by Rob Rosen
“What do you want, Masaka?” asked Katamura.
“I offer my life in exchange for a treaty. End this battle between our two people. My father is dead. Enough blood has been shed.” To prove my sincerity, I laid Shirou’s short sword just in front of me. “I am at your mercy, Great Lord.”
Further discussion was interrupted by the patter of footsteps. The flap was pulled aside and another man hurried forward and bowed low. I dared not look over to see who it was.
“What is this?” Katamura asked angrily.
The man next to me spoke, and somehow I wasn’t surprised to find it was Shirou. “I am the true son of Masaka Ryunosuke. This man is my physician. An imposter.”
My heart sank. We were both going to die in shame.
“Sit up,” Katamura demanded.
I did. A guard yanked off my helmet, then unfastened the armor. Once it was gone, my thinner form made it apparent which of us was the warrior and which was not. The daimyo looked from me to Shirou and back again. “Your name, physician?”
I bowed. “Yoshida Kenji, Great Lord.”
“Yoshida Kenji, son of the samurai Yoshida Noribu, the Tiger of Eisai?”
It had been some time since I’d heard my father’s nickname, which he’d gained by his fierceness in battle and the number of heads he’d brought back. “The same, Great Lord.”
Katamura looked thoughtful a moment, then asked, “You are willing to die for your master. What makes him so worthy of your loyalty?”
“We have been sworn friends since childhood. I have vowed to aid him even at the expense of my own life. He spent time in a temple before being recalled to his father’s side. It is my greatest wish that he return there and live the life of peace he craves. When we were boys, we spoke of saving lives, not ending them. This is not my lord’s fight but his father’s, and I would see it ended.”
Shirou made a choked sound. Katamura turned his attention to him. “And you, dragon’s son. This man falsely represented you and claimed to represent your intentions. What do you think his punishment should be?”
“He should die for his actions.” The words came out hard.
“But you have misgivings.”
Shirou’s voice trembled. “He is my strength when I have none. Without him, I will fall. If you wish one of us to die, I beg for your mercy to kill us both.”
“And if I ask you to kill him first?”
“Then I will do so.” From the corner of my eye I saw Shirou rise and move into the proper stance. His katana hissed as he removed it from its sheath. Heart hammering, I prostrated myself, neck exposed, and waited for the final blow.
Time seemed to stop. My senses intensified. I felt the blood rushing through my veins and cool air brush my cheeks and neck. Curtains rustled. Somewhere beyond, an impatient horse raked the earth with its hoof. Sharp daggers of pain shot through my leg, so intense I wanted to weep with the relief of knowing it would end soon.
Even without looking, I sensed Shirou’s anger that I’d left him and made it look as though he were too cowardly to come himself. My hope rested in him knowing I’d done it out of love for him. Our coupling had brought us so close that in our final moments we were in accord. If one of us died, the other would commit suicide. Nothing would separate us.
“If I let you live,” Katamura said, “what are your intentions?”
Shirou didn’t move. “I am the last of the dragon’s line. I have no interest in his castles, his lands or his holdings. I would lay down my sword, retreat to the mountains and live the remainder of my life as a monk.”
“He lies,” said one of the sons. “It’s a trick. He will have laid traps and men all over the castle.”
“I swear to you, I have not,” Shirou replied calmly. “My father’s property and all that is in it is yours. You may have what men choose to declare their loyalty to you. I will put my name to whatever paper you care to prepare.”
“Do you care nothing for your father’s honor?” asked the other son.
“My father tarnished his name as soon as he spread lies about your honored sister and put his own pride first.”
This took the Katamura aback. There was a collective inhale and a few quiet mutters. “Do you know this to be the truth?” Katamura asked.
Shirou lowered the sword. He held it at his side as if it were too heavy to lift. “There must be balance in power. My father was more tiger than dragon, despite his name. He was a hard man who knew nothing of softness. Even on his deathbed, he refused to admit he’d been in the wrong. I ask that the Great Lord be merciful and allow me to provide the balance by yielding honorably to his greater strength.”
I held my breath, well aware Katamura was within his rights to slay us both and put a final, permanent end to the war. I was still ready and willing to die, but I grieved that Shirou might make such a plea in vain.
“So be it. I accept your terms.” Katamura spoke to a servant who presented Shirou with paper, ink and brush. He took his time, writing each word carefully and clearly. When he was done, he handed it to the servant who passed it to Katamura.
The daimyo looked the paper over, then nodded approvingly. “Go,” he commanded, gesturing imperially. “Take your horses. You have two days to reach the temple. Should either of you leave it again, your lives are forfeit.”
I could barely stand after maintaining one position for so long, but Shirou helped me to my feet. This time, he was my strength, for I could not have mounted without his help. As soon as he climbed aboard his father’s white stallion, we raced out of the encampment and left our pasts behind.
The next two days were a blur of worry and pain. Shirou pressed hard, determined to get me to safety. I clung doggedly to the saddle, unwilling to let my discomfort slow us down and risk our lives. We had neither rations nor weapons, having left the latter behind as a sign of good faith, so by the time we reached the temple, we were weary and starved.
The monks made us welcome. Shirou was already known to them, and I had little fear of finding my own place as they were eager to have another healer among them. At Shirou’s request, we had a room to ourselves. The fine horses and tack would be sold to benefit the temple, and while personal possessions were discouraged, Shirou had made one notable exception.
I lay on it, reveling in the soft, striped fur against my bare skin while Shirou tended to my painful leg. A bath in the hot springs had helped, but it was no replacement for Shirou’s attentions.
With oiled hands, he worked up my thighs to the parts in between. I arched back and he took advantage of the increased access by thrusting his hand beneath my balls and stroking until my cock was achingly hard.
Then, supporting my bad leg, he raised my hips and speared me. Pain blossomed for an instant before changing to a profound, aching pleasure that spread through my belly. Our gazes locked and held. Master and servant. Warrior and healer. I was his support and he was mine, and it was never so fulfilling as now, when we were joined together and aiding each other in reaching mutual pleasure.
Climax rose and erupted, leaving us both tired and twitching in the aftermath. I rested my head and shoulder on his chest, listening to the fierce beat of his heart. “Dragon’s son.”
He laid a sweet kiss upon my forehead. “Tiger’s son.”
We curled together, tiger and dragon, in perfect balance.
TO THE VICTOR
Salome Wilde
His entrance was so warm and welcoming that I feared I would spill my seed before I’d even begun to claim my prize. The moon shone over his exposed flesh, and I reveled in the vision of his firm ass and muscled thighs. I gritted my teeth and fought for self-control as he urged me on with low grunts and arched his massive back to meet my every thrust. All but the pleasure of our bodies united as one fled from my mind, even the risk that we might be caught, out in the open of the village square in the late hours of a cold night.
But I hasten too quickly toward my tale’s conclusion. Let me begin again…
Th
e defeat of the tyrant Valushkin should have been my greatest triumph. His downfall was deemed impossible by all but fools and perhaps those few of my intimate acquaintance who knew the bottomless depth of my determination. His army was the mightiest ever assembled in our lands, governed by his indomitable will, his prowess as a leader and the ferocity of his troops. From such power came Valushkin’s iron rule over the kingdom, reflected in a vast, towering castle that overlooked villages and farms populated by a cowed peasantry.
I knew this world intimately, witnessed the warlord’s methods firsthand. As the bastard son of a lowly palace guard and a village whore, I was raised in the dirt and quickly learned to steal and cheat, knowing nothing would be given to me in this life unless I took it for myself. I grew to quiet strength and more than average intelligence in the shadow of Valushkin’s ruthless magnificence. Had I brawn but little brain, I would no doubt have made a meager existence as a blacksmith’s apprentice or a conscripted soldier, to have my blood spilled in my first taste of battle. But fate turned otherwise.
My keen and ambitious mind first led me to the forest, where I joined a band of local rebels. I eagerly accepted the role of errand boy, lookout and bed warmer. Passed from man to man, I learned fighting and stealth by day and honest lust by night. Within a few short years, as I grew to rough-hewn manhood, I earned the trust of my fellows and increased our numbers. My skills in strategy and a taste for combat were matched only by my generous sexual appetites. Soon, the men made me their leader, and we began together the daunting efforts of building an army strong enough to defeat Valushkin.
Knowing our numbers insufficient, I advised that we turn to the warring steppe tribes. In time, and utilizing my glib tongue and swift sword, I brought them to our shared cause against the common enemy. Together, we swept in upon Valushkin’s men on half a dozen fronts, shooting a thousand arrows from horseback at every pass. Before long, we had Valushkin’s army in confusion and disarray. Defeat came at the steps of his very castle, where I challenged him to single combat. Heart racing and blood surging, we fought. Wills and blades of equal might clashed. After an exhausting and bloody hour, the generous fates favored me. I could scarcely believe that I’d bested him, and that my efforts had succeeded against all odds. Yet, it somehow also seemed inevitable. To wild cheers and howling cries, I held my bloody sword aloft in triumph as Valushkin was taken away in chains.
Some of the tyrant’s forces fled. A few surrendered. Many, however, joined me, eager to serve a less tyrannical master. These men helped us to open the castle coffers and food stores to share all with the peasants who had been kept in poverty and mindless submission for too long. Wrongly held prisoners were released and slaves were freed. My name was heralded, and I gloried in it. My army and I had faced the greatest of challenges and won. I could not have known then that, for me, the true contest had yet to begin.
Valushkin, meanwhile, was put on public display, bound in heavy chain and staked to a post in the village square. The great and hated warlord would spend his final hours among the people whose lives he had held in his cold, merciless hands. They could watch as he froze to death or died of dehydration, left thereafter as food for the ravens.
Thoughts of this slow, ignominious death at first filled me with pleasure, drunk as I was with power. I gorged myself on food and flesh like the hero I was, and slept like a babe. On the third night, however, I found I could not rest. I was agitated and discontented, and therefore attempted to distract myself with the body of a wild, tattooed tribesman whose name I could not pronounce, then strove to drink myself into unconsciousness. My efforts, however, failed. I told myself I was merely anxious at the likelihood of dreams filled with images of death, of the slaughter of the many men who had died in my service. The truth, though, was far more selfish and more terrible. For I dreaded facing a sleeping echo of the moment Valushkin had met me at the palace gates, when I had finally faced him and beheld his enthralling, savage allure.
There was such frozen fierceness in those narrow, ice-blue eyes. A barbaric perfection burned in his bronzed, weather beaten complexion. I marveled at the curl of his lip within his bearded jaw, his visage surrounded by a wild mane of blue-black hair. He wore no crown, but needed none to manifest his might. Then came his low, snarled consent to combat: the voice of a beautiful and dangerous animal. Though I had defeated him with sword, I suddenly realized a new battle had begun—within me. Even as I relished the despot’s downfall, I knew myself awed beyond redemption by the man.
In frustration, I cursed his name aloud and heard it ring from the rafters of the great hall, bringing a rousing cheer from the men around me, who misunderstood entirely the meaning behind my cry. I grew feverish, pacing the floor like a tiger as I faced this abhorrent, inescapable truth. Finally, I retreated to a private chamber, where I donned the garb of a common guard and threw a heavy fur across my shoulders. In this way, I managed to escape the castle without notice. I then mounted a sturdy horse not my own and raced toward the village square. The mount’s thudding hoofbeats in the snow were drowned by the hammering of my heart as my breath made streaming clouds against the light of the crescent moon.
As I drew nearer, trepidation assailed me. Though all in the kingdom had been ordered that Valushkin remain unmolested, there was still the possibility that I would find him mutilated, sans toes or fingers taken for souvenirs, even castrated. I winced at the thought and hastened on.
At last, I reached my goal, to find Valushkin slumped against the stake. As I dismounted, a cold wind ripped through me. I shuddered, but the hulking form before me did not move. I wondered whether I was too late. Or perhaps he only slept. I approached him carefully, as I would an injured bear. When I was close enough to breathe in the scent of dried blood and a headier personal musk, his eyes suddenly opened and I was captured by the flash of his ice-and-steel gaze.
“Valushkin,” I hissed.
He straightened his back, eyes locked on mine.
“Are you enjoying my hospitality?” I mocked.
He merely sneered.
“Answer me,” I demanded.
I watched his chapped lips stretch into a derisive grin, his beard flecked with frost. My hands balled into fists in response and I brought my arm up to swing. The arrogant monster! But I stopped myself. The target was too easy. I was the victor, and we both knew it. I turned away, feeling foolish. What was I doing here? I hadn’t come to gloat. And if I’d come only to see the face of my terrible, beautiful enemy once more, now I had done so. I longed for wine and the comfort of a roaring fire. I strode back toward my horse, stiff with pride.
Above the crunch of the snow, I heard Valushkin’s laugh.
Spinning on my heel, I was certain I would strike the arrogant beast. Before I reached him, however, he spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he announced, his voice the low rumble of thunder.
I was struck dumb by the words and the way his eyes lit as they held me once more in their power. How could I answer? I had betrayed my own weakness by seeking out my fallen enemy and taunting him purposelessly. Though I had not come for the reason he obviously suspected, there was no sensible explanation for my presence. I stood, mute and lost.
“I unlocked these chains the first night,” Valushkin continued as he held up his freed hands. “One of the villagers—curse all their selfish, ignorant souls—was kind enough to throw a chicken bone at me.”
“Then why—”
“Am I still here?” he concluded for me. “As I said, I’ve been waiting for you.”
I swallowed hard as Valushkin untangled himself from the heavy lengths of iron and came to stand before me. He did not exactly tower over me, but somehow he looked as if he had grown even more massive since our battle. At the very least, he seemed not the slightest bit weaker for his three days without food, drink or furs against the cold. I would not have been surprised had he unsheathed a hidden dagger and slain me on the spot. But this was not his plan.
A heavy
arm fell across my shoulders. “Come,” he said with amusement, kicking links of chain out of his way and guiding me to sit beside him against the low stone wall that surrounded the stake. “Let us talk, man to man.”
Despite myself, I felt a thrill at my core. I tried to muster outrage or simple resistance, but failed. And still I did not speak.
“It was good to defeat me, wasn’t it, my young vanquisher?”
Certainly it was. The most important day of my life, in fact. And I could see in his countenance that his question was genuine. How many had he himself defeated with zeal, over many years? I stared at a silver scar across his brow, wondering how many more like it covered his body. “Yes,” I exhaled, hearing the arousal in my own voice too clearly.
“Yet your desire for me confuses you.”
I nodded, even as I was disconcerted by the way he so easily pulled the truth from me, like the removal of a sliver.
“Do not let it,” he advised with a grin. “There are times to think and times to act. You took my power with one sword, and now you wish to take me bodily with another.” His eyes glittered as he glanced at the hardness growing between my legs. “It is as simple as that.”
“Simple,” I echoed, both question and answer, and, before I could say more, my mighty nemesis took my broad face in his huge hands and kissed me with the force of an avalanche. I felt the calluses on his palms and the thickness of his beard against my own. His wind-cracked lips parted, giving way to a warm and generous tongue. I feasted. And when he pulled away, we were both breathless.
“There is one condition to my surrender,” Valushkin huffed.
“Afterward, you must let me tell you a story.”