Chikaaki faced the General’s retinue.
‘If his Excellency pleases, the fighters are ready to begin.’
* * *
The Archer carried his bow and a quiver of arrows into the woods and hid them beneath a trunk dusted with orange lichen. If he was stopped and interrogated by soldiers as he explored the forest it would be easier to excuse his presence if he didn’t have a weapon strapped to his back. He climbed a high crag and belly-crawled to the edge of a precipice, slowly so he didn’t shock a flurry of birds into the air and give away his position. He looked down on the distant shrine. He could see the expanse of flagstones and the half crescent of outbuildings. He could see people milling around, the crowd preparing to view the first bout of the tournament.
The shrine was surrounded by woodland which would give good cover for his approach, but would also block his aim. He could comfortably send an arrow four hundred paces across open ground. To secure a guaranteed kill shot to the heart he would need to be a hundred and fifty paces or less from his target. But heavy tree cover might force him to approach within twenty or thirty paces to get a clear view of his prey. It would make it difficult to escape in the immediate aftermath of the assassination.
He descended from the crag and began to pick his way across the wooded valley floor in search of some kind of elevation that would allow him to deliver an arrow and escape unchecked.
* * *
Chikaaki decreed that none of the swordsmen were to enter the killing ground with an advantage that could be bought in a marketplace, so those who brought armour had to leave it in their huts. The tournament contestants were to face each other as equals. Each man would be equipped with a sword, nothing more.
The Champion tied a red band round his forehead and swung his arms back and forth. He had spent his adulthood laced into heavy leather armour and felt light and unencumbered without his usual carapace. He walked to the centre of the killing ground and paced back and forth. The expectant villagers jostled to get close to the rope cordon and secure a clear view of the fight. The General emerged from his canvas pavilion in full armour and walked with great majesty to his stool. He sat down, his fan was placed in his hand and burly soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder behind him to protect his back.
The crowd parted as Nabootu approached the arena. The villagers stepped back as if the touch of a doomed man might transmit a fatal curse. The ragged farmer walked out onto the killing ground and retightened the blue rag tied round his head. His face was a mess of runes painted on his skin for luck and protection.
The Champion stood before General Yukio, gave a stiff bow then turned to face his opponent. The peasant was clearly terrified, his face twisted into a weird simian grimace.
Chikaaki stood at the edge of the ring and called for silence. When the crowd were fully hushed he held up a bell and said:
‘To the death.’
He struck the bell to signal the beginning of the bout and stepped aside.
The farmer summoned what courage he could, gripped his sword and ran at the Champion with a shrill scream. The Champion drew his blade, raised it above his head and bellowed an explosive war cry that froze the farmer in his tracks. The peasant stood paralysed, sword trembling in his hands. He panted with fear. Urine puddled at his feet. The Champion wanted to tell the wretched man to drop his weapon, turn and run from the arena. The peasant would be ridiculed and shunned by the villagers for years to come, but at least he would be alive.
‘Fight,’ urged the Champion. ‘Come on. At least fight.’
The farmer couldn’t move so the Champion took pity and ended his misery. He opened the man’s neck with a precise flick of his sword like a slaughterman dispatching a pig. Arterial spray jetted into the air and created a fine, pink mist. The peasant slapped a hand over the hole in his throat to stem the bleed. His eyes bulged in terror but he soon grew woozy as blood frothed between his fingers. He lost consciousness and toppled to the ground. His slashed throat bled freely, jetting blood slowing to a trickle as his heart fluttered to a standstill. The Champion bent and cleaned his blade on the hem of the peasant’s shirt and tried not to look at the sightless eyes that stared back at him. The crowd maintained an awed hush. The Champion approached the General and his retinue and bowed deeply. Yukio gave a curt nod of approval. This was his sole reward for risking his life, all he would ever receive for entering combat as the regimental Champion. To be the subject of General Yukio’s gaze, to have his insignificant life briefly intrude upon the thoughts of a Great Man.
Later, when the crowd had dispersed, Tengu stood at Kotau’s side and watched a couple of villagers drag the dead man across the flagstones and lay him under a tree. She supposed they would carry him back to the village at the end of the day, along with three other dead swordsmen, and bury him at the village graveyard. The soil would settle, the grass would grow and it would be as if he never existed.
‘Who was he?’ she asked.
‘A farmer called Nabootu. He and his brother both yearned for the same village girl. The brother was handsome and owned chickens whereas Nabootu was poor and ugly. He stood no chance of winning the girl’s heart unless he transformed his fortunes so, in a fit of desperation, he volunteered for this tournament in the hope of proving his valour and securing some kind of prize. His troubles are now at an end.’
‘I was born on a farm,’ lied Tengu. It was the kind of story Kotau would expect to hear from a young swordsman. ‘I left the village when I was young but my brother stayed behind. I often wonder what became of him.’
They watched the Champion wearily return to his hut. He sat on the step, unsheathed his knife and etched another death notch onto the hilt of his sword.
* * *
Tengu and the Monk sat in the shade of the hut’s doorway and waited for the next contestants to be drawn. The Monk pressed his back to the doorframe and tried to force his spine straight in preparation for the fight. He gritted his teeth and sweated with agony. Tengu fanned him with a fern leaf.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ asked Tengu. ‘Shall I fetch something for you to drink?’
The Monk shook his head. He seemed resigned to his discomfort, knowing the pain and indignity would be over soon. Tengu made conversation to help him pass the time. She pointed to the General’s pavilion and the empty stool from which General Yukio would observe the next fight.
‘There has been a rivalry between the Shōgun and the Imperial house for as long as anyone can remember,’ she said. ‘Who would you serve, if you were in a position to make a choice? If you were some provincial lord, to whom would you pledge your loyalty?’
‘The Emperor.’
‘Why?’
‘The Shōgun wields the power of a god, but the Emperor remains the Emperor. One can live by principle or be guided by day-to-day expediency, get blown this way and that by the winds of fortune like ship sailing stormy seas. I choose principle.’
‘But look at General Yukio. Look at all these soldiers mustered on his behalf. This regiment is a mere a sliver of the power at the Shōgun’s disposal whereas the Emperor is little more than a figurehead and commands a fraction of the men. Surely a pragmatist would side with the mighty.’
‘There is a natural order to the world. Grass is green, water is wet and the Emperor resides in Kyoto. Abandon that, surrender to chaos and the world will be consumed by darkness.’
Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena and held aloft the colours bag. The crowd grew silent as they waited to see who would be drawn. Tengu held her breath. She dreaded the sight of the Monk’s yellow token, but a slim part of her wanted it to be drawn so she could confront the awful moment. Chikaaki drew a green ball and held it aloft.
The Ronin.
He drew a white ball.
Tattoo.
Tengu exhaled and relaxed, both relieved and frustrated. The Monk remained calm and untroubled.
‘So who do you favour in this contest?’ he asked, determined to remain com
posed despite the prospect of imminent death. Tengu tried to match his detachment.
‘The tattooed swordsman has admirable skill. His blade seems weightless in his hand. He can make it dance at the speed of thought and he is quick on his feet, but the Ronin clearly has more combat experience. In a fight of this nature, a showman versus a killer, one would have to favour the Ronin.’
Chikaaki summoned Tattoo from his hut. The swordsman had stripped to the waist and let his hair hang long and lank like he was some king of berserker. His arms and chest were etched with dragons and flames, inks that must have been vivid when they were first pricked into his skin, must have must have made him look like a daemonic silk screen, but had since faded to pale pastel. He spread his arms and walked a tight circle so everyone could see the savage dragon teeth and flames branded on his chest. He drew his blade and twirled the weapon. He sent it blurring around his neck, around his back, then back and forth between each hand. It was the kind of eye-catching display a travelling entertainer might stage in a marketplace.
The Ronin emerged from his hut and walked to the centre of the ring, subdued and calm. He was a burly man but didn’t swagger, didn’t puff out his chest. He walked with the self-possession of a true warrior.
Yukio’s adjutant entered the canvas pavilion and informed the General that the second contest was about to begin. Yukio emerged from his tent and sat on the stool. He looked the Ronin up and down and tried to get the measure of the battle-scarred veteran. He was the oldest competitor in the tournament but he looked formidable.
Tattoo and the Ronin bowed to the General, then turned to face each other.
‘To the death,’ declared Chikaaki. He rang the bell, stepped clear and the contest began.
Sword school training bouts in which young kohai battled each other with wooden bokken could last from dawn until dusk, but true combat rarely lasted more than a few heartbeats. The spectators would experience the fight primarily as a memory, reviewing the explosive movements to fully understand how one of the opponents came to be lying dead in pooling blood.
Tattoo whirled his sword back and forth in an acrobatic display, and launched a series of feints, hoping to provoke the Ronin to commit to a block or a strike that might leave him exposed. The Ronin remained calm and kept his guard. He ignored the blurring steel, focused on Tattoo’s eyes and waited for the man to attack. He subtly leaned backwards and increased the distance between himself and Tattoo. Tattoo instinctively stepped forward and in that brief moment of lessened concentration the Ronin struck. He sliced at waist height, a blow with such force it could have cut Tattoo clean in half. Tattoo managed to block the strike but his katana broke at the hilt and the crowd ducked as the detached blade scythed over their heads and slashed into the undergrowth.
The fight was over. Tattoo was disarmed and the Ronin grimly adjusted his grip on his sword, ready to deliver a decapitating death blow. But Tattoo suddenly screamed and launched himself forward, embraced the Ronin and brought him down. The Ronin’s head slammed against the flagstones with a sickening crack and the sword flew from his hand. He lay semi-conscious and woozily raised his arms to defend his face. Tattoo sat on his chest and slammed down the hilt of his broken sword. The impact mashed the Ronin’s nose with an audible bone crunch. A second blow broke his jaw. The Ronin spluttered blood and teeth, pawed the air and mewed in desperation. Tattoo hammered the old warrior’s head until the man’s skull cracked and caved in, his face was a pulped mess and all movement had ceased. He sat back and panted with exhaustion. His face and clothes were crimson with blood spray.
‘One can never underestimate a person’s will to live,’ marvelled the Monk.
* * *
The Priest paced the perimeter of the raked gravel garden. Anxiety made him restless. He wanted to hear news from the tournament. He wanted to hear that the deed was done, the assassin had loosed an arrow and Kotau was dead. He tried to remain calm and detached, but the rise of the House of Makoto had been his life’s work and now all he had built was under threat. The late lord had been an oaf but had married well. The tea plantation had been a dilapidated farmstead when Makoto’s wife first took residence. She visited a temple in Shinano renowned for its cultivation and had been impressed by the well-tended monastry. As a woman, she couldn’t speak to the abbot directly, but they communicated through intermediaries and the abbot gifted her with a novice tutored in the systematic cultivation of crops in return for a sizable donation to the temple’s coffers. The young novice was instructed to act as the Makoto clan’s spiritual adviser as well the overseer of their estate. It had taken most of his adult years to reshape the fortunes of the clan. He had hired farmers expert in the enrichment of soil with manure and bone meal to help boosts the plantation yield, and he had travelled to Kyoto many times to establish business terms with the city’s less reputable tea merchants.
An attendant hurried down the path. The Priest stood straight-backed and alert in expectation of news.
‘Forgive the intrusion, master. A religious mendicant has arrived at the main gate.’
‘Give him some food and send him on his way,’ said the Priest irritably.
‘He asked that you be presented with this flower.’
The attendant laid a chrysanthemum on a stone table. The Priest picked up the flower and examined it.
‘The Holy Man is still at the gate?’
‘Yes, master.’
The Priest smelled the flower. The chrysanthemum was the symbol of the Emperor. Clearly the itinerant Holy Man was less humble than he seemed.
‘Bring him to me.’
The Holy Man was escorted from the gate to the rear of the mansion. He was brought to the kitchen and given a bowl of rice, the standard hospitality extended to any traveller who might present himself at the gate asking for alms.
The Priest wandered into the kitchen. The cooks hurriedly dropped their utensils, wiped their hands and bowed. He stood over the mendicant and inspected his frayed robes and sun-burnished skin. The visitor was bald, little larger than a child and infinitely old. He looked up and smiled at the Priest, unimpressed by his silk robes and manicured fingernails.
‘It’s a fine day, Father,’ said the Priest. ‘Perhaps you should eat outside.’
They left the kitchen, walked to a secluded corner of the garden and sat side by side on a bench. The Holy Man ate his rice.
‘Have you travelled far?’ asked the Priest.
‘I am on an endless journey. There is no beginning and no end.’
‘How admirable. You represent the interests of an august personage in Kyoto, I presume. He wishes to buy my loyalty. What is his offer?’
‘There is no offer, no land, no money. Simply the observation that one can live in accord with the divine will, or one can become mired in the material world and succumb to disharmony and chaos.’
‘I take it you know the Shōgun’s man has arrived in this province. He and his regiment are camped near the river. No doubt he will come here soon to court my favour. He will offer money, perhaps a military garrison to help cement the Makoto estate’s dominance of the valley and surrounding hills in exchange for an oath of loyalty. You, on the other hand, bring nothing but a blessing.’
‘The emissary will certainly make such an offer. Although it remains to be seen whether he will address the offer to you. I hear you have a rival for his attention. A peasant is currently entertaining the General. He claims to be the new lord of the valley.’
‘Have you ever seen the monkeys that vagabond entertainers carry from one village to another? They dress the animals in robes, tie little wooden swords to their hands and make them fight. That wretch with a ring round his neck is no better than those carnival creatures. I have taken steps to end his charade.’
‘Good, then you will be able to turn your thoughts to the future. I ask nothing of you for now. I’m simply here to remind you that the Shōgun can bestow a degree of material wealth, and perhaps award some minor military rank, but we
both know estates founded solely on coin are weak as a house of straw. Only the Emperor has it within his gift to elevate this family to the realms of the aristocracy. Only he can make their bloodline eternal. You have guided this family for many years, raised them from nothing to their current worldly prosperity. What more can you do for their line? What will be your legacy? The Shōgun can provide a few bags of gold but the Emperor can add their name to the pantheon of great families that have ruled Honshu for generations. Please bear that in mind.’
The Holy Man finished his rice and set his bowl aside.
‘Is that all you have to say? Is that the sum of your message?’
‘If I may be allowed to make one additional observation. The Shōgun has unparalleled martial might at his disposal yet the provinces of Honshu have been in chaos for generations. A reflective man might wonder how this great warrior has come to preside over year upon year of military failure. Perhaps he isn’t the strategic genius, the all-powerful ally, he purports to be.’
The Holy Man stood and bowed.
‘I shall remain in the valley a few days more. With your permission, I will visit once more before I leave, when perhaps we can discuss the future of the Makoto clan some more. In the meantime, you can find me near the village if you wish to speak before then.’
The Holy Man bowed once more and returned his bowl to the kitchen. The Priest remained in the garden and watched the visiting mendicant walk to the distant gate. Then he walked to the end of the cherry tree arbour where a gardener was burning dead branches and leaves, and thoughtfully added the chrysanthemum to the flames.
Raven's Sword Page 14
