Shadowed Souls
by Rich Wulf

“Man creates art, but the art creates the man as well. When I make a thing, I may not immediately now why it is beautiful, or why it is useful. I only now that it is. Tomorrow, or the day after that, or the century after that, the art may finally reveal the reason why. That is completeness. That is excellence. That is beauty.” –Daigotsu Yajinden.

Otaku smiled, spit blood in the dark god’s face, and died. Then there was only shadow. She shivered alone in the darkness, striped bare of all armor and clothing, shivering has she hovered in a void of nothingness. Otaku knew she was dead. Lady Shinjo had promised her that one day, when she died, her soul would venture free of its body and journey on to its next adventure, a wonderful land of verdant fields, no pain, no loss, no war.

Otaku shivered as she felt the first of the cold tendrils pry into her soul. There would be no eternal peace for her. She had died in the Shadowlands, were Fu Leng was master. Though her fellow Thunders might win the battle, the Dark God would have his vengeance. Her soul would be striped bare, twisted to Jigoku desires.

“You have lost, little Thunder,” the darkness laughed as it wove deep within her essence. “All that you were will be turned toward our purpose. Fu Leng will rise again, and you will rise beside him.”

She closed his eyes. A warm tear streamed down one cheek. She thought of Shinjo, Ide, Iuchi. She thought of wise old Shinsei and his little bird. She thought of Genji, the brilliant young Emperor who looked so sad when the Thunders departed. She thought of her husband, her daughter. She saw each of them, like distant candles, providing barely enough light to see.

Yet in this light, she saw something nearer at hand.

“Surrender, Otaku,” the darkness begged her. “Do not make this tedious for me and humiliating for you.”

Otaku extended both hands into the shadows. They closed over the hilts of two blades, the blades that Lady Shinjo had given her. Warmth spread through her body. A brilliant suit of lavender armor appeared instantly around her body, shielding her from Jigoku’s embrace. Light erupted from the blades, burning away the shadows. For an instant he saw countless inhuman beasts swimming through the void like eels. They retreated swiftly, and she sensed the darkness tremble.

In the mortal realm, she sensed her swords lay in the rubble near Fu Leng’s shattered keep. Iuchi had infused those blades whit his magic, awakening their spirit. When the darkness sought to corrupt the blades, they reached out to Otaku’s soul just as she had reached out to them.

“You are strong, little Thunder,” the darkness said. “How long you can fight?”

Otaku said nothing, only held her blades ready.

----------------

Eleven Centuries Later…

Two horsemen waited at the edge of the small forest, staring out into the night. The tall, black trees of the Forest of Dreamers loomed silently behind them, with not even night insects breaking the silence. The charming name of this place concealed a terrible secret. The Forest of Dreamers was home to magic of the darkness kind.

Those who ventured too deeply into these recesses fell into nightmarish sleep, from which they did not return. The Iuchi family had studied the cursed woods for generations hoping to find a way to expel the evil that had taken root, but to no avail. The Forest of Dreamers taught the Iuchi a difficult lesson. Some evils could not be conquered, only contained and controlled.

“Why are we here, Katamari?” Moto Latomu asked hoarsely.

The shugenja turned to study his comrade. The steel mask that concealed his features shone dully in the moonlight, revealing nothing. Katamari shrugged. “Was it not made clear when I asked for your aid?”

“You only said that you wanted to meet with an informant,” Latomu said. “One of the men who helped you led Sezaru and Chagatai to so many of the Bloodspeakers’ hidden camps. You didn’t say why you felt you would need help this time, or why you thought I would be able to help you.”

Katamari did not answer immediately. “I wished for you aid because you have proven yourself to be a cunning ally,” he said. “You fought well at Otosan Uchi, and your insight against the Bloodspeakers was invaluable.”

“I see,” Latomu replied, scanning the plains for any sign of their contact.

“And because I know that you have been conspiring with the Dark Lord’s agents, Latomu,” Katamari added coldly.

Latomu looked back at Katamari. The Moto’s weathered face twisted in rage. One hand darted to his scimitar, but it fell away. Latomu’s shoulders dropped with a weak sigh. “The Wolf’s justice is absolute, is it not?” Latomu said bitterly. “It doesn’t matter. My wife and son have been avenged, so my betrayal has served its purpose.” His eyes drifted to the ground as he drifted off into thought. When Latomu spoke again, his voice was thick. “I died so long ago, Katamari. Take my life, if that would serve the Emperor’s justice.”

“I do not intend to kill you, Latomu,” Katamari said.

Latomu’s eyes flicked to Katamari’s, hidden behind his steel mask. “It makes no difference,” the Moto said. “When you report what you have discovered to Sezaru, he will have no mercy. The Wolf has no sympathy for the Dark Lord’s minions, or those who conspire with them.”

Katamari chuckled. “You believe I would tell Sezaru your secret?” Katamari asked. “Latomu, what you believe I have ‘discovered,’ I sensed the moment you first came to us offering aid us against the Bloodspeakers. I knew no mere samurai would glean such insights from Nakanu’s lost journals, no matter how clever he appeared to be.”

“You knew what I had done and you said nothing?” Latomu asked, shocked.

“Not only that,” Katamari replied. “It was my magic that shrouded your thoughts from Sezaru. Did your vengeance blind you so much that you truly thought you could keep such secrets form the Wolf without aid?”

Latomu’s eyes narrowed. “Why have you done this?” he asked.

“Because I, like you, have lost much that I love to the shadows,” Katamari said, “but unlike Sezaru I have not let anger blind me to the advantages of compromise.”

“Such words are dangerous, Katamari-san,” Latomu said.

“But you not disagree,” the Doomseeker replied, “or you would never have made the deal that you did.”

“And that deal has served his purpose,” Latomu said. “Iuchiban is dead. My family rest in Yomi now. I will not truck with darkness again.”

“Latomu,” Katamari said sadly. “Do you truly think that the threat Iuchiban posed died with him? Another will rise to take his place. One always does. Heroes must be ready to do what must be done.”

“Heroes?” Latomu asked with a bitter laugh. “You think that I am a hero? Or that you are after what you have said?”

“No,” Katamari said. “I said that heroes must be ready. Isawa Sezaru is a hero, Matsu Aioko is a hero. We are the sort of men who make sacrifices so that the heroes will be prepared – so that they will survive. Do you know what means to be a Doomseeker, Latomu?”

“Legendary figures of the Iuchi family,” Latomu said. “They fight which cannot die.”

“They are a sham,” Katamari said. He removed his mask, revealing a lean, tired face. “The Doomseeker legend was created by Asahina Yajinden. Unable to fight Iuchiban directly, he gave us the knowledge we would need to be dangerous. For centuries the Doomseekers have believed we fought toward some great and legendary destiny. No. We were never intended to be more than a thorn in Iuchiban’s side while Yajinden devised a way to escape his master’s leash.”

“Then why do you continue to wear the mask,” Latomu asked. “If you title is a sham?”

“Because I can give it purpose,” Katamari said. “Even something born of darkness can be brought into the light and redeemed, Latomu. The Doomseeker can be more than it was intended to be – and so can you.”

“What are you talking about?” Latomu snapped.

“I know what you plan to do, Latomu,” Katamari said.

“Do no presume you know anything about me, Doomseeker,” Latomu shouted, his voice resounding through the haunted forest. Latomu looked about in embarrassment, surprised at his own lack of control.

“There is no shame, Latomu-san,” Katamari said. “I have lost family as well. I know you loved your wife dearly and that you were as proud of your son as any father can be. I know that when they died the purpose of you life vanished. Each day was a struggle, a struggle to find purpose, to find a reason to bother fighting. Why fight when all that give you purpose has already been lost? You knew all long victory would not bring them back. You knew all along even revenge would change none of yours feelings.”

“So are you saying it did me no good to fight?” Latomu asked.

“No, fighting was the right choice,” Katamari said. “It is what you have decided to do next that is flawed. A samurai’s life is not his own to take away, Latomu. We both serve the Empire, and it has need of us yet.”

“Is that why you brought me here?” Latomu asked. “You thought the wisdom of a madman like yourself would keep me from falling on my own blade now that Iuchiban is dead?”

“No,” Katamari said. “I want you to see the good that men like us can do.”

Latomu looked puzzled, but Katamari grew tense. He looked into the distant shadows, quickly replacing the mask over his face.

“Someone is coming,” Latomu said.

Katamari only nodded.

There was no sound for several minutes, only the undeniable sensation of life in the darkness. Someone was approaching, Latomu could tell. He felt a sense of power, like heat radiating from an unseen fire. Then, with no further warning, a man stood before them. He wore a deep blue robes and kept his face hooded. Half a dozen warriors in obsidian armor stood behind him, weapons at ready.

“It is only two of us,” Katamari said. “You need not fear an ambush.”

“My new brothers are cautious,” the man said. “You are dismissed, my friends. I must meet with these two gentlemen alone.”

The black samurai bowed as one and turned to depart. Only one hesitated, stopping a moment to glare up at Latomu. The Unicorn recognized Meguro, the Lost samurai with whom he had brokered a deal to learn more about Iuchiban’s magic. Meguro’s yellow eyes fixed on Latomu’s. The corrupted samurai inclined his head in a gesture of respect and continued walking.

“Who is this?” The hooded man demanded.

“This is my comrade, Moto Latomu,” Katamari replied. “Latomu, this is my ally...”

The stranger pushed back his hood, revealing a blunt, square-jawed face and long white hair.

“I am Yajinden,” the man introduced himself with a wry smile.

Latomu’s face grew pale. His hand flew to his scimitar. But Yajinden shook his head quickly. “Do not do that, Moto,” he said. “It will do you not good, and I would hate to blemish my friendship with Katamari by killing you.”

Latomu pulled his hand away, though his fingers shook with rage.

“Have you brought what you promised?” Katamari asked.

“I have,” Yajinden answered. He drew a pair of sheathed blades form his robes, holding them aloft so that Katamari and Latomu could see. Their saya were worked in ivory and lavender. A perfect circle of pure purple emblazoned in the hilt.

“I realize trust can only extend so far in a friendship like this,” Yajinden said. He stepped forward two paces, set the blades gently on the earth, and stepped away. He folded his thick arms across his chest and watched expectantly.

“Latomu, retrieve the swords,” Katamari said.

“They may be trapped,” Latomu whispered.

“You were prepared to kill yourself only one minute ago,” Katamari said. “What difference will this make?”

Latomu looked at the Doomseeker in disbelief, but stifled his argument. He sensed something when he looked upon those swords; he was uncertain what it was but he felt the need to look more closely. He leaped form his saddle and approached cautiously, keeping his eyes on Yajinden.

“I assure you, you are safe, Latomu-san,” Yajinden said. “I am not the madman Iuchiban forced me to become.”

Latomu ignored Yajinden and seized the swords. The instant his hands touched the saya he felt a rush of power surge though him. His mind swam with images, a mighty battle between mortal heroes and an immortal god, the struggle between good and evil, the dawn of an Empire. He sensed the soul within his blade drink deeply of his soul as well, scouring his memories for news of what had been denied during long centuries trapped in the darkness. Latomu fell to his knees and breathed a single name.

“Otaku...”

“I see that your friend is pleased with his gift,” Yajinden said. “Now, what of mine?”

Katamari gestured and held out one hand. The air shimmered and a chrysanthemum formed of perfect crystal appeared there. Yajinden’s breath caught at the sight of it.

“So many long centuries and I could never find where it had gone,” Yajinden said. “How did you do this, Doomseeker?”

“What is that?” Latomu asked, looking up the flower urgently. “What are you giving to him, Katamari?”

“A trinket I crafted for Jama,” Yajinden said. “It bears no maho; its value to me is only sentimental. I thought is lost.”

“A treasure of the Imperial Archives,” Katamari said. “It will not be missed.”

“You cannot give him that,” Latomu hissed. “He must have some darker purpose!”

“What do you care of my purpose?” Yajinden roared. “You have your Soul of Thunder back, Unicorn. I have already shown my good faith by not reducing the two of you to blood on the wind and taking what I desire. Now, Katamari, will you honor your bargain?”

“And your promise, Yajinden?” Katamari asked. “Promise me that you will craft nothing intended to harm the Unicorn.”

“I promise my intentions toward your clan will remain innocent,” Yajinden said. “I make no promises for those who may wield what I create.”

“That is all I can ask,” Katamari said.

The crystal drifted gently through the air between Katamari and the former Bloodspeaker. Yajinden reached for it with shakings hands and clutched it gently between his palms. Yajinden bowed deeply and faded into the shadows.

“He has deceived us, Katamari,” Latomu said. “What you gave to him was worth more than he claims.”

“Of that I have not doubt,” the Doomseeker said, “but was it worth it?”

Latomu clutched the blades to his chest. He felt a power surge trough his being, something ancient and pure. He sensed Otaku’s joy at her escape from the darkness. He sensed the Thunder’s gentle fingers brush his brow, her lips upon his cheek. He sensed a peculiar sense of hope, as if he no longer fought alone.

“Let us leave this accursed place, Latomu,” Katamari said. “The Khan must see the glorious treasure you have reclaimed.”

Latomu said nothing, only climbed into his saddle and numbly followed the Doomseeker back to Shiro Iuchi.

“All that for a flower?” Meguro asked, looking over Yajinden’s shoulder.

“All that for art,” Yajinden said, gazing into the deeps of the chrysanthemum. “My creations are like my children. I may grow angry at them at times, feel they have failed to meet my expectations, but I cannot look upon one that has been lost and not feel love again. You would not understand, Meguro.”

“Daigotsu will not be pleased,” Meguro said. “Otaku’s swords were a priceless treasure. If they could have been corrupted...”

Yajinden chuckled. “Eleven centuries in the Shadowlands and no trace of Taint? I think to meddle with Otaku’s soul would only bring us harm. No, Meguro. There is no need to break a sword when it works just as nicely as a lever.”

“You are a peculiar man, Yajinden,” Meguro said, looking at the shugenja evenly.

“I am a genius,” the Swordsmith replied with no trace of humor. His blue eyes were cold.

Meguro did not press the mater further. He moved away, returning to the other guards. Yajinden returned his attention to the heart. He wove his hand about the sculpture in complex patterns, unravelling the illusion that had been woven around it. His earlier claim had not been a lie. There was no maho here, nor any magic born of Rokugan. Long ago he had been commanded to never touch or seek this treasure. He had been forced to live every day knowing that it reminded vulnerable, tucked away among the many treasures of the Imperial House. Iuchiban was dead now, and his commands had died with him.

Yajinden looked down at the treasure between his hands. What once had been a crystal sculpture was now an iron box, bound in thin chains. The Swordsmith cradled the box that contained his heart in his hands.

At last he was his own master.

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