by AD Starrling
He stopped on the steps and sat down. He stared at his right hand.
His fingers were swollen and bruised where Alexander had stamped on his hand. Two were misshapen.
He had seen his father suffer a similar injury before and recalled what he had done.
The boy swallowed convulsively. He lay a roll of linen next to him, found a thick stick, and gripped it between his teeth. He took a few deep breaths, grabbed the first angled finger, and yanked on it sharply.
A muffled scream escaped his throat as he bit down on the wood. He rocked and hugged his hand to his chest, silent sobs coursing through him. He waited but a moment before repeating the action with the second finger.
This time, the stick snapped in half in his mouth.
Once the pain dulled, the boy wrapped the linen around the two fingers and strapped them to a third one. He rose to his feet, descended the last step, and headed into the forest without looking back.
His destination was a village in a valley two mountains and at least three days’ walk away. He had never been there before and had only heard his father speak of it once. It seemed a safer place to go than the settlement he had recently visited.
He walked until dusk fell and found shelter in a hollow formed by three giant boulders on the slope of the mountain. He gathered kindling and wood before lighting a fire. He slept fitfully that night, his dreams plagued by images of blood and death. When morning came, he discovered that the injuries on his hand and arm had almost healed. The wound on his chest still stung.
He also found a cluster of prints in the snow a short distance from where he had been resting.
Unease filtered through the boy as he studied the distinctly shaped impressions. He had seen them before, in the three years that he had gone hunting with his father.
They were wolves’ tracks.
His eyes darted to the murky spaces between the trees. If the animals had been around before, they were not there now. A strange feeling crept over him. Once more, he felt like he was being watched. He scrutinized the landscape for a long time before setting off briskly toward the west.
He heard the first howl as evening came, just after he crossed the first peak. By then, the boy was convinced he was being stalked. He found an abandoned den at the base of a giant evergreen moments before a sudden snowstorm swept across the mountain. He kept a large fire burning brightly for most of that night and hardly slept; every rustle, crackle, and hiss jolted him awake to peer in panic at shadowy shapes that never materialized into anything.
He set out early the next day. He had barely travelled fifty feet from the den when he saw the paw prints once more. They had increased in number.
The sun had crossed the halfway point above his head when he came to a river at the bottom of the valley. It was not much larger than the one where he had often fished with his father. He refilled his waterskin, examined the rapids, and walked upstream until he found a safe passage across the water. Snow started to fall again when he was midway over.
He was wading out of the shallows on the other side when a baying close by sent a shiver down his spine and froze his legs. The boy looked back and saw the first dark shape appear on the opposite bank. Others followed.
There were eight of them in all.
The wolves stood and watched him silently through a thin veil of snow.
The boy’s heart slammed a wild beat against his chest. He turned and ran into the forest as fast as his legs could carry him.
Splashes sounded behind him as the wolves dove into the water. It would take them less than a minute to reach his side of the river.
As the boy crashed through the undergrowth, mouth dry with fear, he listened out for the sound of the pack closing in. A dim commotion rose above the rush of blood in his ears. He heard echoes of distant growls and some loud yelps.
It was another hour before he felt safe enough to stop.
By then, sweat had soaked through his clothes and his socks. He built a fire and stood shivering in his winter coat and boots while he dried them; he knew all too well the perils of wet clothing in this kind of weather. He did not linger once he dressed himself and headed swiftly for the foothills of the second mountain.
Twilight came all too soon and with it no sign of the snowfall abating. The boy decided to continue walking into the night. With any luck, he might reach the village by the morning.
But fortune was not with him that eve.
As clouds blanketed the moon and the stars, rendering the darkness almost complete, howls broke out behind him. The boy rocked to a standstill and whirled around. This time, he did not imagine the noise of paws striking the ground and bodies plowing through brushwood.
He turned and bounded into the forest. Although he now knew he was an immortal who had survived his first death, he did not know what would happen if he ended up in the stomachs of several hungry creatures.
It was minutes before he spotted the first wolf. Its gray coat danced between the white flakes some twenty feet to his left. He looked around and saw four more shapes close on his trail.
Terror flooded the boy’s body. A whimper passed his lips.
His mother’s face suddenly flashed before his eyes. He remembered the last word she had breathed to him before she passed.
Live.
An angry resolve replaced his fear. The boy looked ahead and quickened his step, aware that to fall would be fatal. He slipped his fingers inside his left coat pocket and pulled out one of the hunting knives and a piece of linen. He gripped the weapon so that the blade faced down and wrapped the linen tightly around his fist, securing it to his hand. He used his mouth and repeated the process with the second knife and his right hand.
If he was to die here tonight, he would not go down without a fight.
A giant evergreen appeared up ahead. The boy’s eyes rose to its thick branches. A wild thought formed in his mind.
He heard a snarl and a snap of jaws at his heels.
The boy raced for the tree and jumped a couple of seconds before he reached it. Time seemed to slow as he drifted weightlessly through the air and brought his arms up.
He had timed his leap correctly.
The knives stabbed into the trunk at the peak of his rise. He pulled his knees up almost instantly to his chest.
Something snagged at his coat’s tail just as his feet landed safely against the tree, his thighs gripping the bark. A heavy weight dragged him down. Barks and growls filled the space beneath him. The boy looked over his shoulder, saw the wolf’s gleaming eyes, and kicked him in the snout.
The animal yelped but did not let go.
A snarl not dissimilar to the wolves’ own angry sounds tore through the boy’s throat. He kicked again.
The wolf dropped back in the snow.
Quick as lightning, the boy scaled the tree, using the knives as grips. He found a bough thick enough to bear his weight some twenty feet above the ground and straddled it before hugging the trunk. Shivers shook his limbs and his heart pounded wildly in his chest.
The wolves danced around the base of the evergreen, disappointment evident in their whines and growls. They stayed for some time before wandering off a short distance.
The snowfall doubled in the following hour. Gusts of icy wind howled down the mountain and brought sleet. The wolves remained where they were.
The boy thrust the knives into the tree to moor himself and leaned tiredly into the trunk. He would have to stay there that night. He had no other choice.
Sometime later, the boy thought he heard a disturbance above the noise of the storm. He peered into the thick, gray curtain of icy rain and snow to where the wolves had been but could see nothing.
Although he had thought he would not be able to sleep, the boy was stunned to see bright sunlight when he blinked and next opened his eyes.
The blizzard had abated and a heavy silence surrounded him. A thick carpet of pristine snow covered everything in sight, muting the sounds of the forest. He looked do
wn and saw no fresh tracks beneath the tree.
The wolves had disappeared.
The boy climbed down warily, stopping every few feet or so to inspect his surroundings before he reached the ground. He drank some water, ate a handful of dried berries, and set off once more.
He passed the second peak uneventfully and started his descent into the next valley before the sun had reached its midday point. He came to a river a couple of hours later and followed it downstream.
As he rounded a curve in the land, he saw wisps of smoke curling above the treetops in the distance.
The boy almost started crying then.
He had reached the village.
Fortifications appeared as he drew closer. Although the settlement looked smaller than the one he had visited more than a fortnight earlier, it looked well-kept. He climbed the bank of the river until he reached a slush-covered track. He was about to start down it when the back of his neck prickled.
The boy turned. Something moved in the tree line some fifty feet along the path. He blinked.
For a moment, he thought he saw the form of a man. He scrutinized the silent forest for almost a minute before he convinced himself he had imagined it.
He set off once more and followed the road toward the solid timber wall visible between the trees ahead.
A man stood guarding the village gates. He watched the boy’s approach with a frown.
‘Do you travel alone?’ he asked suspiciously when the boy came within earshot.
The boy stopped. He swallowed and nodded.
‘Where are your parents?’
‘They are—my parents are dead!’ the boy stammered.
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Good Gods! From what?’ He stiffened and drew himself up, eyes narrowing. ‘Were they afflicted with illness?’
The boy shook his head. ‘No. They were—’ He paused and racked his head for a plausible explanation. One presented itself readily. ‘They were killed by wolves.’
The man swore. He gazed at the boy for a stunned moment, his face waxen.
‘Come, I shall take you somewhere safe,’ he mumbled.
The boy followed him through the gates. His gaze darted sideways as they navigated a path through a maze of one-storey buildings. Men, women, and children went about their daily business around him. Although some bestowed curious looks upon him, none seemed hostile or called him a monster.
The man instructed someone to guard the gates before leading the boy to a large structure at the end of a winding trail. As his gaze swept over the chimneys in the slanted rooftop, the boy guessed that this was the village inn. He headed inside after the man and stood nervously by the door while his guide conversed in hushed tones with the giant figure behind the counter. He was aware of the dim shapes of other men watching him in the light of the flames flickering in the hearth to the right.
A wave of exhaustion suddenly swept over the boy. The horrific, life-changing events of the last few days were finally catching up with him. He almost collapsed to his knees there and then.
The innkeeper shouted for someone at the rear of the building. A door opened and a woman bustled out of what looked to be a kitchen. Her belly was swollen with child and she wiped her hands briskly on an apron. She stopped by the counter and listened to the two men while they spoke in low voices.
Her hand rose to her lips, her eyes flaring. She dipped her head at the innkeeper, her gaze never leaving the boy’s face. She crossed the floor and slowly lowered herself on her heels before him.
‘My name is Ioana,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I am the mistress of this house. Mihai told us what happened to your family.’ She indicated the man who had been guarding the village gates. ‘Do you have relatives, an uncle or aunt maybe who could care for you?’
The boy’s eyes prickled hotly. He shook his head.
His parents had never spoken to him of any siblings or even grandparents.
‘Oh.’ Pity and sadness flashed in the woman’s eyes. She chewed her lip and watched him for a silent moment. Her gaze dropped to her belly. She patted the bump thoughtfully. ‘You know, with the baby due soon, I had hoped to find someone to help me around here for a bit,’ she hazarded.
The boy registered the unspoken invitation on the face of the innkeeper’s wife before looking past her shoulder at the enormous figure behind the counter.
The innkeeper shrugged at the same time that Ioana muttered, ‘Oh, never mind him. My husband will do as he is told. So, what say you?’
The boy gulped past the sudden lump in his throat. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘Good,’ Ioana said with a brisk nod. ‘Now, help me up and I will show you to your room. You look about ready to drop dead.’
The boy assisted the innkeeper’s wife to her feet and fell in step behind her.
She stopped suddenly and turned. ‘I almost forgot. What is your name, child?’
The boy hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘My name is Lucas.’
* * *
THE END
DANCING BLADES
A SEVENTEEN SERIES SHORT STORY #2
* * *
AD STARRLING
Dancing Blades
November 1624. Edo. Japan
* * *
The katana hummed through the air, its curved edge heading inexorably toward my chest. I dove to the side. Wisps of black drifted from my temple where the sword sliced through my hair. Cries erupted from the crowd gathered in the fish market, shock and delight displayed in equal measure on the faces of the spectators.
I landed on my back with a harsh grunt.
A sandaled foot stamped on my right wrist before I could move. The man looming above me kicked at the sword in my hand. It skittered across the cobbled square and came to rest at the feet of a wide-eyed little boy. He leaned down to touch it but was yanked away by his anxious mother before his fingers could make contact with the metal.
Something sharp dented the skin at the base of my throat. I froze and stared past the gleaming, steel edge of the katana at my attacker’s inscrutable face.
‘Do you submit?’ he said calmly.
I studied the man for a moment, admiration darting through me despite the sword pressed against my neck.
Dressed in dark blue hakama trousers and a grey hitatare vest, Musashi Miyamoto cut an impressive figure even for a samurai. Taller than most of his countrymen by a good few inches, he had a broad physique and sinewy arms that spoke of his skills as a martial artist and swordsman. Dark strands had escaped his topknot and framed his rugged face, giving him a wild look.
I smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I do. It still does not change the fact that I want you to be my teacher, Miyamoto-dono.’
He frowned. Although none deserved to be called a master more than he, Musashi was a modest man and loath to be seen as anything other than a humble warrior. It was one of the things I liked about him.
A figure moved behind the samurai. I glanced at the young boy who stood watching us with a grimace.
‘Greetings, Iori-kun,’ I said lightly to Musashi’s adopted son.
Iori Miyamoto narrowed his eyes. ‘I would appreciate it if you would not address me in such a familiar fashion, you crazy nanbanjin.’
I grinned; I had gotten used to being called a “southern barbarian” ever since I landed at the Port of Nagasaki a few months ago. Despite the fact that I now dressed like the locals and had grasped their complex language, there was no disguising my Caucasian features and blue eyes.
This was the fifth time I had challenged Musashi to a fight since I arrived in Japan. It was the fifth time I had lost to the great man. I voiced the same request I had made on the previous occasions I had faced him.
‘Let me be your apprentice.’
Musashi sighed. ‘No.’
July 1625. Osaka. Japan.
* * *
Carts rattled across the wooden bridge spanning the river, another noise among the myriad others rising from the bustling streets behind me. The gates and turrets of
an imposing castle towered against the skyline to the south, its forbidding stone walls marking the low hill that formed the center of the sprawling metropolis.
It had taken me just over a day to travel here from Kyoto. I had followed the Uji River as it meandered through the flatlands of the Yamashiro Basin and spent the night at an inn in one of the villages dotting the green valley. Although the innkeeper observed me with a healthy dose of suspicion, he did not turn me away. A dawn mist still hung over the rice fields when I departed the hamlet this morning, an uninterrupted vista of ghostly grey stretching out to the mountains to the west.
I leaned against the bridge railing and watched the riverboats crisscrossing the wide waterway below.
Like Nagasaki, Fukuoka, Nagoya, and Edo, Osaka made for an impressive port city. As an immortal who had travelled half the world, I could see why the islands of Japan held such a strong appeal for the Europeans wishing to expand their trading routes to the Pacific, foremost among them the increasingly powerful Dutch East India Company.
Splashes of color drew my gaze to the wharfs and docks lining the closest bank. Dyed banners and painted lanterns dotted the walls and terraces of the houses and shops crowding the water’s edge. I had been told of the upcoming Tenjin Matsuri by the Kyoto merchant who gave me directions to Osaka. An annual festival dating back over eight hundred years to the Heian period, the Tenjin Matsuri was dedicated to a local patron god of learning and art and was apparently celebrated with great zeal by the Osakans over a period of two days.
I had a good feeling about the upcoming festivities. I could not help but sense that my long-held goal of becoming Musashi Miyamoto’s apprentice was finally within reach. Of course, I had been wrong about that before.
After my fifth defeat at Musashi’s hands in Edo nine months ago, I had shadowed the Miyamotos while they travelled across Japan as part of the samurai’s ongoing musha shugyō, a warrior pilgrimage similar to that undertaken by medieval knights to prove their chivalry. I challenged the man to a duel four more times and lost every single one of those matches.