Legions, Part II
By Shawn Carman and Rich Wulf

The Year 1165 by the Isawa Calendar, Spring

Akodo Ijiasu had never run from battle. He would not begin today. Yet even the brash young lord could see when he was outmatched.

The City of the Rich Frog had been Unicorn territory once, though in their nomadic way the Unicorn had never truly pressed their ownership, leaving its rule to the Kaeru ronin family. When the Ikoma family of the Lion Clan absorbed the Kaeru and took the city as their own, many high-ranking members of the Unicorn decried their actions in the Imperial Court. The Unicorn's attempts to regain their claim over the city were denied; the Khan had opposed Emperor Toturi III during his quest for the throne and the Emperor did not forgive easily. His denial of the Khan's rule over Kaeru Toshi was both a reward to the Ikoma for their support and a subtle reminder to the Unicorn of the price of opposing the Emperor's will.

But the Khan would not be denied forever, not even by the Emperor. In the last few years, Akodo wardens had spied many Unicorn scouting parties infiltrating their lands. These scouts invariably turned back for their own lands as soon as they were sighted, quickly outdistancing the Lion cavalry. Matsu Nimuro had determined to suffer the Unicorn's subtle incursions no longer. A show of force was necessary. Ijiasu, former vassal of the Shogun, was dispatched to Kaeru Toshi with an honor guard of the Lion Clan's finest horsemen. When the next scouting party was sighted, the Lion would show no mercy.

For his part Ijiasu was eager to prove himself. Unlike many other Akodo, he had never heard the whisper of his guiding ancestors. He had always wondered if their silence was due to their desire to let him aspire to greatness on his own, or a judgment for some destined failure. Ijiasu swore he would not fail either his Champion or his ancestors, and led his troops into battle against the first Unicorn scouting party his wardens located.

It was a slaughter, but not in the manner that Ijiasu had expected. Legions of Unicorn cavalry had emerged from the forests, outnumbering the Lion troops three to one. Somehow they had passed through the Lion patrols without detection. Somehow, they had known exactly when and where Ijiasu would strike. When Ijiasu saw the banner of the Khan himself flying proudly at the heart of the Unicorn army, he knew there would be no victory for the Lion today.

But Ijiasu had never run from battle. He would not begin today. Signaling the majority of his forces to begin an ordered retreat back to the city walls, he led a charge into the heart of the Unicorn forces. He might die, but not without striking down the Khan for his treachery. Akodo Tadenori could lead his forces in his stead, inspiring the surviving troops to fight and avenge his death.

The Khan's banner was still a hundred yards away when a White Guardsman struck Akodo Ijiasu from his saddle. The spear pierced his body, shattering his spine. There was no pain, only a damp warmth spreading over his neck and shoulders as his head struck a stone. Lion troops surged past him, shouting in a fury.

The once great Lion warrior lay on the cold earth and stared up at the delicate clouds, the sounds of battle growing softer by the moment. As the world faded, Ijiasu wondered if this was the failure his ancestors had foreseen.

The Fields of Yomi, Timeless

Ijiasu sat on the ground where he had fallen. This place was the same as the battlefield where he had faced the Unicorn, though much different as well. No corpses littered the plain. No victorious warriors claimed the land as their own. Even the earth, once torn by furious hooves, had been restored. A roiling mist covered everything, making the horizon hazy and indistinct. It was empty, perfect. Ijiasu had the strange feeling that he was seeing the battlefield as it should be, in its purest state. A sense of peace had overcome him upon first seeing these lands, a peace that was swiftly shattered.

Instinct drove Ijiasu in that instant; his sword was in his hand as a band of eight samurai charged over the hill with spears drawn. He ducked under the first spearmen's charge, cleaving upward with his blade and slicing the man from hip to shoulder. He spun with the inertia of his strike, seizing the dead man's spear from his hands and turning to parry the strikes of three others. He drove the shaft into the heart of a fourth even as a sharp point slashed across his abdomen.

Ijiasu released the spear and drove a solid barehanded punch into his attacker's face, making the man stagger backward. A two-handed stroke with his katana both slew the man and sent him falling backward into two others. He spun and cut down another man, backing away in a defensive posture as his enemies gathered their bearings.

Ijiasu saw only murder in their eyes. He thought they were Scorpion at first from the blood-red color of their armor, but they bore no symbols of clan or family and none wore masks. The red was not the enamel of an armorsmith, but the stain of true blood. Their eyes shone with an unearthly, hungry light, their teeth clenched in rage. As the enemies gauged one another, Ijiasu realized that the bodies of the three fallen samurai had vanished into mist. Some long forgotten memory clawed for his attention, but in the heat of the impending battle he could not place it. As he watched, more of the bloodstained warriors emerged out of the mist. A dozen, then more, more than Ijiasu could ever defeat.

This battle could not be won, but Ijiasu had never run from battle.

“For the glory of the Lion!” he cried.

To his surprise, he heard the cry echoed. Where once there was one blade, now there were two. A warrior in golden armor stood beside Ijiasu, glowing with the radiance of the sun. Ijiasu thought he recognized his face, but no… the man was too young.

He was a Lion. That was all Ijiasu needed to know.

Back to back, they fought against the enemy.

The Year 1109 by the Isawa Calendar, Winter

The leader of the cultists fell to the stone floor, life torn from his body by a blast of searing jade. The battle finally over, Kuni Yori sagged heavily against the stone wall of the massive cavern. He clutched the wound at his side, still bleeding from the cultist's knife. The white makeup that covered his face was now smeared with sweat, grime, and blood. He staggered to the body of his fallen yojimbo.

His free hand paused halfway to the scroll of healing. A look of grim defeat darkened the young shugenja's features. He drew out a different scroll as he knelt beside the body, speaking the blessings that would see his elder brother's soul safely to the fields of Yomi.

When the prayer was complete, Yori looked up to survey the carnage. The bodies of dead Crab warriors and shugenja littered the underground cavern. Occult symbols were scrawled across the stone, twisting symbols that seemed to writhe as Yori looked upon them. With a heavy heart, Yori rose to his feet and moved to the altar. The leader of the cultists lay there, body still smoking from the power of Yori's magic, face twisted in a sneer of rage.

“Father,” Yori whispered. “Why?”

The dead man clutched a porcelain mask in both hands, a large and ponderous thing, too large to be worn by a human being. It was painted in a gaudy style, crimson lips pursed in a kiss. Yori knelt to peer closely at it. He reached for it unconsciously, sensing the power that lay within. Could this have been what drove his father to betray his clan? Could this be what drove him to kill his own son and the others who attempted to stop him?

He stopped, his fingers only centimeters from the porcelain surface. He sensed something wrong, something beyond the obvious dark power that coursed through this nemuranai. He sensed a wisp of darkness, an invisible aura that swirled around the mask. Someone had placed a powerful curse upon this, intended to brutally punish any enemies who laid hands upon it. Yori spoke simple words of magic, causing the ward to glow with a mystical light.

Yori's eyes widened as he admired the obvious skill that lay behind the ward's placement. Simple spells had been woven together in a manner he had never seen before, innocuous protections bound together to craft a spell that could flay a man's soul from his body in an instant. After a few moments' study, he found the root of the ward. He whispered one word, and the glowing barrier faded away. He watched the magic fade, not without a hint of disappointment that he could not study such skilled work in more detail. He reached for the mask with shaking hands, tugging it away from his dead father's grip. Yori felt a rush of forbidden power as he picked up the nemuranai, a sense of something long buried and forgotten.

“Incredible,” said a harsh voice.

Yori glanced up with a start. A large man now stood behind the stone altar, glaring down at the young Crab. He wore a black silken kimono, embroidered with horrible images of cranes tearing one another apart in flight. He held a thick hammer high, ready to strike Yori down, but the look in his pale blue eyes was only curious.

Yori quickly shouted a spell, firing a bolt of jade energy at the stranger. He cast it aside with a negligent wave and continued to look at Yori intently.

“That was one of my strongest wards,” the man said. “Not only did you detect it, but you removed it with ease. Perhaps I approached the wrong Kuni for aid.”

“You,” Yori replied in a low voice. “You are responsible for this? My brother, my father, all of these men, all dead!”

“Your father destroyed himself, Yori,” the man said. “The power I offered him would have made the Kuni supreme among all shugenja families. It was his arrogance and your own suspicion that led to his death, the death of your brother, and the deaths of all these men.” He gestured carelessly at the fallen Crab.

“We Kuni would rather die than bow to Fu Leng's lackeys,” Yori said, spitting at the man's feet.

The stranger lifted a pure white eyebrow then shook his head sadly. “You do not understand,” he said. “The power I wield grows from the heart of Jigoku, but it does not control me. I understand that which only the Kuni, of all the families, understands. The Shadowlands can never be defeated… but it can be brought to heel. I thought your father agreed with me… but in the end he was weak, and the darkness conquered him.”

“Who are you?” Yori asked.

“I am Yajinden,” the man replied.

“I know that name,” Yori said, a cold sensation spreading through his body. “You are Iuchiban's lieutenant, the creator of the Bloodswords.”

“You are not surprised that I am alive?” he asked.

“I have been taught to expect such things from the Shadowlands,” Yori answered. Yajinden took a step toward him, but Yori held up the mask defensively. “Do not pretend you were my father's benefactor. Come no further, or I will destroy this wicked thing!”

“It cannot be destroyed,” Yajinden said, though he ceased his approach. He lowered his hammer, setting its head upon the floor with a thud. “It was crafted too well. There are three others like those, each bound to restrain my master Iuchiban's soul within his prison. It is merely a sample of the power I offered your father. You thirst for it as well. I saw your eyes when you unraveled my curse.”

Yori looked down at the mask in confusion. “I do not understand,” he said. “Iuchiban's prison was built by the Crab, fortified with Scorpion traps and Phoenix magic. Why would its keys contain such dark magic?”

“Perhaps because those who built his prison were not quite as skilled at sensing the truth as you are,” Yajinden answered, “or perhaps they were as perceptive as yourself but were content not to ask questions so long as the Bloodspeaker was contained. Victory is victory, is it not? Who better to help fashion Iuchiban's prison than his lieutenant? Does it not strike you as strange that the histories never mention my defeat during Iuchiban's second coming?”

“No,” Yori said, shaking his head as he looked up at Yajinden again. “The Crab would not have allowed you to help, not after your master nearly destroyed their Empire.”

“Desperate men make desperate decisions when there is necessity,” Yajinden replied, “Not all the Crab knew who I was, only enough. Honor is a fine thing, Yori, but it is the ignoble men who do what must be done that often save the Empire.”

“So you think you are a hero?” Yori sneered in disbelief.

“I am an artist,” Yajinden answered. “It is as simple as that. Good and evil, honor and dishonor, these things do not concern me, only creation. I could no longer create as I desired, chained by Iuchiban as I was. He bound me to serve him loyally, and so I did. Though I could have given his foes the means to destroy him, instead I convinced them he could not be destroyed. I created a prison that even his greatest enemies will never pierce. He will remain within, safe from all who threaten him, for eternity.” Yajinden looked at the mask again. “Or so long as the seals are well guarded. Your father betrayed my trust, Yori. This ritual you interrupted was a ritual of seeking. He would have sought out my other masks and released my master. Your father failed to detect the curse I laid, a curse that would destroy any who sought to betray me.” Yajinden turned his back to Yori, peering around at the carnage that filled the cave. “And so we find the curse fulfilled. Recognize what happens to those who defy me, Yori. See the truth in your father's dead eyes.”

“Why are you telling me these things?” Yori asked. “Why should I believe any of this?”

Yajinden shrugged. “I have lived a long time, Yori. I have become quite an expert in estimating the worth of others. Your father was a petty man, but you… you are destined for greatness.”

“What do you want?” Yori asked.

“The same thing I offered your father,” Yajinden said. “A chance to teach you.”

“To teach me?” Yori asked, afraid and intrigued at once.

Yajinden nodded. “All that you would learn. If you would guard this mask, I would insure that you are a worthy guardian.”

“I will not become a Bloodspeaker,” Yori spat. “I would rather die.”

Yajinden frowned. “I never asked you for such a thing, and I did not know the Kuni feared knowledge so. Is it not your duty to learn from the darkness so you might battle it more effectively?”

Yori scowled.

“Weigh what I offer, Yori,” Yajinden said in a disturbingly mellow voice. “Allow me to teach you all that you would learn or I shall take the mask from you, and perhaps kill you in the attempt. Your father's death will mean nothing. I have already proven you cannot kill me, Yori. Will it harm you to learn from me?”

“Why me?” Yori asked. “Do you not have enough Bloodspeakers who would learn from you?”

“Their souls have already been promised to my master,” Yajinden said. “When he returns, they will be bound to serve him as I do. But you… you are free... and you are curious, as I once was. We are alike, you and I.”

“So you wish me to be your weapon against your master?” Yori asked, eyes narrowing.

Yajinden smiled slightly. “I would never wish to harm my master,” he said mechanically. “I wish only to teach. What you do with that knowledge is your own business.”

“Of course,” Yori said. His hand tightened on the cold porcelain mask. Despite his misgivings he could already see the possibilities forming.

The Fields of Yomi, Timeless

“What is the last thing you remember?” Goemon asked him earnestly.

Ijiasu looked at Matsu Goemon blankly. He remembered the man had been an officer in his armies, an old veteran of the Clan War, War Against the Darkness, and the War of Spirits. He was young now, tall and strong, and his face shone with a divine radiance. He had claimed to be the Fortune of Heroes. Ijiasu found it difficult to believe but could not bring himself to truly doubt it. Goemon was a true Lion. Though his face was different, Ijiasu recognized the veteran hero's fighting style. A man might lie but his sword could not. Ijiasu believed Goemon was who he claimed to be.

“I remember fighting the Unicorn,” Ijiasu said. “Then I was here, where you found me. You say that I have been dead almost a year?”

Goemon nodded gravely.

“Where have I been?”

“I confess I do not know,” Goemon replied, “and you are not alone. There are many among others like yourself, displaced in death, consigned to places where they should not be or who vanished into nothing at all. Now they begin to return, and find their way to the Legion.”

“Legion?” Ijiasu replied. “What Legion?”

“The Legion of the Dead,” Goemon said. “In the lands of the living, the Bloodspeaker Iuchiban has returned. Through some unknown magic he has chained an army of the restless dead to his will.”

“Bah,” Ijiasu replied. “Let him bring his shambling hordes against the Lion. We have defeated his like before.”

“I speak not of the walking corpses that we have faced so often,” Goemon replied, “though Iuchiban does indeed count such troops among his servants. I speak of the spirits of the fallen, ghosts of those who died in shame or dishonor, a Legion of Blood. He gathers these spirits for we know not what end. The living heroes of Rokugan cannot fight such an evil. Emperor Toturi has commissioned me with gathering a legion of heroes to fight this evil. Some are driven to join me. Others, like yourself, I am driven to find.”

“A war between the souls of the dead?” Ijiasu asked. “I can scarcely conceive of such a thing. What does this Legion of Blood desire? What is its purpose?”

“I am uncertain,” Goemon replied, “though some of the wisest among us have theories.”

Ijiasu looked at the ground where the bodies of the bloodstained samurai had fallen. His hand tightened upon the wound on his side, a very real pain for a man who should be dead. “What happens to those who perish in this battle?” he asked. “Can a spirit truly die?”

“I do not know,” Goemon admitted. “Already many among my legion have fallen in skirmishes such as this. They vanish, as these do.”

“You offer a great deal of uncertainty, Goemon-sama,” Ijiasu replied.

“In that regard the lands of the dead are much like the lands of the living,” Goemon said wryly.

“So you ask that I enter battle for an Empire that is no longer mine,” Ijiasu asked, “If I succeed, none who live might know this battle was ever fought. If I should fail, oblivion is the only certainty.”

Goemon nodded. “Do not feel obligated to aid us,” he replied. “Do only as your honor dictates.”

“Where do we begin, Goemon-sama?” Ijiasu asked with a grim smile.

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