But I do, he thought. “My venerable father was a footman in the Albionese Armada, this weapon,” he said, patting his own shoulder, “Was his.”
“I see. I am certain that your father was a honorable man, sir, but the procedure is standard protocol.”
“I understand,” Kain said demurely, but confident that no form of magical exploration would reveal anything on his Zweihänder.
“I promise your weapon shall remain untarnished.” The officer took two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly. “Onmyooji, come here, please!”
An obese man dressed in a loose, swaying robe waddled his way towards the census officer; his tall, rectangular hat marked him as a practitioner of the ancient ways of mysticism and divination through tapping into the elements. “Is my presence required?” he asked in a serene voice.
“It is,” uttered the officer. “The weapon, please.” Kain nodded and unsheathed his Zweihänder, holding it forward for the officer to take.
“An outlander weapon, hmm? Interesting,” said the onmyooji. “I assume, my good officer, that you want me to see if it’s tainted by barbarous magic?” The officer nodded. “Allow me but a moment.”
The onmyooji clapped his hands, and a dull glow formed around them; he spread them sideways before casting them forward, drawing a divination kanji in front of him. The glowing ideogram hovered in the air, and the spellcaster thrust his hand through it before reaching for Kain’s sword. The onmyoji’s eyelids fluttered rapidly as he exercised his spell on the blade, searching for any traces of lingering magic. He opened his eyes and took a deep, violent breath. After he regained his composure, he said, “It’s clean. Just metal.”
“Thank you,” said the officer, returning Kain’s greatsword. “Here you go sir, enjoy your stay.”
Kain nodded his thanks and set off. Ten years I’ve been gone, he thought as he walked towards Nagasaki’s main road. Ten years since I was forced to leave my land, my family, my name behind.
“Now, I am home.”
Chapter II: Outlaws and Opportunists
“I witnessed the process once. At the final moment of the forging process, when the blade is at its hottest and right before quenching, the blacksmith pours his essence, a bit of his soul into the weapon. For all purposes this creates a new being – a self-aware weapon capable of binding with its master. Yet as our vessel blades weaken with each willful infusion, so does the forging of a living sword exact a toll – not on the wielder or the weapon, but on its maker.”
-Deacon Orestes Militides, in “Metallurgia Arcanum – The Demon Blades of the East.”
Kain had spent the past decade away from his homeland, often going through hunger and sleep deprivation, at times fearing for his life and, most of the time, wondering if he would ever return home. Now he was walking through one of the hard-packed dirt roads of Nippon. He had visited the commerce and exchange bank in Nagasaki to trade the money of his Armada stipend for Nipponese mons. He ended up with a considerable sum, which he carried safely in a pouch close to his chest. He made his way to Fukuoka, where he boarded a ferry to Yamaguchi, and now made his way through Hyoogo.
For the most part, he had avoided towns and settlements; he was already inland, and people were starting to comment on his strange Nipponese accent. Despite having been born and raised in Nippon, having returned from the purportedly barbarous lands of the west marked him as an undesirable. Merchants, peasants, and artisans put up with him, as they had no other choice (besides, the sword on his back made a compelling argument for civil conversation), but if he were to encounter one of the various ronin who wandered through the land, he’d likely be forced to defend himself.
He didn’t mind the loneliness that came along with the isolate pathways of Nippon. The rolling hillocks of the domain were alive with the sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves as gentle winds coursed through them coming from the east. Kain adjusted his rucksack, heavier due to the provisions he had purchased, as he skirted over one of the upwards-going paths. The thick forest around him offered an aura of peace which he gladly enjoyed.
Ever since he had been conscripted in the Albionese Armada, he hadn’t had an opportunity to bask in the stillness accrued by being surrounded with greenery. Most of the campaigns he had been involved in had been settled in the arid environs surrounding Israel as he fought a war not his own, for a holy land not his. Killing in the name of others was preferable to being a slave, but no less demeaning to his human condition.
He shook his head, banishing the traumatic memories of his time in the Nova Crusada and returning himself to the present, as he walked along the peaceful roads of Hyoogo.
After he crested a hill, a shogun’s shiro, his castle, became visible in the horizon, a large edifice built beside a mountain, and constructed with stone and wood. Impressive, thought Kain, but could be breached with western siege armaments. Though he had longed for a return to his homeland, his years in the west had changed him; he couldn’t help but compare what he had witnessed with what he saw now, and though he was reluctant to admit it, he couldn’t deny there were marked differences in the warfare technology of Nippon and the western countries.
His musings were interrupted when he saw three people on the road ahead dressed in shabby, loose clothes. Please, don’t be trouble, he thought pleadingly, yet refusing to lower his guard. Kain loosened the straps of his rucksack, eased his shoulders, and kept walking nonchalantly ahead.
“Greetings, traveler,” said the man on the front in Nipponese. “Please, a moment of your time!”
“Afternoon,” Kain replied, “What is it?”
“Your accent friend, it is weird – are you not from these parts?”
“Let’s say I’m a son returned to his cradle. Now please, what do you need?”
“A son returned to his cradle? How quaint,” said a woman as she stepped in front of the man. “His speech is slurred and guttural. He’s a returned one!”
“Hush, Yuka!” Barked the man before gently saying, “Please, excuse my friend’s... impertinence. These are trying times and people tend to get jumpy, especially when it concerns outlanders.”
“Speaking of trying times, Tendo,” another man said, “Tell our friend about the safety and passage tax.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Abe! See, friend, there’s a tax for the safe passage through this road – it’s a paltry sum, I assure you, merely five hundred mon.”
“Five hundred mon, huh?” Kain folded his arms. “I haven’t been gone for long, and as I recall, there are no taxes over safety and passage.”
“These are new taxes,” the man named Tendo insisted. “And for your safety, friend, I suggest you pay.”
“I think not, friend, at least not without a proof or badge of merit. If you can’t produce one, I saw a castle nearby – should you want to, we may go to the local daimyo, and if he lends credence to your words, I’ll pay gladly.”
The woman, Yuka, spat a gob of phlegm and said, “You use long words for such a small man. Perhaps your tongue too is too long. Maybe we should make it shorter?” Tendo spun and violently backhanded the woman, tossing her to the ground.
“I said shut up, damn it! Listen asshole, our patience is growing thin, so for your sake I suggest you handle over the five hundred, or else!”
Kain tilted his head, smiled innocently, and asked, “Or else what?”
“Alright, I’ve had it with this moron!” the woman exclaimed, unsheathing a wakizashi and charging at Kain. She stabbed his midriff, barking out a triumphant “GOTCHA!” before her expression turned to dismay as her blade caught in Kain’s vest. Kain thrust his elbow in the woman’s face, sending her hurtling backwards in a trail of blood and broken teeth. “D’ou son ogh a who’gge, my ghace!” She yelled through her shattered mouth.
“Friend, you just screwed up big time,” growled Tendo before whistling. Three more brigands came from the woods, each holding a crude piece of weaponry.
Kain glanced quickly at his surroundings, evaluating his situation. Two wield wakizashis, one has a crude kama, and Tendo and Abe have a katana each.
Kain took a deep, steadying breath, dropped his rucksack to the floor, and in one swift motion used his left hand to unsheathe his Zweaihander. He held the greatsword in a low stance, his elbows slightly above his hips and his feet shoulder-width apart. He planted his left leg forward and bent his knees to allow him the mobility he knew he would soon need.
One of the brigands, the one named Abe let out a bark of laughter. “What the hell kind of weapon is that? It’s the ugliest nodachi I’ve ever seen. It’s… it’s a slab of metal on a stick!” Kain said nothing, merely swaying slightly in his combat stance. “Hey, are you not only stupid, but also deaf? I’m talking to you, asshole!”
Anger your enemy and you have won half the battle, Kain remembered his sergeant quoting. A smirk formed on his face as he snidely said, “Apologies, I don’t speak to the crap under my sole.”
Abe blinked in confusion before grimacing in rage, “Oh you are dead, ugly-boy, you’re so dead!” The man charged at Kain, his hand firmly gripping his sword’s tsuka, its handle.
As soon as he was within the Zweihänder’s superior reach, however, Kain quickly and deftly lowered his weapon’s tip. Abe screamed in pain as his momentum made the Zweihänder pierce through muscle and tendon. Kain twisted his sword violently, making the man squeal as a slaughtered swine. “Now I offer you all a choice: Either you piss off and let me resume my journey, or this—” he spat, twisting his weapon again and causing Abe to cry out in agony, “This will be the least of your worries.”
Tendo scoffed. “Brave words, but here’s the thing: There’s six of us,” a sickly grin spread across his face, “And one of you.”
“Bad odds indeed. It means there’s one warrior,” he dislodged his Zweihänder and swung it sideways, loping Abe’s head off, “And six dead men.”
“Hah, funny guy.” Tendo unsheathed his katana and held it in front of him before commanding: “Kill him!”
Four of the remaining brigands—since the woman was still down—charged at Kain, brandishing their weapons. Despite having witnessed the capabilities of his greatsword (and the protection provided by his crude lamellar), Kain’s attackers were accustomed to a pseudo-kendo combat style; their intention was to close in the distance, either shank him with their blades to let him bleed or eviscerate him if possible and, should it prove necessary, behead him. Still, their movements were uncoordinated and easily readable. To a trained fighter, at least.
Kain lifted his Zweihänder into a high-hanging guard—the Oxen stance, one of his elbows in front of his face and the other above his head, with his sword tip tilted down—in preparation to face multiple opponents. As soon as the first attacker was within range, Kain thrust his sword, grazing his shoulder but stopping him on his tracks, before twirling the weapon above his head and slashing at the second incoming attacker. Crimson spurted from the wounded opponent as the Zweihänder rent the cloth and flesh on his chest.
The first attacker, having recovered, thrust his wakizashi at Kain’s back. Kain’s quick movements spared him from a fatal wound, but his ribs ached as the blade skidded along them. “Damn!” Kain exclaimed as he quickly stepped backwards and shoved the pommel of his sword into the attacker’s midriff. As the man nursed his bruised abdomen, Kain deftly shifted the grip on his weapon, holding the blade with his left hand and the handle with his right, and violently rammed its end into the attacker’s face. A sickly crunch was heard as both bone and cartilage crumpled under the force. The man fell to the ground, clutching at the empty red horror which used to be his face.
Kain had no time to be merciful, as the brigand wielding a kama slashed wildly at him. Kain sidestepped an attack and jumped backwards, narrowly dodging a counterattack, and as his opponent swung the weapon again, Kain lifted his Zweihänder in time to parry the sickle. He forced the weapon upwards, opening his enemy for an attack. Kain brought his sword down, chopping at his enemy’s head. A crimson seeping gash formed on the attacker’s forehead, and his eyes rolled backwards before he collapsed onto the floor.
Before Kain faced his final opponent, he fell violently on the floor as he was tackled from behind. His Zweihänder clattered away from his reach as he tumbled on the ground. Dirt entered his throat, making him choke and retch as he skidded to a halt. Tendo had his knee pressed against Kain’s chest, and his katana held high, a manic grin twisting his features. “You fight honorably warrior. Unluckily for you, I don’t give a shit about honor!”
“Neither do I,” Kain uttered before releasing the knife in his sleeve and stabbing Tendo in the ribs. Kain used the man’s shock to his advantage, toppling him over and mounting him. Once he was on top, Kain plunged his knife into Tendo’s chest once, twice, thrice before slitting his throat. Kain stood up, nursing his aching limbs and wincing as he touched his wounded side.
“Damn it,” he spat as he walked towards his rucksack. He rummaged through one of its compartments and produced a bottle of sake and a medical kit. He unstoppered the bottle and proceeded to carefully pour it over his wound. “AGH! Son of a bitch!” He screamed as the alcohol burned his raw skin. Once he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the wound, he strapped his rucksack on, returned for his Zweihänder, picked it up, and made his way towards the last survivor. The woman, Yuka.
She crawled backwards as Kain slowly walked her way, her broken expression curled into a panicked grimace. “Fthay away d’ou bhonfter!”
Kain stopped in front of Yuka and dropped the medical kit at her feet. “Get away and seek a proper healer. You may still save bits of your face,” he uttered, wiping away the blood and grime on his greatsword, and holstering it.
He left behind the scene of the battle, limping slightly as his legs protested. Took quite a fall, he mused, I’m lucky that nothing’s broken. The encounter had left him shaken.
Kain closed his eyes, trying to slow down his rapid heart rate. He had acted in self-defense, but he was a trained swordsman and these were little more than peasants with a delusion of grandeur. Yet I wonder what manner of circumstances brought these six to a life of thievery.
Brigands and cutpurses weren’t unheard of, even during Kain’s childhood, but that a band of robbers operated so closely to a castle was inconceivable. Where were the ruler’s samurai? Where were the itinerant ronin keeping the roads safe? Kain sighed, wondering what else had changed in the years since he had been gone.
Truly, he thought grimly, this has become a land of outlaws and opportunists.
Chapter III: Forging and Forgeries
“A family may rejoice at seeing their offspring returned to them, but their rejoice is spurious, tainted by an underlying filth tarnishing what would otherwise be a joyous moment. A soldier’s duty is to die for his Emperor – a life not given in service to Him is a life wasted, and for those who dare cravenly return after having faced our eternal enemies, only ostracism awaits – for a returned one, though Nipponese in origin and appearance, is no longer truly Nipponese, for their soul and mind have become soiled by the barbarous ideas of the west.”
-General Yamamoto Aokaze, in “The Blight of Dishonor and Shameful Disgrace Brought by Despicable Returned Ones to the Great and Powerful Nipponese Empire.”
Change was inevitable, Kain knew as much. He had seen both moments of change too slow they became maddening, and moments of change so abrupt that the direction of his life became utterly different. Still, certain things seemed to never change, and he felt grateful for those small, far and few things which gave life a sense of solidity and familiarity—two elements he hadn’t realized he needed until he stepped into the township of Nagano.
But perhaps township is no longer the fitting word, he mused as he gazed at the large edifices which had been erected at the outskirts of the town. The cold, mountainous air entered crisply into Kain’s lungs, but it carried with it an unmi
stakable underlying reek of human habitation. An acrid miasma of sweat, grime, piss and shit coating every surface in Nagano. Kain sighed. Some things truly never change. The misery and poverty the less affluent areas of Nippon were subsumed in had stayed the same, and though the city itself had grown, the ghettoes at its edges were unchanged.
Kain walked among the poor and the downtrodden. The artisans, the peasants and those not considered worthy of the gods’ favor. Feces in the eyes of the gods, Kain remembered as he made his way through the mucky streets of Nagano.
“MAKE WAY! STEP ASIDE FOR THE DAUGHTER OF YORUNOKENSHI DAIMYO!”
Kain turned towards the origin of the voice and saw a lavish palanquin carried by four slaves. Western slaves, he realized as he scrutinized their haggard features. At the front of the procession marched a samurai resting his weapon on his katana’s tsuka. If his presence wasn’t enough to make people stay out of the way, his expression made his disposition clear: Anyone who dared interfere with the palanquin’s path would meet a swift death.
Not wanting any trouble, Kain stepped to the side of the road and waited for the palanquin to pass by. Movement caught the corner of his eye and he quickly turned to look at it; he felt dismayed to see a child, a girl running after a fallen leather ball. Stop, leave the damn thing! He thought pleadingly as the ball stopped in the filthy street, right in front of the palanquin. The girl, heedless of the danger she was in, nonchalantly bent down to pick up her toy.
The samurai’s face was ablaze with anger. “You insolent, human filth!” He yelled as he moved to release his sword.
Kain barely managed to jump in the katana’s path, tackling the girl a split-second before her head was separated from her shoulders. Kain’s armor took the brunt of the attack, but the ikiteiruken’s superior steel sheared through the layers of metal. He forced himself not to yelp in pain as together with the girl he landed in the mud.
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 2
