L5r - scroll 06 - The Dragon

by Ree Soesbee

  Yasu reached another group of fallen samurai and stopped his careful tracking to honor the dead. One body, two—ah, these were Dragon. Kneeling beside one of the corpses, the Kitsuki daimyo lifted the armor plating to reveal the mon. Mirumoto. Careful not to touch the dead flesh of the samurai, Yasu placed the armored scale in his pouch. These men had been in Hitomi's guard. She would not be far now.

  A soft moan came.

  Yasu reached for his sword before realizing the sound had come from one of the men on the ground. Stepping quickly to its source, he noticed that one of the Mirumoto was still breathing.

  "Hai, samurai, can you move?" he hissed, not wanting to attract the attention of either the necromancers or their minions.

  The Mirumoto stared up at him with glazed eyes, dried blood marking the man's forehead and neck.

  "Mirumoto-san?" Kitsuki Yasu searched the man for other injuries, but aside from a broken arm, there were none.

  "Hai, I know you . . . Ki'suki-sama." The voice slurred, hardly recognizable. Teeth were missing. A concussion. Not good signs.

  Yasu had some medical training, enough to know that this samurai had likely been struck by a powerful tetsubo to the head and left for dead. Ten hours later, he awoke on the battlefield, lucky no one had stopped to make sure.

  "Have you seen your lady? Hitomi-sama? Have you seen her?"

  The samurai's face contorted into a scowl, and he tried to pull himself upright. "Dead, by Shinsei, and damn well."

  The backhanded strike surprised Yasu as much as it did the other man. The Mirumoto reeled as Yasu drew back his fist again.

  "Never speak that way of your daimyo," Yasu said, shaking. The Mirumoto stared up at him in fear, stunned by the sudden assault. "Where is she?"

  "There . . . there." The Mirumoto pointed, lying back and reaching to nurse his bruised cheek. "He killed her by that stone."

  "Who?" Yasu gritted his teeth.

  "Hida Yakamo. She left us ... to fight 'im. She ran, and he followed, and we were butchered by the Hida infantry. I saw her cut down by his claw. Then they hit me, and... it all goes dark. Nothing more, Kitsuki-sama, I swear it. That's all I know."

  "Your name?"

  "Shiyando. Mirumoto Shiyando."

  "Shiyando." Yasu nodded, storing the name in his memory in case he needed it. "Do not worry. You will live to fight for the Mirumoto another day. Can you walk?" When the samurai nodded faintly, Yasu pointed toward the camp. "That way. There is a horse behind that knoll. Take it and return to your daimyo. He will need you."

  "Hai, sama."

  Yasu stood, walking toward the boulder. A terrible duel had occurred here. Scuffed footprints spoke of a massive assault by a smaller samurai against a man of tremendous size and girth. Here, blood spattered a large boulder. There, fragments of bone—someone had been badly injured. The Kitsuki's analytical mind frantically began to piece together the fight, noting each small piece of information and tucking it away. Footsteps, then a slide and stagger. She had been hurt—a leg injury, Yasu guessed from the soft marks of that foot thereafter.

  The Crab's steps were solid and hard, save this one point. They lightened. Perhaps the sign of an injury? Then they began again, as fresh as before despite the blood that trickled along the ground beside them. The blood was thick and dark, the mark of a major vein severed, but there were no bodies beside the boulder, nothing left behind—and here, the blood slowed. There, it stopped completely.

  "Shinsei the prophet," Yasu whispered. "What passed here? Wounds do not close, they do not simply vanish. This is not possible. The marks show ..."

  The scrub grass was imprinted, scuffed and bloodied, and fragments of armor littered the hard-packed earth beneath. Hitomi's body was gone, but the signs showed a great amount of blood and shattered armor. Nothing could have lived through such torture. Many bodies were missing from the battlefield, faceless minions of the necromancers and their porcelain masks. Could hers be one of those risen dead, animated by the enchanted clay that clung to their faces and held onto their tormented souls?

  Yasu scanned the ground for signs, and saw the marks of another visitor to the battle site. Softer footprints, these, pressed into the ground so lightly that even the adept Kitsuki tracker had missed them for a moment. Someone had come and borne away the body. But to where? For what purpose? The tracks vanished. Yasu cursed, confused. The evidence pointed to her death, but no samurai would steal the body of the dead. It was forbidden. A necromancer might have seized her corpse, but then there would be marks of two pairs of sandaled feet: the sorcerer and the risen corpse. There was only one pair of footprints here, and they vanished into the grass like a snake into water.

  Then he saw it, lying on the ground in a dried pool of blood, its silvered blade shining vainly despite the gore on its blade. Cruel marks of striated metal covered its once-elegant surface. Twisted and forgotten, it glittered as if trying to reclaim forgotten glories. Her sword. The sword of the Mirumoto ancestors, honored for a thousand years. Every daimyo had carried it, passed it down to son or daughter with honor and tradition. It was said that the ancestral sword would not break until the Mirumoto had dishonored themselves or the world was about to end.

  Shattered, twisted in two, it had been left in the dirt like trash.

  "No," Yasu whispered, touching the hilt of the broken blade. "Hitomi... it can't be true. You cannot fall."

  The sword glimmered a moment in the moonlight, and then the shimmer died. She would never have left her katana behind, and any man who had taken the living daimyo would have carried off the sword as a victory prize—a ruse to further blaspheme the name of the Mirumoto. She must be out there, somewhere within the Crab lines. Another corpse among the servants of Fu Leng. It was the only answer. All the evidence pointed to it, and Yasu's mind was too well trained to ignore what he had found.

  Defeated, Yasu knelt beside Hitomi's broken sword and wept. xxxxxxxx

  "Broken, my lord, and all the magic of the Agasha cannot restore it." Tamori purred like a cat, unable to contain his smug smile even beneath the protocol of a gathering.

  Assembled in the Dragon command tent on top of Beiden Pass's rolling hills, the daimyo and generals of the Dragon murmured in concern at the shugenja's words. The tent was dark, and the night outside seemed to push closer against the thin silk walls, pressing through despite the bright lanterns and the soft firelight.

  Daini felt the night pressing closer, capturing him within its iron grasp. His ploy had worked—Yasu had returned with the broken sword—but now everything was falling apart again.

  The Kitsuki daimyo did not speak and had hardly moved at all. From his knees, he looked up at the Agasha shugenja and the others, uncaring about or unaware of the Mirumoto samurai that had begun to cluster about them for news of Hitomi. Since delivering the sword to Mirumoto Daini, Yasu had seemed lost in his own thoughts.

  "The soul of the sword is broken," Tamori continued quietly, turning his eyes away from Kitsuki Yasu. "It is an omen. The Fortunes have spoken of the dishonor that the children of Shosan have brought to the Mirumoto. The legend of the sword says that it will break only when the Mirumoto line has dishonored themselves or the world is ending. I do not see the end of the world, Daini-san."

  Mutters among the Mirumoto troops turned the youth's face red with embarrassment.

  "I am sorry, Daini. The spirits speak through this sword's wounds. The line of Shosan is no longer worthy to carry the name of daimyo. A new sword must be forged, a new path chosen," Tamori said easily. "Who is worthy to accept the burden?"

  More mutters, and some of the samurai began to speak Yukihera's name.

  The golden samurai raised his hands and silenced them. "I am not worthy," he said loudly to the men.

  "You tried!" one of the commanders shouted. "You stood for us, Yukihera, and you fought for the Mirumoto! Yukihera-sama!" Hands leapt into the air, waving madly. The murmurs turned to shouts.

  With a raised eyebrow, Tamori turned to face Yukihera.<
br />
  "Are you strong enough, Mirumoto Yukihera, to bear the burden of this duty?" the shugenja asked. He was still holding the broken sword, but now it seemed he would place it at Yukihera's feet.

  "What my family demands of me, I must perform. I will send a message to Yokuni-sama, requesting that he place me upon the seat of daimyo of the Mirumoto. With his blessing, I will lead," Yukihera said, a beatific expression shining beneath his golden helm.

  Another cheer went up from the men.

  "By the fortunes ... what have I done?" Daini whispered, looking away from the shouting Dragon samurai. He watched as his visions of the future turned to desolate ash. The Mirumoto adored Yukihera, their golden samurai. They would follow him anywhere.

  "No," whispered Mitsu, his hand on Daini's shoulder. Mitsu's quiet rebuke kept Daini still, even before his mind could register the thought of leaving the tent. "You cannot turn your back on this, Daini."

  Daini looked up into the face of the riddler, expecting more, but nothing came. "I am not daimyo."

  "You are not the riddle, Daini. You are an answer. The mountain has many paths to its top. Remember that."

  "Yukihera knew that Hitomi would charge—he told me— he kept me from following her." Daini whispered "By Shinsei and the Fortunes...."

  "Mirumoto Daini, what do you have to say for your line?" Yukihera said clearly, his voice loud above the cheers of the Mirumoto samurai.

  Another samurai might have leapt forward, challenging Yukihera to a duel. Daini was not the warrior that his sister had been. Sixteen, frightened, and played for a fool, Daini knew that to challenge Yukihera would mean his death. Yet to bow to Yukihera meant giving up the position of daimyo and accepting the shame of his family's broken sword.

  Either way, Yukihera won. Mitsu was right.

  "I . . . await your command, my daimyo," Daini choked, lowering his head.

  The gathered samurai broke into cheers.

  Mitsu's hand tightened on the youth's shoulders, giving him courage.

  As Tamori chanted the ritual blessing of the ascension, Daini looked up into Mitsu's sympathetic eyes.

  "We will remember, you and I," the ise zumi spoke softly. "And when the time comes, we will know. Samurai cannot live in shadow forever. One day, they must return to the light."

  Daini heard Mitsu's words faintly, through a blur of sound and motion. The Mirumoto clan haori was stripped from him and placed upon Yukihera's broad shoulders as an emblem of his new command. Looking down, Daini saw that his sister's sword—the family sword—had been placed on the ground before him. Shattered. Broken. Like him, it had no saya, no sheath, no home and no purpose. It was Mirumoto still, but of no use at all.

  Samurai cannot live in shadow forever.

  Wherever this shadow of dishonor would take him, he would follow. "Hitomi, forgive me," Daini whispered, picking up the sword.

  POISONOUS TRUTHS

  Darkness. Shouting. Pain ...

  Agony lanced through her shoulder as if the world were on fire. It ripped Hitomi's flesh.

  Jerking awake, she screamed, her voice raw and hoarse. Something was missing. Her hand. Hitomi looked down at the blackened stump that had once been her sword arm, and she screamed again. The burly man held her down, pressing her body back against the futon as the servant once more touched cauterizing fire to the wound.

  Shinsei, no! Not my arm, not my hand, no!

  Hitomi fought weakly, her strength sapped by countless wounds and endless pain. Her leg was broken. Her skull felt cracked, and blood had dried beneath her tattered gi. The pain abated, numbed, fell away.

  The heimin servant removed the flaming brand from the stump of her arm and placed it back in the coals of a nearby brazier.

  The room spun crazily, brown wood panels and soft paper screens. Patterns on the screens made no sense to Hitomi's blurring vision. Men. People. Gardens. Colors swirled together, dancing in the light of the brazier's coals.

  "The lady will come to speak with you soon," the man hissed into Hitomi's ear. "You will be cleaned first, and given the chance to rest." He nodded, looking back at the servant. The weight lifted, no longer holding her torso flat. The man turned to the servant. "You are done?"

  "Hai, Bayushi-sama," the heimin bowed prostrate, touching his forehead to the floor.

  Hitomi saw her captor more clearly. A black mask hid his features, but his arms and shoulders were muscular. He wore the burgundy and black of Shoju's men.

  This must be a dream, a nightmare. The Scorpion are no more.

  She did not realize that she had spoken aloud until he answered. "You are wrong, Lady Mirumoto," the samurai said scornfully, moving back to allow the heimin to pass. He stood, reaching for a pair of swords in their enameled saya that hung carefully by the door. "You will find that you are wrong about a great many things."

  Darkness gathered at the corners of Hitomi's eyes, and she raised the stump of her ruined arm. "I want to be wrong about one thing, Scorpion," she gasped faintly, the words an effort. Looking back at him and letting the arm fall, she continued. "That I am alive."

  His features remained still beneath his black mask. As he slid the shoji screens open and stepped through, Hitomi glimpsed the hallway and rooms beyond. Suddenly she knew where she had been brought.

  Otosan Uchi, home of Emperor Hantei the 39^, the Eternal City of Light.

  Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness, she suddenly felt afraid.

  xxxxxxxx

  Wake, Hitomi. The voice was faint but powerful, and it held the ring of immortality.

  Her dream changed, shifted, and became the throne room of Mirumoto Palace. The ivory throne stood before her on its high dais, and Togashi Mitsu knelt in his customary place at its feet. The throne was empty.

  Wake, child. There is much to discuss, and little time.

  A shadow fell onto the throne, and Hitomi saw yellow eyes gleam in the darkness. Mitsu raised his hands with a sorrowful gesture. Blood ran down his bare arms, coating the floor in a crimson stain.

  Hitomi.

  The sound of her name was stronger now, and Mitsu's kind face turned away. It was not his voice. Welts appeared on the tall ise zumi's back, breaking open as the ise zumi opened his mouth silently to scream. In her dream, the cuts became her own. Intense pain seized her, flooding through her prone body and tearing at her flesh.

  Hitomi shuddered and gasped in agony, and her eyes flew open. Panting, she looked about.

  A man's shadow knelt in a nearby window and blocked the moon.

  Otosan Uchi. The emperor's city. The Scorpion. Was she in the palace? The walls seemed to recede as the terrible dream faded, but the world became no more real. Hitomi raised her hand to touch her forehead, and felt nothing. Staring in shock at the bloody bandages around her empty stump, Hitomi swallowed hard.

  Hitomi.

  The voice was real; it was everywhere at once, and nowhere at all. The shadow did not move, but perched on the window-sill. The dark form was familiar, but the voice was foreign. The man was thick of body, the muscles in his arms standing out in the moonlight under a thin gi. Gold plating shone faintly beneath swirling hair. The light of the stars glimmered from a metal mempo as wind blew the silk curtains past his face. A mask? A Scorpion.

  "Go away, Scorpion," Hitomi said wearily, hatred in her voice. "You shouldn't stare at a captive in this way. It makes you seem like a vulture, waiting for me to die."

  I am no Scorpion, and you will not die. The voice echoed strangely in the chamber.

  Throwing off the blankets, Hitomi was embraced by the sudden chill of wind sweeping through the window. "A ghost, then?"

  Of the future. There is much to discuss.

  "I don't talk to ghosts," Hitomi snarled, sitting up to face the window. Now that she had risen, she recognized the golden mask covering the face of the intruder. "You . . . Yokuni?" Stunned to see the Dragon Champion in such a strange place, Hitomi shook her head to clear her thoughts. She scrambled to her feet. "You are here to he
lp me escape," she said.

  Escape? No. No one can free you, Hitomi. You must have the strength to free yourself.

  I am here only to tell you your destiny.

  "Destiny," Hitomi said scornfully, raising the wrapped stump of her right wrist. "There is no future for me, Yokuni. You must know that. Everything I have fought for, everything I am is gone. What use is a samurai who cannot hold a sword? What good am I to my brother, now?"

  Yakamo has no hand.

  Stung, Hitomi snarled. "No, he has a demon claw. He shares his power with the spawn of the Dark God. Do you suggest that I do the same?" No answer came from the crouching shadow, and Hitomi brushed a shaggy lock of hair from her eyes. Her body ached, pain lancing through her from numerous cuts and bruised bones. Still, somehow, her injuries did not seem as bad as she had remembered—except for her arm. Her hand. "Take me out of here, Yokuni. I do not belong."

  No.

  Pushing herself to her feet, Hitomi drew a kimono from the table by the bed and put it on, the silk sliding roughly across her naked skin. Clumsily knotting the kimono together, she cursed. "I cannot even tie my own clothing. What sort of daimyo will I be?" Hitomi sank to her knees and pounded her fist against the wooden floor. "My men are dead, my clan has abandoned me, and you will not free me from this place? Yokuni! Am I dead to you?" When he did not answer, something broke in Hitomi's soul, and she let out a high keening cry. Enraged, she shattered the balsa wood shoji screen that had protected the bed from the hallway's faint light, throwing it to (he ground in splinters of fury.

  I cannot free you. I will not.

  "Will not? Do I mean so little, then?" She turned on him, fist clenched.

  You mean more than you can know. But I cannot act.

  "No? Didn't you act when you sent us to that Fortunes-cursed pass? When you allowed this to happen? Was that because you couldn't act?" Hissing, Hitomi pointed at Yokuni. "This is your doing, Champion. You took my hand, as much as that bastard Crab. You forced us from our mountains. We fought without a leader, without a champion, at the side of a ronin." She spit the word. "Because you refused to act, Mirumoto are dead, and my brother's revenge is lost." Ignoring the tears that streamed down her face, Hitomi glanced about the room, seeking a weapon. "This is your doing, Yokuni. Don't tell me you cannot act. You have already done enough."