Chapter XI: Truth and Reality
“Kendo, the way of the sword, works in theory. When used in duels where both opponents agree on the rules of combat, it’s an elegant, even aesthetically pleasing combat style, but aesthetics are thrown away during an actual battle. In combat, when rules are forgotten, and every man fights for his life, one must not worry about form, poise, honor or tradition, lest they want an ear-to-ear, crimson grin.”
-Jonas von Ulrich, in “Truths of the Battlefield: On Warfare and Fighting Styles.”
Kuroinu’s legs protested due to the uncomfortable position he was sitting in. He had lost count of how many times he had gone through stretching exercises, coaxing blood back into his numb muscles. Getting too old for this, he thought as he extended his right leg on the branch he was on. He was confident that the movement, crude though it was, stood no chance of revealing his position overlooking the Kajiya household. The day had come to its end, and the sun was nearly down on the western horizon. Kuroinu sighed, The forging courtyard should be closed soon.
It had been nearly a month since Ryokawa Hanataro requested—he scoffed, Sure, “requested“ Kuroinu’s espionage services to survey the aged blacksmith, and his discoveries had been less than impressive. He’s a blacksmith, he has an apprentice, and an assistant, just what the hell does Hanataro expect I will find? Kuroinu sighed. “Spoiled brat,” he muttered under his breath.
Kuroinu had worked with the Ryokawa family for nearly thirty years, under direction of shogun Yorunokenshi Ichiro, and in that time he had seen Hanataro grow into the man he was now: A petulant, egotistical individual so entrenched in his self-righteousness that he could not see he was rotten inside. He held no delusions as to the reason for Hanataro’s distress. The man’s pride was as fragile as porcelain—the wrong touch, no matter how minimal, could shatter it. The fact that daimyo Yorunokenshi Ishida had praised the craftsmanship of the blacksmith, Kajiya Munesuke, and had chastised his samurai due to him withholding payment over the ikiteiruken had been a blow to Hanataro’s ego. In his mind’s eye, he had been insulted, dragged through the mud, despoiled and defiled; in reality, the daimyo had, at worst, slapped him on the wrist.
“But things are as they are,” Kuroinu mused, grimacing as a cramp took him in his arms. “Damn it, fix one thing, ruin another. Old age sure is a bitch,” he muttered, easing his aching arms. He took a deep breath and shook his head in vexation. “This is idiotic, truly, what does Hanataro expect I will encounter?”
The past few weeks had been a painful exercise in mind-killing boredom. His routine had been the same without any variation to setting or scenery. He had slung a hammock in the branches of the tree where he spent his nights, and in the mornings he’d simply sit and observe the Kajiya household to take note of anything unusual. In nearly one month, nothing happened: The old blacksmith would bring his apprentice and assistant (Gizoosha... what manner of father names their son Gizoosha?) to the forge, where he would teach the child the various matters which pertained to blacksmithing. Kuroinu had witnessed every painstaking step of the process, from the moment ironsands were smelted within the tatara, to the quenching in a water trough; tongs, clamps, hammerhead, hoe and scythe heads were produced on a nearly daily basis to supply farmers and artisans. The child had also forged warfare oriented tools—knives and tantos, as he seemed to be just starting his apprenticeship.
What intrigued Kuroinu was the apprentice. Hanataro had described him in a most derisive manner, naming him a mute, a deaf, and an imbecile, yet from his vantage point, the man looked more than competent. He mostly performed menial tasks such as shoveling coal and ironsands into the furnace, quenching the pieces, and other small tasks. But Kuroinu didn’t buy it. The man didn’t move the way an artisan would, there was a calculated, trained economy to his movements, and his poise was too self-assured, too confident when compared to the mellow appearance of most peasants. Furthermore, despite the distance—and his slowly weakening eyesight—he could make out the musculature badly concealed by his tunic. Though he tried to find a reason why a blacksmith—especially one who was referred to as pejoratively as Hanataro named him—would be impressively muscular and moving in an articulate, calculated manner, Kuroinu could find no explanation.
“Perhaps there’s something to Hanataro’s suspicions,” Kuroinu mused as he shifted his position on the branch. He resolved to watch the assistant more closely, if only to better ascertain the way he worked.
A ninja must know, at the very least, basic principles of smithing in order to keep their weapons and tools in good shape. Some, such as himself, were graced with deeper knowledge. Knowledge meant versatility, and versatility was one of the crucial tools for a ninja, as it allowed for posing as a nobleman, a peasant, an artisan, or anything related to the assignment.
Kuroinu observed intently, watching as the assistant helped the blacksmith and apprentice. The assistant was efficient, there was no doubt about that, but he was woefully careless about tradition: He didn’t assume the proper poses, perform the proper rites, or made the appropriate movements. Though it would be easy to ascribe his impropriety to the derisive adjectives he had been described with, Kuroinu knew better than to accept the easy answer at face value. The man, in any case, did not behave as an imbecile would – no imbecile, no matter how well trained, would be so adroit in his technique, so precise in his measurements, or so coordinated in his movements.
There was more to that Gizoo than met the eye; besides, Kuroinu’s hackles raised whenever he stared at the man. He simply couldn’t believe he was a simple balcksmith’s assistant, let alone a half-wit. The assistant stretched and turned behind him as he realized the old man was nearing him. Wait, Kuroinu thought, how did he realize that, considering he’s deaf?
He kept watching as the old man, aided by his apprentice, slowly made his way towards the forge. The old man did something, and the apprentice turned towards him. Kuroinu wrinkled his eyes, but still couldn’t make out the exchange. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. He was not precisely old, but his years of service to the Empire had aged him prematurely.
He sighed and shook his head. I have no other choice. Kuroinu closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on the chi flowing through him, willing it into his eyes to amplify his sight capabilities.
The ninja opened his eyes, and he could see as clearly as if his targets were but a few meters away. He could see the mouth of the blacksmith moving, followed by that of the assistant. “Impossible,” he said under his breath before chuckling and chastising himself, “Curse me for a fool, and curse these weak eyes of mine!”
Had he thought to focus on the apprentice before, had he thought of following his movements and amplifying his sight to observe him, he would have realized long before that he was, in fact, talking. But I need confirmation.
Again, Kuroinu closed his eyes, retracted the energy flow from his eyes and willed it into his ears, amplifying his hearing acuity. What came then surprised him. Two voices, not one, reached his augmented hearing.
“It was, Senshi,” the old man said. Senshi? Who is Senshi?
“That is good to know. That yari, though untraditional, was a showcase of expertise and craftsmanship,” the apprentice replied.
“I cannot deny that. You did well, and as such, we shall reap the benefits. The customer praised your work and showed it to other people in his circle. More orders have come in. More perhaps than we can easily supply, at least myself and Ryusei.”
Ryusei? Kuroinu wondered. That must be the lad, the apprentice.
“What do you mean?”
“Please, I think you know what I mean. You are to take on the major orders and produce the higher end weapons, especially ikiteiruken.”
Ikiteiruken? The assistant can create ikiteiruken?
“It shall be as you say,” the assistant replied before adding, “Father.”
Father? “This cannot be!”
“Thank you, son. I am not
entirely comfortable with your arts yet, Senshi, but you have proven their worth.”
“What about Ryusei, will you let him bear witness?”
“No. At least not for now. He must learn tradition first before... Practicality.”
“Then, when should I get to work?”
“Tomorrow, Senshi. Today, we have all earned a day to ourselves.”
“Thank you, father.”
Kuroinu sat on his haunches, the cramps in his muscles forgotten entirely. He chuckled under his breath. “So that man is no deaf, no mute, and certainly no imbecile. His name is Senshi, and is the old blacksmith’s son? Well, well,” he scoffed. “This espionage mission has just become interesting.”
It took him longer than he would have liked, but now he had something unusual to report back to Hanataro. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him as controlling the chi flow in his body became taxing. Kuroinu let go of the flow and his hearing slowly started to return to normal. “Must be careful with magic,” he mused has he tried to shake nausea away. Before his hearing resumed normalcy, however, a strange sound reached him: It was the sound of metal swishing in the air. A katana? He wondered. No, it sounds strange.
The ninja took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and amplified his eyesight to look for the source of the noise. Kuroinu gasped as he saw what caused the strange swishing: The assistant, Senshi, held a sword unlike anything the ninja had seen before. It looked like the long blade of a yari, double-edged and broader than a katana, with an elongated tang wrapped in fabric. What surprised Kuroinu was the expertise Senshi wielded it with; he thrust the weapon forwards, took a step in the same direction and brought the blade in an upwards arc, before slashing sideways with it, stepping back and holding the steel in a medium-guard. That is not kendo, Kuroinu mused, as he watched the strange stances Senshi adopted. At a glance, the style looked like something he barely remembered, but couldn’t place.
The assistant kept twirling his weapon deftly and intently, going through practiced combat poses intended for a more personal engagement than kendo was meant for. His style set him up for various attacks using his body—knees, elbows, and shoulders were often close to the imaginary enemy he would have faced, a tactic both dangerous but effective as he could stagger his foe or retreat at a moment’s notice. The man held his weapon with one hand on its handle, and one hand on its blade, and used his entire body to thrust forward. An attack which could have penetrated through armor.
Recognition dawned on Kuroinu. “He looks Nipponese, but he fights as a westerner would! Wider slashes, swift footwork, and strange handling of the blade.” The combat practice seemingly ended, and the man slotted the weapon in a scabbard as strange as his technique, then he slung the scabbard over his back and went to the courtyard’s gates. Senshi looked gingerly around him to ascertain he was alone, and left the Kajiya household, heading towards the path out of Nagano.
Kuroinu felt a moist trickle dribbling down his eyes, and let loose of the flow of chi. He took a hand to his face, and it returned crimson. “Tch, damn it. Well,” he said to himself, “It seems the assistant may be more than we have been led to believe.”
He massaged his wounded eyes, knowing that his eyesight would become slightly worse after the abuse it sustained. “No matter,” he said, “It was necessary.” He quickly removed the hammock from the branches and gathered his field supplies into the fabric, arranging them in a neat bundle he slung over his back. Then he removed two kunai from a pouch on his hip and used them to climb down the tree.
When Kuroinu reached the loamy floor around the tree, he stretched his muscles one more time, feeling their stiffness starting to recede as they were used again. He needed to be sure about the combat capabilities of the assistant; after all, Hanataro requested a full report. Quickly, he rummaged through his kit, producing an aged, shabby tunic. He donned the clothing right away, tying it at the waist with a piece of hempen rope, and slinging a katana in the belt. Perhaps it will be wise to follow the assistant, thought Kuroinu. Perhaps I will ascertain his battle capabilities. He chuckled. Perhaps I will remove a problem for Hanataro.
With the speed and acumen of a trained ninja, Kuroinu jumped silently into the darkness, and started after his prey.
***
Praise had the unique property of lifting a man’s spirits, especially coming from a man as single-minded as Kain’s father. Yet, Munesuke had praised his accomplishment in forging an ikiteiruyari, and so had the merchant who had commissioned it. No honor, thought Kain, is greater than bringing prosperity to one’s family.
The multiple orders which had been forwarded to the Kajiya forge were meant to be paid in mon—they were not requests levied by the daimyo, nor weapons for war. They were weapons for personal use; perhaps they would adorn the household of a rich merchant or a minor nobleman, maybe they would be used for self-defense, or to outfit a particularly efficient house guard. Their use was none of Kain’s concern, only their forging.
“You seem glad,” Naginata whispered in Kain’s thoughts.
I am, Kain replied, It’s not usual that I receive praise from my father.
“I heard. I assume he spoke of the weapon you created after me?”
“He did.”
A smirk formed on Kain’s face. The bond he had with his weapon was growing; it was a strange relationship linking the forgemaster and the weapon he created. He never thought Naginata would have a personality he liked: Blunt, straightforward, and honest. The kind of personality he would like to have by his side—or in his hands—during combat.
The past month, Kain had trained on a nearly daily basis, accustoming himself to Naginata’s weight, heft, and drag as he swung its length about. It was different to the Zweihänder he had crafted for himself long ago. It was top-heavy rather than balanced at the middle, and the lack of a crossguard made him feel exposed. Regardless, he realized he could use the weapon with deadly efficiency when encountering Nipponese—and even western—armor. Half-swording with Naginata placed a monstrous amount of strength in the tip, ideal for penetrating through layers of protection.
He scoffed. Not that I want to find out whether that’s true or not.
Living as a blacksmith was easier than Kain remembered. Even under his father’s strict routine, waking up at first light to stoke the tatara and get the forging materials and implements ready, working throughout the entire day forging pig-iron tools for farmers, and cleaning the forge at the end of it all, the pace was much easier-going than the terrible times he was put through during his days as a slave. At least now I get a proper break to eat, he thought with a chuckle.
As he walked through the silent woods close to Nagano, Kain looked back on his days in captivity. Being a slave under the Albionese had been grueling at the best of times, horrifying at the worst. The famine, the pestilence, the disease. Kain shivered as recollections of bloated, necrotic bodies, unwashed humanity, and emaciated slaves returned to him. But he had survived, by being younger, more tenacious, and cunning than his peers. He sighed, And by making myself more useful. Most slaves had been used only for menial, dangerous labor, but Kain had proven himself a capable blacksmith and a quick learner and, soon enough, he was one of the main forgemen of the Albionese, producing vessel blades by the dozen. That he had been helped by his fellow slaves’ magic techniques only added to his efficiency—an addition he was deeply thankful for.
Now those days seemed thankfully behind him. He had escaped, he had survived, and he had recovered his freedom. Kain had sworn to himself that he would not accept being held in captivity ever again; he would never be a slave, and should anyone try to deprive him of his freedom, he scoffed. “They’ll meet a grizzly end.”
As he made his way to the clearing in the forest, Kain enjoyed the sounds of night. Cicadas, crickets and frogs sang in the near blackness, unmindful of his passage. Above, the full moon dominated the sky, its silver light washing over the forest, lending it an eerie quality which Kain could a
ppreciate.
“It’s a spectacle,” said Naginata.
“What is?” Kain asked.
“Whatever you are looking at, you seem to be enjoying it.”
Kain was surprised by the remark. “You can see?”
“Not exactly,” Naginata replied. “I can sense your emotional state, the things you feel. For example, you were just having some distressing thoughts, weren’t you?”
Kain sighed. “I was. Just... memories, from the past, long gone now.”
“But painful.”
“Yes,” Kain admitted. “Painful.”
Neither said anything else. It was strange for Kain to accept that he, in fact, had a bond with his weapon. Not merely the bond of a warrior with his armament, nor the bond of a man wielding an ikiteiruken. Naginata was properly alive, and despite the days he had spent getting acquainted with the weapon, he was still taken aback by the authenticity of the weapon’s intellect.
A branch cracked close to Kain, and he quickly unsheathed Naginata, and held the weapon with both hands before assuming a combat stance. He glanced at his surroundings, upset with the dim light. “Naginata,” he said.
“On it.” Kain drew a trickle of essence from the weapon and channeled it to his eyes, augmenting their light-receiving capabilities. Immediately his surroundings became as clear as if they were in daylight, letting Kain see every detail of the trees and plants of the forest. “See anything?” Naginata asked.
“No. Everything seems calm, there are no animal tracks, nothing.” Kain stopped drawing from Naginata’s essence, and the world returned to normal. Kain felt slightly light-headed, as taking energy from Naginata to augment himself had drained his own strength.
“How are you feeling?” the weapon inquired.
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 14