Winter Raven (Path of the Samurai Book 1)

by Adam Baker

  Three men reluctantly volunteered. Jinkorou hesitated a moment, then joined the line.

  ‘No one else?’ asked the samurai. ‘Well, then. Four men, four poles. Good. As you can see each pole has a flag on top. The first man to place a flag in my hand will live. The trial will begin when I give the word, understand?’

  The men lined up. They stretched and shook their arms and legs trying to restore blood to numb limbs.

  ‘Now. Begin.’

  Jinkorou sprinted to the pole ahead of him. He shoved the convict running by his side and sent the man sprawling in the mud. The prisoner yelled in anguish and scrambled to his feet but his race was already lost.

  Jinkorou started to climb. In the periphery of his vision he saw another man reach the top of a pole but slip before he could retrieve the red rag. The convict fell to the ground and broke his ankle. He spent his remaining time at the foot of the pole, hopping in desperation, transfixed by the little red flag fluttering above his head, the short distance between life and death.

  Jinkorou climbed the pole and gripped the scrap of fabric. He slid down the pole, matched by the man on his left, an opponent called Masaie. He had been hired muscle in the employ of a copperware merchant and had been convicted of burning down a rival merchant’s house. He and Jinkorou had been friends in the camp but right now Jinkorou wouldn’t hesitate to crush the man’s throat in order to survive.

  The two men slid down the poles and hit the ground at the same time. Jinkorou glanced left. He felt a surge of euphoria. Masaie had twisted an ankle and was struggling to remain upright.

  Jinkorou ran towards the samurai. He’d made it. He’d beaten the executioner’s blade. Then something slammed into the back of his head and he pitched face down in the mud.

  He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn’t comply. He was dizzy and his ears rang. He touched the back of his head. Blood on his fingers. A rock lay next to him in the mud.

  He looked up. Masaie limped to the samurai’s table and slammed the red scrap of fabric onto the table before falling to his knees, exhausted but victorious.

  ‘You dog,’ shouted Jinkorou. ‘You filthy dog.’

  He ignored the screams of his two fellow losers as they were dragged away and beheaded.

  ‘Dogs. All of you,’ he shouted as the executioner walked towards him with his sword drawn. ‘Nothing but dogs.’

  The executioner stood over him. Jinkorou took a last look around at a vicious world that had brought him nothing but misery then spat at the executioner’s feet.

  ‘Dogs.’

  He stared the executioner in the eye as the man raised his sword to strike.

  Michio stood among the remaining convicts. He was huge, a full arm-span taller than most of the other men and was prone to rage. He spent an evening at a brothel and killed a whore in a moment of drunken fury. He would end his life, as he always knew he would, in a prison camp. Even if he won a trial and escaped the executioner’s blade it would only be a matter of time before his volcanic anger put him back under sentence of death.

  Michio watched the samurai and the captain consult their list.

  ‘Twenty nine left,’ said the captain.

  ‘Murderers?’

  ‘Many of them. They are soldiers. Trained for aggression. Trained to kill.’

  ‘Well, let’s test that talent. Have the others prisoners clear the yard. Let’s see our killers in action.’

  Men convicted of petty crimes of avarice: theft of rice, adulterating precious metals, defrauding the Imperial household, were ordered to vacate the yard. They sat on the logs which bordered the acre of mud leaving thirteen men convicted of unlawful violence standing in the centre.

  ‘Give them knives,’ said the samurai.

  The captain hesitated. He assessed the threat posed by the thirteen ragged men.

  ‘Your men have swords and bows,’ the samurai assured him. ‘These convicts will give you no trouble.’

  The captain nodded assent. His soldiers reluctantly drew tantōs from their belts and threw them in front of the convicts. The samurai stood and addressed the prisoners.

  ‘Pick up the knives,’ he said.

  The men shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the blades lying in pooled rainwater. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe they would be struck down by archers if they reached for the blades.

  ‘Pick them up.’

  They picked up the knives, testing the sharpness of the blades and the wooden grips. The samurai gestured to the archers that ringed the square.

  ‘If you rush the guards, you won’t get close enough to strike a blow. So put any daydreams of escape from your mind.’

  The convicts looked at each other, sick with fear as they realised what was about to be asked of them.

  ‘You are savages,’ said the samurai. ‘Let’s see how savage you can be. You will fight. The fight will continue until only one of you remains. Ready? Begin.’

  One of the prisoners acted fast. He stabbed the man on his right. Then he crouched, span and slit open the belly of the man on his left. The injured men fell to the ground, mortally wounded and out of the game. The remaining convicts backed away from one another and began to circle. A slow dance. Each man stared straight ahead so he could hold opponents in the periphery of his vision. Nothing happened for a long while. The convicts shuffled in a low crouch waiting for someone to make a move. One prisoner was afflicted by a sudden, spluttering cough. He doubled up, gasped and choked. His neighbours instantly hit him from both sides. Frenzied stabs. The terrified man didn’t defend himself. He covered his face like he wanted the horror to be over, like he sought refuge in death. He convulsed and pitched forward in the mud. His assailants were grabbed from behind and their throats cut. The mêlée began in earnest. The men converged. Hacking, slashing fury. Screams of terror and rage. The spectators lining the yard shouted instructions and encouragement. Both prisoners and guards were transfixed by the vicious gladiatorial combat.

  Michio waded into the throng. He stabbed straight down and nailed his knife into the crown of a convict’s head. The man fell dead, knife still embedded in his skull.

  Michio’s punches sent opponents reeling. They fell back into the arms of their fellow convicts who immediately gouged open their bellies.

  Four men faced each other at the centre of the corpse-strewn killing ground. One of the convicts lunged at Michio. The man screamed and charged but immediately slipped in the mud. A knife slammed in his back and punctured a lung. He writhed in the water-logged dirt, blood and spittle foaming from his mouth.

  Three men left. Michio slowly backed up as his opponents converged on him. A prisoner bellowed and charged. Michio scooped mud, threw it in his attacker’s face and dodged the blade. He brought his fists together, slammed the convict’s temples and crushed his skull.

  Two men left. Michio faced an elderly convict with a gash in his leg. They were both so splattered in blood they looked like they’d been painted red. The crowd fell quiet as they waited for the final, brutal clash that would decide the outcome of the trial. Michio wiped rainwater from his eyes and marshalled his strength. His opponent lost bladder control.

  Michio roared and ran at the man. The convict fled. They ran in circles. It was a long, laborious pursuit. Both men were exhausted. Michio stumbled over bodies, skidded in churned mud. His quarry was hobbled by an injured leg. Michio finally caught the man by the collar and flung him to the ground. He planted a foot on the man’s back, bent down and gripped the stricken convict’s hair, pulling back his head.

  ‘Please,’ begged the old man.

  Michio clamped the man’s head between his hands, twisted and wrenched. Neck snap. He caught his breath then slowly got to his feet. His clothes swung heavy with blood and rainwater. He walked across the yard towards the samurai. He stepped over bodies left contorted by their final agonies. The yard looked like a battlefield. Screams and shouts had been replaced by deathly silence.

  Michio stood in front of the samurai’s tabl
e, victorious. He struggled to regain his breath. Great plumes of steam with each laboured exhalation. Nearby soldiers tensed, hands on the tsukas of their swords, in case the giant, demented by bloodlust, attacked their commanding officer.

  ‘So,’ said the captain. ‘We have our winner.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the samurai. He wasn’t looking at Michio. He was looking at the men kneeling round the perimeter of the yard. One of the convicts slowly got to his feet, drew a knife from his sleeve and advanced on the giant. ‘Yes, I think we have our winner.’

  Michio turned. He watched, uncomprehending, as the convict approached, then snapped out of his reverie. He ran to nearby bodies and prised a tantō from the grip of a dead man and found a second knife nearby.

  The two men edged to the centre of the yard and circled each other. Michio wiped sweat and rainwater from his eyes. He sank to a crouch, knife in each hand. His skin steamed in the cold afternoon air and he stumbled like a drunk. He flexed tired arms and legs, tried to galvanise numb, unresponsive limbs. His opponent danced around him, focused and well rested. The convict skipped over sprawled bodies and looked for an opportunity to strike. The two men tensed, ready to spring at each other.

  ‘Enough,’ shouted the samurai. ‘Come here, both of you.’ They approached the table. ‘Throw down your knives.’

  They complied. The samurai inspected the two convicts.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the shorter of the men.

  ‘Ariyo.’

  ‘You were convicted of murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man held the samurai’s gaze refusing to be intimidated by the soldiers around him.

  ‘Who did you kill?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Ariyo.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  The samurai addressed the captain. ‘Admirable cunning. The moment the contest began, this man joined the onlookers watching the fight. He didn’t leave the perimeter of the yard. He didn’t violate the rules of the contest. He simply knelt near the edge while others fought it out and allowed himself be overlooked. Now that his sole remaining adversary is crippled by exhaustion he has entered the game with a clear advantage. Clever.’

  The captain nodded.

  ‘The trial is over,’ said the samurai, addressing Ariyo. ‘Sit with the other two champions. Enjoy the apples.’

  Soldiers began to clear the square picking up knives and rinsing blood from the blades. They dragged bodies by the ankles and added them to the corpse-pile.

  Michio looked around with growing anger and incomprehension. He slowly backed away from the table.

  ‘Hé? But I won,’ he shouted. ‘I fought. I killed. He cheated. I won.’

  He stood alone at the centre of the yard. Archers took aim.

  ‘Wait,’ he bellowed, terrified and enraged by the injustice of the situation. He pointed an accusatory finger at Ariyo. ‘Wait. He didn’t fight. He didn’t draw a single drop of blood.’

  The captain gave the nod and three arrows pierced Michio’s chest. He stood swaying for a few seconds then sank to his knees. The executioner drew his sword and cautiously approached the dying man. Michio looked up at the blade raised for the killing blow.

  ‘But I won.’

  The executioner was quietly proud that, despite the muscular thickness of Michio’s neck, he was able to hack through it with a single blow.

  Chikaaki mustered with the remaining inmates at the centre of the square. He used to supervise a grain warehouse but he got caught altering the inventory so he could re-sell sacks of grain. He wasn’t used to hardship. Prison life hit hard.

  He listened to the samurai talking to the captain.

  ‘I have enough men,’ said the samurai. ‘Three is sufficient. The smaller the team, the better.’

  ‘I have orders. A five man squad. You’ve lost your sword arm. Given time, you could learn to fight with your left. But there is no time. You and your men are set to depart straight away. You will be in command and they will fight on your behalf. So. Five men.’

  ‘Tell me about these convicts,’ said the samurai, gesturing to the remaining prisoners.

  The captain consulted the charge sheet.

  ‘The dregs. Horse thieves. Kidnappers. Swindlers. A pathetic bunch. Crimes of weakness. Crimes of greed.’

  The samurai stood at the edge of the yard and surveyed the remaining convicts. Emaciated, fearful men.

  ‘So what earthly use are you?’ he said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Men too stupid, to venal, to persevere in an honest trade. You have no skills, no aptitudes. Even among the criminal underworld you are regarded as gutter-rats. Little more than vermin.’

  The men looked down at their feet.

  ‘Walk to the edge of the square.’

  The men glanced at each other, reluctant to move, aware that their lives depended on the whim of the one-armed man. The slightest misunderstanding of his orders might end in death.

  ‘Come on. Move to the edge of the square.’

  Chikaaki shuffled forward. The rest of the men followed his lead.

  ‘This is the final trial. We will test the simplest, most basic attribute of all. The will to survive. You will run around the perimeter of the square. If you stop, you die. If you walk, you die. The last man on his feet will live.’

  Soldiers took position around the perimeter of the yard, swords drawn.

  ‘The cunning among you will run slowly. You will try to conserve your strength. You might even be tempted to trip your companions and put them out the game. In the end, none of these tricks will save you. You fate depends on the answer to a simple question: how badly do you want to live?’

  The samurai clapped his hands to indicate the imminent commencement of the test.

  ‘Begin.’

  Chikaaki and the remaining convicts broke into a shuffling run. They jogged round the perimeter of the yard. The man in front of Chikaaki stumbled almost immediately, his feet slipping on churned mud. He fell face down. Chikaaki jumped over him and kept running. He heard the prisoner shout: ‘No,’ then heard the meat-smack of a blade hitting flesh.

  ‘Think about what you want most in the world,’ shouted the samurai. ‘Another drink. Another fuck. Find something. Find a reason to live.’

  They kept running.

  * * *

  By late afternoon Chikaaki was exhausted and battling delirium, but he continued to run the perimeter of the square.

  The soldiers built a fire. They sat at the edge of the square and ate in shifts. They ate bowls of rice. They ate an apple each. They passed around a skin full of water. They taunted the parched prisoners by gulping water and letting it trickle down their chins. Chikaaki threw back his head, stuck out his tongue and tried to catch some rain. The convicts kept running. They shuffled slower than a walking pace. Their faces were slack and white, each man locked in a private hell. A couple of convicts fell to their knees. Comrades swerved round them as they lay defeated, waiting for the sword.

  Chikaaki kept running.

  * * *

  One-by-one, the men gave up. They walked to the centre of the yard, knelt and submitted to the sword. A strange dynamic took hold. A weird ecstasy. In their last minutes of their existence the petty criminals found solidarity in death. They had lived their lives like feral dogs. They never looked beyond themselves, never looked further than the next cup of wine. But they faced the end together. As each man reached the limit of his physical and mental endurance he walked to the centre of the square with a dignity he had never known in life. They knelt, closed their eyes as if in prayer and waited for the blade to fall.

  Chikaaki kept running.

  * * *

  The samurai accepted a bowl of rice. He had no right arm so he had to balance the bowl in his lap and awkwardly manipulate hashi with his left hand. He dropped food a couple of times as he raised it to his mouth and had to brush rice from his robe. He remained even-tempered. No point raging against his handicap. Life sends tribulations. Might as well be angry
at the sky for being blue.

  Soldiers stood around the perimeter of the yard and jeered the convicts. They knew, deep down, there was little difference between themselves and the wretched men sliding in the mud. One drunken tavern brawl, one stroke of bad luck, and they too could find themselves incarcerated in a stockade awaiting execution.

  The samurai felt disinclined to watch the prisoners struggle for their lives. He took no pleasure in their suffering. Instead he got to his feet and paced. He massaged the stump of his vanished arm. He could still feel the absent limb. A dull ache. He had opiates in his pack but he was anxious to save them for when the pain in his gut became more than he could bear. He looked up and watched wood pigeons race across a bruised sky, trying to ignore the anguished convicts, their tortured respirations, the mud-splash of their shuffling feet.

  * * *

  By early evening only two men remained. Chikaaki and the other remaining convict shuffled round the square. Their feet had been bound with sacking but the make-shift shoes had long since disintegrated. Sharp stones hidden in the mud cut their feet but they kept running.

  Chikaaki was almost at a standstill. His limbs were starting to slow and fail. His vision blurred. The people and buildings around him became diffuse as if they were masked by fog. He tried to slap himself alert. Then, without warning, the man in front of him collapsed as his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, a look of incomprehension on in his face as he tried to will the inert limbs to move. He massaged his paralysed thighs, punched them; tried to get them to respond.

  Chikaaki stood beside the man. The convict was a new arrival at the camp. Chikaaki hadn’t spoken with him, didn’t even know his name. He held the stricken man’s hand as the executioner approached. The executioner took position and drew his sword. The convict smiled at Chikaaki and closed his eyes. He began to murmur the Mantra of Light.