By Rich Wulf

The Hills Beyond Musume Mura, Crane Clan Lands…

Michinaga staggered to a halt, leaning heavily against the tunnel wall as he gasped for breath. He clutched his right shoulder, over the a spreading patch of red that stained his brown kimono. The old man glanced back down the earthen passageway with a look of abject terror. It had all happened so quickly. There had been no defense, no way to fight. Their power was incredible; it was a wonder he had even escaped with his life. He could still hear the sounds of fighting back the way he had come, steel on steel, the roar of flame, and the screams of dying men. How could he face such an enemy?

There was no way. He had to keep running.

Michinaga turned to flee, but the strength drained from his legs. He crumpled forward, catching the wall with one hand in time to keep from falling forward on his face. Terror surged through him; this lethargy was the work of magic. He looked back down the tunnel with wide eyes, holding his lantern high. A white porcelain mask appeared at the edge of the shadows, forehead marked with a rising sun, hovering above scarlet robes. The eyes behind the mask were lost in shadow.

“The Wolf,” Michinaga whispered.

“Where does this tunnel lead?” the man demanded, advancing upon him. “To more Bloodspeakers?” Michinaga noticed that the hem of the Wolf’s robes was a darker red, stained dark with blood and ashes.

“Please, Sezaru-sama,” Michinaga whispered. “I beg you mercy. My family is poor! I did what I did only to help them, and by your reputation you are an honorable man!”

“If you wished to help your family, you have failed,” the Wolf replied, still advancing. “By serving the Bloodspeakers you have damned yourself and all your line. Now answer my question.”

“If I help you, will you spare my family?” Michinaga begged.

“The ones you took from Musume Mura had families as well,” Sezaru answered in a low voice. “They were innocents, Bloodspeaker. I saw what you did to them.”

“I can help you!” Michinaga pleaded. “All I ask is mercy!”

“I asked for your help, but I do not need it,” the Wolf answered, “and while the Celestial Heavens may show you mercy, I assure you that I will not. The Voice of the Emperor has spoken.”

Michinaga stuttered in horror. Desperately, he dropped his lantern and reached for the knife at his belt. The light struck the floor and the small candle went dim just as Sezaru’s hands appeared from his robe. A bright flash of white flame illuminated the tunnel again an instant later, and the sight of the Wolf’s merciless eyes illuminated behind his mask was the last thing Michinaga saw.

The Hall of Ancestors, Lion Clan Lands…

The hallowed chambers of the Lion Hall of Ancestors were silent save for the distant chanting of the attendant priests layered with the footfalls of two samurai and the priest that guided them. The Kitsu peered over his shoulder with an irritated scowl. Though the samurai were barefoot, the larger one’s footfalls resounded heavily through the peaceful temple. Hida Kisada looked past the man, ignoring his discomfort. The Great Bear was not a man designed for subtlety. The priest sighed, halting beside a large statue of a samurai maiden in brilliant golden armor. He turned and held out one hand.

“I will fetch Ketsui-sama,” he said. “Please wait here.”

He proceeded into the darkness alone. Matsu Aoiko walked past Kisada and knelt before the statue. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders as she removed her elaborate helm and bowed her head in silent prayer.

“Matsu Yukari,” Kisada said, looking up at the statue. “She was a brilliant warrior.”

“My ancestor,” Aoiko replied. “I thought it might be wise to seek her guidance, while we wait. She fought at the Battle of Sleeping River, when Iuchiban last plagued the Empire.”
“Yes, I know her,” Kisada replied, studying the statue. “Possessed of a cunning tactical mind as well as a sharp wit. The chin is a bit sharp. It doesn’t do her justice.”

Aoiko smirked. “You know her?” she asked. “Matsu Yukari died nearly four hundred years ago.”

Kisada gave Aoiko a level look. “Aoiko-san, when will you believe I am who I say I am?” he asked. “The War of Spirits was not so long ago. Is one more soul returned so difficult to believe?”

“One more soul?” she asked. “Perhaps not. But the Great Bear, hero and villain of the Clan Wars, the Fortune of Persistence returned to flesh? I believe you are a capable leader if you could navigate the mountains and inspire so many to follow you. I am willing to help you, but pardon my skepticism if I do not take your godhood at your word.” She turned to face the statue again.

Kisada chuckled. “If I told you I was a god and you believed me without proof I do not think I would want your help, Aoiko,” he replied, kneeling beside her.

“What is it like to be a god?” she asked him. “Not that I believe you, of course.”

“Of course,” he answered. “Divinity is difficult to describe. Most of my powers were set aside when I became mortal, and I find that even the memory of what it was to be a Fortune is quickly fading. I remember… borrowed strength. To be a god is to see a larger world than others can comprehend. You understand the needs of others, sometimes better than they do. To be a god is to possess power greater than your own, but to always remember it is not your own. You wield the strength of others, those who place faith in you, those who need you. You must use that strength in turn to bolster them, aid them, bless them. Faith must be returned with faith, or your strength becomes corrupt and worthless.”

“Seems not much different from being a general,” Aoiko said.

“Essentially,” Kisada replied, eyes wrinkling with mirth behind his monstrous helmet.

“Was it difficult to set such power aside?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I was needed here, so I had little time to doubt my choice. Yet now that I am mortal, I do find it difficult.” The Great Bear sighed. “I still hear their prayers, Aoiko. In my dreams, in times of peace, I hear the cries of those who plead for strength and persistence. It frustrates me to know I can no longer help them.”

“Strange,” Aoiko said. “I always thought you weren’t the sort of god that would shower his blessings on beggars. It is said you refused to help Bayushi Shoju during his coup merely because he asked. I cannot see you answering prayers.”

“A fair observation,” Kisada said. He closed his eyes for a long moment. “If I share three prayers with you, Aoiko, would you tell me how you would answer them?”

“Certainly,” she replied.

“On the northern border of the Empire, Shiba Yobei prays for strength,” Kisada said. “With his clan’s war with the Mantis, the northern borders are only lightly defended. He stands alone in the wilderness, his two brothers already lying dead in the snow beside him. He faces three Yobanjin warriors. Yobei has an arrow in his belly, buried so deep he no longer feels the pain. He knows there is no healer, no shugenja nearby. He will not live to see the sun rise. All he desires is that the barbarians die before he does, so that his brothers will not be unavenged. Would you ignore his request, merely because he was ‘weak?’”

“Perhaps not,” she admitted.

Kisada nodded. “At Kosaten Shiro, Daidoji Takahiro prays for strength,” he said. “He wishes to win a duel so that he might impress a dainty young flower of the court. He does not even know her name.”

“I would ignore him,” she said with a laugh.

“Takahiro’s line of the family is poor but proud,” Kisada said. “His father perished in madness during the Rain of Blood, heaping shame upon an already destitute name. He has almost no prospect for marriage, except for his skill with the blade. If he could impress this girl, perhaps his situation might change. Perhaps he might yet earn glory for his family… or he might die and end the tale forever.”

“If he does not have the strength to win on his own, he does not deserve glory,” she replied.

“Fair enough,” Kisada answered. “In a temple far to the south, a samurai prays to me for strength. Many of his friends and family have perished to Iuchiban. He has seen the terrors of the Bloodspeakers firsthand. He has watched men he has known from childhood reduced to ash or worse at the wave of a tsukai’s hand. Yet he does not falter, he does not hesitate. He wishes only to fight the Bloodspeakers with every bit of strength he can muster, and intends to do so whether or not his prayers are answered.”

“I would help him,” Aoiko said without hesitation.

A low laugh echoed deep within Kisada’s steel helmet. “Would you?” Kisada asked. “You would help Daigotsu Meguro, who prays from the Temple of the Ninth Kami?”

“The Shadowlands?” Aoiko replied, startled. “I did not know that the Lost prayed to anyone but their own mad god.” Aoiko did not dare say Fu Leng’s name, not in this holy place.

“Some are surprisingly devout,” The Great Bear said. “I swore that I would never aid the Shadowlands, Aoiko. Yet the Shadowlands is not what it once was. Many of the Lost are honorable men and women, though they serve a wicked god. They despise the Bloodspeakers as much as we do. Perhaps more, in Meguro’s case. I am almost relieved that my powers have been set aside. I remember my oaths, but I do not know if I could deny Meguro the blessing he seeks. If Daigotsu moves against Iuchiban when we do, I do not know if I could bring myself to fight him. He is my enemy, but he is a greater enemy to Iuchiban. At least today.”

Aoiko did not reply. Kisada left her to ponder his words in silence.

“When you were in Yomi,” she finally said, “did you ever meet my grandfather?”

“The Butcher,” Kisada answered. “A man reviled for his ruthlessness in battle, hated for his willingness to do whatever was required to destroy his enemy. Yes I know Matsu Gohei.”

Aoiko scowled silently.

“I admire him quite a bit,” Kisada added with a small laugh. “We have a great deal in common. He is a good friend, though he is horrible at Go. Far too aggressive.”

“Did he ever speak of me?” she asked.

“From time to time,” Kisada answered. “If you hope I will tell you he thinks well of you, I fear you will be disappointed. That is not Gohei’s way. He speaks harshly of you, very harshly. I know many expect that you will live up to your grandfather’s legend, but Gohei does not. He expects you to surpass him.”

Aoiko did not answer at first, her face pale.

“Good,” she finally said, then fell back into silence.

After some time, the sound of footsteps approached. The Kitsu priest was now accompanied by two samurai, a young man and a stately older woman. Kisada and Aoiko rose, bowing deeply. The others returned the bow, except for the woman, who only stared at Kisada in open skepticism.

“Matsu Ketsui and Ikoma Fudai,” the priest said, “may I introduce… the Great Bear, Hida Kisada.” The priest clearly did not believe the words he spoke.

“Kisada,” Ketsui said. “If it would not be too much to ask, could you please remove your helmet?”

The Great Bear nodded, removing his kabuto and holding it under one arm. His face was too blunt and roughly chiseled to be truly handsome, but his eyes burned with a powerful, determined intensity.

Matsu Ketsui looked at Kisada speculatively. “Isn’t that armor a bit heavy to wear all the time, Kisada-sama?” she asked him.

“May as well ask a crab if its shell is too heavy, little cub,” he answered.

“Little cub?” Fudai snapped, his tone gravely insulted. “You dare address the Matsu daimyo in such a manner?” One hand rested on his sword, and he looked to Ketsui for the inevitable permission to draw.

“Wait, Fudai,” Ketsui said, holding out one hand with a grin. “I met Kisada once before, at the Winter Court years ago. It was only days after my gempukku. I was a guest of my cousin, Tsuko, and I gravely overestimated both my prowess and my importance. The words I spoke were the first I said to Lord Kisada. The words he just spoke were his amused reply to a young girl that impressed him with her brashness. None other would have known that, though I am surprised that he remembered.”

“How could I forget?” Kisada asked. “The rest of those dullards were too afraid to speak to me. You remain my fondest memory of that court, Ketsui. The years have been kind to you.”

“Not as kind as to you, obviously,” she said, studying his youthful features in astonishment.

“This is truly Kisada, then?” the priest asked, his voice a shocked squawk. “This is the Fortune of Persistence?”

Ketsui nodded slightly.

The priest dropped to the floor, rapidly mumbling prayers of apology.

“I was told you have gathered an army to fight the Bloodspeaker,” Ketsui said, ignoring the priest’s fawning obeisance.

“It is so,” Kisada answered.

“I wish that I could fight beside you, Great Bear,” Ketsui replied, “but my duty lies here. Since Domotai and Nimuro’s deaths, the temple is my responsibility.”

“Your sons were true samurai,” Kisada said. “Tsuko is proud of them, and of you.”

Ketsui’s eyes widened at the words. Even Fudai’s face flushed slightly. The Ikoma smiled with pride before remembering himself and resuming his diplomatic face.

“Aoiko, you will of course give Lord Kisada your full support in his quest?” Ketsui asked, turning to the young samurai.

“Hai, Ketsui-sama,” she replied. “The Crab and Lion will share the glory of the Bloodspeaker’s defeat.”

“I would ride with you as well, if you would have me, Lord Kisada,” Fudai said eagerly. “Let the Ikoma record this tale for the ages.”

“As you wish,” Kisada replied.

“Excellent,” Ketsui replied. “But what brings you here, Kisada-sama?”

“I must see Ikoma Hidemasa’s memorial shrine,” Kisada said. “I was told Fudai could direct me to it.”

“Hidemasa?” Fudai asked, shocked. “Are you certain you have the correct name?”

Kisada leveled his iron gaze upon Fudai as he replaced his helmet. “Quite certain,” he replied. “Is there a problem?”

Fudai glanced at Ketsui then back at Kisada with an embarrassed frown. “I am merely surprised,” he said. “Hidemasa is not well remembered among my family. He dishonored himself by becoming a ronin and fleeing the clan rather than facing a rival in a duel.”

“But his remains are in the Hall of Ancestors?” Aoiko asked.

Fudai looked embarrassed. “Erm, yes,” he replied hesitantly. “By special request. It was later revealed that Hidemasa showed some minor degree of heroism, dying while fighting bandits in the defense of a nameless village.”

“I would wager the peasants who lived in that village did not find his heroism minor,” Kisada said.

“Yet ultimately an irrelevant sacrifice,” Fudai answered. “If he truly wished to show his honor, he should have returned and faced his foe in the court.”

“And died an arrogant fool rather than a hero?” Kisada replied.

“I mean no disrespect, Kisada-sama, but you do not have all of the facts,” Fudai said. “The village Hidemasa saved was wiped out by the Wasting Disease shortly thereafter. Hidemasa’s sacrifice accomplished nothing.”

“You could not be more wrong,” Kisada replied. “Heroism is never wasted, especially in this case. Tell me, Fudai-sama, who requested Hidemasa’s ashes be moved here?”

Fudai looked bewildered. “Why… I believe it was General Toku,” he said.

Kisada nodded. “Take me to Hidemasa’s shrine,” he said. “Now.”

Fudai nodded obediently, but his look of confusion did not fade. He led the way through the shadowed halls, the others following close behind. At last they arrived at a small side chamber. A single urn rested on a pedestal, covered with a small film of dust.

“I apologize for the state of this room,” the priest explained, quickly moving forward to polish the dust from the urn with his sleeve. “Since the General died, none have visited to pay their respects…”

The priest trailed off as Kisada gently pushed him aside and snatched the urn from the pedestal. Removing the lid he dumped the contents into his hand. The others stared in horror, save Ketsui, who only watched with a curiously expectant smile. No ashes spilled from the urn, but Kisada clutched his hand around something. He set the urn gently back on its shelf.

“What are you doing, Kisada-sama?” Fudai demanded.

“One boy survived that nameless village,” Kisada said. “A boy so inspired by Hidemasa’s courage that he took up a bandit’s daisho and decided to become a samurai. It was an act born of ignorance, the act of a pure and noble soul who did not realize that he had stepped beyond his place. The boy ventured forth and found an Empire at war, and by the time he realized how grave a crime he had committed by naming himself a samurai, he saw it would be a graver crime to stand by and do nothing while Junzo’s horde ravaged Rokugan. When the war ended, the boy confessed his crimes to Emperor Toturi and expected to be executed. Instead, he was made captain of the Imperial Guard. Truly a legend for the ages.”

“General Toku,” Aoiko said. “I had heard he was born a peasant, but I never believed it.”

“What does that have to do with Hidemasa’s urn?” Fudai asked. “What happened to his ashes?”

Kisada turned to face Fudai. “They were never here,” he said. “Peasants would not have enshrined a samurai’s remains. It would be too difficult to explain, and would have likely resulted in their being blamed for his murder if found. More likely they burned Hidemasa and the bandits both, scattering their ashes over their fields with a few simple blessings. It was only years later, when Toku was given a great burden to protect, that he realized only his old mentor – or at least the memory of his mentor – could truly keep it safe.” Kisada opened his hand, revealing a small shining sphere, the size of a child’s marble.

“What is that?” Aoiko asked.

“A piece of Iuchiban’s heart,” Kisada answered. “The Bloodspeaker is called Heartless for good reason – he removed his own heart with foul gaijin magic, rendering himself immortal. Grand Master Kuro found the Bloodspeaker’s heart once, but knew that to destroy it would be dangerous. Both Iuchiban and his heart must be destroyed simultaneously. If only the heart is destroyed, Iuchiban will become a true servant of Fu Leng, as deadly as Daigotsu or Moto Tsume ever were. If only Iuchiban is destroyed, he will merely move to a new body and regenerate himself. Kuro knew that if he kept the heart, Iuchiban’s servants would never cease hunting for it. Far better, he concluded, to take only enough that a shugenja might use it to find the rest. Even this small piece radiates Iuchiban’s own sinister power. Kuro could not keep it close for fear that Iuchiban’s madness would infect him, so he entrusted it to Toku, never telling the General what it was. Unfortunately Toku and the only living soul who still knew the truth, Isawa Taeruko, were both slain before it could be recovered. Thus I have returned, to end the threat of the Heartless for all time. ”

“You hold the doom of the Bloodspeaker in your hand,” Aoiko said.

Kisada nodded, closing his hand once more. “At this point there is no retreat, Aoiko. No surrender. The Bloodspeakers will soon realize what we plan, if Iuchiban has not already surmised it from my return. Even if we do not face Iuchiban, they will come for me. Are you and your warriors still with me?”

“If a Crab can march out of death itself to defeat Iuchiban, surely a Lion can do no less than charge back in,” she said with a savage grin.

The tunnels beneath Otosan Uchi…

This place had been a tomb once, long ago, before the rise of the Bloodspeakers had made the Empire reconsider its funerary traditions. The walls were still lined with niches for the interment of bodies and riddled with cracks from the city’s frequent earthquakes. Both were now lined with cobwebs and filth. The cavern stank of charred flesh and scorched fur. The bodies of dead Bloodspeakers and Nezumi lay strewn about the room. Three shugenja and a dozen shambling undead warriors blocked the only large tunnel leading out.

Chu-rochu, the chief, was the only Nezumi still standing. His brown fur was tattered and matted with blood. His barrel chest heaved desperately for breath. One arm hung awkwardly behind him, bone protruding from the flesh. He held a spear in his other hand. The scroungers, the pups, those small enough to slip through the cracks had already fled but Chu-rochu knew the Bloodspeakers would find a way to pursue them if given a chance.

He had to fight. He had to give them more time.

“Why stand-stand back, humans?” the Nezumi demanded though he knew they would not understand the words, but they would understand his meaning. “You fear Nezumi? Blood magic so weak it only kill pups and elders? Chu-rochu’s spear still sharp enough to slay the first one that come for me!”

The Bloodspeakers said nothing. They only watched the Nezumi with disgust and quietly stepped aside. Another appeared in their midst, a tall man in pale white robes. His hair hung in a long black topknot, and when he looked at Chu-rochu, the Nezumi saw Tomorrow in his eyes.

“Run!” Chu-rochu shrieked, hoping his voice would carry through the tunnels to the ears of his mate. “Run from city and don’t stop!”

With a defiant cry, the chief heaved his spear. It stuck the tall man in the chest, but he did not seem to notice. He extended one hand toward the Nezumi.

Chu-rochu’s existence unraveled in a sea of blood and pain.

Iuchiban stepped over the insane Nezumi’s charred corpse with a frown. The battle was as embarrassingly short as he had expected. Most of the Nezumi fled as soon as his forces attacked. The vermin would not escape Otosan Uchi.

“They are no threat to you.”

Iuchiban closed his eyes. The closer he drew, the more difficult the nagging conscience was becoming to resist.

“Master, are you hurt?” one of the Bloodspeakers asked.

He looked at the servant in irritation then followed his eyes to the Nezumi spear still protruding from his body. Blood streamed freely down his robes. With an effortless move he wrenched the weapon from his torso and hurled it to the ground. The wound closed immediately and he removed the stains with a whispered spell.

“Leave me,” Iuchiban commanded. “I will finish here. Find the Nezumi that escaped, and kill them.”

The others filed out quickly. They knew better than to question their master’s orders. Iuchiban ignored them, though his awareness followed as they receded through the tunnels. He could sense his servants anywhere they went, monitor and control them if need be, though it was difficult to watch more than a few at a time. Ironically he found his awareness of their presence grew sharper and more precise the closer he drew to his heart even as the annoying voice of mercy returned.

He strode to the back of the chamber, seeking what Suru had hidden here long ago. This place was his stronghold during the early days of his cult; he had raised most of his zombie army from these very tombs. He knelt by one of the lower biers and pressed one hand against the stone wall. A portion slid away, revealing a black iron box. It shone with a gleaming malevolence, neither dust nor cobweb daring to gather upon it. Iuchiban reached for it with a shaking hand.

As he lifted the box that contained his own heart, awareness flooded through him. For a moment, he was whole once more, the man he once was. Waves of regret, nausea, and loneliness washed over him. He saw the faces of those who had once loved him, those he had not allowed himself to love in return. He saw those he had murdered, those he had enslaved, and those whose lives he had ruined. He was torn between renewed hatred for all others outside himself or pity for his victims and for himself most of all. He dropped the box back in its nook and pulled his hands away, taking a deep breath.

Not for the first time, Iuchiban was grateful he’d had the wisdom to set aside such weakness. Girding himself for the sensations, he reached for the box a second time.

This time, his wholeness brought clarity. He felt the presence of each of his Bloodspeakers. He sensed Yajinden, Mishime, Shahai, and even the distant Legion of Blood. He felt the ties that bound each of their souls to his. This time, he also felt the flaws within those bonds. This time, he saw the shadow that had entwined itself among them, the dark influence that had shown so many of his servants how to twist his commands. He saw how the shadow had coiled itself around him, playing upon his arrogance and clouding his memories to its own ends. Iuchiban’s face twisted into an expression of stark fury as he realized how much of what he had believed were parts of his own bid for power had better served the goals of another.

The Egg of Pan Ku.

Isawa’s Last Wish.

The Legion of Blood.

Iuchiban’s goal had always been simple - power. He had become the unique creature that he was so that others would be forced to honor him as he deserved, so that he could reign absolute and unquestioned. He had sacrificed everything for his unrivaled might. Now, to find out that for all his power he was only a pawn. The anger that welled up within him was like none other. What small amount of conscience his heart had restored to him was burned away in flame.

“You will not win, dragon,” Iuchiban hissed under his breath. “Iuchiban is no man’s pawn.”

“So be it,” whispered an amused, surprisingly close voice. “I am done with you anyway. Your time is soon over, Jama.”

The roar that erupted from the core of the Bloodspeaker’s soul echoed throughout the city. As it faded, Iuchiban heard the echoing remnants of the dragon’s laughter.

No.

This was not over. He would still leave his mark. If the Empire would not serve him, then it would drown in blood. He was still the master of the Bloodspeakers, and his bond with his servants now extended more deeply than ever before. Iuchiban’s awareness spread to all of them at once, finding them carefully hidden in cells throughout the Empire, carefully concealing their power. They hid in samurai households, humble peasant villages, and even dirty eta quarters. To all appearances they were normal citizens of the Empire that few gave a second thought. Iuchiban extended his will into each of them, and with a malevolent sneer he spoke a single, powerful command.

“Kill them all.”