“What is it, father?”
“Perhaps I would do well to have the forgemaster who created my weapon brought for an audience. He must certainly know about it more than I do, and I admit, I would enjoy conversation with such a man. He must have deviated from tradition somehow, and managed to glean a new awakening method in the process.” The daimyo smiled. “If I am candid with you, daughter, Nippon needs more men willing to side-step the tight boundaries of our society to try new venues, to expand our horizons.”
“I agree with you, father. We have been mired for too long to the point of stagnation; your weapon is proof of what a bit of free-thinking can accomplish. Hmm,” Yumei took a hand to her chin and pensively said, “If I had a weapon like that made for me, would I be the only one to listen to it?”
Ishida blinked rapidly. “Yumei, you’re a princess, why would you want a weapon?”
She shrugged. “You never know when I may need to defend myself. I’m aware that the world outside our castle is not safe, father, and I’d feel better having at least a tanto by my side.”
“I may think on it. But for now, a supplicant awaits us.”
Yumei nodded and waited for her father to reach the exit before heading after him. As they walked, Ishida communed with his ikiteiruken, “You still have misgivings about the man?”
“Of course I do,” the living sword replied. “Call it an ability to judge a person’s character.”
“Hanataro-bushi has been a loyal servant to an extent, Zwaihan. I’m still unable to grasp the reason behind your apprehension.”
“Ishida, you are a reasonable man, and though it has been a short time, you and I have spent enough time together for me to easily know when you are lying.”
The daimyo chuckled. She’s got me, he thought, and to his weapon, he said, “Seems I can’t hide myself from you. But yes, Hanataro, the man... I don’t like him.”
“Why would you consider him as a viable partner for your daughter, then?”
“It’s...” He paused, trying to organize his own thoughts. “Complicated.”
A wave of disdain seeped from Zwaihan as the sword replied, “Politics?”
“Mhm.”
“Hmm. Human politics aren’t complicated; one needs only be as asinine as possible. Or at least that’s what I’ve learned from you.”
“Was that an insult, or a compliment?”
“Compliment,” Zwaihan replied.
“Well then, thank you.”
The living sword said nothing else. The daimyo and his daughter reached the audience room and, as expected, Hanataro was on his knees, awaiting their arrival. As soon as Ishida and Yumei entered the audience room, the samurai stood up and bowed deeply; against custom, he spoke before being spoken to, “Yorunokenshi Ishida-sama, I come to you with dire tidings.”
“I am glad to see you too, Hanataro-bushi,” said the daimyo as he seated himself beside his daughter. “What are these tidings you speak of?”
Hanataro bowed again and said, “I have captured a dissident, an undesirable, a heretic.” A sneer curled his features as he spat, “A returned one!”
“A returned one? Where, who?”
A twisted grin appeared on the samurai’s face as he triumphantly declared, “In the Kajiya household!”
“I see,” Ishida said, bringing a hand to his chin. “That sounds grave. Have you proof of this claim?”
“I do, Lord daimyo. I scoured through the birth and death registries of Nagano, and through adroit exploration, coupled with the expert espionage of one of my associates, I managed to glean the truth about the situation. The man who assisted Kajiya Munesuke was not the purported Gizoosha, but was, in fact, Kajiya Senshi. His son!”
He seems so sure of himself, Ishida thought, Why is he so ecstatic at having discovered this supposed plot? “Zwaihan,” he said to his sword, “What do you think?”
“I think your samurai seems inordinately elated at his discovery.”
“I agree.” And to Hanataro he said, “What do you propose we do, samurai?”
“My Lord,” the warrior replied, “As was my right given the blacksmith’s insolence and treachery, I have exacted justice on your behalf.”
Ishida’s eyes widened, and a cold sensation ran through his spine. “What manner of justice have you exacted, Hanataro?”
“Lord, I have slain the treacherous blacksmith who—”
“YOU WHAT?”
Hanataro took a step back, baffled at the daimyo’s reaction. “My... my Lord, I did as was required of me. I honorably beheaded the enabler of the returned one, arrested the three suspects—who now languish in your dungeon—and put the entirety of the household to the torch. I acted on your behest as befits my rank within your noble estate.”
“Ishida?” Zwaihan asked. “Ishida, are you well? I sense... Anger, rage emanating from you. Naught but raw wrath.”
The daimyo was a patient man, known to tolerate more than most of his peers. He was a man of reason and calm who, despite his ability as a warrior, preferred opting for dialog to solve his difficulties rather than crude violence. Yet there was something in the samurai now staring at him, awaiting his answer, which made his blood boil; his single-minded obsession with tradition, the self-importance and over-exaggerated value he ascribed to himself irked Ishida immensely. Regardless, he had been patient, he had been tolerant.
And he had been brought beyond his limit.
“ARE YOU FUCKING DAFT?” He yelled. “What, demons take me, makes you believe you acted on my behest, gods damn it? Why have you held prisoners in my dungeon without having the decency to warn me about it?”
“M-m-my Lord, you were busy with the edicts your honorable brother—”
“My brother can go eat shit and die for all I care, Hanataro!” The samurai’s countenance became ghostly-white at the insult, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Good, squirm as the leech you are. “I fail to understand what compelled you to such a heinous act. Arresting the smith for a fair hearing and trial I can condone, but summarily executing him, and razing his estate? Has your idiotic sense of self-righteousness clouded your judgment so, samurai?” Hanataro said nothing, his lips reduced to a stiff line across his face. “Kotaero!”
“My Lord, I am certain you can see the need to immediately silence anyone who enables a returned one in our midst. I merely acted as I know you would have ordered.”
“Do not presume to know what I would have ordered, Hanataro. Do not presume to make this manner of decision in my behest and do not, ever again, dare raise your blade in anger against one of my subjects again, am I understood?”
The samurai’s eyelid twitched as he said, “Lord Yorunokenshi Ishida-daimyo, must I remind you that I was appointed your aide by Lord Yorunokenshi Ichiro-shogun?”
Despicable man, resorting to pulling out my brother’s rank the moment he’s cornered! “Must I remind you, Hanataro-bushi that whatever my brother appointed, in the end, this is my domain, my jurisdiction, and you are subject to it? If you feel the need to go cry in Ichiro’s lap, samurai, do so. Let’s see whether a samurai or a daimyo’s word holds stronger sway.”
Hanataro stiffened, bowed his head and said, “My deepest apologies, lord.”
The samurai was unable to hide the contempt in his voice as he delivered the final word; Ishida noticed, but his rage, though far from spent, had abated enough for him to regain his composure. “I want you to retire yourself from my hall, Hanataro. You have insulted me, my honor, and my name by acting in such a cruel, impudent manner, and I shall decide what punishment befits you. In the meantime, HERALD!”
The herald stepped forward and said, “Yes, my Lord daimyo?”
“Have the prisoners taken in by the samurai released and brought before me. This is a matter to be solved not through steel, but through dialog.”
The herald bowed and said, “At once, Lord daimyo.”
Ishida nodded, and with an edge in his voice, utt
ered, “As for you, Hanataro, you are not to present yourself before me until you are summoned, am I understood?”
Hanataro bowed and curtly said, “Yes, my Lord,” then he turned on his heel and walked away stiffly.
When he was out of earshot, Ishida let out his breath, sagging into himself. “Gods be damned. Gods be thrice damned!”
“Father,” Yumei said, “What Hanataro did…”
“Save the comment, my dear,” Ishida said not unkindly. “I know, it’s despicable. Worse, he has deprived us of perhaps the greatest opportunity to glean the secret behind the true ikiteiruken.” He took a deep breath, and let it out in a prolonged sigh. “I am disappointed.”
“There may yet be hope, father.”
“Hmm?”
“He mentioned that the prisoner in the dungeon was Munesuke-sama’s son,” she said respectfully in honor of the slain blacksmith. “Could it be possible that he knows of his father’s methods?”
“It’s a possibility, my dear. A far-cry from the master blacksmith, to be sure, but perhaps sufficient to come to understand the difference between a common ikiteiruken and Zwaihan.” Ishida groaned, and sighed once more. “If the man is fit for talking, of course. I doubt Hanataro’s ministrations have been kind.”
“We can hope, father,” Yumei said, taking hold of her father’s hand.
Ishida placed his free hand on top of his daughter’s, smiled weakly, and replied, “Indeed, my dear Yumei.
We can hope.”
Chapter XVI: Crime and Reward
“Incomplete. How else could a master blacksmith of any stature describe an ikiteiruken? Though shrouded in a halo of mysticism, and vaunted as living entities, in reality our living weapons exhibit only the most rudimentary form of intellect. Misunderstand me not – their lacking wits are sufficient for a warrior to augment his combat prowess, but true life, and everything it entails, has eluded our smiths for centuries. I doubt any forgemaster has, or will ever possess, the knowledge to create a true living weapon.”
-Urahara Kuromaru, in “A Blacksmith’s Dissertations on the Ancient Art of Nipponese Swordsmithing.”
“This is useless,” he said out loud as he discarded another piece of worthless ore. The Albionese demanded a daily quota of usable iron ore extracted from the deposits close to their encampment, and though there were, indeed, rich deposits in the sands surrounding the so-called Holy Land, most were tainted with copper, sulfur, and other minerals.
The sweltering heat and the blazing sun overhead made the task more difficult than it already was, as he had to constantly stop to regain his breath, swallow a mouthful of water, and wipe his brow. He sighed, knowing that he would be unable to cover his day’s quota. He lifted his steel pickaxe and ran it over the sands once more, trying to uncover another viable deposit.
A scream close to him caught his attention and he immediately turned towards its source. He saw one of his fellow collectors under attack by a feline of tremendous size and might, and though the victim used his pickaxe to try and defend himself, it was awfully clear that he’d lose the fight.
Fear took hold of him. He felt his leg muscles and joints locking in place despite his primal instinct to run away. The man screamed again as his tool’s haft broke and the animal pounced on him. He snarled and shook his head violently, chiding himself: “What am I? A warrior or a coward?” Gathering what little courage he had, he jumped forward to help the man.
He arrived in a cacophony of screams and imprecations, wildly swinging his pickaxe to make himself look larger than he really was. The animal, startled by the sudden arrival, swung his paw towards him, and though he managed to leap backwards, its sharp claw gouged a gash going from his right temple down to his cheekbone. The pain didn’t bother him, because he had endured worse under his previous slavemasters. Instead, he let out a violent bellow as he brandished the steel pickaxe. The animal cowered, growled and loped away, leaving its prey alone. He knelt by the downed man and saw his skin was dark, and his face had a thick, gnarled beard set around a full-lipped mouth. He ripped open the man’s crimson-stained camisole and saw that though he had been wounded, none of the scratches were fatal. Still shaking, he said, “Friend, are you well? Can you stand?”
“Me can,” he said in a thick accent. “Me thank friend. Me almost die.”
He recognized the man’s affected speech and respectfully said, “You are Israelite.”
“Me am. Can little speak Albionese. You not Albionese?”
“No, friend. I’m Nipponese.”
The man nodded and repeated the word, “Nipponese... not know. Name what? Me Melech Dahn,” he said, offering his hand.
“Kain Smith,” he replied as he shook Melech’s hand. “Can you stand?”
“Can help?”
“Of course,” he replied, helping Melech back to his feet. “Good, I’ll accompany you back to camp as soon as... Ah damn it!” He swore as he saw that the satchel where he had what little ore he had picked had spilled its contents when he ran. He laughed weakly, “Seems I won’t eat tonight. Pity.”
Melech placed his hands on his shoulders and stared at him intently. “Kain eat, me help!”
“No Melech, thank you. I need to gather more ore if I—”
“Friend silence! Me show,” he said imperatively as he bent down to grab his broken pickaxe. “Kain watch,” Melech added as he stretched his hand above the sand.
Before his astonished eyes, the metal in the pickaxe started degrading as Melech’s hand acted as a lodestone. “Marvelous,” he muttered as the iron ore in the ground flew towards Melech’s hand, fusing together into a lump the size of his fist.
When he was done, Melech offered his pickaxe and said, “Friend Kain do!”
Kain took the pickaxe, but before he could try the trick, he heard a strange voice saying, “Hey! Wake up. The daimyo has summoned you. Wake up, prisoner!”
***
The splash of cold water awoke Kain with a start. He coughed and sputtered as he accidentally inhaled the droplets dribbling down his face; he squinted as the light coming from the door, tenuous though it was, made his eyes ache. Against the light he saw the silhouette of a man. Weakly he said, “What... what is happening?”
“Are you deaf? The daimyo has summoned you. Count yourself lucky, prisoner. Had Hanataro-bushi had his way, I’d have come to bring you to your execution. Now stand up, you must be rid of the muck covering you.” Kain stood up slowly. His muscles were cramped and sore from sleeping on the wet, damp floor. He limped his way towards the door and exited to the dimly lit hallway outside his cell. “MOVE!” The guard yelled as he shoved him forward.
Kain said nothing; no imprecations, no displays of violence. His will to fight had been drained away from him, and he moved stiffly and mindlessly as he was prodded onwards.
He was led to a spartanly furnished room with only a tub of water and a seat. The guard said, “Bathe yourself, and get dressed. You won’t see the daimyo reeking of the shit you are.”
Kain said nothing and did as told. The water, though cold, felt soothing against his skin. Layers of filth peeled away from him, revealing the still taut muscles underneath—the slender, toned physique of a warrior. But I am no warrior, he thought with resignation, accepting himself incapable of protecting what mattered to him.
When he was finished bathing himself, he donned the loose white tunic left on a bench, then he wore the soft slippers under the bench. For the first time in he knew not how long, he felt clean and hale. Regardless, he felt unfit to do anything more than heeding the daimyo’s summons.
Kain opened the door, and the guard stood outside. “You done? Good. Follow me.” He silently followed the guard, his countenance mellow. Kain felt like cattle being led towards their slaughter.
And considering what I am, it’s likely to be the case, he thought as he tried to make peace with himself.
A weak smirk formed on his face when he realized he’d find none.
***
Ishida’s temple throbbed with suppressed anger, and no matter how many scented candles were lit around him, the ache refused to recede. And how would it? He thought. The very act, the very audacity is a deed of inhumanity. Three days spent in such conditions... Abhorrent. A sharp pain in his jaw, accompanied by a metallic taste, made him realize he was grinding his teeth to dust. The daimyo tried and failed to relax his bunched muscles, managing only to feel another stab of pain. To have the woman and girl treated as such. Ishida sighed, shaking his head. No, they are both girls, gods damn it! He didn’t know who the older one was, and no matter how kindly he tried to ask, she merely flinched in his presence. His servants informed him that her body was covered in welts and bruises; when informed about her sorry status, a knot formed in Ishida’s stomach—he feared both women had been used to satisfy Hanataro’s urges. The relief he had felt when the maids who tended to both confirmed that they hadn’t been taken against their will had been incommensurable. Too much injustice has been committed by Hanataro already.
He winced as he felt a dull stab in his chest. The girl has Hanataro’s eyes. There was no doubt in Ishida’s heart that this badly abused, emaciated lass was the samurai’s daughter. But how had she come to be? Whatever plausible reason he found for her existence made him shudder. The shame he felt at his disconnection from the realities of Nagano was overwhelming, I don’t know my people. I don’t know what my aides are up to because of so-called tradition. “Well, to hell with tradition,” he muttered.
“Did you say anything, father?” asked Yumei.
“No, daughter, I didn’t.” Ishida saw that his daughter was as distressed as he was. He wished she hadn’t born witness to the travesty which had been committed, but she had insisted on staying; why he had permitted it, he was uncertain, but in his heart he felt that letting his daughter behold the crude realities of Nippon was the right thing to do.
“Father?”
“Yes, my dear?”
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 21
