“Hmm. Senshi, listen, there is something you must be made aware of: You never met your mother or your sisters.”
“What?” Kain wheezed, feeling nausea washing over him.
“Karin and Ari, your sisters, died before you were born, and Iruna, your mother, passed away giving you birth.”
“That can’t be,” Kain muttered. “I remember them, I remember the house, and their warmth, and...” He paused, feeling suddenly hollow and growing speechless. “Father, what has happened to me?”
“I don’t know, my son,” Munesuke replied calmly. “But whatever it is, we will understand it together.”
Kain took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to stillness. “Indeed, father. Thank you. There is much I have forgotten, or forced myself to forget during my time in captivity. Perhaps my memories were...” he shrugged, “Mixed.”
“Yes,” said Munesuke. “Perhaps.
“Or perhaps something was done to you,” Naginata offered.
“I don’t know, and right now I can’t know,” Kain said to the weapon before telling his father, “I can teach you my techniques, father, as well as the manner of magic I use to create the pieces, and awaken them without diminishing myself,” he smiled weakly. “But not here.”
“Not here?” Munesuke asked, folding his arms. “Then where?”
“Bring Ryusei, come with me, and you will see.” The old man shrugged and yelled for the boy to come. When he arrived, they started towards the road out of Nagano.
Kain felt torn inside. On one hand, he was elated that his father was finally showing respect for his craft and expertise. But on the other, he felt distressed to learn he never really knew his mother and sisters. How could he have any recollection of something he never experienced? What could it possibly mean? As father said, we can discover it together.
Chapter XIII: Master and Apprentice
“Artisans are the backbone of an army. You can have a thousand soldiers to hurl at an opposing army, but if their kit is rudimentary when compared to their opponents, even if they are smaller in number, defeat is all but assured. Thus why artisans, blacksmiths in particular, should receive more respect than they are given, tradition be damned!”
-Daimyo Yorunokenshi Ishida, in “Letters to Like-Minded Individuals – On the Value of Smithing.”
Ryokawa Hanataro breathed heavily as he tried to regain his breath. The morning air made his bare torso, moist due to perspiration, feel cold. Good, thought the samurai, helps me keep focused. He was surrounded by five opponents, four Goguryese war prisoners, and a captured western spy who were all offered their freedom if they could so much as graze him with their weapons. He wouldn’t make it easy, or honorable, for the prisoners to make their escape—he had fitted them with recovered western weapons. One wielded an axe with an overly large head, the westerner held a sword with a too-straight edge, the third one held a crude cudgel affixed to a haft through a chain, the fourth sported a warhammer, and the last one held a long knife.
They all attacked at the same time, but Hanataro was ready.
“Shinokage,” he called to his ikiteiruken, “Speed!”
“Yes,” the katana replied curtly and opened itself up to bestow Hanataro with invigorating might.
The samurai felt his muscles protesting as they were infused with the ikiteiruken’s essence, amplifying their mobility and agility, at the cost of making them weaker. But Hanataro wasn’t after raw strength; he was after the ability to control the group which surged towards him.
He leapt forward, ducked beneath a swing of the axe, rolled on the ground and stood up behind the first attacker. He deftly held Shinokage in jodan no kamae, an upper stance, and expertly slashed at the prisoner’s skullcap. Wisps of hair flew as the top of the Goguryese’s cranium was separated from the head, and the man fell forwards, spilling the contents of his skull.
The second prisoner to step within Hanataro’s range was the one wielding the long knife; he lunged forward at the samurai, holding his knife in a reverse grip as he tried to stab Hanataro in the neck. But the samurai’s increased swiftness worked in his favor as he quickly sidestepped, making the attacker lose his balance and stagger forward, opening himself up for an attack.
Hanataro brought Shinokage in a sideways arc, biting deeply into the man’s back, eliciting a satisfying crack as he cut through his spine. The man fell forwards still alive, but Hanataro knew he would not recover. May as well be merciful, he thought derisively as he rammed the heel of his wooden sandal into the back of the man’s skull, breaking his neck and stopping his odious thrashing.
Two prisoners attacked together, the one wielding a flail, and the one with a hammer. The flail was the first to fly towards Hanataro; he jumped backwards, knowing that trying to parry the attack would be more dangerous than avoiding it, but he stepped into the hammer wielder’s range. The cudgel surged towards Hanataro, and he barely managed to lift the flat of Shinokage’s length before the hammer caved his chest in. The attacker staggered backwards, but Hanataro had no time to retaliate, as the flail wielder pushed in his advantage. The flailing mass came dangerously close to Hanataro’s face; he felt the air it dragged on the tip of his nose, and he grimaced in vexation.
“Shinokage, endurance!” he ordered his ikiteiruken.
“Yes,” it replied flatly, shifting the energy focus from Hanataro’s muscular fibers and into the upper layers of his skin, hardening it until it became like armor. The samurai tasted blood in his mouth. The enchantment was too taxing on him, but he’d be damned if he let a filthy prisoner harm him.
He committed an impropriety—a movement not endorsed by the code of the warrior. As the flail surged towards him again, Hanataro lifted his arm and caught the metal mass in his hand, and violently tugged at it, making its wielder stagger forward. Hanataro used the opening to jab Shinokage into his belly, viciously twisting the blade inside his opponent, eliciting a howl of agony, before slashing sideways, and disemboweling the attacker. The prisoner fell to his knees, trying to reel in the fleshy ropes spilling from his middle, but promptly falling into a pool of his own blood and fluids.
The wielder of the warhammer screamed as he jumped in Hanataro’s direction, but the samurai was quicker, ducking under the swing aimed towards his head. The prisoner was swept away by the warhammer’s weight and velocity, which opened him up for a counterattack from Hanataro. The man lifted his hands for an overhead chop, but Hanataro quickly slashed with Shinokage, severing the prisoner’s hands slightly above the elbow. The man screamed in pain, dumbly staring at the bloody stumps at the end of his arms before Hanataro returned his sword and aimed a backhanded cut at the man’s jugular vein, cleanly separating head from shoulders.
“AGH!” Hanataro yelled as he felt a sharp pain on the side of his body. As he turned towards the source of the discomfort, he saw that the westerner had taken a hand to the middle of his straight blade and used his weight to shove the sword’s tip into the samurai’s flank. Though Hanataro’s enhanced skin prevented him from being badly wounded, he still felt the raw, piercing pain.
The westerner grinned, and in a thick accented, broken Nipponese he said, “You I got good, son of whore!”
Hanataro snarled, and called to his ikiteiruken again. “Shinokage, strength!”
“Yes,” the katana replied, and Hanataro felt his skin return to its normal resistance, but his physical strength grow tremendously.
Quickly, he grabbed the westerner’s wrist and used his mammoth might to crush it, prying the prisoner’s hand open. As the foreigner screamed in pain and let go of his sword, Hanataro lifted Shinokage, and fuelled by rage, rammed its kashira into the man’s face, eliciting a moist, cracking noise as bone and cartilage caved in. Hanataro kept smashing the pommel of his katana into the prisoner, spilling dark fluids over him.
A burning sensation reached Hanataro’s throat, and he realized he had been screaming. “Shinokage, stop!” The blade replied in affi
rmation, and the augmentation of Hanataro’s body ceased. He kept breathing sharply as he fell to his knees, sinking the tip of the katana into the blood slick sand. The prisoners were all dead, and though he had been superficially stabbed, only his pride was hurt. He scoffed, Not the first time it happens.
It had been a month since he sent Kuroinu on an assignment to spy on Kajiya Munesuke and his apprentice, and he had gotten no news from the ninja. By then he already expected to have a means or a reason to punish the lowly artisan as honor demanded, but all he had received was frustration and disappointment. Slowly, Hanataro climbed back to his feet, tasting blood in his mouth; he spat a gob of phlegm. “I must not overexert myself,” he muttered.
“You are... losing your touch,” said a weak voice from behind him.
“Kuroinu,” he said in an annoyed tone, turning to meet the ninja. “Where the hell were you…” He was rendered speechless the moment he lay eyes on the ninja. He was wearing the attire of a ronin, but his robe was stained crimson, and he was trying to hold something in. Hanataro realized that the fabric around Kuroinu’s abdomen bulged with something amorphous.
“Almost,” said Kuroinu through a coughing fit, “Didn’t... make it,” then he collapsed on the floor.
“Kuroinu!” Hanataro exclaimed, rushing to the side of the ninja. He removed his hand from the red stained robe and saw that what he was holding in were his insides. “Fucking hell, what happened?”
“Listen,” he said weakly, “No time... can’t keep... magic...” He took a deep, raspy breath. “Gizoo... not what he seems. He can... f-f-f-fight and, f-f-f-f-forge.”
“What are you saying Kuroinu? The assistant, Gizoosha?”
“Not... Gizoosha. Returned,” said Kuroinu before being taken by a coughing fit. “Kajiya...” Another violent, racking cough, followed by a deep breath which he let out by wheezing, “Sen... Senn... Sen...” After a humid sputtering left Kuroinu’s throat, Hanataro saw the light leaving his eyes.
Hanataro felt his teeth aching fiercely, overwhelming the pain he felt in his overexerted body. Slowly he climbed to his feet, cleaning Shinokage and returning it to its saya. Whoever had done this to Kuroinu had gained a powerful enemy. The samurai wouldn’t stop until Kuroinu’s death was avenged.
He took a deep breath and started walking towards his house’s studio. He needed to pen a letter to the daimyo’s record keepers to find out who the perpetrator was. And woe be to the Kajiya family, he scoffed derisively. “For there will be hell to pay.”
***
“Impressive,” said Munesuke. “Most impressive, Senshi, I must admit I am amazed at your handiwork.”
“Thank you, father,” Kain said as he showed him the forge he had repaired. “I figured I would hone my skills on my own terms and through tools I am used to. Misunderstand me not, father. A tatara and bellows works, but it’s ultimately inefficient. It was created with tradition in mind.”
“Truly?” Munesuke asked, folding his arms. “What else was created with tradition in mind?”
“Honestly,” Kain said, shrugged, and added, “The entirety of the Nipponese swordsmithin process was designed to compensate for the lack of rich ore in our lands. See this,” he said, bending down to pick up a fistful of ironsand, “has a terribly low concentration of usable iron in it. Thus why producing the raw metal to smelt into steel is so difficult; first we need to cast pig iron in order to use it, unless we do this.” He stretched his hand and to Naginata he said, “Help me here?”
“Of course,” the weapon replied, lending her strength to Kain to create a strong magnetic field to will the ironsand into a lump of metal.
Munesuke and Ryusei watched intently, and the boy said, “That’s damn magic!”
“It is a form of magic, yes,” Kain admitted. “It would be deemed heresy by most traditionalists, but I believe we are past that, yes?” Neither Ryusei nor Munesuke said anything. “Right, well, now we have a piece of metal we can work with. I’d recommend, father, since this is your first time smithing my way, that each of you creates a simple tanto. Besides, it’s one of the weapons we were commissioned, so what say you?”
Munesuke shrugged. “It sounds fine by me.”
“Good, except we won’t make it with various types of steel, but a single one: Strong, resistant steel capable of resisting any strike without bending or breaking.”
Munesuke scoffed. “Sounds impossible.”
“It would be, traditionally speaking. But we are sidestepping tradition, father. When I was a slave to the Albionese, my survival depended on my efficiency, so I learned how to be efficient and produce the most weapons in the least amount of time. That is what we will do. So now, Ryusei?”
“Yes, uh, Kain?” the boy asked hesitantly.
“Help me stoke the forge.”
“Don’t you have a spell to set it ablaze?”
Kain tilted his head and said, “Magic is not the solution to every problem in life, Ryusei.” Then he grinned and added, “Only to some. Now come, help me stoke the—”
“I hate to interrupt, Kain, but I haven’t been given metal to repair myself,” Naginata said.
“Right, sorry,” he said to his weapon, and to Ryusei and his father he directed, “Hold on a moment, I must feed Naginata.”
“Wait a minute, son,” Munesuke said. “Feed?”
“It’s... You will see,” Kain replied as he sank Naginata’s tip into the large mound of ironsand, and poured his strength into her so she would absorb the metal particles in the sand. The mound reduced in size, and Munesuke and Ryusei watched in awe as a portion of the mound’s sand went from a near-black color, to a light yellow tint.
“Thank you, I needed that,” said Naginata.
“You’re welcome,” and to his companions, Kain said, “Naginata can repair herself through absorbing metal. In this case, she absorbed the raw iron ore in the sands.”
“How?” Munesuke asked inquisitively.
“I’m not entirely certain, father. Not yet at least. Hmm, in fact you may help me with the mystery: What’s the bond a warrior and an ikiteiruken form like?”
The old blacksmith shrugged. “The wielder commands, and the weapon amplifies the user’s capacities. It makes them quicker, stronger, more agile or resilient, but they cause the wielder’s energy to degrade quickly.”
“Hmm, I see.”
Munesuke sighed, and despite his inner struggle, he asked, “Kain, if I may, I’d like to ask the same of the...” he breathed in sharply before finishing, “Vessel blades?”
Kain nodded and smiled. “Imagine the same but the other way around. Vessel blades are empty, they possess no kotodama, no consciousness to speak off. That emptiness allows the wielder to pour their will into them, enhancing the weapon’s own capacities. They can be made harder, sharper, lighter, hotter, but this quickly degrades the metal to the point where most vessel blades are meant to be disposable.”
“I see,” Munesuke said pensively. “So you reverse the purpose, and instead of taking from the blade, as you would with an ikiteiruken, you give to it to enact your will?”
“Precisely!” Kain exclaimed. “It’s complicated, but as I’ve gleaned through my time with Naginata, it has to do with a balance between giving essence and taking essence. The odd thing is that if I give to Naginata, she is diminished, but if I take from her—that is, she gives to me—I am diminished, fun isn’t it?”
“How is it fun?” Munesuke asked. “It’s simple; the diminishment happens due to incompatible essences.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“Think about it, Kain: If you were to do as Naginata just did and eat metal, would it nourish you?”
Kain chuckled. “It’d likely take away hunger if I ate enough, but I’d be unable to process it.”
“Precisely, because you are incompatible with it, and though there are certain metallic elements in our bodies, they suffice to let you manipulate metal, but not to be nourished
by it.”
A moment of epiphany reached Kain. “Father, what are most ikiteiruken like? I mean, are they like Naginata? Do they have a personality, a true will of their own?”
“Not necessarily, Kain. They are alive, they can respond and react, but they are,” he shrugged, “Vapid. Incomplete somehow. Hmm, but Naginata, she is different; she is true. Kain, how did you awaken her?”
“Well, since I didn’t want to be diminished as you have been, I channeled through a piece of metal, instead of giving my own essence. And so I let the metal draw from another piece of metal.”
“So you used metal to awaken metal? Interesting, but... Yes, it makes sense.”
“How so, father?”
“Well, think about it this way: Just as only the union between a man and a woman creates life, the union of metal and metal creates a true ikiteiruken. But there’s something I don’t understand about Naginata.”
“Which is?”
“How can she feed on metal?”
“Well father, remember I mentioned the balance between giving and taking?” Munesuke nodded, and Kain continued, “Naginata also serves as a vessel blade. She can augment me just as I can augment her, and I can repair her through dissolving metal essence, just as she can repair me.”
Munesuke’s eyes narrowed, “Repair you?”
“Well, er...” Gingerly, Kain lifted his tunic to show the scar on his abdomen. “I had this done yesterday night. By this morning, it was healed thanks to Naginata.” As he said that, recollection washed over him like a tide. “Wait, before we continue, father, there is something I must tell you about!”
“What is it, Senshi?”
Kain told Munesuke about the previous night’s encounter, about the vicious fighting style of the ronin, as well as his strange movements, finishing the story with the mysterious disappearance of his corpse. “It has me worried, father,” Kain admitted.
“Hmm, it seems troubling indeed.” The old blacksmith’s brow furrowed in concentration. “There is nothing we can currently do on the matter, other than keeping our eyes open and our wits with us. You have given me much to think about, Senshi. But such musings are for another time. Now,” he smiled, “Shall we stoke the forge?”
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 17
