commanding an army and fighting wars to defend or increase his clan’s holdings was the last thing Shirou wanted, and for many years it seemed he might escape his fate. As his father’s fourth son, he’d been considered extraneous and allowed to take refuge in a mountain temple, only to be recalled when his first brother died in battle, the second of fever and the third by poison. He was as much a warrior as any of his brothers, having been trained as a swordsman from the time he was old enough to hold a practice blade, but simply shared my preference to travel the road of peace.
I was the third son of a samurai who lived on the daimyo’s estate, and a childhood accident with a horse had left me with a crippled leg and no hope of following my father’s profession. While I healed, my father was wise enough to nurture my scientific interest and arranged for me to share Shirou’s tutor. Shirou and I had become fast friends, though when both of us had come of age, I’d been sent to learn from the best physicians and he’d gone to the mountains. Neither of us expected to see the other again, and it was a cruel fate indeed that had brought us together under such bloody circumstances.
“And I will have to wear that.” He nodded at the corner of the tent where a servant had set the newly cleaned and repaired armor on a stand. It was a beautiful piece of art, the panels lacquered a deep maroon and lined with gold. The breastplate had been carved and painted with golden triangles representing dragon scales, the symbol of his house. The swords, both in matching scabbards, rested on their own rack.
He reached out to stroke the armor, but before he could, a shudder racked his body. He leaped to his feet and dashed out of the room before I could catch him.
I grabbed my kit and hurried into the hallway, noting the startled faces of his servants and followers. “Stay here. I’ll see to him,” I said, cursing my inability to travel swiftly.
On instinct, I headed toward the stables and sighted a knot of stable hands and guards outside the door, all looking rather morose. They’d obviously been ordered to leave their posts. “Get some food and find a place to sleep. Don’t bother us unless I call for you,” I told them. They bowed and scattered. I may not have been a warrior, but I had status enough to be obeyed.
Inside, the scent of sweet hay, oats and damp horse welcomed my nose. Several horses perked up at my approach, and my favorite mount, a quiet gray mare, whickered. I spared her a scratch between the ears before I found Shirou bent over a trough, scrubbing his bare hands in the water. The blood had long since been washed away, yet he kept at it, scraping hard enough to tear his skin.
“Enough,” I said, taking Shirou’s hands in my own. They were frigid. I wrapped my arms around him and he shivere
d. A kiss to his cheek and he trembled uncontrollably. Shirou had fought in a battle this morning, but a greater war raged in his heart. When he met my gaze, I saw he had indeed been hurt, but the evidence wasn’t on his flesh; it was in his eyes.
I led him into the section housing tack and blankets, including Lord Ryunosuke’s worked saddle draped with the tiger skin rug he’d used for a pad. He’d gotten the pelt on a mission to China when he’d hunted and killed the beast himself.
We sank to the ground amidst the comforting scents of leather and horse. I stretched out my bad leg and had the stone wall for support while Shirou sat between my thighs and leaned against me like a worn-out child. In here, alone, the formalities of rank dropped, and we became the two boys we had been, finding comfort in the other’s presence. For months after my accident, I’d woken in terrible pain, and Shirou had held me, talking me through the worst of it. After such devoted care, I’d sworn to serve his family and, by default, him, but he never used his rank to abuse me. Quite the opposite.
Shirou fingered the tiger skin. “It’s my father’s fault we’re doing battle with the Katamura clan. All because of a woman.”
As the tale went, Lord Ryunosuke had courted one of the Katamura daughters back when they’d been our allies. As the Katamura told it, Lord Ryunosuke had made improper advances. From Lord Ryunosuke’s perspective, it was the daughter who had made an unforgivable slight toward him. Both clans insisted they were telling the truth, and since no agreement could be reached, they’d gone to war to settle their dispute.
“The Katamura want my clan dead. Perhaps I should save them the trouble of hunting me down and send you to them with my head.”
A chill pooled in my belly. I’d spent time in the teahouses with both men and women, but Shirou was the one I loved, and I could not bear the thought of losing him to his own hand or any other. “No.”
He twisted around to face me. “Why not?”
Words clogged my throat. So instead of answering, I kissed him.
I felt him tense, and momentarily wondered if I’d acted wrongly, but then he relaxed and met my questing tongue with his. He tasted of sake and had the same heady effect on my thoughts.
The stable was pleasantly warm, yet I shivered when Shirou pulled my obi loose so that my kimono fell open. With a shrug, the silk garment dropped and pooled around my waist. Shirou stroked my back, pausing when he reached a particularly sore spot caused by the strain of my crooked walk. With a mischievous look in his eye, he draped the tiger skin on the ground. “Lie down,” he said, and, since he was my commander, I obeyed, stretching out on the soft pelt. “Do you have any oils?”
“In the box,” I told him.
More agile than I, Shirou grabbed my surgeon’s kit and sorted through the contents until he found a bottle I knew he was familiar with. He poured a few drops of oil on his hands and dug firmly into my aching flesh. My bad leg was twisted and shriveled compared to the other, and Shirou took extra care in handling it. Much of his skill he’d learned in the dojo, but I’d taught him a few things after I’d advanced in my studies. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said, “living each day in such pain but continuing on.”
I groaned as he pressed a tender point. “We both do what we must.”
He was silent a while, and I focused on his strong, expert fingers. The fragrant oil soon warmed me as it became apparent that he was using me both as a distraction and as a means of working out his frustrations. I minded neither as long as I was being of use to him; his mind worked best when his body was kept busy.
“What am I going to do, Kenji? We don’t have the men or weapons to win a battle. If we do nothing, we will starve within the month. There is no one to come to our aid. My father drove away all of his allies. His sister passed of fever and cannot act as witness.”
He wasn’t really asking me. He had advisors, generals and any number of others capable of giving a more expert opinion; Lord Ryunosuke’s staff was more than eager to offer their advice and probably had been all day. His hands grew firmer, harder, as his vexation came to the fore, resulting in soreness both agonizing and pleasant. “He left you in an impossible position.”
“More than impossible.” He rolled me over so that I lay looking up at him. Twenty-five years old, Shirou had lost none of his youthful beauty. His hair, freed of its usual topknot, flowed around his shoulders. “If he hadn’t died, he would have sent his men on a final strike. We all would have perished. There is no honor in loyalty to a man determined to destroy himself as well as his men.”
“He’s dead. His men are yours. How will you lead them?”
Another few drops of oil and he touched me again, sliding his hands across my chest and shoulders. The friction warmed me to the point that I felt feverish. I closed my eyes as Shirou continued to work, massaging my belly—empty except for sake, since I’d had no time to eat—then my legs.
So relaxed was I that I didn’t realize for some time that he’d stopped. I became aware of his presence and heat radiating from his body. Opening my eyes, I saw his face hovering above mine.
“Kenji.” His voice was low and hoarse with need, which caused a rush of tingling below my belly. My cock stiffened within my loin wrap, but I had no chance to free it before Shirou straddled me and bent down. His lips met mine and we kissed, tongues meeting, his driving deeply into my mouth. I moaned at the pleasure of having him against me at last.
Lying on the pelt, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the dragon and tiger mural in the late daimyo’s room. For all that the joining of dragon and tiger represented balance, I’d always seen it as an image of war, one clan fighting another for dominance. Lord Ryunosuke, known as the Golden Dragon, had ridden into battle on his tiger skin rug, another vicious blending of the two creatures.
But as Shirou tangled his limbs around mine, I saw the mural differently. In the arms of the Golden Dragon’s son, I could imagine those sinuously entwined creatures fighting a battle not of war but of lust.
Whether it was the tiger’s spirit or Lord Ryunosuke’s, my blood burned with the thrill of battles I’d witnessed but never been able to fight in. I grabbed at Shirou, tearing at his kimono and loin wrap until he was naked, every part of him available for me to touch. He did the same, untying my loin wrap and tossing it aside so that my craving for him was made obvious by my jutting cock. The usual aches of my body faded, replaced by an intense, hot-blooded need.
I dug into his flesh, nipping at his neck and lapping the salt. He responded with a low moan and pressed himself against me so that our cocks met and rubbed against each other, increasing our frenzy.
The oil had left my skin slick. He slipped against me and laughed, reminding me of when we’d been inexperienced, fumbling boys, giggling to hide our nervousness and our intense desire for each other. As we’d grown into men, the attraction had deepened into full-fledged ardor that nothing, not women, not even separation and our later involvement in war could shake.
Perhaps it was obscene to couple on one of his father’s prized possessions, but we were too far gone to care. He pinned me down and kissed me. I was helpless as he held me down and grabbed my cock, hands firm and efficient as they glided up and down my shaft. When I was near to bursting, he rolled me onto my side, so that no weight rested on my bad leg, and arranged me to provide him with the best access from the rear.
He was always gentle, my Shirou. The clove oil was ready in his hands, and he prepared me well, sliding his fingers between my buttocks and then inside me. His tender explorations caused me to squirm when he pressed against certain points. I shuddered as the pressure deep within me built.
Then he positioned himself so that his hardness nudged my backside. His entry was swift and sure, robbing me of my breath as he filled me. He went slowly at first, letting me become used to his presence, then angled his hips to penetrate me even more deeply.
Flesh slapped against flesh as he picked up speed. I lay there, mouth wide and panting. I think it pleased him to
have this chance to be gentle and soft when so much of his life dealt with the discipline and harshness of warfare.
I tensed, sensing impending climax. He grasped me, holding tightly as he thrust one last time. The hot rush of his seed burst within me. Moments later, I joined him, groaning in mixed bliss and relief at so great a release.
He flopped onto his back, gasping. I rolled over and stroked his sweaty chest. “Let them take the castle. We can fake your suicide. You can go back to the temple and live in peace.”
“And escape how?” he asked. “Over the mountain? That’s the only way out of here, and you couldn’t manage it.” He took my hand in his and kissed it. “I won’t leave you to die alone.”
I clung to him, all too aware of his despair. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for my Shirou, no act I wouldn’t perform to save him from death or dishonor.
When he fell asleep—which didn’t take long, exhausted as he was—I silently dressed and hobbled upstairs. I gestured to two of the guards keeping watch outside Lord Ryunosuke’s room and said, “If you wish to save your master’s life, help me.”
Not long after, I was in Shirou’s armor and astride his handsome black gelding heading down the road toward the Katamura encampment. The sun was just rising over the distant hills when a half dozen guards surrounded me.
Doing my best to imitate Shirou’s voice and manner, I said, “I am Masaka Shirou. My father, Masaka Ryunosuke, is dead.” I removed the bundle tied to the saddle and tossed it to the nearest guard. “Take that to your master. Tell him I wish to negotiate a treaty.”
The guard dashed inside. It wasn’t long before he returned and gestured frantically for me to follow. I stayed mounted as long as I could and prayed they would take my shuffling walk for a recent injury.
Just outside the curtained area that served as the daimyo’s meeting place, I eased off the horse and limped inside. The daimyo, Katamura Shingen, was an old man, nearly seventy, but sat atop his folding stool with energy and intelligence. Two of his sons sat nearby, discouraging any thought of attack, even if that had been my plan. All watched me with ill-concealed dislike as I entered and prostrated myself, trying not to wince at the pain shooting through my leg and hip. Lord Ryunosuke’s head sat unwrapped at the elder Katamura’s feet, the eyes staring emptily at the lightening sky.
