Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  Late afternoon. The sun hung low in the sky and threw long shadows. Tengu kept the Monk company, but also kept a close watch on the tree line. If she were an assassin hiding in the bushes with a bow and arrow she would wait until nightfall to strike. She would make her escape via a practised route through the woods while her pursuers were hampered by the gathering darkness.

  Chikaaki and Kotau lit the torches staked around the arena to provide additional light, then Chikaaki drew the colours for the penultimate bout. He drew purple for the Drunkard and brown for the Thief.

  ‘Well, the matter is resolved,’ said the Monk, now that the uncertainty was at an end and the order in which the fighters would take to the ring was settled. He seemed both resigned and strangely content. He would enjoy his last sunset, then a little later that evening he would face NoName in the final contest of the evening.

  The crowd watched expectantly for the Drunkard to emerge from his hut but the curtain remained closed. Chikaaki cleared his throat and announced the man’s colour a second time. There was no movement from his sleeping quarters.

  Tengu got to her feet and joined Kotau as he approached the hut with a lamp in his hand. He stood on the hut step and addressed the curtain.

  ‘Excuse me, noble sir. Your presence is required in the arena. The crowd are waiting.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Come out,’ shouted Tengu. ‘Time to fight.’ She waited a couple of breaths but heard no movement from inside. ‘We’re coming in,’ she warned, then pulled back the curtain and squinted into the shadows. The Drunkard was sprawled on a mat with an empty wine bottle at his side. Tengu crouched and slapped his face. ‘Wake up. Come on, open your eyes.’ The Drunkard moaned in his sleep and feebly tried to push him away. Kotau grabbed the water jug from the floor beside him and poured it over his face. The Drunkard thrashed and coughed.

  ‘Come on, you pig. The General is waiting.’

  The Drunkard groaned and tried to shield his eyes from the lamplight. Kotau kicked him. The man clumsily got to his feet and stretched.

  ‘Pick up your sword,’ commanded Kotau. ‘Pull yourself together. You may have lived like a dog but at least you can die with some dignity.’

  The Drunkard smoothed his wet hair, took a deep breath and gathered his composure. He tucked his sword into his obi and strode through the doorway out into the arena, all the while trying to walk and tall and steady. Tengu marvelled at the man. During his time at the tavern he had perpetually stunk of wine and carried a bottle wherever he went, yet had never seemed fully inebriated. It was as if he was able to steady his hands and focus his mind by force of will, as if he had drunk so much wine over the years it no longer fully clouded his thoughts. She got the impression the bottle he carried in his hand each day and the perpetual taste of wine on his lips were a comfort without which he would be lost.

  Tengu and Kotau crossed the quadrangle to where the Thief sat cross-legged in his cage. He seemed relaxed and good-humoured, but Tengu could tell by the pulsing vein in his neck that his heart was hammering in anticipation of the fight. Two of the General’s soldiers flanked the cage, hands on the hilts of their swords, as Kotau cut the laboriously knotted twine which held the cage closed. The Thief climbed from the cage and stretched his cramped legs and back. Kotau put a katana in his hand then stepped back in case the Thief tried to grab him as a hostage. The Thief relished the heft of the weapon and glanced around, clearly calculating his chances of fighting his way to freedom. There were troops positioned around the arena, and another cordon of sentries half hidden in the undergrowth. He was surrounded by a ring of steel. If he attempted to flee he would be cut down almost immediately. He had little option but to join the Drunkard at the centre of the arena.

  Tengu sat next to the Monk and waited for the bout to begin.

  ‘Who do you suppose will win?’ asked the Monk, gesturing to the two contenders.

  ‘The Thief,’ said Tengu. ‘The Drunkard might be habituated to wine but this time I think he has sunk so many bottles it has robbed him of his wits. Look at him. He’s struggling to hold himself upright. The Thief may have no martial training, but he is sober and a life spent among lowlifes will have taught him to prevail in a fight.’

  ‘We will see.’

  Both fighters bowed to the General then turned to face one another. Chikaaki declared:

  ‘To the death,’ then rang the bell and stepped back.

  The strange fight unfolded like something out of a dream. The Thief advanced in a crouch like a man used to the scuffle and thrust of back-alley knife fights. The Drunkard wove and swayed like he could barely stand upright, but somehow his erratic stagger helped him evade the slash and stab of his opponent’s blade. The Thief rallied his strength for a decisive lunge, but once again the Drunkard slid out of his path. The Thief stumbled as the blade struck the flagstones in a jet of sparks. The tip lodged in a crack and snapped. He tried to regain his balance and block a blow by the Drunkard, but the sword was knocked clean out of his hand and he fell to the ground. He rolled clear and stood defenceless.

  ‘You see? It’s all an act,’ said the Monk. ‘That man may stink of wine and carry a bottle everywhere he goes, but he is as sober as you or me. When it is time to fight, he is a clear-headed swordsman through and through.’

  The Thief hung his head in defeat. The Drunkard stepped forward and raised his sword for the killing-stroke but the Thief suddenly sprang forward and delivered what at first appeared to be a punch to the jaw. The Drunkard staggered backwards, dropped his sword and gripped his chin. A murmur rippled through the crowd as they realized what had happened. The Thief must have palmed the broken tip of his sword as he rolled on the flagstones. He had slammed the tip into the Drunkard’s chin and nailed his mouth closed. The Drunkard roared in pain with his jaw locked tight, and blood frothed between his clenched teeth. He fell on his back and writhed. He tried to pull the sword shard from his chin but the steel was slick with blood. He sat up, desperate to defend himself. He tried to blink away the tears of pain and grope for his sword. The Thief aimed a sharp kick under his jaw, a blow which punched the sword tip further through the roof of the Drunkard’s mouth, up into his brain.

  The Drunkard lay with his back arched, eyes rolling, legs dancing, until his violent spasms slowly subsided into death. The Thief panted with exhaustion and looked around at the crowd in angry defiance. He raised his fists and exulted to have survived when everyone present wanted him dead. Soldiers led him back to his cage and shut him inside but he sat behind the bamboo bars with the triumphant smile of a champion.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said the Monk.

  ‘As you said, never underestimate the will to live.’

  * * *

  The Archer built a branch shelter in the woods next to the meandering stream that brought water from the hill to the river. He covered the lattice of branches with artfully placed bracken and leaves until the shelter merged with the forest underbrush. He crouched by the stream, painted his face with mud and dirtied his clothes to camouflage himself. He explored the forest to familiarize himself with the terrain in case he was discovered and had to flee for his life. He became sunlight and shadow each time he stopped and crouched, blended with foliage and tree bark, invisible except for the whites of his eyes.

  He insinuated his way through the woodland on his hands and knees like something feral and predatory. He crossed clearings and parted leaves, avoided every twig and branch that might crack and betray his presence. He could hear the murmur of voices through the trees up ahead, the excited chatter of the crowd as another dead fighter was dragged from the arena.

  The archer crawled closer to the edge of the trees in the hope of getting a clearer view of the shrine. He caught glimpses of village folk crowded into the ruins, but his position was still too deep in the forest to offer a clear vantage point. He was about to creep further forward when he glimpsed a soldier’s feet four paces away behind a bush. He looked around
and saw another pair of crimson feet nearby. He realized he had crawled right up to a cordon of samurai hidden among the trees. He was hidden by underbrush, but the slightest sound might provoke the troops to investigate. The Archer fought bladder-loosening fear and remained as still as he could until he got his breathing under control. Slowly, and with infinite care, he began to reverse his movements and crawl back into the forest. He looked over his shoulder to make sure a misplaced knee wouldn’t snap the branches and twigs that littered the forest floor. When he was far enough from the soldiers to be hidden by trees he got to his feet and ran.

  * * *

  Nightfall. Tengu and the Monk sat on the hut step and waited for the final fight to be called. They sat in silence. She wanted to make the most of their last moments together but she didn’t know what to do or say.

  Tengu looked across the quadrangle to the stretch of dirt where the dead swordsmen had been laid side by side. The farmer, the Ronin and the Drunkard. Their bodies were arranged neatly, with their arms by their sides, beneath a tree. She wondered who would get the Ronin’s armour. One of the villagers would probably unbuckle the thick leather plates prior to burial and sell them in town. It would fetch a high price. Just as a simple teapot could become a priceless treasure as it aged through use and became richly lacquered by tannin, the hide carapace had developed a deep gloss after years of wear and become imbued with the Ronin’s spirit. It would be keenly desired by any samurai who truly valued martial skill. Each corpse would be stripped of possessions in the same manner. Their purses, sandals, obis and swords would all be distributed among the villagers and sold. The swordsmen would be rolled near-naked into unmarked graves. An ignoble end, but each man had forsworn money and status, and would have expected nothing better.

  The Monk followed the direction of Tengu’s gaze.

  ‘Did anyone know much about the old Ronin?’ asked the Monk.

  ‘I overheard him talk in the tavern last night. He was a member of General Motohide’s cavalry. He rode into battle at the head the army, said he had seen the ground painted red with blood many times, and saw the bodies of his comrades burned in piles. He laughed about his exploits, but one could tell he was haunted. He seemed trapped on the battlefield, locked in that moment of chaos and fear. The screams and clamour continued to fill his ears wherever he went.’

  ‘Well, he’s free of it all now.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knew his name.’

  ‘It hardly matters.’

  ‘Maybe he had a family somewhere.’

  ‘He had no one.’

  They watched a couple of the villagers lash branches to create a litter. They tied the Ronin’s body in place and hauled him towards the road.

  * * *

  The peasants hauled the Ronin from the shrine on a bamboo drag sledge and took the road back to the village. They had got a few paces down the track when Kotau called from the tree line.

  ‘Bring him here.’

  They dragged the body out of sight and into a small clearing. Kotau staked a torch in the ground, unlaced the ropes and pulled back the dead man’s canvas shroud. He did it quickly and glanced around at the surrounding trees as if he was scared to be out in the open beyond the protection of General Yukio’s men. He pulled a knife from his sash and began to saw through the Ronin’s neck. He cut through flesh then twisted the head full circle until vertebrae cartilage ripped and snapped. He lifted the bearded head clear and the peasants watched in revulsion as he raised the dead man’s head by the topknot and examined his slack, milk-white face. He stared into the unseeing eyes, held the face close until he almost kissed the blue lips.

  ‘Bring each body to me before it is taken to the village for burial,’ ordered Kotau. ‘Tell no one. But don’t tip these carcasses in a hole until I have taken their heads, understand?’

  The villagers nodded, faces betraying fear and disgust. Kotau stuffed the Ronin’s head in a sack and carried it back to the shrine.

  * * *

  Tengu and the Monk waited for Chikaaki to announce the final fight.

  ‘Sell my sword,’ said the Monk. ‘It’s old and corroded, but it will fetch a few coins at the market. Enough to persuade the villagers to let my body lie within their graveyard.’

  ‘I’ll see that you are buried with all due ceremony,’ said Tengu.

  ‘I’m pleased to quit this life. My departure is long overdue. A true warrior should die at the great noontide of his life, twenty-five summers or thereabouts, before his body and mind begin their slow deterioration. I left it too long. I allowed myself to succumb to age. That is my dishonour. Still, it is never too late to draw a sword and face a worthy adversary. May I ask a favour?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tengu.

  ‘Will you watch me fight?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I will stay with you until it is time to fight, but you can’t ask me to watch you die.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Be my witness.’

  ‘There will be plenty of witnesses.’

  ‘These villagers are dumb as oxen. I don’t hold myself above common folk, you understand, but I want a bugeisha to see me fight, someone who comprehends what they see, someone who will carry my memory within their heart.’

  ‘I will watch, if that is what you truly want.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The fight seems to have been delayed. Do you wish to retire for a while before the fight to focus your thought? Spend some time alone in the hut? I can ensure you are not disturbed.’

  ‘No. I would rather sit here and enjoy the night air.’

  They sat in silence a while longer, then Kotau returned to the arena from whatever errand had delayed him and resumed his position on the tavern’s raised porch overseeing the combat.

  ‘This is it,’ said Tengu. ‘The final fight is about to begin.’

  Chikaaki walked to the centre of the arena, held up the yellow and black tokens and paraded them with great ceremony so the crowd could see.

  ‘The fighters will now present themselves for the final bout of the day,’ he announced.

  The Monk struggled to his feet.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said.

  ‘Please live, for my sake,’ said Tengu.

  ‘I will miss you, little bird, but I have to go.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled farewell, then shuffled to the centre of the arena.

  Kotau approached NoName’s hut in case the swordsman hadn’t heard Chikaaki’s summons. He opened his mouth to rouse the man but the curtain was abruptly flung back and NoName emerged. He stood on the porch, drank in the night air and surveyed the crowd of onlookers. He watched the Monk limp to the centre of the quadrangle. He leaned close to Kotau and whispered:

  ‘What’s wrong with the man? He’s pale and sweating. Is he sick?’

  ‘He has injured his back. He has a boy who fetches and carries for him, and supports him when he walks.’

  ‘But why allow him compete? He can barely hold a sword.’

  ‘He has a reputation in these parts,’ said Kotau. ‘He killed a couple of bandits a few months back. Nobody actually saw him fight, but rumour spread that a Monk had passed near the valley, been threatened by vagabonds and cut down both men in the blink of an eye. He’s formidable, they say.’

  ‘But look at him. He’s in pain. He can barely hold himself upright. He might have been a worthy opponent a while ago, but at the moment he can barely move. This will be a shameful spectacle. You’re asking me to slaughter an invalid.’

  ‘The man wishes to fight. We cannot deny him the opportunity. It is not our decision to make.’

  ‘What if I refuse to take part in this grotesque nonsense?’

  ‘Imagine you were to find yourself in his position, sick, wracked with pain and yearning for an honourable end? Show him the same mercy you hope someone would show you.’

  Chikaaki stood at the centre of the killing ground and beckoned the contestants. NoName reluctantly stretched and took position. The Monk
shuffled to the centre of the ring, stood stooped and dabbed sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was obviously in great pain and it took all his strength to hold himself upright. NoName couldn’t help but be relieved to have drawn such an ineffectual opponent in the first round of the tournament. He hated himself for feeling relieved, and hated the Monk for putting him in such a degrading position.

  ‘You understand that you are about to die, neh?’ said NoName. The Monk gave a reassuring smile in return, as if to say I want this. NoName looked around at the crowd. The Champion had remained in his hut, demonstrating an ostentatious disregard for any of the opponents he might face the following day. But the Thief gripped the bars of his cage and watched intently, and Tattoo had shouldered his way through the crowd and stood at the cordon rope, anxious to get the measure of his competitors.

  NoName didn’t want to execute a sick man, didn’t want to soil his blade, but General Yukio and his staff expected blood. He had no choice but to perform the distasteful act.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Chikaaki, leaning close to the competitors.

  The swordsmen nodded. He stepped back and declared:

  ‘To the death,’ and rang the commencement bell.

  The Monk didn’t move. He stood tired and defeated as if waiting for execution, hung his head the way some livestock meekly submitted to the slaughterman’s knife. NoName decided to perform the act quickly and cleanly, for the Monk’s sake and his own. He drew his sword and slashed at the Monk’s neck, intending to open an artery and rob the man of life in an instant. The Monk blocked at lightning speed. He didn’t move position, barely raised his head, but drew his sword, deflected the blow then whipped his sword down in a knee-level counter-strike that forced NoName to jump over the blurring blade to save his feet. The fight began in earnest. The Monk stood perfectly still. Only his right arm moved, spinning and slicing, as he maintained a wall of steel. NoName circled the Monk but found him impossible to approach. Every strike was blocked and immediately followed by a vicious counter-blow that forced NoName to jump clear to avoid evisceration. A stab from the Monk tore his arm and NoName couldn’t help but smile, glad the Monk had proved a worthy adversary. The Monk also smiled, exhilarated that, despite his pain and immobility, his skill had not deserted him.