The western Lion border, year 1168, Month of the Rat

A lone Lion soldier trudged through the driving snow, his head bowed to shield his face from the worst of it. His elaborate kabuto had been designed to protect him from his enemies in battle. Today it was doing a terrible job, because the cold and wind was clearly his enemy, and the helm seemed to be doing nothing whatsoever to protect him. He glanced up a few times, squinting against the glare in hopes of keeping the slightly darker image of the building that was his destination. It was not unheard of in this post for a man to lose his way and die in the snow less than two hundred feet from the duty station. It was honorable to die in the execution of one’s duties, but dying due to oversight or incompetence was unacceptable.

Finally, he felt rough wood beneath the numb, aching fingers of his outstretched left hand. Looking up, he realized he was on the western face of the wall. In the snow, he had nearly lost his way and wound up at the building from the wrong direction. Despite the incredible cold, he felt a slight chill. He could well have died for such a small mistake. It was not one he would make again. Moments later, he forced the door open and stepped inside.

The warmth of the room was like a comforting blanket. He stomped the snow from his legs and forced the door closed behind him. “The horses are safe, if not particularly happy,” he grunted. “They’ve plenty to eat and the stable shields them from the wind. As long as they stay together, they should not suffer from the cold too much.”

“Hai, gunso,” one of the men said. “They will need to be checked again before dusk?”

“Yes, Kitai,” the officer answered. “It is your turn, I believe.”

Matsu Kitai grimaced, but nodded. “Of course, gunso.”

“Be certain you leave enough time to get back before nightfall,” the gunso cautioned. “If you are trapped there in the darkness... I do not wish to explain such a death to your family.”

“Is it that bad?” Kitai asked.

The gunso nodded grimly. “The worst I’ve seen in many years.”

“The first snowfall is rarely so severe,” the shugenja sitting by the fire said quietly. He looked up from his calligraphy. “I cannot recall one like this in living memory.”

The gunso frowned. The shugenja was not so much older than he was, but Kitsu Takari had a zeal for history. If he could not recall such a winter, then it was truly something unusual. Unusual was rarely a good thing, in his experience.

The wind outside intensified, rattling the wooden building with its ferocity. “Expect morning patrols to be conducted as normal,” the gunso ordered. “If the storm has abated, we will be going out. We may have to be on foot if the drifts are too high for the horses, so expect the routes to change accordingly.”

“Hai, gunso,” the others all said without hesitation. Changes to the patrol routes would make their duties far more difficult, but they gave no indication of dismay or discomfort. They were good men.

The wind outside blew again, even harder. Takari gasped and put his hand to his head. He groaned lightly, drawing strange looks from the others. “What is it, priest?” the gunso asked. “What’s happening?”

“The storm,” the Kitsu said. He ground his teeth. “The kami... something is wrong.”

Instinct took over. The gunso ran to the door and tore it open, even as the wind blew again, harder than ever, hard enough to shake dust from the rafters above them. The wind tore into him like a blade, rattling his armor and causing his eyes to stream tears that very nearly froze on his cheeks. He ignored it, staring to the west, searching for the cause. For several moments, there was nothing but the blinding, searing whiteness of it all. And then, finally, he saw it. On the horizon. Rushing toward them.

“Gunso!” one of the men shouted. “Gunso! What is it? What do you see?”

“It is the Khan,” he said plainly. “He’s finally returned.”

“What?” Kitai shouted over the wind. “In this storm?”

Takari staggered toward the door. “The Barunghar!” he wailed. “They are driving the storm, pushing the snow before them to clear their path! The wind! It is the wind!”

One of the men, an older Akodo, stepped forward. “What are your orders, gunso?” he asked. “What would you have us do?”

The officer watched as the snow whipped into a wave, a gigantic rolling wave that obscured the charging Unicorn. It rushed toward them like the tide. It would destroy everything in its path.

The gunso drew his sword. “We die like warriors,” he said. “We die like Lion.”

The men drew their blades. Even the shugenja steeled himself and drew his wakizashi. There were no words. None were needed. The men waited, looking to him for leadership. The gunso shouted the name of his family and ran toward the crashing wave of snow. He heard his men behind him, shouting their battle cries to the heavens.

He knew in his heart that the ancestors heard them.

Cursing the possible trap, Ataken dismounted and crossed the distance between the two, wary of any suspicious movement. There was none, and the man seemed more like a beggar than a threat. Ataken turned him over roughly and pulled the cloth away from his face.

The man’s face had gone long past pale and white, and was almost entirely blue. His lips, nose, and ears had turned an alarming shade of red. Ataken knew by the look of him that he had been in the storm all night. The damage to his health would be severe, and would last the rest of his life. If he was fortunate, that might last beyond the next few days, but Ataken could not be certain; he knew little of treating illness and injury. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What has happened?”

The man rasped and tried to speak, but his ruined lips made it largely unintelligible. He kept repeating something over and over again.

“Water!” Ataken shouted. One of his men threw him a small clay bottle, and he gingerly splashed water on the stranger’s lips. He winced as he did it, knowing that it was almost certainly painful and dangerous, but duty demanded that he know what was happening. The stranger writhed and gasped when the water poured over his lips, but he did not call out. “The Khan,” he gasped. “The Khan.”

“What?” Ataken said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He’s coming,” the stranger said weakly. “The Unicorn... overran the last station... commandeered all supplies... I escaped... to warn.”

Ataken stared at the man incredulously, then reached down and pulled away the thick brown coat that obscured his clothing. Beneath it, he wore armor and bore the mon of an Ikoma warden. His chop was one that Ataken recognized. “Domai?” he said, staring at the face that the winter storm had all but destroyed. “Domai, is that you?”

“Warn them,” Ikoma Domai rasped. “Warn them... the Khan.” And then he was gone.

Ataken did not drop his friend immediately. He did not wish to touch the flesh of the dead, but Domai had been his friend for nearly ten years. They had taken their gempukku oaths side by side, but now he was gone. Gradually, he rose. He took his friend’s blades and placed them in his obi, on the opposite side of his own. He turned to the patrol under his command. “The Unicorn have taken the western station,” he said flatly. “They are marshalling supplies. They will almost certainly ride this way at first light.”

“The western station?” one of the men said. “It would take days to reach the Unicorn border in these conditions, commander. How can the Unicorn have come so far?”

“I do not know,” Ataken said. “But I intend to find out. Half of you will ride to Kyuden Ikoma and inform them of what is taking place. I will lead the others ahead and see what I can learn about the Khan’s forces.”

“Nearly all who ride ahead will die, commander,” one of the men said.

“Perhaps,” Ataken admitted. “Perhaps not. We must take the chance.”

“Hai, gunso,” his second said, stepping forward. One by one, the others all joined him.

Ataken frowned. “Kyuden Ikoma must be warned.”

“Then you must choose one of us,” his second said. “We will not volunteer to live while you face the Khan’s forces alone.”

Ikoma Ataken nodded, pride evident in his expression, and chose.