Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  The General and his retinue did their best not to be disturbed by the trophy heads. The samurai posed as war-hardened warriors used to battlefield butchery, but Kotau could tell the sight unnerved them. He suppressed a smile. He had taken the darkness he carried in his heart his whole life and put it out in the world for all to see. He had forced the spectators, high-born and peasants, to share his necrotic vision for the duration of the tournament. It was exhilarating. He hoped someone among the assembly would appreciate his artistry. He had created something beautiful, just as a wood carver might approach a beam destined to become an ornamental door lintel and shave chips until he uncovered the intertwined shapes of a harmonious universe. He had used flesh and bone as his medium and this tableau was merely a preliminary sketch for the magnificent horrors he would create in the years to come.

  The crowd waited for Yukio’s man to emerge from his hut. His fingers fumbled the door curtain then pulled it back. He stumbled out into the quadrangle, one hand clutching a bottle, the other hand shielding his eyes from sudden sunlight. He took a double swig, wiped his chin, then set the bottle on the step. He suppressed a belch then walked to the centre of the fight space with the studied precision of someone hiding extreme intoxication.

  Chikaaki hurried to the man’s side.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he hissed. ‘You can’t appear in front of the General like this.’ He glanced at Yukio in trepidation. The General maintained an impassive expression but his unblinking gaze was fixed on the Champion. ‘Look at him. Do you think he will accept this kind of insolence from one of his own men? He’s more dangerous than anything you have faced in the arena.’

  ‘Take your hand off my arm.’

  ‘He’s furious. Look at his men. They’re all staring at you, every one of them. He’ll have you flayed in front of the entire regiment, even if you win the bout.’

  The Champion pushed past Chikaaki, stood in front of Tattoo and tried to glower but instead blinked and swayed as he tried to focus.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Chikaaki. Both men nodded. ‘To the death,’ he declared and stepped clear.

  The two contenders backed away from each other and drew their swords. The Champion twirled his blade left and right, lost his grip and nearly dropped the weapon.

  ‘Pretending to be drunk won’t help,’ said Tattoo. ‘The head of the man who tried that yesterday is right behind you.’

  ‘I don’t need tricks to defeat vermin like you.’

  ‘Training bouts in an army dojo don’t compare to real—’

  Tattoo gulped and stood frozen to the spot as the samurai’s blade punched through his chest and out his back. He gasped and convulsed as his opponent twisted his sword back and forth, and churned his diaphragm. The Champion jerked his sword clear and Tattoo sprawled on the ground. Blood washed across the tiles and drained between the cracks. Tattoo tried to catch his breath. A punctured lung made his chest wound froth each time he exhaled. He looked up at the Monk’s nearby severed head and the vacant spike beside it.

  ‘Don’t…’ he said, fighting death as long as he could. He pointed at the spike with a trembling hand. ‘Don’t put me…’ His eyes grew dull and his chest ceased to rise and fall.

  The Champion looked down at the dead man a moment, knelt and wiped his sword, all trace of intoxication gone. He re-sheathed and returned to his hut, suddenly weary, as if he was both glad and disappointed to find himself alive. Chikaaki directed the peasants to remove Tattoo’s body and sprinkle sawdust on the blood-slick flagstones.

  ‘Combat is at an end,’ declared Kotau, pacing the centre of the arena. He bowed to the General then bowed to the crowd. ‘We have our final surviving warriors. Days ago, eight brave swordsmen presented themselves for this tournament and now only two remain. Tomorrow the General’s noble Champion will face…’ – he paused and groped for something to call NoName – ‘today’s other winner, and fight for the prize of being declared the finest swordsman in Etchū. We will look forward to seeing you, honoured guests, for the concluding bout of this tournament tomorrow at noon.’

  A final bow brought the day to an end. The crowd dispersed. They murmured with restless discontent, as if the details of the tournament didn’t interest them. They could barely differentiate one swordsman from another, and didn’t care who would eventually be declared the winner. They simply wanted more blood, more carnage. They found death intoxicating.

  Tengu watched the General hand his war fan to an adjutant, rise from his stool and return to his pavilion flanked by his praetorian guard. Yukio hadn’t shown any outward anger in the face of the Champion’s feigned drunkenness, an underhand ruse he would regard as dishonourable, worthy of no one except gutter-dwelling cutpurses. And he had not reacted when the man had returned to his hut without bowing in deference to his General. But Tengu imagined there would be repercussions later. Even if the Champion survived the final bout and finished the tournament in triumph, he might well find himself stripped of all seniority and assigned to dig latrine trenches for the rest of his military service. But perhaps the Champion would secretly be glad of the indignity. He seemed weary of killing and might relish the chance to retreat into obscurity.

  Tengu fetched a jug of water and carried it to the Champion’s hut, curious to talk with a man brave enough to show his master such disrespect. She pulled back the door curtain and found the Champion sitting cross-legged, white in death. He had cut open his left wrist. The mat and surrounding earth were black with blood. The knife was still gripped in his hand and his eyes were closed as if he was asleep. A fly crawled across one of his eyelids.

  She set down the jug, backed out of the hut and ran to Chikaaki.

  ‘Come quickly. There is something you must see.’

  The old man clapped his hands to his face in horror when he saw the Champion was dead.

  ‘This is dreadful,’ he said. He was so aghast his legs almost gave way and he had to lean against the doorway for support. Kotau stood beside him and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘So the contest is over,’ said Kotau. ‘The swordsman with no name will be unopposed. He has won the tournament.’

  ‘This is very bad,’ said Chikaaki. ‘The General’s man has robbed the tournament of its climactic fight.’

  ‘The crowd will be disappointed, but what of it? The tournament has its victor.’

  ‘But the General will be furious. He came here to be entertained, and this fool has robbed him of the promised spectacle. He may hold us responsible. We need to find another swordsman by tomorrow, someone willing to face the winner of the earlier round. Someone who can make a few blocks and throw a few strikes to create the impression of an evenly matched fight.’ Mouse, the Champion’s squire, shouldered past them and knelt beside the samurai. He checked the man’s neck pulse in the hope he might still be alive. When he was sure the Champion’s heart was no longer beating he gripped the dead man’s shoulder and bowed his head in prayer for his comrade and friend.

  ‘Leave,’ he commanded. ‘I must attend to his body.’ He turned round when they made no move and continued to block the light from the doorway. ‘I said get out.’

  ‘You must fight tomorrow,’ said Kotau. ‘The Champion has died so the responsibility falls to you.’

  ‘But I’m not a swordsman.’

  ‘You are a trained soldier. You know how to use a blade.’

  ‘Not like these men. They have a lifetime of experience. I’ve never once seen combat.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We don’t need you to win. We just need you to fight. The General expects a man to battle for the honour of the regiment, and that burden falls to you.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to end up on a spike.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Kotau. ‘It will be expected of you. All you can do is volunteer instead of waiting for an order, then at least you will have your honour. Make sure to be present when the tournament reconvenes tomorrow. We will announce that the Champion is dead, then you will vol
unteer to take his place. You are honour-bound to fight. And don’t despair. The unnamed sword master is injured. If the gods smile upon you, there is a slight chance you may survive.’

  Tengu stayed with the lad and watched him lay out the Champion.

  ‘What was his name?’ she asked.

  ‘Iezane. I’ll wrap his body and take him back to the camp. They will ensure his remains are delivered to his relatives in the north.’

  ‘Yukio won’t allow his body inside the camp perimeter, I guarantee it. Iezane insulted the General then left his service without permission. In death, he is disgraced and disowned. The best you can do for him is have his body buried in the village plot.’

  ‘I won’t allow his head to be put on a stake.’

  ‘I don’t think you will have a choice.’

  Two peasants entered the hut and began to wrap Iezane in a shroud.

  ‘Dress him in his armour,’ said Mouse. ‘Bury him as a warrior.’ Tengu and Mouse watched the men carry the dead samurai from the hut.

  ‘May you have good fortune tomorrow,’ said Tengu.

  ‘I’m not scared, if that’s what you think.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were scared.’

  ‘I’m a soldier. I will die like a soldier.’

  ‘No doubt. It just seems a waste.’

  Tengu woke from suffocating nightmares. She stumbled from the hut into blue, dawn light, ran across the arena and took the path down to the riverbank. She splashed water on her face to dispel the heart-pounding horror and shook herself calm. She balled her hands and gripped fistfuls of dirt. She had seen plenty of people die but these past few days she had begun to comprehend that her own life would end. She had fought many duels, too many to count, and experienced bladder-loosening fear each time she prepared to risk her life, but even then she hadn’t fully understood the absolute extinction that would follow a momentary hesitation or a misjudged strike. But now she felt, with animal terror, the endless non-being which awaited her. She understood the monk a little better, the death wish which had driven him to join the tournament. After a life so dominated by the fear of death he yearned for the Awful Thing to happen and be done. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking.

  She climbed the path back to the shrine and fund Kotau waiting for her on the tavern porch.

  ‘We should leave right away,’ he said. ‘It would be best to reach the plantation before the staff fully wake.’

  Tengu nodded, glad of the distraction.

  They headed down the track to the village then climbed the hill to the plantation. They approached the mansion from the rear. Mist hung over the fields. They hurried through the tea rows, walking stooped so their approach would not be observed by guards pacing the perimeter of the estate. The sweeping roofs of the mansion emerged from the mist.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?’ asked Kotau.

  ‘One day you will visit Kyoto and see the palaces and temples. The sight will rob you of breath.’

  They hugged the wall of the mansion and worked their way to the courtyard at the rear of the building. The mist gave them cover. They hid behind a cart and inspected the back of the building. There was light at the kitchen window, suggesting food preparation had begun.

  ‘It’s been easy so far,’ said Tengu, ‘but once we get inside our troubles will begin. We’ll be discovered in moments, and once the alarm is raised we will be overwhelmed. I can hold off two or three untrained men, but once a dozen or more have us cornered there will be little I can do.’

  ‘Your job is to get me inside and help me locate the Priest. The moment that task is accomplished you can flee.’

  ‘And leave you inside the building? Makoto’s clan are so anxious to see you dead they hired an assassin, and here you are delivering yourself into their hands. They won’t hesitate to cut your throat.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘We’ll have to move fast. Once we get inside keep moving forward and don’t stop for anyone.’

  Kotau nodded.

  Tengu drew her knife and strode across the courtyard. Kotau hurried to keep up. She shouldered the kitchen door and startled the cook slicing carrots beside the fire pit. A maid was kneeling nearby with a tray in her lap.

  ‘Is this his breakfast?’ asked Tengu. ‘Good. Get up.’ She gripped the maid by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. The tray slid from her hands but Tengu caught it as it fell and handed it back to the maid. She grabbed the bowl of sliced carrots and put it on the tray. She snatched a lamp from a shelf and handed it to Kotau. She gripped the maid by the back of her collar and put the knife at the small of her back.

  ‘I won’t hurt you, girl. Just do as I say. Come on. Let’s take him his breakfast.’

  She pulled open a screen and steered the girl into a passageway. They reached a junction at the end of the corridor and the terrified maid brought them to a halt.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Tengu. ‘Which way?’

  The maid led them down the left-hand corridor. They could see the faint glow of candlelight through the paper screen at the end of the passage.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Tengu. ‘Is this where he takes his morning meal?’ The girl gave a subservient nod. Tengu pushed her back down the passageway towards the kitchen and drew her sword.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘To the death,’ said Kotau, with a nervous smile.

  Tengu wrenched back the screen. The Priest was kneeling at a table, eyes still puffy from sleep. He scrambled to his feet. Tengu put the tip of her sword beneath his chin and manoeuvred him towards Kotau. Kotau grabbed him and held a knife to his throat.

  ‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Do it quickly. Those women will have raised the alarm. We have to leave immediately.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Go now.’

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Just go.’

  After a moment’s hesitation Tengu sheathed her sword and ran. The sound of her running feet receded and were replaced, moments later, by the thundering approach of the Priest’s men. Three guards ran into the room, two of them armed with kitchen knives, one of them with a mattock.

  ‘Leave,’ shouted Kotau, pressing his blade to the Priest’s throat.

  ‘Leave,’ ordered the Priest.

  The men reluctantly backed out of the room and into the corridor. Kotau dragged the Priest to the doorway and shunted the screen closed with his feet. He pushed the Priest away and said:

  ‘Kneel down.’

  The Priest debated whether to bolt for the door but realized that if Kotau wanted him dead he would have killed him already. He was curious to see what the intruder had to say. He knelt at the table as if he were waiting for his morning meal. Kotau knelt opposite him.

  ‘I’m disappointed the Archer missed,’ said the Priest. ‘He came highly recommended.’

  ‘He didn’t miss.’

  ‘Yet you are here,’ said the Priest.

  ‘To save your life. To save your life’s work.’

  ‘So you have come here to offer a bargain and have wagered your life on the result.’

  ‘You have given your life to the Makoto clan but his Lordship died without an heir. How long before someone else claims the title and the estate? His Lordship’s wife may find a suitor among the other noble families of the province but they may well appoint their own overseer and dismiss you to a temple. And what is to stop a marauding group of bandits riding up the track, putting you all to the sword and seizing the plantation for themselves? Or maybe the threat will arise from within the estate itself. The men under your command have no master and no hope of advancement. How soon before they grow restless? Your position is acutely vulnerable, which is why I present myself as the next Lord Makoto. You will be able to keep your position and continue to steer the fortunes of the clan.’

  ‘You are a dirt-grubbing peasant.’

  ‘Trace the history of any noble house, no matter how refined, back to its origin
and you will discover an ambitious ruffian who established their fortune by force of arms. I am not a gentleman. But my children will grace the finest houses in Kyoto.’

  ‘There are men outside in the corridor anxious to slit your throat. Shall I invite them in to pledge their loyalty? Do you imagine they will bow and make their oath to a peasant with filth under his nails?’

  ‘Yes, I was born on a dirt floor. But what could be more ideal? You can shape my manners, mould me as if I were clay.’ Kotau stood, spread his arms and invited the Priest to contemplate his potential for transformation. ‘Think of it. I could be your greatest creation, the culmination of your life’s work.’

  * * *

  Tengu walked back through the village. Peasants were congregating at the tea house to drink before heading down the track to the shrine. She climbed the steps and spoke to the tea master.

  ‘We spoke some days ago,’ she said. ‘You mentioned a hermit, a Holy Man that moved into the area.’

  ‘You can find him in the woods above the graveyard,’ he said.

  She bought some dried fish from the tea master, wrapped it in a palm leaf and carried it up the overgrown path behind the graveyard. She found a toothless Holy Man, gnarled as a lightning-blasted tree. He wore a yellow robe and crouched outside a shack cut from branches. He was arranging and rearranging pebbles in the dirt. Tengu laid the fish on a flat stone as an offering.

  ‘For you, Father,’ she said.

  ‘You are the Monk’s boy, aren’t you? One of the first men to die during the tournament.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘He must have been a courageous man, to confront such odds despite his infirmity.’

  ‘Yes, he was very brave.’

  ‘You were his acolyte. Did he teach you to value honour? Courage?’

  ‘I try my humble best to mimic his example.’