by Ree Soesbee
I cannot set you free. Your destiny is here.
You must become the riddle.
Hitomi laughed, a sharp cutting cry of despair. "You've come all this way, down from the Iron Mountain, just to tell me that you cannot do anything at all."
He did not answer.
Hitomi lowered her head. Madness hovered over her soul, and she laughed again, glad to embrace it. The laugh echoed through the empty room, and Mirumoto Hitomi sank to her knees. Near her hand lay a shard of the broken mirror, glittering in the starlight. Clutching it tightly and feeling blood ooze from her palm, Hitomi stared suddenly up at the Dragon Champion.
"You will act, Yokuni. You will do something, if I have to force you to make a choice." Leaping suddenly with the shard of mirror in her hand, she sprang toward her champion to drive the glass into his chest.
The trained movements of a bushi, catlike and swift, were invisible to the naked eye. Hitomi's lunge was fluid, astonishingly rapid, with the grace and power of a master of the Dragon sword style. Her attack was lethal, a brutal assault with the speed of a striking snake.
Yokuni did not move, did not seem to blink or hesitate.
The world twisted around him.
A savage jerk, and the sensation of flesh ripping from bone. . . . With shock, the samurai found herself hovering frozen, only a few inches from his still form. Her feet did not touch the ground, nor did her body complete the vicious strike. It stubbornly refused to accept gravity or inertia. Her arms could not move. Her legs had no strength, only the stiffness of muscles tensed for the strike. Only her blood moved, dripping in slow trails down her hand and past the mirror's shard. Hitomi could not breathe. She could not move. She was dying.
Yokuni stared silently into her face. The moment extended, became a century.
Then a terrible force propelled her back from him, hurling her to the ground, a force with the strength of a mountain. The air shot from her lungs, and her flesh was on fire, singed by the speed of her flight, from the motion of the air against her skin. Hitomi felt her body spasm. Every inch of her flesh cried in agony, each muscle cramping from the sudden release of tension. Paralysis seized her, and she was driven to the floor by an invisible stone, pressing against her chest. Unable to breathe, unable to scream, Hitomi stared in awe at her champion's still form. He was doing this, and he hadn't even moved. Dark spots flooded her vision, and sparks flew at the edges of her sight.
Yokuni stared down at her from beneath his impassive golden mempo, watching as the life was nearly crushed from Hitomi's frozen form.
It is too soon.
The force suddenly eased. Hitomi drew a long breath into her aching lungs. Coughing, she scrambled away from the moonlit window, leaving the floor stained by the blood of her lorn palm. The mirror shard lay forgotten beneath the sill.
Now you will listen.
Your destiny is greater than your own life, and I will not allow you to cast it aside.
"Will not allow ... ?" she whispered, gasping as she tried to regain her balance.
When the sun falls on the fifteenth day of the Tiger, the emperor will truly die. Ignoring Hitomi's shock, Yokuni continued in his silent voice. When he falls, a new power will seize the throne, and only you have the strength to defeat it. The time has come to forget the past and prepare for the future. Fu Leng, the Dark God of the Shadowlands, will return, and you must fight him. He will find you, and you will fight. If you fail, the empire will be destroyed.
"The empire?" Amazement warred with disbelief, and Hitomi scowled. "What use is Rokugan to me, Yokuni? Look what serving your empire has done!" She raised the stump of her arm, its bandages black with blood. Cold wind rushed over her face, and the white silk curtains began to flutter wildly in the moonlight. "The empire has destroyed us all. It has killed me, it has killed my men ... and it killed Satsu. Why should I fight for it, when it has never given me anything?"
You still do not understand why your brother died.
She screamed. "He died for no reason! He did not even bloody his sword!"
Bushido demands loyalty to one's lord. Your life is at his command, to live or die as he sees fit. Satsu knew that. He knew where duty stands.
Clutching her hands to her head to drive out Yokuni's voice, Hitomi howled in anguish. "You ordered my brother's death ... you told him to lose?"
As his champion, it was my right. As a servant of the emperor, it was my duty. Your brother died for the Mirumoto, for the
Dragon. He died because I commanded it, and because it was best for the empire. If he had not, there would have been no one to defend the empire in her time of greatest need. Destiny would have changed. We could not allow that. The time was not right. You were too young.
"I don't understand," Hitomi said bitterly.
You do not have to understand. You are samurai. You only have to obey. For this, and for other reasons, Yakamo was allowed to live. He must continue to live. I will explain no more to you, samurai.
Your brother died for the empire.
"Satsu died for nothing." She whispered, lowering her head and sinking to her knees with her back to him. "Leave me, Yokuni. I will not follow your quest. I will not serve an empire that butchers its sons for 'honor,' and I will not serve you. I am finished with bushido."
From the window, Yokuni looked down at her stoic, kneeling form. The wind swayed the curtains back and forth in its violent breeze, and the first few droplets of rain spattered upon the mahogany floor. Silence descended upon the palace, and only the howling wind spoke.
When Hitomi raised her head, the window was empty of everything but moonlight.
Within moments, thick clouds rose, swallowing even silvery Onnotangu's sky-bound face. Yokuni was gone, his passing as swift and inevitable as the movement of time.
Hitomi stood and walked to the window, pressing her bleeding palm to the cold stone of the sill. The grounds were peaceful, and no sound other than the wind resounded through the palace walls. It was as if Yokuni had never been there. Nothing moved on the ground outside in the gardens. No crickets chirped, and no birds flew through the air. Looking up at the rolling clouds in the silvered night sky, Hitomi watched as the stars in the Celestial Heavens were put out, one by one.
A storm was coming.
DEALING WITH DARKNESS
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F
l all back!" cried the gunso sergeant as he ordered the withdrawal.
Flags waved, banners swept low to the ground in the familiar pattern of retreat, and the Mirumoto backed away from combat.
"Sergeant," one of the younger men cried, "the Crab are also withdrawing, sir. They've still hold the upper passes, and they've contained our men in the box canyon. I'm sorry sir, to report their death."
The soldier was barely more than a boy, his odd ears sticking out from beneath his father's helmet. Made in the style of an emperor three generations past, the armor had seen very few battles. Each new scuff from a blow, each grassy stain on the golden scale was a tribute to the boy's courage. Still, with the rate at which the Mirumoto and ronin troops were dying, he likely wouldn't live another day. Soon, like his comrades, the young soldier would die on the field. His
flesh and armor would rise under the command of the necromancers, and join the Crab lines. While Toturi's armies shrank, the Crab's grew. Each Dragon loss only strengthened the Hida lines.
This place, this war, was a blasphemy.
"Withdraw fully behind Dragon lines to the north," Taki grumbled. "We await the daimyo's command."
The lines of the Dragon were haggard, standing almost indistinguishably beside Toturi's ronin guard. How long could the men stand seeing their own brothers, fathers, sisters, and companions fight against them? The shuffling, rotting hordes of the Crab were eerily familiar. . . . Every man here awoke with nightmares of seeing his own face among them.
In the command tent, Yukihera listened to the sergeant's report. "How many men died in your guard, Taki-san?" he asked.
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"Nearly fifty dead, half that wounded."
Yukihera noted the number in precise numerals on the rice paper, totaling men into neat rows. Beside him, a somber To-gashi Mitsu stared down at the lists as if imagining blood spread across the page. Each man on that roster was a friend, the brother or cousin of the rest. You did not live for a thousand years in isolation without knowing each member of your own clan. Every death was a blow, every fallen man another personal loss. Yukihera dismissed the soldier. With a curt bow, the weary Mirumoto exited the tent.
"How many?" Mitsu asked.
Totaling the numbers once more, the daimyo answered, "The Crab are ruthless. With this kind of assault, we will fall within only a few weeks—if that. Toturi's tactics are unique, but they are not enough to prevent our eradication. The Crab have reinforcements ..."
Mitsu's face was grave. "We are their fodder, we are their food. They feast, and we slowly starve."
Glaring at the tattooed man, Yukihera continued,"... and we have none." He stroked his chin, feeling the growth of stubble. "But there is a choice."
Togashi Mitsu cocked his head curiously. "There is always a choice, Yukihera-sama. Always."
"You don't like me, do you, Mitsu?"
The tattooed man smiled enigmatically. "Does the stream notice the rock in its path? You guide my actions because you are a daimyo and I am only a monk of Togashi Mountain. That is all."
"Perhaps this will change your mind, ise zumi." Yukihera walked to an ornately carved wooden chest at the end of his low table. Withdrawing a shining key from his obi, he opened the lock. Inside were a number of scrolls, a beautiful ivory tanto, and maps of the pass. "Here. Look at this."
Mitsu stepped forward curiously, peering down into the box.
"We'll make a fool of Kisada, and destroy his troops, as well." Yukihera smiled confidently, reaching into the wooden chest and drawing forth a scroll. Written on strange paper, its edges blackened and torn, the scroll unrolled easily in Yuki-hera's hand.
"Oh?" said Mitsu jovially. "Tell me, great daimyo, what fool will you make?"
Yukihera glared warily at Mitsu, unsure if the man's comment had been an insult. "I have received a message from Yogo Junzo—a Scorpion, and someone who knows the cost of vengeance. The sorcerer Junzo offers us a force of ten thousand goblins, massive ogres—even the power to use the Crab's own dead against them. Then the Dragon shall see how Kisada likes his own game." Yukihera smiled down at the darkened paper, carrying it to his low writing table and reaching for the brash and ink to formulate a reply.
He did not hear Mitsu rise to his feet, did not see the terror and anger that flushed the tattooed man's skin. Mitsu crossed the room in three great steps, knocking the brush from the Mirumoto daimyo's hands and staring down at Yukihera in rage.
"Mitsu!" Yukihera barked, holding the scroll in one hand and reaching for a tanto at his belt with the other.
"What would you give him?" Mitsu asked, his voice low and threatening. "What does Junzo wish from us?"
"What are you doing?" Yukihera cried angrily. "Your place is not to question me!"
"You are not ise zumi, samurai. You do not see the things I see. What does he want?" Mitsu asked again, catching Yuki-hera's tanto and twisting it from the daimyo's grasp.
"I am not ise zumi." Yukihera snarled. "No one knows that better than I do, Mitsu. You stand on your high mountain, so sure of yourself. Your pride hides your arrogance. Yokuni would not make me ise zumi because he knew I had the strength to wrest the position of champion from him. He did not let me pass because he was afraid, tattooed man—and so are you. Junzo has asked for only one thing—our aid in helping the Scorpion redeem their name."
Ignoring Yukihera's jibe, the tattooed man threw his head back and laughed, a dark sarcastic sound. "Junzo has no interest in the Scorpion. He has fallen to Fu Leng. The Shadowlands taint has claimed him."
"You do not know that," Yukihera lifted the darkened message scroll once more. "I am daimyo of the Mirumoto, Lord of the Iron Mountain, son of Mirumoto Sukune and descended from the First Mirumoto. Who are you to question me? You are a monk, of no real birthright and no honor. You speak in riddles and ignore the truth. You are nothing, ise zumi," he snarled. "And I am everything."
With a movement swifter than the eye could follow, Mitsu caught Yukihera's wrist and squeezed. Tendons cracked, and Yukihera's eyes widened from the force of the pressure. Without his will, the daimyo's hand suddenly opened. The scroll fell from Yukihera's grasp, tumbling to the floor.
"Now I am the stone, and you are the stream. I will turn you from this course. The Dragon will never make this deal," Mitsu said, his laughing exterior completely gone. "The Shadowlands are our enemy, more even than the Crab."
Pulling his other hand free, Yukihera dealt the ise zumi a sharp blow across the face, knocking Mitsu back. Forced to release Yukihera's hand, Mitsu staggered three steps and fell. From the ground, he looked up at the Mirumoto daimyo and reached to wipe a trickle of blood from his mouth.
"If you touch me again, I will have you put to death," Yukihera said quietly, his eyes burning. "You are a Togashi, but you are not immune to the power of the court and the command of a daimyo of your clan. I have nothing to prove to you; you have no power here. If another thousand Dragon die tomorrow, and another thousand the day after—how long can we stand? There will be no Dragon Clan, Mitsu, no Mirumoto or Agasha or Kitsuki for our champion to command. He did not foresee this."
"What do you see, Yukihera? More butchery? If we invite the servants of the Dark One into our cause, then Fu Leng has won the pass—with or without the Crab. Turn a stone, and beneath it you will see grubs—but the stone is a stone on both sides."
"I am no Crab," Yukihera retorted, stepping into a martial stance. "Do you suggest I sit by and watch as my men are butchered? What allies would you seek, fool? The Crane are crushed, the Lion are spread out through Crane lands like insects in a rice field, and the Phoenix are useless pacifists. There is no one else." He lifted the scroll from the ground and held it out like a weapon. "This is our only hope."
"Then we have no hope at all," Mitsu said slowly, breath hissing out into the tent. "And if you think that this," he pointed to the scroll, "changes that, then you are more a fool than I."
"Then give me an alternative."
For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, tension rising in their stances. At last, Mitsu whispered, "Every choice has two sides. There must be a way."
Yukihera shook his head. "There is no other way."
Resigned, the ise zumi fell to his knees. "I beg you, do not do this thing."
"How sure are you, Togashi?" Yukihera said sadistically. "Certain enough to place your life behind your words?"
Mitsu looked up with concern. "I am certain enough to risk all of our lives."
"Yours will do." Summoning his guards from outside the tent, Yukihera commanded, "Tie him. Take this treacherous ise zumi into the courtyard. Have him build a torii arch on the hillock overlooking the Pass. Then hang him from it by his wrists and feet. He will be lashed one stroke for every Dragon samurai that dies here in the pass. This punishment will continue until he is dead, or we find other reinforcements."
The Mirumoto guards glanced at each other in concern. "My lord daimyo," one said, bowing respectfully. "That will certainly kill him."
"He is strong. He will likely live a few days. He has made his choice, Mirumoto-san." Yukihera glared down at Mitsu and picked up the message scroll from where it had fallen on the floor of the tent. "And when you are dead, Mitsu, if no other reinforcements have been brought, I will contact our ally in the south and agree to his bargain." Yukihera smiled grimly. "There is no other choice."
"A choice will be found, Daimyo-sama." Mitsu said, standing and offering his hands to the guards. "Tie me tightly," he said to them, "that I might not disgrace myself when the whip comes."
"It will be done." The guardsman said quietly, tightening the rope around the ise zumi's t
hick wrists.
Yukihera watched the ise zumi leave the tent. Mitsu stepped proudly behind the guards despite his bound wrists. It would take a few hours to build the arch, a bit longer to strap the ise zumi to its tall pillars. After that, the guards would report further losses to Yukihera, and he would send the numbers of the dead to the eta responsible for corporal punishments.
He could hardly wait to hear the first screams.
AFTERMATH OF OBSIDIAN
Only a whisper of silk betrayed her movements through the palace halls. Silence was a friend to the empress, a gift from the Fortunes, blessing her path. She had lived in the Imperial Palace for more than three years, wife and captive of the boy that commanded from the throne.
Once, these halls were festooned with silk ribbons and brilliant lanterns. Then, they had been covered in blood, and in bodies—the blood of her family and her fallen clan, and the body of her own son.
Shivering beneath her silk kimono, Kachiko threw off the ghosts of the past.
Now, the halls were draped only in darkness. Now there was nothing to consider except the future.
Her guard stood outside the sliding screens of the guest room, a suite far from the main body of the court. This wing was mostly deserted, still haunted by the ghosts
of the men who had died in the Scorpion Coup. The eta had not been able to remove all of the blood from between the ebony floorboards, and the emperor did not choose to risk dishonoring his guests by asking them to rest in such unlucky and unclean chambers. So, they were left unused, unguarded, and unwatched.
Perfect for Kachiko's purposes.
"Speak," she whispered, her voice like honey in the warm night air.
"She does not rest," whispered the masked guardsman— her husband's brother, Aramoro. She trusted his loyalty more than that of any man in the empire. "A few hours ago, she woke and screamed in the night. I looked into the room through the peephole, but she was alone—looking out the window at the storm."