Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  He gasped and reached for her.

  But it was not Kiosé.

  Hana flinched back. After a moment to compose herself, she bowed to him.

  He stared for a long moment, then swallowed the lump in his throat and returned the gesture. The lump in his throat became a hot spear through his heart. Hana moved close to Norikage, as if taking comfort in his presence.

  The hot sizzle in Ken’ishi’s breast flared, but he tried to suppress it. Kiosé had often done the same with him.

  He cleared his throat. “There is something else. Something that has been troubling me.”

  Confusion flickered in Norikage’s eyes at Ken’ishi’s tone.

  “That letter was addressed to Hojo no Masahige.”

  Norikage looked away. “Yes.”

  “You never told the government or his family of his death.”

  Norikage looked away. “That missive must have been lost somehow.”

  Rage boiled up in Ken’ishi’s breast, threatening to explode into violence. He snorted and turned his back on Norikage, reaching for the stallion’s reins. “Even now you lie!”

  “Why are you angry about this now? You have been gone all this time. Almost everyone in Aoka village is dead and—”

  “Idiot! We are lucky Masahige’s spirit does not haunt us!” The rage grew. Or Kiosé’s spirit. Some small voice told him his anger at Norikage was misplaced, but the strength of it exploded past any thoughts of its injustice. “He never had a proper funeral! You had me assume the identity of a dead man?”

  Norikage’s confusion deepened. “He had a funeral! He was cremated and buried in the village cemetery! And a priest from the temple in Hakozaki said prayers over his body.”

  Ken’ishi turned on Norikage. “What of his swords?”

  Hana cowered behind Norikage.

  Norikage’s voice trembled. “His family is rich! They do not need them! I sold his swords long ago.”

  “Lies and corruption! You have dishonored me! Three years of a false life! Three years of lies! Three years of ignoring—”

  The truth …

  Then something appeared to shift in Norikage as well. “You are ronin! In the eyes of the world, you had no honor to lose!”

  “A man’s honor lies within himself, not in the eyes of the world!”

  “Wrong! Honor comes from the power other people grant you, based on who they think you are! Who is the fool, Ken’ishi? The deceiver, or the man who allows himself to be deceived?”

  “You took advantage of my ignorance!”

  “And you took advantage of my position! No legitimate constable would ever have allowed you to be a deputy. A legitimate constable would have had you tortured and executed for killing Nishimuta no Takenaga.”

  Ken’ishi’s jaw clenched. “Get away from me, coward! Liar! Perhaps the barbarians won’t catch you.” He threw a leg over the saddle.

  Norikage shook his head. “Wait, please! Ken’ishi, this quarrel is absurd!”

  “You didn’t protect her! Someone should have protected her!”

  “It all happened too swiftly!”

  “They are dead. Everyone is dead. Little Frog was my son, and you did not save him.” Kiosé’s slack, gray face. Little Frog’s poor, pulped head. “If you try to follow me, I will kill you.” Ken’ishi’s voice was as cold as the ice of Hokkaido. He turned his mount back down the path, spurred the stallion into a run, ducking branches and snarling back tears. But even as he let the stallion have its head, he knew it would never be able to run fast enough.

  It is said that, in all things, if you would know a man’s good and evil points, you should know the retainers and underlings he loves and employs, and the friends with whom he mixes intermittently. If the lord is not correct, none of his retainers and friends will be correct. If this is the case, he will be despised by all, and the neighboring provinces will hold him in contempt.

  — Takuan Soho, “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”

  As darkness fell in Dazaifu, Yasutoki trudged through the samurai camp, footsore and bone-weary. He counted himself lucky to have gotten away from Hakata ahead of the Mongol advance, but it had been a long walk to Dazaifu after an exhausting night; he was no longer a young man. Tiger Lily limped beside him on blistered feet, shivering in the stiff, autumn wind.

  Among the tents surrounding the city, brooding warriors saw to their weapons and injuries. In the light of the campfires, haunted, beaten faces did not acknowledge Yasutoki’s passing. Many of them lay with bloody bandages covering arrow wounds. None of them had wounds of any other kind.

  Along the road, he had heard tales of samurai trying to join in combat with the enemy, calling out their challenges in the traditional manner, but all of them had died under sleeting arrows. The Mongol ponies were small, but they were swift, and huge units of horsemen could move with the precision and unity of a school of fish.

  But then, Yasutoki had long known these things. The samurai defenders would be routed again and again because they were too stubborn to adapt to the ways of war the Mongols employed.

  Despite the despair the defenders must be feeling, they bore it with their characteristic samurai stoicism. Their encumbering tenets of honor notwithstanding, Yasutoki respected the prowess of professional warriors. They endured incredible trials and years of training to hone their martial skills to perfection, just as he had. Nevertheless they were the pawns, unwitting or not, of a corrupt and useless government, one that must be swept away by cleansing fire. In time, after the invasion was successful, the samurai lords would regroup and revolt. They might even rethink their battle strategies to better combat the invaders, and then they might drive the Golden Horde back to China. By then, however, the Shogunate would be gone, and with it the Minamoto and Hojo families. Because of the imperial line’s divinity, the emperor would likely remain and perhaps even reclaim some of his rightful power. Perhaps he would see to it that the Taira clan, whose blood was woven so tightly into the Imperial line, would be restored to their rightful prominence.

  Dazaifu swarmed with activity. Thousands of samurai had converged on the city after numerous defeats the previous day. The streets were still choked with men and horses.

  The loss of his house in Hakata had turned his belly to a vat of acid, but at least now he had a conveniently plausible reason for its destruction, and his lamentation at its destruction would be real. Nevertheless, the anger would fade quickly. As with all things, the house was simply a tool, a convenience. He would adapt, as he always did. He would find new tools, new advantages. He had learned long ago to cling to nothing in this world except power and riches, and even those must sometimes be relinquished for future gain.

  The weather had grown dismal and gray by evening, with warm, wet winds blowing in from the sea. Samurai and peasant alike had been looking at the sky and grumbling. Yasutoki had seen days like this before. A sky like this one had the potential to settle either into a mild rain or a full-fledged typhoon.

  He walked through the campsites to the government offices along the Bamboo Hat River, which flowed through the center of the city. Near the government offices lay the festival grounds, which were now packed with tents and cookfires. It was there he spotted a familiar tent and banner.

  The red-striped tent of Otomo no Tsunetomo stood with a light inside and two burly warriors at the entrance, whom he recognized as some of his lord’s trusted bodyguards. He had been away from Tsunetomo’s service for so long, he took a moment to compose himself into the identity of Yasutoki, the trusty chamberlain.

  As he approached the tent, the burly yojimbo blocked his entrance.

  Yasutoki took off his basket hat. “Out of my way!”

  The whites of the guards’ eyes glowed with recognition. “Of course, Lord! Welcome!”

  They had been slow to recognize him. Did he look so different now?

  Stepping inside, he saw Lord Tsunetomo lying upon a mat near the fire, with more armored, taciturn bodyguards on either side
. His armor had been removed so that his wound could be tended.

  One of the guards followed him inside.

  Yasutoki trained his gaze on each of the warriors in turn. “Report.”

  The guard kept his voice admirably even. An arrow had slipped between Lord Tsunetomo’s shoulder guards and breastplate, lodging deep in his shoulder. It had been removed, but the removal had caused more damage than the entry. The healers had given him powerful medicine to put him to sleep. In spite of the blankets covering him, he shivered with fever.

  Yasutoki felt an uncustomary twinge of worry. If Tsunetomo died, Yasutoki would lose the legitimacy of his disguise, and a real source of wealth. Part of him respected Tsunetomo’s martial prowess. Tsunetomo was honorable, just, brave, and strong, and his retainers adored him. They would follow him to their deaths. But it was those qualities that gave Yasutoki the ability to enact his plans without detection because Tsunetomo assumed that others were just as honorable. Indeed, they had known each other since they were young men, and Yasutoki sometimes enjoyed Tsunetomo’s manly company, but he never forgot that the man was merely a tool.

  The lord needed his rest. Yasutoki withdrew. At least he felt some measure of comfort at rejoining the company of friendly forces.

  Outside, he spotted Captain Yamada on horseback, a man whose services Yasutoki had occasionally employed. Yamada knew Yasutoki was a schemer and sometimes enjoyed the bits of intrigue his lord’s retainer tossed his way, but he did not know of Green Tiger or the true depths of Yasutoki’s plans.

  Yamada bellowed at the crowd as his stallion shouldered through the masses. “Out of the way!” More than once he used his riding quirt against a sluggish peasant.

  Yasutoki waved to him.

  Finally Yamada reached the tent, dismounted, and knelt before Yasutoki. “Yasutoki-sama. I am happy you have found us. I heard that Hakata had fallen.”

  “I am hale and hearty, Captain. What news?”

  “Tsushima and Iki Islands have fallen. Imazu town is burning. Pockets of Hakata and Hakozaki hold out, but they have been surrounded. The barbarians have broken through our lines. Their patrols are scattered across the countryside, and there is talk of a much larger force gathering to strike Dazaifu.”

  “How large?”

  “Ten thousand, but only one scout claimed to have seen it, and he has died of his wounds.”

  “And our lord’s castle?”

  “Under Captain Nobuhara’s command and the authority of Lady Kazuko.”

  “Lady Kazuko?”

  “Yes, my lord. Lord Tsunetomo left her in command.”

  Yasutoki rubbed his chin. Much had changed in the short months he had been absent. Perhaps little Kazuko had come to fill the clothes her title granted her. “Thank you very much, Yamada. You may go.”

  “But, my lord, would you like something to eat and drink? What about your …” He glanced toward Tiger Lily, then let his eyes linger over her charms.

  “My servant shall prepare some food for us.”

  Yamada bowed again, remounted his horse, and departed.

  A breathless messenger ran up moments later. The messenger had the harried, stricken look of a man with the world riding on his shoulders. He knelt at Yasutoki’s feet, gasping for breath. “Message for Lord Otomo!”

  “I shall receive it,” Yasutoki said.

  “I beg pardon, my lord, but I was ordered to give it only to Lord Otomo or to Captain Tsunemori.”

  “Lord Otomo is wounded, resting. I am Otomo no Yasutoki, his chamberlain. Give it to me.”

  The messenger reluctantly produced a message case and gave it to Yasutoki.

  Yasutoki snatched it away. “I shall see that Lord Otomo reads this at the first opportunity.”

  The messenger bowed again, then dashed off.

  Yasutoki opened the seals on the box and held the paper near a lantern. As he read, he could not contain his amazement.

  The general in Imazu, Hojo no Yoshimasa, was no fool. Contained in the letter was a detailed description of the Mongol battle tactics, numbers, and some of the terrifying siege weapons they had used against the city. Their use of strange siege weaponry that “roared with thunder and smoke” had confounded the defenders at first, but the defenders had regrouped and held on for now. The general made some astute observations and included comments on how to fight against the Mongols more effectively. “Let our failures be your guide to victory,” the message said.

  The general’s judgments were sound. The Mongols were not simple horsebowmen or mindless barbarians. They were all, every one of them, as tough as the steppes that spawned them, and their generals were formidable strategists, else they would never have conquered China and spread their dominion over lands west.

  He considered destroying the message, but then realized that by the time Tsunetomo awoke, it might already be too late.

  Tiger Lily sidled up to him. “I am frightened, Master.”

  He patted her forearm. “We are in the hands of the gods and Buddhas. And never call me ‘master’ again. In the world above, better to call me ‘lord.’”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Good girl. Now, let’s find some sustenance, shall we?”

  “Perhaps I can help, Lord.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “As beaten down as these men are, I saw many of them with food. Please allow me to … try something.”

  He could not suppress a smile. “Very well.”

  “Wait here, Master. I will be back soon with food.” She bowed, then dashed away into the night.

  Of course, he could hardly let her play unsupervised, and he was curious about what she had in mind. Sticking to the shadows as she made her way into the encampment of warriors, he watched her from afar as she wove through the pools of firelight, her step dainty, her demeanor that of any frightened fourteen-year-old girl.

  She sat beside two weary-looking samurai, bowed obsequiously, and spoke, clasping her hands to her chest, eyes glimmering with hunger in the firelight. She was too far away to hear, but he noticed that by the time she was done speaking, her robe had somehow fallen open to expose—almost expose—a soft, nubile breast. Lust glinted in the warriors’ eyes, but tempered by some real concern at the suffering of so lovely a creature. Each gave her a rice ball and a piece of smoked fish. She thanked them profusely and departed.

  Yasutoki was surprised at how quickly she managed it, and never once did she expose the wanton, lascivious nature that had awakened in her under his tutelage. No, these men were simply giving food to a hungry, beautiful, innocent girl. Fools. He met her on a side street.

  Her smile was wicked. “That was easy, Master! Far easier than I thought. And you were watching.”

  “Well done, my sweet. Your perceptions are keen.”

  Her eyes glittered like a steel edge in moonlight. “Those fools were so busy trying to glimpse my nipple that I could have shoved a needle in each of their ears before they moved to stop me.”

  “Indeed.” He took the food she offered and ate, studying her. “Indeed.” He had taught her well enough that he would have to watch her now, closely.

  Even if one’s head were to be suddenly cut off, he should be able to do one more thing with certainty … With martial valor, if one becomes like a revengeful ghost and shows great determination, though his head is cut off, he should not die.

  — Hagakure

  Ken’ishi and the stallion traced their way around Hakozaki, eluding four enemy patrols and circumventing two sentry posts. Apparently, the entire town now lay in the hands of the enemy. The precipitous danger of their travel allowed his quarrel with Norikage to settle into the back of his mind, where it merely simmered. Finally, they reached the road to Dazaifu, their ears always alert for the sounds of hoofbeats.

  An hour after nightfall, the glow of a fire ahead gave him pause. This close to enemy lines, only they would be so bold to build a fire here. He dismounted and left the stallion hidden behind some undergrowth near the road, where he re
adied his bow and stole towards the light. He nocked an arrow as he crept, hugging the bushes to mask his advance. The wind, so steady and moist since the night before, bespoke a coming rain, but its noise would cover his footsteps. He heard the barbarians’ guttural voices and their strange tongue before he could see them. A mounted sentry stood in the road beyond where they had made their camp.

  Through the trees and bushes, three tents glowed with flickering firelight. The black silhouettes of ponies were tied nearby.

  Ken’ishi slid nearer, using the dancing shadows to conceal his approach, until he could see the Mongols’ heads as they sat around the fire. Five of them. Hairy, beastly looking men they were, drinking from gourd bottles, gnawing leathery strips of meat. Dark, ruby-red wetness glistened on their lips as they drank.

  One of the Mongols took the last drink from his bottle, then got up and approached the horses. The Mongol’s gait was bow-legged and ungainly, as if he was unaccustomed to walking with his own legs. He led one of the ponies closer to the firelight, then drew a small knife and handed the pony’s reins to one of his comrades. The second held the pony’s head still as the first made a quick, deft slice across the side of the pony’s throat. The pony flinched once, then stood still, trembling. Blood poured from the wound, and the Mongol raised his bottle to the catch the blood. When the bottle was full, he stoppered it and put it down, then pinched the wound shut with his fingers, pulled out a needle and thread, and carefully stitched up the cut.

  These … creatures actually drank blood! They were not men at all! They were oni! Ken’ishi’s belly heaved at the thought of drinking blood. Which would be worse, warm and fresh, or cold and half-congealed?

  Ken’ishi reached for the emptiness, driving down the revulsion churning in his guts. His consciousness settled into the Void. Heartbeats became their own eternities. He drew his bow and brought the sentry into his aim. His arrow toppled the sentry from the saddle like a sack of meat. The others leaped to their feet like wolves. Ken’ishi let fly another arrow, which pierced a Mongol’s upper arm, pinning it to his side. The Mongol fell onto his side with a harsh grunt, out of sight behind the bushes. The remaining three scanned the darkness, snarling. One of them pointed at Ken’ishi, barking a warning. Ken’ishi dropped his bow, and Silver Crane leaped into his hands. He loosed a sharp kiai from the depths of his belly and charged.