The wind whispered its secrets in Uona's ears. It pushed gently, insistently at her back. It caressed her like a lover through the folds of her robe. With a smile on her face, Isawa Uona threw herself off the precipice and into the open air.
She fell, thrilled at the wind rushing against her body. The tiny silk birds on her kimono fluttered and flapped. Her hair trailed behind her, a dark comet in the afternoon sky. Her pale brown eyes drank in the earth far below as it rushed up to meet her. Uona laughed—a musical, joyful sound.
The wind laughed with her, touched her, lifted her up. Soon she was no longer falling. The wind embraced Isawa Uona, Mistress of the Air, and carried her up, past the mountaintops and into the sky.
She danced among the cloud tops, gathering their cold wetness into her hands and lathering her lovely face with it. She washed her hair in a thunderhead, and where she wrung it out, rain fell.
Sadly, she knew this moment could not last forever. As she lounged in the clouds, Uona saw something approaching. The thing glittered in the sunlight. She soon realized what it was.
The small bird fluttered to Uona's side and looked into the Air Mistress' pale brown eyes. She gazed back at the bird and took the small scroll from its talon. Upon reading the missive, she let herself fall out of the clouds and back toward ground once more—back toward the problems of the Emerald Empire.
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The man on the road looked like a hermit or a wandering monk. His head was shaved, and he wore a simple blue cloak over his kimono. The kimono's silk had lost its luster, and its decorations were faded with years of wear. Patterns of fish and sea plants covered the fabric. Simple straw sandals adorned the man's feet, and he held a paper parasol over his head to ward off the afternoon sun.
He came to a wooden bridge over a small river and paused to watch some peasants fish. Children played on the banks of the river below the bridge, laughing and running. The river seemed to share the children's joy. One of the fishermen looked at the man and smiled.
"What brings you out today, Brother?" the peasant asked, thinking the man was an itinerant monk.
"The sun, the sky, the trees, the water," the man answered, smiling.
The peasant, a broad-shouldered farmer in rough clothes, extended his fishing pole toward the man. "Care to try? I'm not having much luck today," the farmer said. "Maybe a priest will have better fortune."
The man folded his parasol and leaned against the bridge's wooden railing. "No thank you," he said pleasantly. "Besides, I'm not a priest, just a traveler. I'm sure your luck will improve." He hummed a lilting tune.
The farmer humphed good-naturedly and cast his line once more.
The wanderer watched the line fall into the water. He gazed at the ripples the hook made as it hit. He changed his tune slightly. As he did, a fish jumped, and then another.
The farmer scratched his head. "Well, what do you know?" he said. "Looks like there are fish in this river after all. I was beginning to wonder."
"Better hold onto your pole," the man told him. As he said it, the line went taut, nearly yanking the bamboo rod out of the farmer's hand.
The farmer laughed. "Looks like you may be my lucky charm!"
The man shook his head and picked up his parasol once more. "No," he said. "Your luck was bound to turn. I'm just glad to have been here to see it." He opened the parasol and finished crossing the bridge. The fisherman landed his catch and waved to the stranger.
Isawa Tomo, the Phoenix Master of Water, waved back. The peasant never suspected the true identity of his lord.
Tomo wandered down to the banks of the stream. The children rushed up to him, calling his name. The fisherman may not have recognized him, but the youngsters did. Tomo often passed this way. The children didn't think it odd that an Elemental Master should play with them, and their parents never believed them. Tomo played ball with his friends for a while before walking upstream once more.
He stopped for lunch on some rocks next to the rapids. Hidden stones churned the water white, like the manes of fine horses. Tomo ate his natto, sweet bean paste, and then made the leaf wrapper into a boat. He set the boat in the river and watched it navigate the eddies and whirlpools around the rocks.
As the boat disappeared around the bend, Tomo stood and left the riverside to walk through the forest. Late afternoon shadows danced amid the birches and pines. The fresh smell of the woods caressed Tomo's nose, and he drank the scent in gratefully. Overhead, birds sang sweetly.
A sudden quiet came to the forest. Tomo stopped and looked around. Was that a cloaked figure beneath the trees? Perhaps the Hooded Ronin? Tomo had heard he was in the area. No, it was just a trick of light and shadow. The birds resumed their song; Tomo resumed his walk.
His path emerged from the woods a short distance upstream. Normally, a small bridge—a few boards on a bracing frame— crossed the river at this point, but summer rains had washed down one of the supports. The bridge was missing.
An old woman stood at the end of the path, gazing at the river. Sunlight glinted off her wizened face. Tomo realized she was crying.
Walking forward, he asked, "What's the matter, Grandmother?"
The woman lifted her tearstained face to the Master of Water and tried to force a smile. "I... I was going to visit my daughter-in-law," she said. "It's the anniversary of my son's death, and I wanted to be with her and the children. I even wore my best kimono." She held out her arms to display the garment.
Tomo looked at it. It was red and white with delicate floral patterns. The kimono had been well cared for, but was starting to fray around the edges. Obviously it held great sentimental value for the woman.
"You see why I can't cross the river in this," she said. Tomo nodded. Clearly she didn't recognize him any more than the fisherman had.
The old woman continued, "By the time I walk downstream to the bridge and then back to my daughter-in-law's house, it will be dark. I'll have missed the ceremonies." Tears formed in her eyes again.
"I can solve your problem, Grandmother," Tomo said.
"How?" she asked, wiping away the tears.
"I'll carry you across the river."
She looked at him appraisingly. "I hope you won't take offense," she said, "but you hardly look strong enough. There's not much meat on your bones, young man."
"I'm stronger than I look," he said.
The old woman looked at him skeptically and sighed. "Well," she said, "Shinsei teaches us never to judge by appearances. So if you want to help, I'll let you try. Please try not to ruin my kimono."
"I won't let a drop of water touch it," Tomo said, smiling at her. "Climb on my back."
He set aside his parasol and knelt down to give the old woman a ride. She climbed onto his back and hooked her legs under his arms. "Not too heavy, am I?" she asked.
"As light as a feather," he replied. He carried her toward the edge of the river, and then stopped.
"What's wrong, young man?" the old woman asked.
"Just seeking the best route, Grandmother." He stepped in. The waters parted slightly in front of him, and he found a firm stone to set his foot on, then another, and another.
"That's funny," the old woman said from his back, "I didn't see these stepping stones from the riverbank."
"Tears had clouded your eyes," Tomo said. "Don't worry, now, we'll soon reach the other side." Another dozen steps and the Master of Water's promise came true. He set the old woman down. "See? Not even a drop on your kimono."
The old woman adjusted the fabric, looked up at him, and smiled. "Why, you're right. Thank you, young man. Domo ari-gato gozaimasu. What is your name? You must stop for tea sometime."
"Tomo," he said humbly.
"Why, the same name as one of our lords," she said, rubbing her stubbly chin.
"The very same."
She nodded. "That must be a good omen for you—though I daresay you might want to change your name before the lord finds out. I hear some of them can be very jealous."
> "I doubt he'll mind," said Tomo.
"Well, you know your own business best," the old woman said. She waved good-bye and shambled down the path.
Tomo smiled. After she had gone, he skipped quickly back across the surface of the river. His feet touched neither the river bottom nor the stones he'd found earlier.
He fetched his parasol and was about to open it again when a small bird fluttered down and landed on the paper umbrella.
"Hello," Tomo said to the bird.
The red and orange animal looked at him and tweeted a
happy reply. Attached to its golden leg was a small scroll. Tomo frowned, unfastened the scroll, and read it.
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Hot, clinging darkness surrounded the Phoenix Master of Fire. The air was dry and suffused with the odors of sulfur and incense, steel and leather. The noise of hammers echoed thro ugh the underground chambers. The rhythmic whoosh of huge bellows sounded like a slumbering dragon.
Isawa Tsuke leaned over an ancient scroll, peering closely at the kanji to unlock the silk's secrets. Occasionally, he would raise his head and make some notes on a nearby wooden tablet. The tablet burned where Tsuke touched his finger to it, the characters sparking to mystical life as he wrote on its surface.
The Master of Fire stood and stretched. The pointed shoulders of his orange robes ruffled. Crystal jewelry rattled with each movement of his iron muscles. He licked thin lips and ran one powerful hand over his shaved head. He yawned.
Tsuke took the candle from the table and walked to the other end of the great room. The chamber lay deep beneath Shiro Asako, the Castle of the White Phoenix, and Tsuke could almost feel the weight of the rocks above pressing down on him. He didn't mind.
Discipline required sacrifice, and Tsuke would go to any lengths for his art. He set his candle down near the room's exit and went into the adjoining chamber—the forge.
The room glowed with orange light from great fires. Hiromi, a Shiba steel master, stopped hammering and looked up as Tsuke entered the room. She was a short, well-muscled woman with a serious face. Her brown hair had been cropped close to her scalp for her work; long hair had a tendency to catch fire.
"Are you ready for me yet?" Tsuke asked her.
The steel master put down her hammer and tongs and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her leather glove. "Not yet, Tsuke-sama. The steel is uncooperative today."
Tsuke grunted his disapproval. He walked to a corner of the room and picked up a half-finished sword. The metal was still hot, but the temperature didn't bother the Master of Fire.
"I'm a busy man," he said, not looking at Hiromi as he spoke.
She bowed. "I know, my lord."
"See that you take no more of my time than is necessary."
She bowed again. "I will not, Tsuke-sama."
He set the sword down and returned to his chamber. He retrieved the candle from the entryway and walked to the other side of the room. There, he placed the candle amid a collection of weapons—swords, scythes, war hammers, iron staves, sai. He picked up a tetsubo, an iron-studded staff, and swung it through the air.
The air sang, and the staff's metal hummed with the energy of the magical fire that forged it. Tsuke executed a few kata, practice swings with the tetsubo, before pausing to study it once more. He ran his finger over the point of one stud and was surprised when it scratched him.
Putting the finger to his mouth, he sucked away the blood. Then he smiled. Fine weapons were being made here. True, many of his clan mates did not see the value of weapons. They were steeped in the ways of pacifism. But what good was strength if it was never used? Why should Phoenix stand idly by while the empire fell into further decay? Yes, the clan had sent the Crane help to defend against invasion. It was hardly enough, though. Shiba Tsukune, for all her martial skills, was merely one woman. And the force they'd sent with her was pathetically small, even if it did boast some find shugenja.
The Master of Fire wondered if his peers would send a larger force once the Crane had fallen to their Shadowlands enemies. He growled discontentedly to himself and set the tetsubo down. As he did so, he knocked over his candle. It fell to the floor and sputtered out.
Tsuke cursed.
He concentrated, and the tip of his right index finger caught fire. He quickly found the candle and set his finger to it, relighting the wick. Turning, he walked back to his worktable.
Sitting on the table was a small golden bird. Its feathers flashed orange and red in the candlelight. The bird chirped a greeting. Tsuke's eyes narrowed as he spotted the tiny scroll attached to its leg.
The Master of Fire set the candle down, took the bird in hand, untied the scroll, and set the bird down once more. He opened the scroll and read.
The bird hopped about Tsuke's table, cocking its head and looking at the Master of Fire's tools and scrolls. It sang happily.
Tsuke looked at it, his eyes glowing orange in the dim light. "Well?" he asked impatiently. "What are you waiting for? You've delivered your message, and I've read it."
The bird chirped and bowed its small head. Then it stood proudly erect and burst into flames.
When nothing remained of it but ashes, the Master of Fire smiled.
BATTLEFRONTS
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l, J hiba Tsukune struggled from the mud where her horse lay dying. She pushed the beast's carcass off her right leg and scrambled out from under it. The leg twinged with pain as she stood.
The horseman she had been fighting wheeled and came at her again out of the smoke. Tsukune pushed the pain from her mind and raised her sword. She held it high and straight, parallel to her right ear. She felt blood trickling from that ear, staining her long black hair. Her mud-soaked shirt clung to her arms, its yellow fabric stiffening. A lock of sweaty hair fell over her thin, tanned face, tickling her eyelashes. She ignored it and concentrated on her charging foe.
The man riding toward her was a ronin— alive and human, unlike many of his companions in Doji Hoturi's army. His face was brutish and unshaven; his smile showed missing teeth; his eyes held murder. He aimed his long spear at Tsukune's heart.
At the last instant, Tsukune stepped aside, avoiding his blow. The ronin swept the long spear up to parry her counterattack, but Tsukune wasn't aiming at him. Instead, her katana cut deep into the right shoulder of the ronin's horse. The blade traced a long gash down the animal's ribs. She slashed up and freed the blade as it met the horse's haunches.
Gore splashed into the air, and the horse went down. The ronin threw himself free as it fell, but he landed on his back. Before he could get up, Tsukune ran to his side and thrust her sword through his chest. The wound made a hissing sound, and greenish slime oozed out. Khaki blood leaked from the ronin's lips as he died. He muttered a curse.
The Phoenix warrior maid suppressed a shudder. The ronin had not been human after all. Why had Hoturi given up his birthright to captain this army of the damned? Hadn't they long been friends and even occasional lovers? Hadn't she saved Hoturi's life once? Hadn't she fought beside him at Kyuden Kakita? How could the man she knew abandon his honor—his duty? War forced sad choices, like killing a noble horse to defeat its ronin master, but what could have caused Doji Hoturi to make this terrible pact?
Tsukune's reverie lasted only a moment. Battle cries quickly snapped her back to reality. Her forces were in full retreat. Hoturi's undead army had chased her troops south toward the Kabe ue no ho ni sa Umi, the Mountains above the Ocean.
Her people hadn't meant to bring the war into this small village, but Hoturi's creatures had dogged them mercilessly, forced them into the settlement, and set the town aflame. Mud from the previous night's rain slowed the Phoenix's retreat and turned the village into a slaughterhouse. The fighting had separated Tsukune from her elite shugenja unit.
The wind shifted suddenly, and Tsukune found herself engulfed in white smoke. White, the color of death. She heard fighting all around bu
t could no longer see anything. Tsukune coughed, and her eyes began to tear.
Her people were moving away from her position. Perhaps they were even out of the village by now. Stumbling through the smoke, Tsukune tripped over a body: Shiba Miyaki, a young woman she had trained. Miyaki's face had been crushed into the ground by a horse's hoof. Tsukune caught herself before she fell and leaned heavily against a nearby hut.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Her blood-caked hair matted against her face. Life ran slowly in front of her. She saw figures moving through the smoke in the distance, inhuman figures. They looked as though they were dancing between the burning houses. Time often stretched on a battlefield. Sometimes, this aided a samurai—gave her more time to counter an enemy's moves. Other times, though, it made battle a never-ending hell.
This was one of those hellish times.
Above the din of combat, a sound caught her attention. Crying. The crying of a child.
The noise solidified Tsukune's grip on reality. Time moved normally once more. She knew her duty was to escape this battle, to return to her unit and live to fight the enemy another day. She had no time to rescue peasant children. Yet the cry haunted her ears. She could not ignore it.
The sound came from a burning hut only a short distance away. Tsukune dashed across the intervening space. An undead samurai appeared out of the white smoke to oppose her. She swung to cut it in half at the waist. Her sword stuck near the creature's spine. The monster turned to claw her. She grunted and pushed the blade through. The samurai fell in two pieces, spraying black blood. Tsukune kept running.
The bodies of a man and a woman lay before the ratty stick-and-thatch structure. Tsukune stepped over them. The wooden door to the hut was jammed shut, so Tsukune kicked it open. As she did, black smoke billowed forth—burning her eyes. She threw the sleeve of her yellow shirt across her face and charged into the burning home.
L5r - scroll 04 - The Phoenix Page 4