Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  ‘You represent the regiment,’ said Mouse. ‘It is a singular honour.’

  ‘The day we first mustered in the training yard our commander stood on a platform and told us a story. A young man was sent to a sword master. The boy carried a letter from his father, a great lord. Please use all your art, all your wisdom, to train my son. Take this child into your care and make him a fine warrior. The sword master decided to test the lad to see if he had potential. He summoned the boy to his presence, put a wooden sword in his hand and invited him to strike. He studied the lad as he prepared to deliver a blow. Who trained you? he asked. No one, said the boy. I don’t believe you, said the sword master. I’ve faced many warriors over the years. I can tell, by the look in your eye, you have undergone long years of training. The boy showed the sword master his deformed leg. I was born with one leg shorter than the other, and am a source of deep shame to my family. I know I don’t have the ability to fight and prevail but I am determined to die well. The sword master sent the boy back to his father with a letter which declared he had nothing to teach the lad that the boy didn’t already know. That was the story they told us, the example we were supposed to emulate. To disregard our own lives, to act as if we were already dead.’

  ‘They told me the same story.’

  ‘But didn’t it make you angry?’ asked the Champion. ‘Generals drilling you to throw away your life?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mouse.

  ‘Here is some advice from an old soldier. Stay alive. Hide in the ranks, don’t volunteer for anything, and leave when you can. Raise plenty of children and live to grow old.’

  ‘You will feel better when the tournament is over and victory is yours.’

  ‘Fetch me some rice. Just a quarter bowl. Four mouthfuls, nothing more.’

  ‘The other swordsmen are gathering in the tavern. Why not join them in the warmth?’

  ‘No. I want to be left alone.’

  Mouse bowed and left. Iezane lay on his back with the door curtain drawn and looked up at the small square of stars he could see from the high window. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind stirring the trees.

  * * *

  An old ronin pushed open the front door and walked into the tavern. He was a burly man, clothes white with dust from long miles walking the road. His leather armour strained to contain his belly.

  ‘This is the place, neh?’ he asked. ‘The site of the tournament?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chikaaki with a bow. ‘You are most welcome.’

  The Ronin looked around the room, glanced at Tengu and the monk, then tossed a coin at the old man. The coin skittered on the packed earth floor and Chikaaki bent to pick it up.

  The Ronin pointed at the floor near the fire.

  ‘This will be my bed. Light some logs and lay a mat.’ He looked through a doorway into the adjoining room where Chikaaki lay each night with his wife.

  ‘You have a pillow. Put it down here on the mat. It’s mine for the duration of my stay.’

  He threw more coins and Chikaaki scrabbled on the floor for them.

  ‘Bring me something to eat. Noodles with meat. And you have saké, yes? Bring me a bottle and a woman.’

  ‘We have no women, sir.’

  ‘What kind of tavern is this? What about the woman I saw outside?’

  ‘She is my wife.’

  ‘Homely, but firelight paints everyone young.’

  ‘She does not entertain guests, sir. So sorry.’

  ‘How about the village? There must be some obliging girls.’

  ‘The women of the village are chaste and obedient, sir. Not for entertainment.’

  ‘I’m sure a few coins would change their minds.’

  ‘I cannot provide girls, honoured guest. Forgive me.’

  ‘Wine, then. No cup. Just bring me the bottle.’

  The old man fetched a bottle of saké. The Ronin drank it dry then fell asleep with the empty bottle cradled in his arms. He snored, oblivious as the room filled with strangers. The newly arrived swordsmen sat and watched in amusement as he thrashed in his sleep. He whimpered, cried out, then woke and rubbed his eyes, surprised to find the company of men looking at him.

  ‘Bad dreams?’ asked NoName. ‘I hear sucking your thumb helps.’

  The Ronin tossed the empty bottle in the corner, got to his feet and headed outside to piss.

  ‘While you’re out there, ask that farmer to come inside,’ said a red-faced swordsman who carried a bottle of wine in his shoulder bag and looked like he hadn’t been fully sober for years.

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ said the Ronin and slammed the door.

  ‘Which farmer?’ asked the Monk.

  ‘One of the farmers from the village put his name on the board,’ said the Drunkard. ‘Never touched a sword in his life, so they say. He’s been given one of the seven huts, but he’s sleeping outside. It seems a stone building is too grand for him.’

  The farmer sat alone outside his hut. He sat on his haunches, unlaced a pouch from round his neck, shook out a bunch of knucklebones and rolled them in the dirt. He studied the fall of the bones for some indication of his fortune during the coming fight. He shook and rolled again.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Tengu. ‘Reading his fortune?’

  ‘Until he gets the future he wants.’

  ‘Is that all he has, do you suppose? Faith in the gods?’

  ‘It gives him hope,’ said the Monk.

  Tengu looked up at the sky a while then watched the breeze sway the branches.

  ‘There are no gods, are there?’ she said. ‘There’s just us.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Not in the presence of men about to die.’

  ‘Someone should invite him inside.’

  ‘He can hear us. He can see the light at the window. If he wanted to sit by the fire, he would.’

  The company listened to the long spatter of the Ronin taking a piss outside. He walked back into the room and hitched his trousers.

  ‘Get off my mat,’ he said. The Monk was reclining on a fireside mat with a pillow to support his head. ‘I paid for that spot by the fire. You’re lying on my mat and my cushion. Move, or I’ll move you myself.’

  ‘He’s injured,’ said Tengu. ‘You wouldn’t begrudge a sick man a little comfort, would you?’

  ‘If he’s sick, he shouldn’t be here at all. Take him to a temple. They’ll wipe his ass for him.’

  The Monk turned to Tengu.

  ‘It’s all right. It doesn’t matter where I lie.’

  He crawled sideways and lay on the earth floor.

  Tengu inspected the Ronin when his back was turned. The chest and backplate of his armour were old and scuffed, but the straps were more recent, with fresh laces to compensate for his expanded girth. It sent a clear message to any swordsman who crossed his path. He was lethal enough to have reached old age, successful enough to fill his belly. He was a serious man.

  Chikaaki brought in a pot from the courtyard fire and ladled food. Tengu fetched a couple of portions and handed the Monk a bowl of pork and rice.

  ‘You’ve got less than me,’ he said, comparing their portion sizes.

  ‘You’re sick,’ she said.

  ‘My back hurts. I don’t have a fever.’

  ‘Even so. It will help you heal, and fortify you against the pain.’

  ‘I’ve spent my days lying on a cart. You’ve hauled me for miles.’

  ‘But now I can rest, whereas you, on the other hand, must fight for your life. So we must keep you strong and well fed.’

  The Monk had to sit upright to eat but his back caused him pain so he raced to finish his food and lie back again. He pinched some rice and held it to his mouth. A piece of pork fell and landed on his chest. He picked the pork from the folds of his robe and ate it, then stared down at the greasy spot it left on the yellow fabric. He tossed the bowl aside and lay back in despair, overwhelmed with disgust at his condition, a man who couldn’t eat or perform bodily functions without soili
ng himself.

  ‘Tell me about your father,’ said the Monk, trying to distract himself. ‘The man who raised you.’

  ‘He was a swordsman like you,’ said Tengu. ‘We travelled from place to place. He taught me to fight, wanted me to be able to protect myself in case anything happened to him.’

  ‘And what did happen to him?’

  ‘He wanted to die in battle and he got his wish. I’m glad he left this world in the manner of his choosing, but it’s hard to be left behind. I miss him.’

  ‘Was he a good man?’

  ‘As much as any man can be described as good.’

  ‘For the sake of others, a swordsman should have no attachments. It is in many ways a selfish life. When one chooses to follow the Way, others bear the cost. One must abandon one’s parents, one’s village.’

  ‘And what about you?’ said Tengu. ‘Think of all the good you could do if you joined a temple and worked in its sanatorium, the comfort you could provide the sick and old. Why deprive them of that help?’

  ‘I was born to do one thing. To carry a sword and honour the gods. I’ve fulfilled that duty for many years but now my road is at an end.’

  The Ronin sat on the mat, basked in the flames and ignored the scowls of the people around him. He unsheathed a knife and cleaned his nails.

  ‘You have pretty hands,’ said the Drunkard, with a wry smile. ‘A woman’s hands. If I asked nicely, would you oil my back?’

  The Ronin held up his manicured fingers.

  ‘This is a hand that never dug a ditch, never shovelled shit, never worked a paddy field. Let that be my epitaph. He bent his back for no man.’

  NoName noticed Tengu had balled her hands into fists and hidden them in her lap.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy. You’ll grow up soon enough. A year from now you’ll have hairs on your chin and a girl in your bed.’

  ‘Keep your eyes off my boy,’ said the Monk. ‘I’ve heard the villagers talk about you. They said they’d have run you out the valley if they had the men.’

  ‘I’d like to see them try.’

  ‘What have the villagers got against him?’ asked the Drunkard.

  ‘He cornered one of the farm lads behind a village hut. The boy’s father rescued him and drove our friend here away with a shovel. He probably still has its imprint on his back.’

  ‘I let the farmer live,’ said NoName. ‘I’m a compassionate man.’

  ‘You leave my boy alone, you hear?’ said the Monk. ‘I’m not a farmer. And this tool at my hip isn’t a shovel.’

  The Drunkard swigged from a bottle, sat cross-legged by the fire and stroked the cat. His sword lay on the dirt behind him. NoName watched him pet the animal, watched the delight on the man’s face as the cat bunted his hand. He was disgusted by his inebriation. The Drunkard was so focused on the animal he had disregarded his own sword. He was a sorry excuse for a warrior.

  ‘I can feel you staring at me,’ said the Drunkard. ‘You don’t like cats? I like cats. I don’t like people who don’t like cats.’

  ‘If you feel comfortable in the company of vermin, so be it.’

  ‘A person can learn a lot from a cat. Cats don’t worry about the future. They live entirely in the present. They are content with a full belly and a sunbeam. A man might spend his whole life cross-legged in a temple trying to attain that level of wisdom.’

  ‘Is that why you drink? To become a thoughtless beast?’

  NoName slowly extended his leg as he talked and placed his heel on the tip of the Drunkard’s saya. He began to pull the sword towards him. He moved it a couple of finger widths, then the Drunkard said:

  ‘You want my blade? Be careful what you wish for, my friend.’

  ‘A true swordsman keeps a clear head. He doesn’t dull his senses with wine.’

  ‘My senses are clear enough to see you squirming around behind me.’

  ‘You’re scared, aren’t you? Scared of death. I’ve seen it many times. The fear that grows with age. A warrior shouldn’t let himself grow old.’

  ‘You see these grey hairs? Think of all the men I faced and think of all the contests I won. That should give you pause.’

  ‘I reckon a village like this has a bone field at the top of the hill, a place they can send their old folk when it’s time. Maybe you should make your climb. Borrow a staff and get a couple of youngsters to help you up the path.’

  ‘With respect, gentlemen,’ said Chikaaki, ‘perhaps it would be best to curb your aggression until the tournament begins.’

  ‘Who cares about the damned tournament?’ said NoName. He got to his feet and addressed the company. ‘We’re men of the Way, are we not? We don’t need a prize. We don’t need a crowd. Let’s finish this right here, right now. Stake some torches in the courtyard and draw lots. We came here to face one another, neh? One swordsman against another. Well, here we are. What are we waiting for? The adulation? You all pretend to be above such worldly concerns, to spurn such pleasures. So who among you will test himself right here, right now, with no prospect of reward?’

  ‘I’m here to win the tournament,’ said the Ronin. ‘I don’t care if you boys choose to throw your lives away for a fistful of air. I’m going to make my name then turn that renown into money and a tavern of my own. I want girls, a full belly, and a fire each night – the things any sensible man would want for himself. It’s madness to fight for anything less tangible.’

  ‘We’ll wait for the day of the contest,’ said the Monk. ‘We’ve all travelled a long way to be here. It would be a tragedy to die in a tavern brawl before the contest has even begun.’

  A man with heavily tattooed forearms had sat silent at the back of the room all evening. He got to his feet and unsheathed his sword. The company tensed, every hand inching towards a weapon. He walked into open space and twirled his sword blade back and forth until it was a silver blur. He rolled it round his arms, round his back, round his neck, in an acrobatic display.

  ‘Ever heard of the Wolf?’ said Tattoo. ‘He lived up north. He sat in a tea house for three years straight and took on all comers. You all remember him, don’t you? You all remember his reputation. You probably spent your days wondering if you should take him on. Any self-respecting swordsman would have sought him out in the hope of facing a worthy foe. They would have waded across rivers, trudged through snow, endured heat and drought to reach his door. I imagine plenty of you made the journey, but there was always a reason to stop along the way, am I right? Always a detour you had to take, a reason to dally, in the unacknowledged hope the Wolf would die before you had to face him. Well, he died, and I killed him. I faced him man to man and cut his head clean off. That’s right. I’m the man that killed the Wolf.’

  ‘Enough games,’ said the Monk. ‘I’ve heard a dozen men claim they killed the Wolf. You’re not among children here. Sit down and take a drink. Pass the time. Everything will be decided in the ring.’

  The Drunkard slumped beside Tengu and took a long slug from his bottle.

  ‘Why do you drink?’ asked Tengu. ‘Have you fought one too many fights? There is no shame in laying down your sword and presenting yourself at a temple.’

  ‘I don’t think there would be any peace for me within the walls of a temple. No peace for me anywhere.’

  He took another swig.

  Kotau stood at the tavern window and looked out at the moonlit stretch of road that led to the village. His father stood beside him.

  ‘How many men do you suppose Makoto’s widow has under her command?’ asked Kotau. ‘How many labourers and thugs?’

  ‘You’ve visited the place and seen it with your own eyes,’ said Chikaaki. ‘What was your estimation?’

  ‘There are plenty of staff but most of them are women. At a guess, I would say she has about a dozen men at her disposal. Why aren’t they here to claim the ring?’

  ‘Maybe news of the tournament hasn’t reached the plantation yet.’

  ‘Of course it has,’ said Kotau. ‘They know a
bout the contest, they know you have the ring and have proclaimed yourself lord. I must admit, in my initial enthusiasm to launch this venture, I didn’t think through how we would defend our claim to the chiefdom. I had vague dreams of arguing our case in front of the magistrate, telling him that Makoto had bequeathed the role to me and challenging his wife to prove me wrong. But of course, there’s no reason she should put her fate in the hands of a magistrate. Why not simply arm her men and send them to reclaim her inheritance? That’s exactly what I would do.’

  ‘Maybe she lacks your ruthless streak.’

  ‘No. I guarantee she and her advisers will not be sitting on their hands. They’ll have a plan, and they’ll be putting it into action as we speak.’

  * * *

  Tengu walked across the moonlit courtyard and brought Era a bowl of rice. She had draped a blanket over the cage to stop him freezing to death during the night. She set down a candle and pulled the blanket aside. Era was curled on the floor of the cage. He stretched and yawned.

  ‘Sit back,’ she said, careful not to get too close to the bars. She set the bowl on the flagstones and stepped away. He reached through the bars, took the bowl and started to eat. He ate half the rice then set the rest aside.

  ‘I’ll finish it later.’

  ‘Finish it now so I can take your bowl.’

  ‘What do you see when you look at me? A criminal, or a fellow wanderer fallen on hard times? One day you may find yourself in the same position, then what would you want a stranger to do for you, brother? If you help me now the fates will be sure to repay you in the days to come.’

  ‘Finish your rice.’

  ‘I’ve been tracking the iron sword for years, tracking it so long I barely remember life before the chase. I’ve travelled the length and breadth of Honshu following every sighting and rumour. Sometimes I missed it by days, sometimes by hours. This is the closest I’ve come. The iron sword is nearby, I can feel it. It’s singing to me.’

  ‘It’s probably hidden within the tavern. Maybe I’ll search the house and take it, or maybe I won’t. Either way, I don’t need your help. You are in a poor bargaining position, my friend. You’ve got nothing I need.’