“I feel outraged,” she declared flatly.
Ishida scoffed. “That’s a good thing. Now don’t look at me that way. It’s a good thing because you care about your people,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “And you repudiate the injustices committed against them.” Yumei remained silent, but she smiled weakly at the praise. My daughter, please become a better noble than I, and my peers, are.
The daimyo returned his eyes to the report offered by Hanataro. If he was going to try the returned one—as well as the two girls—he needed to know the situation in full. Or at least one side of it. The name of the man was Kajiya Senshi, also known as Hangyaku Gizoosha—Ishida chuckled, clever—and was Munesuke’s son who was conscripted into the army ten years prior (under command of Ichiro, no less) to fight against the Goguryese in another of the ceaseless skirmishes launched by Nippon. The official report stated that the ship Senshi was on, a supply barge carrying military-grade ikiteiruken and other supplies, was lost at sea during a storm, without survivors. I wonder how this boy managed to survive.
Footsteps approaching the audience hall caught Ishida’s attention, and within moments, a footman escorting a strong-looking youth stepped into the audience room. The footman bowed deferentially, but the man stood erect. Though Ishida was expected to take offense at the young man’s disrespect, there was something about him that spoke of an intrinsic, unbending self-confidence which the daimyo found appealing. And judging by his daughter’s badly-concealed blush, so did she.
“Ishida,” Zwaihan said to her owner.
“What is it?”
“That man is my Creator.”
Ishida’s eyes grew wide as he surveyed the young man. “Are you certain, sword? He doesn’t look like a blacksmith to me. Were I to hazard a guess, I’d name him a warrior before an artisan.”
“I know him, Ishida. His essence speaks to me, even though I am bound to you.”
A smile formed on the daimyo’s face. Well, it seems Yumei was correct, and I will get to speak to the true creator of this magnificent weapon.
The footman didn’t share the excitement Ishida felt. He stood upright and commanded, “Bow before your betters, cur!” before violently shoving his foot in the man’s knees, making him fall down. “Apologies, my Lord daimyo, this mongrel certainly has no—”
Ishida lifted his hand. “Thank you. Please, leave.” The footman bowed and left, and Ishida commanded, “Arise.” The man did as told, and Ishida followed by saying, “Step forward. I wish to examine you.”
The youth complied and took five steps forward, standing straight before the daimyo. Ishida gazed at him appreciatively, noticing his unexpected fitness. Though he was not bulky, the young man showed the hard and muscular body of a trained warrior. The man’s countenance fit his hypothesis, as the scar going from his right temple and down to his cheekbone gave him a mean appearance; his features, though Nipponese, were too chiseled and too strong to belong to a simple commoner. What stood out most to the daimyo, however, were the man’s dark-brown eyes. In the youth’s gaze, Ishida could see a dull resignation accompanied by tremendous sorrow, but beneath that lay the flaming grit of a fighter’s spirit. Ishida surprised himself the moment he became aware of a silent self-admission: This is a man I could respect.
“What is your name?” Ishida asked. The young man remained silent, prompting a scoff from the daimyo. “The question was but a formality. I am prepared to tolerate a modicum of disrespect, young man, on account of the trauma you must have endured. But my patience knows its limits. I will ask you once more, what is your name?”
“Kain Smith,” the man said curtly, not offering the customary respect. This is a man who is ready to die, Ishida reasoned, a man who has lost everything.
“Ke-in Su-mi-tto, you say?” The daimyo retorted. “Amusing, I haven’t heard this name before. I have been informed that your given name is Kajiya Senshi, is this correct?”
“It is,” replied the young man. “But that is not my name anymore. The last person who addressed me by that name is no more, slain before my very eyes.”
“I assume,” Ishida said as kindly as he could, “That you refer to your venerable father?”
“I do.”
The daimyo sighed. “I offer my sincerest, most profuse apologies.”
“Can an apology bring him back, lord daimyo?”
“No,” Ishida admitted, “It can’t.”
“Then I hope you understand that your apologies are an empty boon.”
“I agree,” he stood up, and unsheathed his sword. “I would grant you a worthier boon, Senshi,” he chuckled sadly before quickly amending, “Kain. Law and tradition would have me slay you on the spot on account of being a returned one, regardless of what your experience may be worth.”
Kain knelt and bowed his head. “Then do what you must, and let’s get this over with.”
“Please, Kain, don’t be so trite. Stand up.” The young man rose to his feet, a confused expression on his chiseled features. “Law demands the death of Kajiya Senshi, but in the end, the terms of said law’s execution rest upon me.” He extended the weapon he held and noticed a fleeting glint of recognition in the man’s features. “What can you tell me about this weapon, Kain Smith?”
He tilted his head and said, “It’s a katana, lord daimyo.”
A smirk curved Ishida’s lips. “You lie, Kain. You need not admit it, I know as much, and I believe I understand why you are doing so. This weapon I hold was created by someone with unparalleled abilities, the kind of which has never been seen in Nippon. The kind of skills only a heretic would develop.
Tell me, Kain: On account of your time in faraway lands, are you, perchance, a heretic blacksmith?”
“Does it speak to you?” the man asked.
“Pardon?”
“The katana, can you hear its voice?” Ishida nodded his assent, and the man said, “May I?”
“He wishes to hold you,” Ishida said to Zwaihan.
“Allow him.”
“Won’t he attempt to slay me?”
“He won’t, Ishida,” the living sword replied confidently. “And if he tries to, I won’t let him.”
Ishida closed his eyes, sighed, and to the sword he said, “I trust you.” He reversed his grip on Zwaihan and offered it to Kain.
“Father!” Yumei gasped.
“At ease, daughter,” he said, staring at the man. “This man knows that should he attempt anything, his life would be forfeit, am I correct?” Kain nodded, and Ishida extended the grip further. “Then grab hold of it.”
Gingerly, the man reached for the sword’s grip, gently holding it in his calloused hands. And Ishida waited.
***
“Greetings, Creator.”
Kain recognized the ikiteiruken the moment he saw it. It was the katana he had forged for his father. As he held it, he felt himself awash with a strange mixture of pride and sorrow. The weapon recognized him, and he wished his father would have known as much. Smiling sadly, he replied, “Greetings, living sword. I am pleased to meet you. What is your name?”
A strange sensation burgeoned from the weapon. After a moment, Kain realized what it was: Respect. “I am Zwaihan. Who are you?”
A smile crept into Kain’s features. “Zwaihan? Ah, Zweihänder, yes?Amusing, you look more like a katana to me. But in your heart of hearts, you are a Zweihänder, am I correct?”
“Thank you for your understanding,” the weapon replied before asking again,”Who are you?”
“I am Kain Smith. As you said, I am the one who created you.” After the admission, Kain gently offered a request: “May I brandish you?”
“You may,” Zwaihan replied, “But you may not hold me against my friend Ishida.”
“I would never do such a thing,” Kain replied before turning on his heel, holding the weapon not as a katana, but as a Zweihänder. Kain lifted the weapon and held it with a hanging guard, its tip pointed towards the ground be
fore he twisted it in his hands, swinging its length overhead and stepping into a close guard.
He took a step forward, thrusting the weapon, twirling his grip into a high guard before making a low chopping motion; Kain reversed his grip to hold Zwaihan in a back-guard, swinging the metal into an upper-cut before reversing his grip once again to slash from his right, ending the motion in an inner-left guard, and using his full body to thrust forward. As he finished brandishing the sword, he held it at arm’s length and said, “You are magnificent.”
“What manner of use was that?” the living sword asked.
Kain smiled as he replied, “That’s the way a Zwaihan would be handled—using one’s whole body and swinging from various angles, rather than opting for quick, close slashes.”
Another strange sensation emanated from the sword: Gratitude. “Thank you, Kain Smith.”
“It has been my pleasure,” he replied before kneeling and holding the blade flat in the palms of his hands, offering it back to its master. Daimyo Ishida took hold of the weapon, and Kain said, “The weapon is magnificent. I had the honor of forging it, lord, but it was my father’s ingenuity that brought its design to life. The shape of the blade, the types of metal, the inlays on its grip, the shape of its guard, and its scabbard were all his creation.”
The daimyo nodded appreciatively, sheathing Zwaihan. “I agree with you, it is a magnificent weapon. I understand,” he said inquisitively, “That you heard her voice?”
“I did. I spoke to Zwaihan,” Kain admitted, seeing no point in hiding the truth.
“I see. How were you able to do that?”
Kain shrugged. “I am a forgemaster, lord. I can tap into its kotodama, and listen to it.”
“Hmm. I have another question,” the ruler declared, “What was the combat style you have just demonstrated? I am certain it was not kendo, no bushi I know of would fight in a manner so…”
“Barbarous?” Kain interrupted. “Inelegant, inchoate, dishonorable?”
The daimyo smiled, heedless of the insult. “Practical.”
Odd, Kain thought, that he would name my style so. “Thank you, lord,” said he, bowing before saying. “I apologize over the interruption.”
“Please, we are talking as equals, are we not?”
Kain stared into Yorunokenshi Ishida’s eyes, and in the daimyo’s knowing expression he saw something equally strange and satisfying: The glint of a likeminded individual. “We are, lord,” he agreed, then added, “The style I used is the fighting style I learned during my sojourn in the west. Unlike kendo, it’s intended for battlefield warfare, where one’s life is utterly at stake, and a mistake, no matter how minimal, can prove fatal.”
“Hmm, wouldn’t you say the same principle applies to kendo? If a bushi fails to intercept his opponent’s weapon, he risks having his innards spilled, does he not?”
“A true assertion, but consider this, lord: Warriors who engage in battle following kendo and bushido do so, typically, in singular combat, whereas soldiers are surrounded by enemies brandishing more than mere swords.”
The daimyo brought a hand to his chin, and his expression became pensive. After a moment’s consideration, he shrugged and said, “I concede your point. Would you say, then, that the western style is better than kendo?”
“Not necessarily, lord,” Kain replied. “It depends on a warrior’s skill. Kendo is in many ways quicker, aiming for vital points and trying to end a combat as swiftly as possible, while the western style is intended for prolonged combat and facing threats coming from multiple angles. It’s intended for using one’s full body as a weapon.”
“Hmm.” The ruler turned around and sat himself down before saying, “You have given me plenty to think about, Kain Smith. Understand that I have not yet decided on the terms of your execution, but,” he paused, letting a wry smirk appear on his face, “You’ve given me plenty arguments to consider. You shan’t be returning to your prison, instead I shall offer you quarters within my humble abode, and time to recover from your wounds and grievances.”
“The daimyo honors me,” said Kain, bowing in respect. “But why?”
“Because,” Ishida replied, “I want to make as objective a decision as possible. Now stand, and one of my servants shall escort you to the—”
“Lord,” Kain interrupted, “There’s a question I must ask.”
Flatly, the daimyo said, “Ask.”
“Two women were taken in together with me. A little girl and her older sister. Have you word on what became of them?”
Kain felt a knot forming in his stomach as Ishida’s expression became haunted. The daimyo replied, “They are recovering, Kain.”
“Recovering? What happened to them?” he asked, feeling anxiety flowing through him.
The ruler sighed and replied, “It may be best if you see them yourself, Kain.” Ishida snapped his fingers and one of his servants bowed attentively. “Bring him to the two women’s quarters.”
The servant bowed, and said to Kain, “Follow me.”
Kain bowed towards Ishida, thanked him, and went after the servant. Despite his misgivings and apprehension, he felt as if a weight had lifted from his heart. As he walked along the ornate halls of Ishida’s castle, he felt himself restored by the knowledge that Rey and Yuki were alive and, he hoped, unharmed.
His hope turned to dismay when he heard a girl’s sobs coming from the room ahead of him.
Chapter XVII: Fear and Respite
“There is a common denominator amidst nearly every eastern nation I have had the privilege of facing in combat. Be they Goguryese, Nipponese, Zhongguguese and even Barathi, they are all kindred in their overwhelming, unyielding attachment to their traditions. I concede that this gives them an unparalleled patriotism and a single-minded willingness to die for their nation—both excellent traits in a soldier—but what can be strength may also become a weakness. Through every campaign I had the honor of leading against easterners, I always saw the same tactics, the same approaches, and the same unfolding of events; their lack of versatility and adaption proved to be their downfall. Were any of these ancestral nations to decide to go against tradition and evolve militarily, I would be truly, immitigably afraid.”
-General Louis-Pierre Arregoitia, in “West Versus East: A Soldier’s Perspective on Warcraft.”
As had become customary since the last three days, Ryusei left his hiding place with Naginata in tow, and with her help he climbed to the top of the ancient willow overlooking Yorunokenshijoo, the daimyo’s castle. As had become customary, he hid amidst the long, drooping branches, and again with Naginata’s help, he amplified his eyesight to be able to look into the castle’s grounds.
“Do you see anything?” Naginata asked.
Despite the ache in his eyes, Ryusei glanced across the entirety of the grounds, trying to find any signs of change. “No, Nagi, everything’s the same. There’s no sign of neither Kain nor the girls.”
“Damn it,” the blade cursed before adding, “I am worried, Ryusei.”
“Me too, Nagi. I fear the worst.” He released the flow of energy from Naginata, as he started to feel nauseous due to the augmentation in his body. “Are you sure this is easier for Kain?”
“I am, Ryusei. I’m sorry, our essences aren’t entwined, and my ability to aid you is impaired as a result.”
Ryusei sighed. He wanted to feel angry, to feel indignant at the atrocity committed against the Kajiya family. My family, he thought as tears of impotence threatened to overwhelm him. He still reeled at the unfairness of his situation. He had been cast away at the moment of his birth, only to be picked up by beggars who nursed him to health only so they could use him later on. In his ten short years of life, he had never known the warmth of a true family—at least not until he was taken in by Munesuke-ojiisan and Kain. The old man had treated him like a son, clothing him, teaching him the arts of blacksmithing, and making something out of him. He was not afraid of admitting that t
he few weeks he spent with the Kajiya father and son had been the happiest weeks of his life. Ryusei sobbed, And now ojiisan is dead.
“I share your anger, Ryusei,” Naginata said as a wave of outrage and guilt emanated from her. “Munesuke-dono should not have been slain, just as Kain shouldn’t have been taken. I should have been with him.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Nagi, not even Kain’s for having left you in his quarters. It was the samurai’s, he’s the one who did all this.”
Overwhelming rage seeped from Naginata at the mention of the samurai. “I want his blood.” The rage was followed by a weak peal of gratitude as the weapon added, “Again, I will thank you for removing me from his quarters. You’ve given me an opportunity to do something.”
“And you will do it, Nagi, we’ll just—” Movement from the castle caught Ryusei’s attention, and he said to the sword, “Nagi, quick, augment my sight!” Energy rushed into Ryusei, coming from Naginata and enhancing his eyes. “Damn, it hurts,” the boy said loudly as he focused on the figure stiffly walking away from the castle. The man’s countenance and disposition were unmistakable. That was the samurai who had slain Munesuke and taken Kain and the women away.
Ryusei relayed the information to Naginata, and she asked, “Is Kain with him?”
“No, Nagi, but he looks angry, no, mad with rage! Something must have happened and he didn’t like it.”
“If anything happened to Kain I swear I will—”
“Don’t worry, Nagi,” said Ryusei, trying to calm the sword down. “I’m sure Kain is alright.”
“How do you know?” the living weapon asked.
Ryusei shrugged and replied, “He is my brother, and your maker. If anything happened to him, we’d know.”
The boy felt the bubbling anger in the sword recede. Calmly, Naginata said, “I agree. We would know.”
Ryusei smiled and said, “Let’s watch later and see what happens, but for now help me climb down and hunt something. Damn it, I’m starving!”
Mirth came from Naginata as she jokingly said, “You’ll get used to it.”
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 22
