L5r - scroll 06 - The Dragon

by Ree Soesbee

  Once the clan had thought Hitomi would grow to be a great beauty, but no more. Where her long, straight hair had once fallen, a thick crop of torn shag hung around her face. It was untamed, hanging in thick scattered locks above her shoulders, barely long enough to make a topknot. Her almond-shaped black eyes shone in the bright sunlight. The faint lines around them had come from squinting, not laughing.

  Sukune hoped she would emerge from her chrysalis. One day, perhaps, when she could set down the pain of all the deaths she had endured.... One day.

  "Sukune-sama." Barely more than eighteen summers, Hitomi nevertheless spoke with the unmistakable ring of authority and command. "We must speak."

  "Speak, Hitomi-sama? Now? There is much left to do, and your brother has claimed victory in the niten fights. This year, our family has much to celebrate." A crowd began to gather on the far side of the dais. "Come, Hitomi, and speak for your brother when I announce his victory. I'm certain he would consider it a great honor—"

  "lie."

  Sukune felt his face grow warm.

  "I have no time to speak for him. Enough celebration. We must prepare for war."

  "Hitomi," Sukune continued. "It is not proper that we disrupt such a day's festival. There will be time to speak, tonight— tomorrow. The Dragon does not strike on impatience and impulse. We do not move without stone beneath our feet. Yokuni would not approve. And there are ... other matters to attend to, Daimyo-sama. Matters of importance."

  Hitomi's black eyes clouded at the sound of her champion's name, and her teeth clenched onto her lower lip.

  A childish habit, thought Sukune, one she had best forget if she is to lead. "Come, now, Hitomi-sama. Let us finish the day's events, and there will be much to discuss tomorrow." This was not the time to leap to battle. Doing so would only make the empire believe the Dragon was afraid, or Hitomi was afraid. All the same.

  Slowly, but resolutely, Hitomi nodded. "The festival will continue, Sukune-san. But we will not be swayed by politics. Let them believe what they wish; words do not change the mountain." Ignoring Daini's kneeling form, Hitomi stepped lightly to the ivory seat at the edge of the tournament field. She rested her antlered helm by her feet.

  Sukune bowed once to his lady, showing his thanks and respect. Then, he raised his voice and called for the attention of the crowd. Slowly, the other contestants answered the general's call, their faces cheerful and proud. Sukune raised his hand, and the noise faded to pleasant whispers. The young samurai sank to their knees.

  "Family, honored guests, citizens of the empire—for the third time, I welcome you to the lands of the Mirumoto, to witness a sacred day—the day when we celebrate what it is to be samurai." Mirumoto Sukune stood proudly, shifting within his ornamental armor. The plates fastened intricately into a pattern of scales that shone golden in the sunlight. "The Dragon is a clan of ancient tradition, of study and the search for enlightenment. Rarely do we invite visitors to our palaces. Today, you have witnessed one of our most sacred rites—the test of niten, the two-sword style. The First Mirumoto, our founder, created niten. He taught it to his children, as we taught it to ours. Now, we pass the niten style to a new generation. Today, our sons and daughters join the traditions of our clan and become part of our history. Today, they become truly Mirumoto."

  A respectful murmur rose in the crowd at Sukune's stirring words. The faces of the young samurai lit with pride. Sukune looked down at the kneeling Daini and lifted the youth's sword from the ground. "Mirumoto Daini, you have won the day. Step forward."

  "This is not your sword, Daini," he said. "It is the sword of your brothers—the sword of each samurai who will stand beside you. From now on, you will also wield another weapon; the honor of the Mirumoto house. Never forget your duty to it—or to your family line. Never let it be forgotten. Who speaks for you here, Mirumoto Daini?"

  "I do, Sukune-sama." The voice came from the pavilions to the left of the field, near the back of the gathered throng.

  Samurai turned, craning their heads to see who had spoken.

  One man stood at the rear of the gathering, his five guardsmen kneeling with pikestaffs raised at their sides. "Daini is worthy of this honor. He has been my brother for ten years, and now I call him samurai of the Mirumoto. I am Mirumoto Yukihera, son of Mirumoto Sukune, general of the Dragon and born of the lineage of the first Mirumoto. I have traveled through the Phoenix lands, to the Shrine of the Ki-Rin and south to Carpenter Wall. I speak for my brother."

  A surprised murmur went through the crowd near the dais. It had been Hitomi's place—as daimyo and Daini's closest relative—to speak for him. Eyes turned toward the raised platform and courtiers began to recognize the woman seated there.

  Without looking at the wooden dais, Yukihera strode forward through the throng, He wore his finest robes, as golden as the sun and covered with fine dragon scales. His topknot of light brown hair gleamed, and his pale eyes caught the attention of many maidens, who sighed behind their fans. Yukihera held a sheathed sword out before him. "Hear my words, samurai, and remember. For ten years, my father was daimyo to the Mirumoto, sovereign lord of the Dragon Clan, obeying the dictates of our champion, Togashi Yokuni. Our family was strong. Prosperous. Now, the son of Shosan has won a place within the honored ranks of the Mirumoto Guard. As it is my place to honor you, I offer you this sword. It was borne by your own father in the battle of Gosan Gennai. It was his second blade, the blade he had saved for you, when you came of age. Now, it is yours. I know he would be proud of you."

  "Proud?" Hitomi's voice was low and cutting. "I suppose my father would be ... proud to have you speak his words for him, Yukihera, while his daughter sits by silently."

  Yukihera spun around in shock, his face whitening. Samurai tensed in anticipation, but courtiers snickered behind their fans. Yukihera looked at Hitomi for a long moment, and then sank to his knees. "I am sorry, my daimyo ... I did not know you were ... I did not..."

  "You would presume to speak in my place, Yukihera? That is forbidden."

  "I presume only to serve the clan, Hitomi-sama," he said quietly.

  From among the chuckling courtiers rose a stage whisper: "Is the Dragon Champion here?"

  Kakita Yugoro—a portly Crane with an oily mustache and a smile twice as slippery—replied, "No, Ushiheri. Only the Mirumoto daimyo."

  "Then who is chastising the Mirumoto daimyo, that he sinks to his knees?" Ushiheri asked with the appropriate amount of innocence.

  Yugoro smiled, enjoying the farce. "The Mirumoto daimyo chastises the Mirumoto daimyo."

  Hitomi reddened. "J am the Mirumoto daimyo."

  Yugoro nodded, but a third voice interrupted him before the stout Crane could respond.

  An old, wrinkled man covered in spider tattoos knelt by the tournament field. Rolling his eyes and clutching his bald head, he crowed, "What is, must be! Where the daimyo walks, swords follow, and where the leader falls, there lies the taint...."

  "Be silent, ise zumi!" Hitomi cut him off, her voice sharp. "We have no time for your riddles."

  Ushiheri broke in. "No time for riddles? Dragons are riddles, so they say. Yugoro, look again for me; my eyes are poor. Are you certain she is a Dragon and not a Crab?"

  The courtiers laughed, a mocking murmur.

  Hitomi rose furiously from her seat, throwing aside the cushion.

  "Perhaps that is part of the riddle, Yugoro-sama!" Another bystander said above her fan. "A Dragon who does not riddle is like a Scorpion who does not sting. Perhaps she is seeking a riddle that will sting."

  Hitomi rashly reached for her katana's hilt.

  "Perhaps she doesn't have one." Yugoro clicked his fan together and made a tsk-tsk sound of disapproval. "Yukihera-sama, shall we still meet this afternoon to ensure the treaty between our clans? I will offer you a copy of Akodo's Sword. The Lion certainly have no use for it; perhaps it can help a daimyo of the Dragon, instead."

  Scattered applause greeted Yugoro's twin-edged remark.

  The
tournament of blades had become a test of wits, and Hitomi was losing. To be compared to the fallen daimyo of the Akodo family stung enough, but to be publicly snubbed in favor of the man who routinely handled the duties of daimyo—! This banter had become dangerous.

  Sukune scanned the assembled guardsmen. They looked to Yukihera for guidance. None came. Leaning toward his ward and daimyo, Sukune whispered, "You will have to act, my lady, and now, before this grows to be a political disaster."

  "And I will." Hitomi stepped down from the edge of the dais, striding into the center of the tournament ground as the applause died.

  To the side of the field, the spider-tattooed monk whimpered, hissing at the Crane in anger. "Bone and fallen flesh, rot inside, rot outside. I will be silent, I will be still—but the silent river knows what lies beneath it. Do not forget."

  Yugoro smiled, speaking over the monk. "Let me explain this to you, Ushiheri. Yukihera's father kept the throne for ten years and ruled well. But he had three children to raise: Hitomi, Yukihera, and Daini. The first was given the throne, the second the duties, and the third the sword. A sad story, indeed. They were given to the wrong children, you see."

  "Enough, Crane!" Hitomi snarled.

  "Do you deny it, Mirumoto-sama?" the Crane asked smoothly.

  "I do."

  "Then there is to be a duel? Splendid." Kakita Yugoro raised his fan once more, calling to the tournament master.

  "I will gladly duel you, Crane." Hitomi's eyes narrowed as she stared at the pordy ambassador. The courtier carried no sword, no weapons at all.

  "Then, as hostess of this gathering, you must accept my request for a champion. As you have no doubt noticed, I am not prepared to defend myself against a duel of niten." Slickly, the fat courtier pointed at Yukihera, still kneeling on the field. "I choose him, in hopes this contest will solve the riddle before us and prove who is truly the daimyo of the Mirumoto."

  Damn them, Mirumoto Sukune thought in the split second after the Crane's plan became clear. Damn the Crane, and damn Hitomi for showing up unprepared for the dangers of court. No matter who won, the Dragon were in danger.

  The rules of such a duel were simple. Whatever befell the Crane's champion also befell the Crane. Even if Hitomi bested Yukihera, she would have to kill him in order to kill the Crane. If she did that, she would be killing the only man who could ensure a treaty with the wealthy families of the south—and fulfill the duties she loathed. However, if she lost, Yukihera became daimyo in name as well as duty, even if he left Hitomi alive.

  Yukihera was a model samurai, a scholar, and a weapons master who trained in the beautiful dance of blades. He was dashing, bold and clever—but he lacked discipline. Once, long ago, he had tried to master the tests of the Dragon monks but had not been not accepted into the mystic order of the ise zumi. He had returned to the Mirumoto and become Sukune's chancellor, the same position he held beneath Hitomi. He would have made a good daimyo—but that title belonged to Hitomi. Now, the Crane had forced the two Dragon to duel... and the Mirumoto would lose one or the other. Either way, the Dragon became weak.

  Sukune watched Hitomi desperately, hoping she would see some escape.

  Unmoving and unmoved, Hitomi did not flinch or turn away from the Crane. Rather, she watched him as a snake watches the fluttering of a bird too weak to take flight. Though Yukihera was a true master of niten, Hitomi was not afraid. Faint whispers in the crowd broke the stillness of the autumn day.

  With fire in her eyes, Hitomi turned to face the kneeling Yukihera and snarled, "So be it."

  Sukune's son respectfully touched his head to the ground, and then stood to face his daimyo. "I do not wish to kill you, Hitomi-sama." The golden samurai said. "Please, reconsider this duel."

  Hitomi shook her head. "I will not. Only one of us can be daimyo, Yukihera, and for too long, you have stood in that role. It is time, as the Crane has said, that I restore the title of Mirumoto daimyo to the true heir of the line. It belongs to me."

  "You do not have the skills to rule, Hitomi," Yukihera said respectfully, bowing to reduce the insult of his words. "If you kill me, the Mirumoto will fall. I beg you once more. Relent. Release us from this duel."

  "And give you the throne of the Mirumoto? Do not be a fool. We will fight, and I will win." Her words were bitter, angry, and many of the Mirumoto guardsmen tensed. Their hands clenched the shafts of their pikes as if ready to strike. Yukihera bowed again. The guards grew even more angry.

  What kind of daimyo can she be, Sukune wondered, if her own clan does not wish her to lead?

  As the two combatants prepared themselves, tying back their kimono sleeves and testing the draw of their swords, Sukune's quick eyes caught a glimpse of movement.

  Across the field, the Crane nodded, flickering his fan behind his sleeve as though signaling. Yukihera nodded faintly, his eyes shifting to one of the Mirumoto guardsmen. A bag of koku slid from the guardsman's palm into the hand of the second Crane, Ushiheri. Yugoro seemed pleased, and both men looked away.

  Sukune stopped, stunned. Was the duel . . . planned? He had no time to consider such riddles. The duelists were ready.

  Stepping away from the center of the tournament field, Hitomi signaled to Sukune to come forward.

  Chosen to arbitrate the duel, the old general walked as though stone held back his steps. His own son—his own daughter. Formally, Sukune stepped between the two samurai as they reached the central ground.

  The duelists lowered into their stances.

  The crowd flocked to the edges of the field, breathless in anticipation. This was more than a simple festival duel. This bout would determine the future of the Dragon Clan.

  "By tradition, a challenge of this nature is to the death, but I ask that you consider your actions carefully. Choose to grant mercy. The clan cannot afford the loss of either of you. The empire falls into war beneath us, and our personal disputes must not be allowed to weaken the clan. Do you understand?" Sukune looked back and forth between the two Mirumoto, praying that they would heed his words.

  Yukihera nodded.

  Hitomi said nothing, moved nothing, but stood as still as a statue in the green grass.

  Sukune raised his left hand above his head, slowly backing away from the two participants.

  Hitomi leaned forward into the duel, eager to face her opponent. Yukihera remained more passive, holding his blade's hilt in a relaxed hand.

  The Crane would have ended this duel in a single swift flurry of iaijutsu—the unerring practice of single-strike defeat—but that was not the Dragon way. Niten would decide the day, a full duel of kenjutsu where timing, rhythm, and the extended blows of twin swords would make the difference between victor and defeated. The Dragon dueled not just to win, but to prove complete superiority. Rarely did any defeated opponent survive. Those who did were never allowed to make such a challenge again.

  It was their way.

  Staring coldly at the Crane, who stood to one side of the tournament ground, Sukune held his hand high. "Begin." Sukune dropped his hand with a clear stroke, and the two competitors burst into movement.

  Every motion was a feint. Each shift of footwork and ringing clash of blade drew the eye away from the real battle. It was a contest of wills, brought across in the massive sword strokes of Hitomi's blade and the swift strikes of Yukihera's katana. A charge and a sidestep collided with a staunch blow and kick. Both opponents twisted to gain the advantage.

  Hitomi shouted, charging past Yukihera and falling victim to his feint. His return blow rang innocently on her lowered sword. She was too fast for him, despite his finesse. He stepped to the side, and his second weapon flew into his hand. Hitomi turned back. Her first strike twisted into motion as katana and wakizashi spun in her hands.

  Yukihera cut in front of her with a swordsman's grace, double slashing toward her throat. She leaped back before he could complete the stroke, and his weapons fell far short. The two samurai passed each other again, their weapons thrusting and sliding.
Yukihera slipped beneath her guard and feinted to gain room.

  Sukune watched every motion. Instead of the cool, collected face of a cultured opponent, Sukune saw something in

  Hitomi's eyes that he had never seen before. Open fury painted her strikes, tearing at her skill like a beast ripping at the cage that bound it. Were that beast released, Hitomi would likely kill them all.

  Hitomi's twin swords shifted beneath the pressure of Yukihera's blades, circling for the kill like a pair of hawks in flight. She shouted, a tremendous kiop scream that shuddered through the crowd.

  Yukihera flinched once more. He froze for an instant, his strikes paused, and in that fleeting second, she had already won.

  Her sudden downward chop caught his leg. With an expert flip, Hitomi turned her strike into a blow, using the flat edge of the sword to land stingingly upon his calf.

  He staggered back, surprised.

  Hitomi lunged for his throat with both weapons, catching his open neck just a hair's breath short of her katana's edge. With a swift motion, she passed the short blade of her wakiza-shi over his own, pushing his sword to the ground. In a second, he was trapped—dead.

  Sukune watched in anguish as his son feE to his knees before the Mirumoto daimyo. "Kill me," Yukihera hissed, "I cannot watch the clan die beneath your rule." For a moment, Sukune thought she would do it. Then Hitomi eased the pressure on her blades, and her steel moved away from Yukihera's neck.

  Time began to move again, and Sukune drew a long, shuddering breath. The voices of the crowd overwhelmed him, and he wondered when they had begun to shout. During the duel, he had not heard them. Nothing had existed except the sight of his son and his daughter—killing each other.

  Sukune approached Hitomi as she coldly sheathed her wakizashi. He knelt before her. "Thank you, Hitomi-sama," Sukune whispered. "Thank you for sparing my son."

  "Crane," the Mirumoto daimyo snarled, sheathing her katana with a violent thrust. "By the time the sun falls, you will be gone."