by Stan Brown
"My father will certainly be here in another day or two," Sukune continued. Perhaps he was speaking to Beiden Pass itself—to the spirit of the place—appealing for support in this vital mission
gone terribly awry. "If I can just hold on until then, he will see what desperate shape my forces are in and commend me for achieving so much with so few resources, instead of damning me for failing in my one task. Take and hold the pass—it sounds so simple. And based on every principle of warfare I've ever learned, we should have lost fewer than fifty men in its defense."
He paused and looked at the sky. Lord Moon was nowhere to be seen. Tonight he turned his back on the world completely—a time when anything could happen. The greatest and most terrible of events happened on nights like this, nights with no moon.
"Perhaps my brother is right. Perhaps I am a failure."
Somewhere in the darkness, the frozen gravel of the path crunched as if under an approaching foot.
"Who is there?" he demanded. He had gone to some trouble to get this far away from interruptions and prying ears. "Kuni Yori, is that you?"
"You have failed," Yori said, and took a silent step closer. The faint light from the campfires below flickered across his form. He held both his hands inside the sleeves of his black velvet robe, and his face was entirely swallowed in shadow. For a moment, Sukune thought he was an apparition—a ghost of some Hida ancestor come to punish him for failing to hold the pass.
"One more day, and Toturi will be crushed," Sukune said with a confidence he didn't feel. For most people, a convincingly spoken lie was more powerful than a silent truth.
Yori took another step forward. "I have a message from your father."
"For me?" asked Sukune failing to sound casual. He hoped for orders that would render his current situation less precarious.
"No," said Yori, "for me."
As he spoke, his eyes began to glow. Somewhere in the darkness, another footstep crunched on the rocky path.
Sukune looked over Yori's shoulder but saw no one. "What does the Great Bear have to say?"
Yori now stood directly in front of Sukune. Arcane patterns glinted on the shugenja's robes. His eyes glowed pale yellow in his shadowy face. The long ends of his mustache bobbed and
twitched as he spoke. "A great many things," was how Kuni Yori chose to answer the question. Did he smile as he said that? Sukune could not be certain.
The Crab commander's mouth was suddenly dry. He coughed once and licked his lips.
"I would like to see the message my father sent you," he finally said. It was not an order—Sukune did not feel up to ordering anyone to do anything—but he needed to know what was in the missive.
Yori slowly withdrew one hand from his robe. It held a small scroll tied with a red silk ribbon. The shugenja held it gingerly, lovingly, like a prized possession.
Another gust of wind howled, carrying more sounds of footsteps—yes, several sets of slow steady footsteps from down the path.
Sukune snatched the scroll from Yori's hand. He nimbly untied the ribbon and opened the fragile rice paper. Even by the weak firelight, he recognized his father's bold brush strokes. It was a brief message, but one that turned Sukune's blood colder than the mountain night. His eyes stopped focusing on anything— not the scroll or the shugenja or anything on the ridge. Sukune was looking at his future, and he did not see much of it.
The scroll read: Toturi must die. If my son fails, you know what to do.
"What do you read in that paper that turns your skin the color of porcelain?"
The youngest Hida snapped back into focus. Suddenly they were no longer alone on the ridge. Behind Kuni Yori stood four samurai, even more cloaked in shadows than he.
So this was how it would be? A group of turncoat bushi would remove him from authority before he had a chance to prove he could do the job.
"I need more time," Sukune said. He was not begging or even cajoling, merely stating a fact. He knew he could succeed.
"There is no more time," Yori said and stepped to one side.
The samurai lurched forward and grabbed Sukune's arms.
"Let go!" he said. "I order you to let me go!"
Yori laughed darkly. "I'm sorry, Tono," the shugenja's words dripped sarcasm, "but these warriors do not take orders from you—they never have."
The young Crab looked closely at his captors. Between the seams of their armor he could see rotting flesh and crawling maggots. Zombies!
"Yori!" Sukune said, panic making his voice high and thin. "I have not yet failed. We still hold the pass. I might yet prevail tomorrow."
The shugenja's eyes sparkled like the stars above.
"Yes, that is exactiy what has kept you safe these past few nights. Despite your inept opening foray, you had it within you to upset my carefully laid plans. But no longer. You see, your brother has returned and, seeing the army in such a shambles, has assumed leadership over all the Crab forces." Yori giggled absently. "You have been relieved of your command. There are no more chances. You have failed."
The zombies' hands tightened around Sukune's arms. Another undead warrior moved behind the young Hida and slipped a putrid arm around his neck, holding his head forward so that he would see what came next.
"This is a plan that took years to execute," Yori gloated, "and for the past month only you held the power to stop me. Do you know when you failed, when you guaranteed my victory?"
Despite the zombie holding him still, Sukune shook his head.
"The minute you lost your resolve."
It was clear Sukune did not know what Yori meant.
"Of all the headstrong members of your family, you were the only one who recognized my counsel for the subtle moral erosion that it was. You refused to apply the Crab motto to every situation in life—for you the ends did not always justify the means. You were the only one willing to take a stand and say that some tactics were simply without honor, and you were willing to die for that principle."
Sukune stood proudly. "I still do believe that."
Yori laughed. "If you truly believed that then you would have died in defense of the pass and taken all your samurai with you.
Instead, your resolve shattered, and you brought the Shadowlands army into the battle. If you had died in the pass, your sacrifice would have shown Kisada the truth of your words. Instead you gave up your honor just as he surrendered his—quietly and in a moment of weakness. To protect your own life, you compromised the only principle that could have saved your soul—and those of your father and brother."
Yori leaned in so close that the steam from his breath dampened Sukune's face.
"And now, you will obstruct me no longer."
As the shugenja turned away he made a sharp stabbing motion with his hand.
The remaining zombie drew a rusted and chipped wakizashi from a rotting scabbard and advanced on Sukune. The young Crab struggled to get free, but the undead strength of the zombies was too much for his frail muscles.
Even as the sword stood poised over him, Sukune made no sound. Blow after jagged, painful blow ripped through his flesh, but still he held his tongue. If he was to die tonight, he would die like a samurai—like a Crab. After a while, he no longer felt the blows, or the life and heat of his body seeping out into the cold night.
"Stop!" commanded Kuni Yori. "That is enough. We don't want him dead—yet! Lift him and follow me."
As the cold, decayed hands lifted Sukune into the air, his eye caught the shugenja's.
Yori smiled evilly. "You see, you still have a part to play in my plan. You will be the instrument of your father's downfall."
Sukune let out one tortured scream, but it was carried away by the mischievous mountain wind.
THE FINAL WATCH
Atop the Great Kaiu Wall, a dozen Crab samurai stood with legs tensed and arms loose. Moonless nights were the worst. They made it impossible to see Shadowlands troop movements. But the samurai could hear their enemies approaching, scrambling over ancien
t stone.
The Crab were tired. They would never admit it, and they certainly would never allow weariness to keep them from battle, but they were tired to their bones. The assault had continued for nearly a week, and this was the third attack they had to repel today. The enemy forces were relentless.
Only a few weeks ago, Kuni Higeki was just another veteran in a company brimming with experienced samurai. The section of the Wall to which he was assigned must have been near a goblin village, because it was frequently and heavily attacked. Higeki fought well and was liked by his comrades, but he never showed any inclination toward command. He was simply a good samurai.
Then the daimyo announced the Crab were going to take and hold Beiden Pass. Higeki's commander read off names, indicating who would serve under Hida Sukune and who under Hida Yakamo. When the commander was done, one name had not been read—Kuni Higeki.
"Your assignment," the commander said, "is to remain here and lead a troop of samurai from other companies in defense of our position. The fighting will be lighter all along the Wall, but it will not cease. You must make sure we have a Wall to come back to!"
Higeki couldn't tell whether this was an honor or a punishment.
As the days passed, he realized it was a nearly impossible task. At Higeki's post, the goblins came in the same furious numbers as always, but now the turret was manned by novice samurai under an inexperienced commander.
Higeki was proud of his warriors and, by extension, of himself. At first there was no way goblins, ogres, and other creatures scrambling up the Wall could tell that the post was manned any differently than usual. After a week of nearly constant assault, though, the greener samurai showed fatigue.
Their eyes were wrung with dark circles. Their weapons hung loose at their sides. Their blows became less powerful, their movements less crisp, and their tactics more predictable. Sooner or later they would begin to drop where they stood, leaving the tower undefended and the gateway to the Crab lands open for all of Fu Leng's creatures.
"We cannot fail!" Higeki shouted to rally his troops.
"For if we do the empire falls," answered a dozen lackluster voices.
This could well be it, Higeki thought. These men have given all they have. They simply are not up to the task.
A huge, pale yellow forearm crashed over the top of the Wall. A raging ogre pulled itself onto the parapet. Seven goblins clung to the creature's shoulders and matted hair. The goblins had tanto clenched between their teeth. Feral glints shone in their eyes.
"Charge!" shouted Higeki as he led his warriors forward. He and four others moved to attack the ogre. The remaining seven each took on one goblin.
The ogre leapt directly into their midst, landing squarely on top of one samurai and crushing him beneath tremendous feet. The other samurai stood frozen. They'd never seen an ogre move so quickly, and this was the first casualty they'd had in days.
Higeki kept his wits. He spun on his heel and slashed over the top of his head with his yari. The polearm whisded. Its blade slashed down and through the jaundiced skin of the ogre's back.
Now the creature's full attention turned to the unfortunate commander.
It backhanded the yari from Higeki's grip, nearly tearing his arm from its socket. Opening its hand, it reversed the blow, scooped Higeki up, and pulled him tight against its chest. Before the startled Crab could do anything, the ogre wrapped its other arm around him in a painful bear hug.
Higeki's arms were pinned at his sides—there was nothing he could do. Try as he might, he could get no leverage, and his wakizashi scabbard was pinned against the ogre's midsection. Pain shot through his lower back where the creature squeezed, and flashes of bright white light clouded his eyes.
The white explosions became a wave of red clouds across Higeki's vision. Thunder rolled in his ears.
So this was how it ended?
Abruptly, the ogre loosened its grip. It gently put Higeki down on the ground, loped back to the parapet's edge, and climbed down the Wall. The surviving goblins followed as quickly as they could disengage from their melee combat. All of them looked at the sky, wonder and awe in their eyes, and broad smiles on their lips.
It took Higeki a few moments to realize he had indeed escaped death. Instead of being overjoyed, he too stared skyward.
The red clouds and thunder had not been part of his near-death throes. A blanket of crimson flowed from the north to the south. Heat lightning danced, lighting the sky in brilliant red flashes. A low, resonant thunder rolled relentlessly through the air, shaking the Great Wall.
The display lasted for more than ten minutes before the clouds broke up. Thunder slowly faded into the southern distance.
204 # Stan! ■«
The clear, moonless sky returned, seeming even more ominous than before.
Sunrise brought no answers. The Shadowlands troops were gone. There was no sight of them anywhere across the landscape. In fact, there was no sign of any living or unliving thing for as far as the eye could see.
As the day wore on, no further attacks assailed the Wall. The siege was over, but why?
Eventually, runners came from other sections of the Wall. All of them carried similar stories. The red clouds and thunder ap-parendy filled the skies from one end of the Great Wall to the other and caused all Shadowlands creatures to halt their assaults and return to the depths of Fu Leng's realm. It meant something, the clouds were some sort of signal. But a signal of what? And what did it mean for the Crab Clan?
THE TEN-THOUSANDTH STEP
Hida Kisada spurred his horse to a gallop. After nearly two weeks of travel, planning, and more travel, he hoped there would still be some action when he arrived at Beiden Pass.
He was not at all prepared for the sight that greeted him as he approached the southern entrance.
In the failing daylight, wounded and dying Crab samurai lay everywhere. Healers tended to those who had strong spirits, and priests tended to those who did not. What kind of army did Toturi have? Even if he matched the Crab man for man, Beiden Pass offered sufficient protection that Sukune's losses should have been less than a quarter of the enemy's. If the south end of the canyon was this crowded with casualties, at the north, they would be stacked like firewood. How had Toturi managed to raise such a massive army so quickly?
The Great Bear heard the sound of ringing steel. Beiden Pass was miles long, yet the battle
was close enough to hear. His thinking changed entirely. No force was large enough to displace a Crab army the size Sukune commanded, not in two weeks. Something had gone terribly wrong.
To the west of the pass entrance stood the command tent. Sukune had better have a lot of damned good answers, thought the Great Bear as he rode to it and dismounted.
"Explain yourself!" Kisada demanded, stepping through the flap and into the small room, but Sukune was not there. His go set was, stopped in the middle of a particularly intriguing game. So was the tiny altar he insisted on carrying with him. The smell of incense still hung faindy in the air. It had not been very long since Sukune was here.
Perhaps he was at the front, leading his samurai. So many things could have gone wrong, and Sukune was a brilliant tactician. The answers to Kisada's questions lay with his youngest son.
The daimyo emerged from the tent. He was about to remount his horse and urge it toward the canyon, but the sounds of battle had ceased. A shiver shot up Kisada's spine, and the world grew dark around him. The last sliver of the sun sank below the mountainous horizon.
The fighting was done for the day. Kisada would wait here for Sukune to return.
But it was the Great Bear's eldest son who led the troops out of the canyon mouth. Though most of the samurai seemed weighed down by fatigue, Yakamo walked tall, strong, and proud.
"Oy! Yakamo!" Kisada called out.
The younger Hida raised his left hand—or what now took its place—and waved enthusiastically.
"Father!" Yakamo answered. "You have arrived! Tomorrow we will drive
the hated Toturi from the pass for certain!"
He turned to his samurai.
"Let us raise the call—the Great Bear has returned!"
The other Crab, though, were too weary from the day's battle to raise more than a mild cheer. They appeared gladdened, even relieved, by Kisada's presence. But all they really seemed interested in was hot food and a warm bedroll.
"How fares the army, my son?" the daimyo asked, ignoring the lukewarm reception. Kisada did not blame the samurai for their lack of enthusiasm. War was a terrible business. And though these men and women had been practicing their craft for years, it was tougher on one's spirit to kill fellow samurai than it was to strike down inhuman monsters.
Yakamo shook his head despondently. "We've lost about a third of our troops, Father," he finally admitted. "Shadowlands casualties have run closer to one half."
"How?" Kisada demanded. "How did this happen? What trick did Toturi use?"
"He needed no trick," answered Yakamo, his voice as sharp as a katana. "My brother practically gave him the pass. He refused to use the Shadowlands warriors and—"
His father held up a hand.
"Let us see what Sukune has to say for himself. Where is he?"
Yakamo made a dismissive gesture. "I do not know," he said. "Last night I assumed command of our combined forces, and Sukune has not shown his face since. For all I know he is sitting in his tent crying over his lost command."
Kisada shook his head. "He is not in his tent. And despite your brother's physical weakness, he recognizes that you make the better commander and would not stand in your way."
"Yes," Yakamo agreed, "but now that you are here, we can really make some headway! Let me clean off this Dragon filth and then we can ..."
The young man's voice trailed off. Behind his mask his eyes widened visibly. Throughout the camp, samurai had grown disturbingly still. All eyes stared at something beyond the Great Bear's shoulder.
Kisada turned and followed his son's gaze. Coming over the rise was a retinue of Shadowlands creatures. Ogres, ghouls, ghosts, and other monstrosities marched proudly before a single towering figure—Yakamo no Oni!