Blood Dawn
By Rich Wulf

The Plains Above Evil…

The swordsmith let his hammer fall across the anvil once more, pounding out a steady rhythm that echoed into the night. His workshop, an improvised smithy he had thrown together in a small cave, held no light other than the light of the forge. The swordsmith scowled down at the hunk of steel that lay before him, bending it into the form of a sword with his boundless will as much as his skill with his tools. He lifted the hammer another time, and pain shot through his body. The hammer fell from his hand with a clang, his exhausted arms no longer able to bear it aloft. He fell to his knees, breath coming in savage gasps, as his body began to fail him. He pushed his lank, long white hair from his eyes and looked up with a scowl. A thin stream of bright red blood trickled along the floor and over his hand, runoff from the rain of blood that covered the landscape beyond the cavern.

“Omoni, send another,” he whispered.

The small man huddled at the edge of the light nodded, and turned to the two goblins that squatted beside him with a silent command. One showed pointy white teeth in a fierce smile as they scampered away. Struggling to his knees, the swordsmith removed the sturdy apron tied about his waist and hung it on a hook riveted in the stone wall. He placed the hammer and tongs carefully beside it. He lifted a white kimono from the floor and pulled it over his exhausted shoulders. After a few moments, the sound of terrified screams drew toward the swordsmith. A peasant in ragged garments was forced into the edge of the forge light. He covered his eyes with both hands as he wailed for mercy.

The swordsmith scowled at the peasant. “Look at me,” he commanded.

“No!” the peasant cried. “Not this! Not like the others!”

The swordsmith knelt carefully beside his anvil, folding his arms in his sleeves. “Make him look at me,” the swordsmith said.

The creatures cackled gleefully. Each seized an arm and pulled them away from his face. Omoni stood and seized his hair, forcing him to look at the swordsmith's eyes.

“Why?” the peasant cried. “Why me?”

The swordsmith paused for a moment, as if weighing whether an explanation was necessary. “Because I am tired,” the swordsmith said with a small frown. “This body can work no longer without rest, and I am on a schedule. Sayonara.”

The scream that echoed through the cavern next was like nothing else, louder than the sounds of the forge that had echoed only moments before, louder than the thunder that crashed in the sky above. The swordsmith's body fell forward with a thud, dead. The peasant shook the two goblins free with incredible strength and Omoni stepped away, releasing him. As the peasant rose, he changed. His gangly limbs grew thick with muscle, his shoulders broader. His close-cropped black hair grew long over his shoulders, and faded to white. His eyes drained of color, changing from dark brown to pale blue. He lifted a hot brand from the forge and held it near a quenching barrel, studying his reflection in the surface of the water.

“The chin is never quite right,” he said with a small frown. “I never look like me.”

“I can fix that,” Omoni replied.

“Another time, Omoni-san,” the swordsmith replied. He shed his peasant tunic and donned the blacksmith's apron, taking up his hammer and tongs again. “I shall not wear this body for long. It will tire like the others, and a new one will be needed.”

Omoni sat on the floor beside his goblins, the forge light casting an eerie pallor on his sallow features. One of the ferocious creatures shoved the other away and curled itself on Omoni's lap like a dog. He scratched it behind one pointed ear as he studied the swordsmith silently.

“What happens to their souls?” he asked. “What happens to the people when you take their bodies?”

“What do I care?” Yajinden replied, continuing his work.

Omoni frowned thoughtfully. “Someone comes,” he said without looking.

A tall man in silken black robes stepped into the cavern and pushed his hood aside, revealing the pale, gaunt features and shaven head typical of a Bloodspeaker tsukai. “Yajinden,” the man said in a mellow voice. “I have come to monitor your progress.”

“I do my best work alone, Masaru,” Yajinden said, not turning from his anvil, hammer falling in a steady rhythm.

“Yet you are not alone,” Masaru said, gesturing toward Omoni and his goblins. “Surely my presence will not distract you any more than this miserable wretch and his pets.”

“Omoni is a fellow artist; his presence does not disturb me,” Yajinden replied, “but I cannot abide a fool's eyes on my work.”

Omoni grinned. His goblins snarled at Masaru.

“I am sorry you feel that way,” Masaru said with a sigh, “but Iuchiban was very specific in my instructions.” The tsukai stressed his master's name, hoping to impress Yajinden with its weight.

Yajinden's hammer paused in midair. He looked over one shoulder with a scowl. “Very well, then,” he said in a low voice. “If he requested you monitor me then I have no choice but to permit your presence.” He began hammering the sword again.

Masaru watched silently for long minutes, trying to ignore the shabby goblin-man that stared at him from the shadows. Yajinden lifted the sword and studied its red-hot surface with a satisfied grunt. He plunged the blade into a barrel with a whisper of forbidden magic. Steam rose in a white cloud, then swirled with black mists that poured from Yajinden's lips. Wicked spirits crawled into the heated blade as it drank the quenching water, granting the steel a mild blood-red hue. Yajinden ran one finger along the blade and set it on a rack beside many other katana, wakizashi, spears, and axes.

“You do fine work,” Masaru said, extending one hand toward the nearest spear.

“By all means, touch it,” Yajinden said tonelessly. “I would enjoy seeing what happens to you.”

Masaru carefully withdrew his hand and folded his arms in his robes.

“Tell Iuchiban his arsenal is nearly complete,” Yajinden said. “They are weaker than true Bloodswords by far, but such is unavoidable given the materials, tools at hand, and time allotted. But these, combined with tonight's storm, should turn a fair number to your master's cause.”

“Our master,” Maseru corrected. “We all serve him.”

Yajinden took a deep breath and began working on a new scrap of steel. “I have known Iuchiban since before there was a such word as Bloodspeaker. I knew him when he was Jama, the Imperial Prince. Together we unlocked the secrets of immortality. I crafted his Bloodswords and the Anvil of Despair. I discovered the soul-shifting magic that allowed him to escape his Tomb the first time. I helped perfect the ritual that created the rain of blood that darkens Rokugan's skies even now. Yes, I serve the First Bloodspeaker. It seems every aspect of my genius serves to build his legend, while I am forgotten.”

“Such words are arrogant,” Masaru replied, backing away from Yajinden slowly. “I will tell Iuchiban you have said these things.”

“Arrogance is the luxury of the worthy,” Yajinden said with a chuckle. “Tell Iuchiban what you wish. Perhaps he shall strike me down for my arrogance.” He looked up at Masaru. “Perhaps he will kill you out of hand for denouncing his most valuable ally.”

Masaru blinked. In the shadows, Omoni gave a sharp, animal laugh.

“Laugh at me if you will, but at least Iuchiban trusts me,” Masaru replied. “You have served him for centuries and he still sends servants such as myself to monitor you.”

“Trust?” Yajinden replied. His face creased in a slow smile as he turned to face the tsukai. “Iuchiban does not trust you. He controls you. Only the weak find salvation in the shadow of trust. You know nothing of what the Bloodspeakers stand for. We are beings of raw power. We bend others to our will, or destroy them. A Bloodspeaker serves no master - he simply works with others when it serves his own purposes to do so. We need no trust. Power insures obedience. Trust is a word the weak use to console themselves as they cower before someone who has ‘trusted' them.”

“So you serve only out of fear?” Masaru asked with disdain.

“Fear and power are the only constants, the only true motivations,” Yajinden replied. “I fear Iuchiban's power, for to do so keeps me alive. I will obey his commands so long as his power is greater than mine, and his goals match mine, for to do so increases my own power, leading others to fear me in turn. When the day comes he is no longer needed, I will destroy him with no regrets. I believed my strength was greater than his once, and my folly only won me a place in his Tomb. Until I am truly more powerful, Iuchiban need never fear me, and may rely upon me. That is what it truly means to be a Bloodspeaker - to balance power and fear, accepting both without emotion. You wear our name but you are not one of us. You are merely a tool, like this hammer.” Yajinden held the heavy metal implement before the tsukai's face. “So tell Iuchiban what you will about me, but know this. It will only serve to diminish your worth in his eyes. One day, Iuchiban will have no need for you, and he will no longer protect you… and I have a long memory.” He raised the hammer easily in one hand, as if preparing to strike Masaru.

“I… am sorry, Yajinden-sama,” Maseru said in a terrified voice. He fell to his knees before the swordsmith, eyes fixed on the floor.

Yajinden smiled. “Now you begin to understand,” Yajinden replied. “Leave my forge, Masaru, and disturb me no more. Tell Iuchiban my work proceeds as well as can be expected.”

Masaru nodded rapidly and withdrew into the shadows as quickly as he was able.

Yajinden returned to his forge.

“As well as can be expected?” Omoni asked quietly. “These weapons are among the most powerful cursed artifacts I have seen, and I have seen many. You belittle masterpieces, Yajinden-sama.”

“These are nothing, Omoni,” Yajinden replied with a smirk. “Shadows of true Bloodswords. At the risk of sounding nostalgic, I have begun to yearn for the days of old, for my Anvil of Despair… but it has long been destroyed.”

Yajinden continued to work for several minutes before Omoni spoke again.

“No,” Omoni said. “It has not been destroyed.”

Yajinden stopped his work immediately, eyes intent on the goblin-man. “Do not toy with me Omoni. Have you seen my Anvil?”

Omoni nodded back at Yajinden. On his lap, the goblin twisted so that Omoni could scratch its fat stomach. “My friend Kokujin used it to forge swords of shame. My bakemono were there. They saw it fall into the earth, along with Kokujin.”

Yajinden let the hammer and tongs fall from his hands, ignoring them as they clattered to the stone floor. He advanced toward Omoni. The other goblin growled at the swordsmith, but he ignored the beast and laid one hand on the goblin-man's shoulder. Thunder shook the cave as the storm continued outside. “Tell me where it was lost, my friend, and I will craft you the finest weapon ever forged.”

“I do not need weapons,” Omoni replied. “I have my bakemono.”

“A favor then,” Yajinden said. “For a kindred spirit, a fellow crafter. Help me find the Anvil of Despair, and I shall grant you any favor within my power.”

“Very well, Yajinden-sama,” Omoni replied.

Iuchiban stood beside the stone altar in the heart of the Plains Above Evil. His once white robes were now drenched red with blood. His long black hair was plastered across his back. He stood with arms outstretched, face raised to the sky, laughing like a delighted child as the storm of blood raged on. The corpse of the Ki-Rin lay discarded on the earth beside him, its life drained away by Iuchiban's mad spell. As he watched the blood fall upon the people of the Empire, he could feel the servants of the Emperor as they became consumed by madness. His eyes and ears now stretched across the Empire, carried by the power of his storm, but he kept his focus here. He spoke aloud to his assembled followers.

“For centuries the Bloodspeakers have remained hidden in the darkness,” he said in the loud, clear voice of a courtier. “Now the Empire knows that we have returned. After tonight, there shall be no doubt. This rain of blood will seep into the souls of the weak. Those who are consumed by fear, desire, or regret will be unable to resist my call. They will fall to the power of corruption, and become willing allies of the Bloodspeakers.”

A riotous cry erupted from the cultists. Like their master, they were soaked in blood from the magical storm. Young and old, man and woman stood among their ranks. They were unified only by the fervor they displayed for their master, and the madness that lurked behind their eyes.

“Until today many of you were ordinary folk,” Iuchiban continued. “Minor samurai, peasants, or even eta living the lives of little note. You worshipped me in secret, continuing the blood rites and secret rituals their parents had passed down for generations. You waited patiently for my return, while your hate boiled inside. The day has come for you to cast aside your old roles. Wield your hate against the Empire. Strike down those too weak to grasp the pure power of blood as you have done. Today is our call to arms. Cells of Bloodspeakers hidden throughout the Empire assemble tonight as we do here, preparing to join with those who have succumbed to the rain's unholy power.”

The cultists cheered again, and the thunder echoed their cry.

“Each of you, in your way, helped to engineer my escape, for each of you know the promise of conquest that I bring,” he continued. “But you have also heard the legends. You have heard the Empire slander the name of the Bloodspeakers. As we march against the Empire you will hear them slander us again. They will tell you that we cannot triumph, that I have already tried and failed to conquer the Empire twice before. Yet for all their power… for all their efforts to destroy me… I am here. I am eternal, and I will not be denied!”

The crowd echoed their master's speech with more riotous cheering. Many waved weapons in the air, wicked knives or curved swords from the Bloodspeaker forges.

“Jama Suru awaits you, my children,” Iuchiban said, lifting his hands and cupping the blood rain as it fell. “He will lead you to conquest! March forth, and soak the earth with samurai blood so deeply that this storm is put to shame!” Iuchiban drew the sword slung across his back, drawing another roar from the cultists as the golden blade erupted in black flame.

The riotous cheering continued for several minutes, until Jama Suru's barked commands began to dispatch the crowd in organized packs. Iuchiban remained where he was, watching his armies with a cold, calculating eye. He already knew which of them would die, which would return with greater strength and experience, and which would perhaps do both thanks to Suru's magic. He tilted his head slightly to one side after some time, sensing Yajinden's arrival even before the shadows parted to deposit him there.

“I saw some of the cultists carrying your handiwork,” Iuchiban said simply.

Yajinden shrugged. “No one of importance,” he replied. “The curses shall strengthen them for a time, and when they die it shall be surrounded by the corpses of our enemies. With luck, some foolish samurai will find their weapons and take them for their own.”

Iuchiban nodded. “Your creations have never failed to cause the Empire misery.” The First Bloodspeaker gave Yajinden a thoughtful look. “Except once, of course.”

Yajinden shrugged. “I know the sword of which you speak but I disagree,” he replied. “Yashin caused the Hantei Dynasty's downfall. A pity you missed it.”

Iuchiban's expression did not change, refusing to respond to Yajinden's subtle insult. “Have you found the rakshasa?” he asked simply.

“Not yet, Iuchiban,” Yajinden replied. “I have been quite busy of late forging your blood weapons.”

“Assign such duties to an apprentice,” Iuchiban replied.

“None are as skilled as I,” Yajinden said.

“All the more reason not to waste your time with such insignificant work,” Iuchiban replied. “Adisabah must be recaptured. He knows a great deal that could bring us harm. You know I am the only one I can rely on in this, for you have just as much to lose.”

Yajinden frowned. “He will not be easily found,” he said.

“Since when were you daunted by the impossible, Asahina?” Iuchiban retorted.

Yajinden winced, annoyed by the mention of his lost family name. “I shall do my best Iuchiban, but I think you overestimate the danger the creature poses. His kind rarely acts directly. He will not take advantage of what he knows. More likely he will hide in the shadows, wearing a thousand different faces, hiding in terror.”

“I do not fear Adisabah,” Iuchiban replied. “I fear others will learn what he knows. Begin with the Unicorn, the one who escaped us in the Tomb. Perhaps Jin has learned something from his brother's soul…”

The Burning Sands…

“Where are we?” Iuchi Katamari asked. The young magistrate stood at the mouth of a large cavern, staring out at the blasted desert landscape that surrounded them. The sun sat hot in the sky, blazing down with an angry fire. Somehow it did not look like the sun that Katamari knew. Even the air tasted different.

“Meat concerns itself too much with trivialities,” the rakshasa's voice echoed from within the cave. “One place is like another, this place is as good as any. Better. Further from the jailer it is, the safer it feels.”

“This is not Rokugan,” Katamari said, looking back into the cavern. “This is not my home.”

The rakshasa looked up in surprise. It had been kneeling over a small bowl of herbs, mixing them and smashing them diligently with a pestle. Its tiger face split in a grin, showing sharp white fangs. It dumped the herbs into its pipe and hung the pipe in its mouth. “Meat is closer to home than you think,” Adisabah said. “This place, it calls to you. Like it calls to Adisabah. There is much to learn here. We must stay here till the tale is told.”

“Tale?” Katamari asked. “What tale do you mean?”

“The tale of the jailer,” he said. “Your tale, meat.” Adisabah pointed at Katamari with his pipe.

“My tale?”

“Even the manipulator is not beyond being manipulated,” the rakshasa said, chewing on his pipe with an amused smile. “Even the immortal are not beyond kharma. Even a Bloodspeaker cannot defy the bonds of blood.”

“Kharma?” Katamari asked. “Blood? What does any of that have to do with anything?”

“Curious,” Adisabah said. “Meat still does not wonder why?”

“What are you talking about?” Katamari asked.

The rakshasa chuckled and held one finger in the air. A small green flame leapt from the tip of its claw, and it lit its pipe. “Your brother Kuma and his wife Sui both died in the Tomb of Iuchiban. Both were manipulated by forces beyond their control - Shahai knew that Sui and Kuma together could lead her through the jailer's tomb… but why were you there?”

“I stood beside my brother,” Katamari replied.

“That is what you think, meat, but there is a greater reason still,” Adisabah said. “The jailer pretends the power that he wields is new, that it is a thing of his creation, but in these lands immortals are nothing new. There are those who have learned to fight them. Those who have learned to kill them. You were drawn to the jailer's prison because you are one of their line, the protectors of magic, the gatherers of winds.”

Adisabah reached into his robes and drew out a heavy iron mask. The front was featureless, split only by a thin horizontal opening for the eyes.

“That is Iuchi Karasu's mask,” Katamari said with a faint sense of wonder. All Iuchi recognized the mask once worn by their family's greatest hero.

“No,” Adisabah said. “This is your mask. The time has come for you to learn the truth. The time has come for you to become the Doomseeker.”

To be continued…

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