by Stan Brown
Yakamo, however, needed to prove his superiority, if only by denigrating any shred of success Sukune achieved. It was perhaps the greatest fault of Yakamo and Kisada's mindset—measuring self worth by conquest. Holding the Wall against the forces of Fu Leng ceased to be enough to satisfy their insecurities. Now they protected the empire from itself. Would that prove to be enough, or would they need to seek a greater victory after this campaign? How many greater victories remained? What would they do when there was nothing bigger to be achieved?
"I refuse to honor only the letter of our agreement with the creature to whom you gave your name," Sukune said stiffly. The decision to link himself with an oni was just another in the growing list of poor choices Yakamo had made in recent days. "There is no honor in putting these creatures in harm's way."
"Honor?" cried Yakamo. "Honor? These are goblins and worse! Half the forces are undead zombies! They have no honor!"
"Yes, but we do. This is our fight. Father may have made the right decision in negotiating this truce, but that does not mean the Shadowlands army is ours to throw away."
"I cannot believe that there is any circumstance under which you would give up the life of a single Crab samurai instead of a dozen Shadowlands monstrosities!" Yakamo emphasized his point by poking Sukune in the chest with each significant word.
"Once again, we see that there is simply a fundamental difference between us," Sukune said calmly. "Please, use the creatures under your command as you see fit. But allow me the same latitude."
Yakamo grunted. "It is time to open our orders."
They reached under their armor and pulled out the scrolls Kisida had given them five days earlier. They held them out at arm's length, never taking their eyes off one another—staring intently into each other's soul—each trying to prove by force of will that he was in the right in this argument.
Simultaneously, they broke both eye contact and the seals on their scrolls. A minute later they lowered the scrolls and looked at one another again. This time they were trying to guess the con-touts of the other's scroll.
"It seems you will have to defend this pass without my aid," ..lid Yakamo slowly.
"Something I have been prepared to do from the beginning," Answered Sukune. He held the scroll up again and read, " 'Deploy your troops along the pass, and prepare to hold it through t lie coming winter. You must prepare a safe haven for Yakamo and his troops, for they will return with enemies close on their heels. We should only face strong opposition for the first month or so. After that you will have only the Crane to worry about. 'the approaching snows will drive the other clans back to their homelands until spring.'"
Yakamo nodded and smiled.
"You have another objective. One that will bring you great
glory."
"Indeed, I do," the elder brother said. "Mine says, 'To hold the pass over the winter, Sukune's troops will need two things: supplies and protection from the local Crane forces. You must get both by leading your troops to the north and taking the fortress Kyuden Kakita. Rout the Crane stationed there. They will fight to delay you, to hold you off until reinforcements can arrive. Do not allow them to succeed in this. Crush the castle's defenses, then destroy the building itself. Take their stores and rejoin Sukune at Beiden Pass. That is where we shall winter, and from there we shall save all of Rokugan.'"
The brothers stared at one another for a long while, neither saying a word. Finally they were interrupted when Kuni Yori stepped from the shadows—neither Sukune nor Yakamo had seen him approach.
"Is there a dispute I can help settle?" asked the shugenja, although the smile on his face hinted that he was well aware of what was really going on.
"My troops and I leave again in the morning," said Yakamo. "We were just saying farewell."
"And wishing one another luck," Sukune continued. "Despite our differences we all fight for the same thing."
"The glory of the Crab Clan."
"The safety of the empire."
THE OTHER HAND
The chill autumn wind was a thief, sneaking through Beiden Pass and stealing the warmth from the dying campfires. No tent flap or blanket or animal hide was proof against its icy fingers.
While Sukune's guards watched either end of the pass, Yakamo's samurai slept soundly between. He had expressly forbidden a guard. Every samurai would need his or her strength for the coming battles.
A lone figure emerged silently from his tent, lifted a large wooden crate, and walked away from the rest. He climbed a narrow, nearly invisible trail up the north wall of Beiden Pass. The moonless night made his going even more difficult, but he managed it without once stumbling or making a sound. Toward the top of the wall, he followed a trail back away from the pass until he came to a flat, open space. He laid the box on the ground and waited, though not for long.
"All is prepared," a shrill voice said from the darkness.
"It is well past time! Now give me some light."
A sharp sound filled the air. It might have been fingers snapping or a dried bone being broken in two. Torches flared to life in a large circle at the plateau's center.
Standing within the circle was Kuni Yori, dressed in heavy velvet robes, the hood pulled tight around his head. Instead of his usual black robes, he wore deep crimson garments covered with the kanji for "crab" and "victory" as well as several pictographs. The shugenja's face was painted differently, too. His usual pallid mask was splattered with odd red shapes, particularly around eyes and mouth. The two ends of his long, thin mustache were braided under his chin. As cold as the night was, no steam escaped the hood. Either Yori's breath was as cold as the air itself, or he wasn't breathing at all.
The torches cast a flickering light on Yakamo and the black box he'd carried all this way.
"Let's get this over with."
"No!" said a third voice. It came from the trail that Yakamo had just traversed. "Brother, I implore you: Do not do this thing. A warrior is measured by the strength of his heart, not his arm."
"Of course you would say that!" Yakamo spat, turning to see Sukune's pale face in the dim light. "Your arms are weak—you are weak. But I am not. I have always been strong. If I cannot fight, I am nothing."
"If that is what you believe," Sukune said, "you already are nothing."
Yakamo growled an unintelligible reply.
"Sukune-san," Yori said. "I appreciate your concern, but I warn you that interfering with the ritual once it is in progress will only make matters worse. Perhaps you should go back to your tent."
"No," Sukune replied. "I may think he's a fool, but I will not let my brother go through this alone."
XXXXXXXX
Yakamo lay on the cold ground within a large circle of rice sprinkled on the nearly flat rock of the plateau. Yori stood over him, his feet outside the circle, but his head and arms leaning in.
Suddenly, despite the cold and windy night, despite the chilling mission that brought them here, Sukune found the air hot, 'I.imp, and close. Standing on an open plain atop the tallest mountains in the region, he felt crowded and watched.
Kuni Yori actually looked concerned—as if he knew how wrong he was to perform this act.
"This will hurt," Yori said, "quite a bit, actually. 1 just thought you should know."
"I am not afraid of pain!" grumbled Yakamo.
The shugenja looked at him quizzically.
"I didn't think you were," he said. "But you must be sure not
to twitch about. If you or the claw break the circle, things will become even more unpleasant—and I won't be able to do anything to help."
Sukune stepped forward, but Yori placed his hand on the young man's chest.
"You cannot break the circle either," he said in a tone that made it clear that this was an order, not a suggestion. Then he wandered away mumbling to himself.
The two brothers stared at one another. Sukune wanted to say something, anything to bridge the emotional gap between them. The look in Yakamo's eyes was as cold and
hard as the mountain on which he lay.
Yori came back holding the claw. It seemed huge in his hands, and it snapped at Sukune as the shugenja passed near.
"It is time to begin."
Yori reached into the rice circle again and fastened the claw to Yakamo's left arm. It was exactly the same procedure as the young samurai used to go through every morning when dressing for battle, except that the claw was as cold as the night and caused his arm to stand in goose bumps.
When the claw's laces were securely tied, Yori sat cross-legged on the ground next to the circle, closed his eyes, and pressed his palms flat together, directly in front of his nose. He began chanting in a low voice, speaking very quickly in a language only shugenja could fathom. Yori's body began to glow a menacing blue.
Sukune took a step back but never let his eyes wander from his brother. As he watched, Yakamo began to glow blue as well. The color, which seemed to be flowing from Yori's stomach, leaped at Yakamo violently. Each time a bolt of blue attached itself to his body, the samurai twitched and grimaced slightly.
Yori's chanting grew louder and more emphatic. He seemed to be arguing with or yelling at something that no one else could see or hear. Finally his eyes, which had remained tightly shut, flew open. He shouted a short, guttural word, and a ball of blue light shot from his mouth.
It circled the plateau with amazing speed. Higher and higher it went, filling the space below with its unnatural radiance. Finally, the ball flew so high it nearly became lost among the stars. It hung there for a moment, then, without warning, dived direcdy down at Yakamo.
When the ball hit Yakamo in the chest, his whole body convulsed. He snapped his head back and raised his chest directly into the air, gasping for breath. He held his arms as still as he could, but the claw twitched closer and closer to the edge of the rice circle. It seemed to want to cross that line.
Lightning arced between Yori and Yakamo, striking viscously, causing muscles to spasm and contract. With each strike, the claw's movements grew more and more responsive to Yakamo's. It twitched in time with Yakamo's pain.
A blue lightning bolt shot from Yakamo's body straight up into the sky. Then went another, and another. Finally a single, blood-red bolt leaped from the claw and exploded in the air above them with a deafening crash.
"It is done," said Kuni Yori, his voice shaky and weak.
XXXXXXXX
"Why won't it work?" Yakamo sat in his tent staring at the claw on the end of his left arm. It still twitched of its own accord. Indeed, now the young man's own upper arm twitched with the same rhythm, but neither responded to his mental commands.
"You must give your body a chance to become familiar with this new addition," Kuni Yori said smoothly. "It will take a little time."
"I have only so much time," Yakamo growled. "I am about to ride off to lead my troops into battle."
"Trust me, Yakamo-san, you be ready when the time comes."
The samurai stared down at his still-useless arm.
"I had better be!"
He grabbed a cloak from his belongings and wrapped it tighdy around his broad shoulders. Normally Yakamo did not wear such over garments—he preferred the chill of the air on his skin—but he could not let his samurai see him walking around with the claw hanging like a dead weight on his arm. He cinched the cloak so that it would hold his arm across his chest, the way he would if he'd dislocated his shoulder. Better to look injured than weak, he thought.
Yakamo strode from the dark seclusion of his tent into a world filled with white, wispy clouds. Autumn in the mountains meant fog, thick fog that often took half a day to burn off. The young Hida couldn't see more than a dozen feet in any direction.
So much for seeming weak in front of his troops, he thought. The only one who would see him was his cousin Hida Amoro, his second in command.
This was the first time Yakamo was in charge of a large force of soldiers. He had led a battalion once, and more combat units than he could count, but he'd never before led an army. After careful consideration, he'd chosen Amoro to ride at his side.
In his heart he knew what to do. There was no room for self doubt in Yakamo's world. However, now that a thousand men were marching at his orders, ready to fight to the death at a single word of his, Yakamo found that he wanted to seek the opinion of a trusted ally. For years he had wondered why his father kept Kuni Yori around. Surely the Great Bear did not need to consult with a shugenja before every major decision. Now Yakamo understood. Kisada did not need Yori—he just needed someone to talk to.
"Let's ride."
xxxxxxxx
"I don't like this. You can't see anything!" Amoro waved his hand in front of his eyes.
That was the first time Yakamo had ever heard Hida Amoro say he didn't relish the possibility of battle. Side by side they rode into the deep fog, at the head of their marching army.
"What would you like to see, Cousin?" Yakamo teased. In truth, he agreed with Amoro. He could barely make out the man's shape five feet away. But he learned from his father that to keep troops calm under difficult conditions, a commander should act as though the situation at hand was exactly what he desired.
"Anything!" answered Amoro. "Anything but this cursed fog. The entire Crane army could be out there, and we'd never know."
Yakamo chuckled.
"If the Crane were out there, they'd certainly not be so impolite as to attack us without warning."
They laughed.
"No," Amoro returned. "That would be dishonorable. We know that the Crane would not want to take unfair advantage of an enemy marching to sack their outpost."
Without warning, Yakamo sat up tall in his saddle and raised his hand. The samurai behind him stopped, spreading the sign back through the ranks. In moments, the entire army, even the soldiers a mile down the line, halted and waited.
The air was still. Not a bird or frog or even the rusde of the wind could be heard. But there was a sound. A faint sound to be sure, but it was there, wafting through the midmorning fog.
Yakamo knew that fog played tricks with sound. It took noises and shuffled them around like a child's puzzle. He could never tell if a sound came from right next to his shoulder or a hundred yards down the road.
Whatever this sound was and wherever it came from, it made Yakamo nervous. The more he listened, the more it sounded like voices whispering.
Yakamo dropped his own voice to the barest whisper. "Amoro, get ten foot soldiers and come with me. Tell the rest of the column to wait here. We're going to see who's up there."
Amoro came back with six men and four women, most of whom Yakamo knew from his days on the Wall. It felt good to be surrounded by his old comrades. He dismounted and addressed them.
"Do nothing unless I tell you to," Yakamo told them. "This isn't like the fighting we're used to. These could be farmers, or merchants, or even one of Sukune's scouting parties that got turned around in the fog. If it is an enemy, I want them to be more surprised than we are."
They all nodded, even Amoro, but Yakamo could see the bloodlust building behind his cousin's eyes. This was the one reason he hesitated before naming Amoro as his aide. Once a battle began, he would slip away below his "red curtain" and become useless for anything other than killing. In fact, near this berserker was probably the worst place for the army's leader. Yakamo suddenly realized how difficult it was to choose a proper aide. He appreciated Kuni Yori all the more and wished the shugenja had not been ordered to remain with Sukune.
The twelve samurai crept through the fog, stopping every few yards to listen for telltale sounds. They carried their weapons drawn, but not at the immediate ready. It would not do to walk sword-point first into a tree or a rock. Yakamo held a tetsubo— not as large as the one he'd used before he lost his hand but still bigger than most samurai would be able to wield. He was prepared to use his favorite weapon one-handed if necessary, but he counted on Kuni Yori's promise—that the claw would be ready when he needed it.
In the hou
rs since Yori attached the claw, the numbness had fled. Now there was a dull ache down the length of his left arm, but he still could feel nothing below the wrist. Where it lay against his chest, he could feel the claw opening and closing reflexively.
Yakamo stopped and listened again.
Nothing.
Then one word came floating through the mist: "Toturi."
Before Yakamo could even begin to consider why the banished ronin was being discussed, a cool wind crossed his cheek and created a rift in the fog. Where once there had been nothing but an impenetrable wall of clouds, Yakamo could now see a small glade with a campfire and ten samurai sitting around it— Dragons by the look of them. But what were they doing here in the Crane lands?
The Dragon leader looked at Yakamo with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "So the Phoenix were right. The Crab have finally been turned by the Shadowlands. But what did you think you could do with such a tiny band?"
Yakamo did not answer. In fact he was about to ask questions of his own, such as what the Phoenix Clan had to do with this. Just then two more Dragons burst from the fog and into the clearing.
"There's an army of Crab!" one shouted.
"Hundreds of them, maybe thousands!" cried the other.
"We stumbled across them on our patrol," continued the first.
"They slew Yoshi, but we escaped. We must warn the Crane and get word to Toturi!" the second gasped.
The Dragon leaped to his feet and looked Yakamo square in the eye.
"Scatter into the fog!" he ordered. "Don't worry about anything other than getting this information back to Lady Mirumoto. She'll get word back to Kyuden Kakita, then to Toturi!"
Lady Mirumoto, thought Yakamo. Hitomi?
"After them, all of you!" Yakamo snapped. "If any of them reaches the Crane stronghold, we might as well send gold foil announcements of our arrival."
A dozen Dragon samurai disappeared into the fog with an equal number of Crab hot on their tails. Yakamo followed the Dragon leader, whose shadowy form moved through the mists with surprisingly surefooted strides.