Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  ‘You don’t know where to look within the tavern,’ said Era.

  ‘Neither do you.’

  ‘I have experience in these matters. I know the kind of places to look.’

  ‘There’s a loose floorboard in the tavern keeper’s bedroom. I heard it creak as his wife walked around. Is that the kind of hiding place you have in mind?’

  Era leaned forward, keenly interested.

  ‘The tavern keeper and his family make regular trips to the village to collect supplies for the tournament,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is wait until they leave, then you can search their rooms. But stealing the sword will be easy. Making it out of the valley alive is the true challenge. Once these tavern folk realize their treasure is gone they will immediately rouse the villagers and promise them a handsome reward if they can recover the blade. It will be hard to outrun the locals. They know the land better than you. You’ll need a bandit’s cunning to make it out of the province alive, and contacts in the city to help sell the sword. It will be difficult but we can do it if we act as a team.’

  Tengu took his rice bowl.

  ‘I don’t want the accursed weapon.’

  ‘Do you understand the value of that sword? It’s worth many times its weight in gold.’

  ‘Why would anyone want a blade that’s proved fatal to every owner?’

  ‘Some men have strange desires,’ said Era. ‘The closer they get to death, the more they feel alive. They would give anything to possess such a sword. Wealth beyond your wildest imaginings.’

  ‘I have all I need.’

  ‘What do you think the tavern keeper intends to do with that treasure? I imagine he will present it to the emissary from Kyoto in the expectation of receiving land and a title. But why should he reap the reward of all the bloodshed? He will risk nothing, fight no one, yet walk away with the spoils. Why not us instead? You might not be tempted by luxury or prestige but think of all the good you could do with the money. You could found a temple and feed countless poor. No one in this province need ever go hungry. They will build a statue in your honour and pray to your name until the end of time.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Then I shall offer you a straightforward deal. Let me go, and I won’t tell anyone you’re a girl.’

  * * *

  Tengu headed back to the tavern. A figure stepped from the veranda shadows into the moonlight.

  ‘I wish to hire your services,’ said Kotau.

  ‘I already have a master.’

  ‘A master who may well die tomorrow. A master who cannot pay.’

  ‘Look to your own affairs.’

  ‘Everyone knows the relationship between a sword master and his adept is a sacred bond, and clearly an ignorant peon such as myself cannot hope to understand the intricacies of the Way, but when evening comes you both have to eat. Surely there can be no disgrace in putting your skill to the aid of a worldly cause?’

  ‘A person cannot serve two masters.’

  ‘I don’t want to be your master. I don’t want you to prostrate yourself before me. I simply want you to perform a task, for which you will be well paid. My life is under threat, so for the next few days at least, I will need a bodyguard.’

  ‘Who wants you dead?’

  ‘The family of the previous lord may dispute my father’s new title.’

  ‘I understand. Your father bears the ring but you are the true lord, neh? I could keep you alive a while, I suppose, but you will need a more permanent solution to this rivalry. The succession will need to be resolved, one way or another.’

  ‘Indeed. I shall rule this valley from now on, and Lord Makoto’s family will need to reconcile themselves to this new reality, but until then I need protection. I offer a simple bargain. You will protect me from any assailant Makoto’s clan cares to send, and at sundown each day you will receive a coin. The longer you keep me alive, the more payment you will receive.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Tengu. She pushed past Kotau and re-entered the tavern.

  The Archer arrived at the plantation at before dawn. One of the Priest’s men waited at the main gate shawled in blankets and blowing his hands to keep warm. He wordlessly ushered the Archer through the gateway and led him up the moonlit track to the estate. He left the man in a disused stable building where he could meet with the Priest unobserved by the mansion’s domestic staff.

  The Priest crossed the courtyard holding a lamp, the hem of his silk robe brushing the cobbles. He stood in the stable doorway, held up the candle and let his eyes adjust to the shadows. The Archer sat on a plank bench against the back wall. He didn’t rise to greet the Priest. Instead he lolled, relaxed and insolent. The Priest’s man shut them inside the stable and guarded the doorway outside to ensure their conference was not disturbed.

  The Priest set the lamp on a stone shelf and sat beside the Archer.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t need my name,’ said the Archer.

  ‘You come highly recommended. They say you were one of General Akitane’s finest bowmen and now you sell your services to those who require your unique skill. There’s no shame in it, I suppose. Plenty of loyal soldiers find themselves living as ronin, through no fault of your own.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your approval. And yes, I can hit a target well enough. What target do you need me to hit?’

  ‘First, let us discuss your remuneration. How much will it cost to retain your services?’

  ‘The more elusive the prey, the higher the price.’

  ‘A local peasant.’

  ‘Send a kitchen lad to beat him over the head with a rock.’

  ‘This peasant is currently protected by a regiment of samurai. There is a tournament, a contest of swordcraft taking place at a river shrine near the head of the valley. A general from Kyoto has arrived to view the contest, so your target is surrounded by soldiers, guards alert for an assassin. It will be hard to get close. You will need to choose your moment well.’

  ‘Why not wait until the tournament is over? The General will leave and his protective detail will withdraw.’

  ‘The deed must be done as soon as possible. You must achieve your task by sundown tomorrow.’

  ‘Is this peasant expecting an attempt on his life?’

  ‘No.’

  The Priest handed the man a purse. The Archer unlaced the pouch and counted copper coins.

  ‘Sundown tomorrow, understand?’

  The Archer nodded and got to his feet.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me soon,’ he said.

  * * *

  The Monk lay in front of his hut and waited for the sunrise on what would probably be his final day. Tengu woke inside the hut, saw his mat was vacant so joined him outside. The woodland around them was greyed by mist. The other contenders were nowhere to be seen. She wondered if the swordsmen had slept or lain awake all night praying to their gods and ancestors to grant them victory.

  General Yukio’s pavilion had been erected on cleared ground on the other side of the quadrangle the previous night. Sentries stood among the trees, insubstantial as ghosts.

  Tengu and the Monk sat in silence a long while thinking about what it meant for a person to reach their last day, then the Monk ran his hand over his scalp stubble and said:

  ‘Would you shave my head? I don’t want to look dishevelled when I step into the arena.’

  Tengu fetched a bowl of water and honed her knife on the stone doorframe. The monk bowed and leaned forward while she wet his head and began to shave him bald. It seemed as good a way as any to spend his final moments. She wiped stubbleflecked water onto a rag. When she was done with his scalp he jutted his chin and she shaved his face clean.

  You’re good at this,’ he said, ‘considering you have no beard of your own.’

  ‘I have performed this service for many men.’

  She dabbed his jaw clean then dried her knife on the rag.

  There, she thought to
herself with deep melancholy, fit for your grave.

  They heard the rumble of cartwheels as two villagers emerged from the vapour-shrouded road, hauled a wagon into the quadrangle and stopped it flush with the tavern wall. They chocked the wheels, sank to the ground and massaged the rope burns on their shoulders.

  ‘What do you think they have brought?’ asked Tengu, peering at the pots and baskets lashed beneath a tarpaulin.

  ‘More food and wine than these peasants have ever seen,’ said the Monk. ‘They must have hauled the cart through the hills from the town in the north. I imagine the local lord has borrowed against the money the swordsmen will spend prior to the tournament. The contestants will feast before they die, and if the villagers are lucky they might find a few tasty scraps among the discarded bones and seeds of the garbage pile.’

  The sun breasted the horizon and the mist began to disperse.

  ‘These could be your last hours,’ said Tengu. ‘Forgive me, but I’m curious to know what is on your mind.’

  ‘You want some final words?’ said the Monk. ‘Something to carry in your heart?’ He sat up and looked her in the eye. ‘What do you suppose all the contestants in this tournament have in common? These disparate men have travelled long and dusty miles to come here and fight. What binds them?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They are cowards. They each have a deep, deep fear of death. Strange, neh? They live by the sword, but I guarantee that every man taking part in this tournament is terrified of his own extinction, even more terrified than the average man. Fear fills their dreams and wakes them with a pounding heart long before daybreak. They think of nothing else. It haunts them as they wash, as they eat, as they go about their day. It chases them long after nightfall, until exhaustion allows them to sleep.

  ‘You see, everyone knows they will die. They know it like they know the Emperor resides in Kyoto. It is a dry, distant fact which carries no true power but sooner or later, as a person’s life progresses, they glimpse their reflection in still water and see grey hairs and slackening skin, and then the realization that their time is cruelly limited hits with visceral force. If we could speak honestly to each of the swordsmen gathered here I imagine we would discover this awful death-terror settled on their bones very early in their youth. Maybe they saw a grandparent suddenly clutch their heart and fall dead. Maybe they saw a brother or sister slowly succumb to some dreadful canker, watched them scream in torment as they wasted away. Fear has dominated their thoughts and, over the years, curdled into a subtle death-yearning that leads them to take up a sword and travel from place to place in search of opportunities to take part in mortal combat. Paradoxical, neh? That the horror of oncoming death could be such torture one would seek to end one’s life to escape it. So what do you think, girl? Do you find yourself preoccupied hour by hour with the oblivion that awaits us all?’

  ‘It certainly sounds as if you are very familiar with the predicament,’ said Tengu.

  ‘This is my mission for you, my parting challenge. You boast that you are a fine swordsman and I can well believe it. No doubt plenty of blood has stained your blade. But the Way can be a terrible burden upon the soul. An adept spends every waking moment suspended between life and death, begins each day wondering if they will live to see nightfall. This knowledge makes a mockery of all human endeavour. Love, riches, titles – all of them are laughable in the face of the darkness that awaits. Yet somehow you must live and use whatever time remains between now and the grave. That is your duty once I’m gone. Don’t dwell on death. Embrace life instead. Find a meaning, a purpose. Find a way to enjoy your days rather than restlessly travelling in search of death, do you understand?’

  Tengu nodded. ‘I understand.’

  The sun rose higher in the morning sky and villagers began to arrive in pairs and groups. Every resident of the village intended to view the tournament except those too old and infirm to make the short journey. Most had never visited the shrine before. The ruins were close to the hamlet but valley folk regarded it as a place of ill-omen, the kind of spot where mischievous woodland kami might toy with anyone foolish enough to dare approach their secluded home. However it was daylight and the villagers felt safe moving as a crowd. They brought baskets of food and pots of water. They brought babies and children. Later they were joined by folk from surrounding villages, families that had walked a long distance and spent a night in the forest lured by the spectacle of swordsmen pitting their skill one against another. They were excited to be witnesses to history, spectators of a contest that would, no doubt, be discussed for generations. The crowd sat on the flagstones clustered in family groups, and left clear the roped expanse of the arena. They treated it as a festival. Parents ate and laughed while their children played among the trees. The kept a respectful distance from the stone huts in which the tournament contestants were accommodated. The hut doorways were curtained and the villagers wondered if the swordsmen were inside or elsewhere. They lapsed into awed silence and stared as, mid-morning, one of the curtains was drawn back, NoName strode across the flagstones and pissed into the underbrush.

  Kotau watched the crowd from the porch a while. Tengu retrieved a sack from the Monk’s hut and crossed the courtyard to greet him.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ said Kotau, taking a deep lungful of air. ‘The expectancy. The crowd lusting to see someone die, yearning for blood and screams.’

  She drew him away from the spectacle of the gathering crowd and ushered him into the kitchen.

  ‘Take off your shirt,’ she commanded. He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head while she drew a breastplate from a sack. ‘Nobody will attack you face-to-face while the tournament is in progress. There are too many soldiers here. A killer might get close enough to drive a knife into your side, but they couldn’t hope to escape with their life. And professional assassins take their survival very seriously. If someone paid me to kill you, I would use an arrow.’

  She helped Kotau strap on the breastplate.

  ‘I bought this from a villager,’ she said. ‘It cost me a big bag of rice. Some of the men that spend their days in the tea house once served as conscripts in General Motohide’s army. They still have old weapons and uniforms in their huts.’

  ‘Will it stop an arrow?’ he asked. She punched the leather breastplate.

  ‘I think so. The assassin won’t have time for multiple attempts. He will aim a single arrow at your heart then flee the moment it leaves his bow. Put on your shirt. Don’t let anyone know you are wearing armour.’

  They walked outside and stood on the porch. Tengu studied the valley folk milling behind the rope cordon. She watched children fight mock duels with sticks.

  ‘What do you suppose the peasants make of the tournament?’ she asked. ‘The villagers avoid the swordsmen as if they are lepers. They must think we are all madmen, travelling long miles for the privilege of spilling our guts in the dirt.’

  ‘It’s a battle of the gods as far as they are concerned,’ said Kotau. ‘They will tell their grandchildren about this day, so we must hold our heads high. We are about to enter myth, our exploits handed down father to son. The least we can do is be worthy of the tale.’

  Tengu began to walk across the flagstone quadrangle.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Kotau. ‘I retained you as a bodyguard. Your place is at my side.’

  ‘I’m more use to you as a face in the crowd, keeping watch.’

  She crossed the quadrangle and sat beside the Monk. Kotau stood on the porch and watched them talk. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He was hit by a sudden pang of jealousy as he realized he had no companions, no one to whom he could reveal his dark heart.

  He surveyed the villagers cordoned on the other side of the arena. The peasants looked back at him in dumb wonder. A few days ago, he had been one of their number, a dirt-poor valley peasant, but now he had been elevated to local aristocracy, a man who consorted with generals.

  Kotau fetched a few apples from
the kitchen, tossed them one by one to the crowd and watched the villagers fight and scrabble.

  He checked the position of the sun. It was noon. Time for the contest to begin. He looked across the compound and gave Chikaaki the nod. Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena as the crowd fought for position at the side ropes in anticipation of the first bout. Tengu felt sick dread as he signalled for hush.

  ‘We welcome you all,’ he said, addressing the villagers. He turned to face the General’s retinue, the senior samurai who had arranged themselves in a protective crescent around Yukio’s empty stool. He bowed. ‘We hope our honoured guests will enjoy the humble display of martial skill we have arranged for you.’

  Chikaaki held aloft a small cloth bag.

  ‘We will draw the first opponents,’ he declared. He dug in the bag, pulled out a blue ball and held it up. ‘Nabootu, a freeman of this village will fight…’ – he dug in the bag once more and drew a red ball – ‘the Champion of our esteemed guest his Excellency General Yukio. The fighters will prepare themselves for the arena.’

  Chikaaki approached the farmer’s hut and drew back the curtain.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said. The farmer emerged into daylight, white with terror, like a prisoner about to be led to his execution.

  ‘You will need your sword,’ prompted Chikaaki. The farmer ducked back inside the hut and retrieved the blade he had been lent for the tournament. He stood on the hut step and awkwardly held the sword.

  Tengu took the measure of the farmer. A lifetime of poor nutrition had left him a hand span shorter than his opponent, but he was strong. Years spent cultivating the soil and tanning hides had built lean muscle and roped tendons. He hadn’t picked up a sword before, but desperate unschooled men could lash out in unpredictable ways. The Champion was a veteran warrior, but there was a slim chance the peasant might strike a death blow.

  Chikaaki approached the Champion’s hut with deference. He cleared his throat and prepared to request the samurai’s presence for the contest, but the curtain was pulled back before he could speak and the Champion emerged. On the face of it, he looked formidable. He was heavy with muscle, sure-footed and powerful. But there was something about his gaze, a hint of melancholy that drew Tengu’s attention. He was a young man but he already seemed tired of killing. He yawned, stretched and cracked his knuckles.