By Shawn Carman
Edited by Fred Wan
The sparse tree branches seemed to reach out for him, but Satoru did not notice. He moved like a cat, ducking and weaving easily as he ran at full pace through the scrublands at the base of the mountain. Every few seconds, he heard the unmistakable whizzing sound of an arrow passing nearby, but none could touch him. He was the wind. The ronin raced faster and faster, pushing himself harder than he ever had before. After a few minutes, the arrows stopped, but he did not slow. Time was of the essence. If the death of the others was to mean anything, anything at all, then there was no time to waste.
Even as the sharp pains began shooting through his ribs, Satoru did not slow. The ronin ran toward the horizon, his pace never faltering.
Osami covered his face with his hand and drew a deep breath before responding. He had been forced to repeat the gesture over and over again in recent days, and he feared that eventually his composure would falter and he would say something that he regretted. “I have asked you not to call me commander,” he said quietly. “I hold no military rank.” He gestured toward the tent flap to the compound outside. “There are dozens of samurai associated with the Great Clans out there, all of them aiding us in our hunt for Kokujin. All it would require for our work to be completely undone is for one of them to take offense at you calling me commander, and killing one or both of us.” He fixed the officer with a pointed stare. “Are you so naïve as to believe that the clans regard us so well that such a thing could not happen?”
The young officer licked his lips nervously. “Forgive me, comma…” his voice trailed off. “Forgive me, Osami-dono.”
The ronin waved the comment away. “What is it?”
“The first storehouse has just been emptied,” the officer said. “The supplies provided by the Crab officer have filled the second storehouse to capacity, but the estimate I was given is that it, too, will be emptied within two weeks.”
Osami grimaced. “Thank you,” he said. He spread his hands on the table where he sat, staring blankly at the map before him. For the moment, the images there did not even seem coherent, swimming about as he wallowed in uncertainty. There were nearly three thousand men and woman under his command, and soon they would be forced to either disperse on their own or perhaps face starvation as their meager campaign continued. The majority of the troops were affiliated with the Legion of Two Thousand, a unit of legend that had existed during the Clan War decades ago and had been recently reborn. The Legion was commanded by a ronin named Natsume, a former Unicorn who had sought out as many descendants of the original Legion as he could. The Legion had considerable resources, but not enough to feed an entire army, meager though it may be. Beyond that, there were perhaps a hundred samurai affiliated with the Great Clans who had contributed their might to the ronin forces, most of whom had been sent by a high-ranking Imperial Magistrate named Hida Shara. The rest were simply those ronin and ashigaru who had joined Osami’s banner.
The thought brought a bitter chuckle from the exhausted ronin. In truth, Osami had no idea how he had even come to this position in the first place. The first few peasant revolts had been largely against the Great Clans and, in all honesty, Osami could at least understand the viewpoint of those who participated. The situation had quickly escalated, however, and soon the revolutionaries, as they called themselves, were attacking anyone who did not agree with them. Osami had been present at a village when they received word that the revolutionaries were approaching. He had marshaled the forces there and mounted a successful defense. After it was over, survivors from villages that had not been so fortunate had begun to seek him out, and before he realized it, he was commanding nearly a hundred men, all bent on the defeat of the revolutionaries’ mysterious leader.
In retrospect, Osami decided, that had been a terrible mistake.
In the beginning, he had believed that the leader was a ruthless bandit lord named Akihiro, an enemy from his past. After months of hunting, hiding, and stalking, he had finally faced Akihiro and killed him. It was only then that he learned the truth: that the leader of the revolts was none other than Kokujin, the man they called the Mad Dragon. Depending upon which story you believed, he was either a madman on the brink of godhood, or simply the most twisted and cunning murderer that had ever walked the Empire. At this point, Osami was not certain which would be more disturbing.
Now, it seemed that his army, such as it was, was on the brink of starvation, and they had accomplished little other than to defeat a few of Kokujin’s less cautious subordinates. Osami had no idea how to proceed. This was well outside the realm of his expertise, and he had no idea why the others had permitted him to retain command at all, much less deferred to him in important decisions. It was completely baffling. There had been many times he had considered simply leaving in the dead of night, but had found himself unable to do so.
“Commander! Commander!”
Osami grimaced and struck the table sharply. He rose and strode to the tent’s entrance, tearing the flap open and looking about for whatever soul was foolish enough to draw his ire today. His angry shouting died in this throat, however, when he saw who approached.
The scout Satoru walked slowly toward his tent, supported on each side by two sentries from the compound’s perimeter. One of them looked up at him with wild eyes. “Commander!” he shouted again.
“Quiet!” Osami shouted. He ran to the scout. “Satoru, what has happened?”
“We found them,” the scout said, his voice exhausted. “We found Kokujin’s lair.”
There were murmurs and gasps all around, but Osami silenced them with an angry wave. “How many of them?” he asked. “Where is the rest of your patrol?”
“I cannot say how many for certain,” Satoru said. “At least two thousand, possibly more. There were more arriving even as we watched.” He shook his head. “Tawagoto and the others stayed to hold them off while I escaped. I do not know if they lived.”
Osami nodded. “Mobilize everyone. We march now. Anything non-essential is to be left behind.” He turned back to the scout. “How far?”
“Two hours if you run,” Satoru said. “I cannot recommend running the entire way, however. It is quite taxing. I have a map.” He began digging in his obi.
“No,” Osami said. “Give this man water and a horse. He will lead us in person.”
“That,” Satoru said, “is unfortunately impossible.”
Osami frowned. “Why?”
“Because I really am not feeling that well at all,” Satoru said. He slumped forward to his knees suddenly, then pitched forward onto the ground, barely holding himself up with one arm. Two arrows jutted out of his back, both buried quite deep.
“Fortunes,” Osami swore. He had no idea how the man was still alive, much less that he had come so far to deliver the message. “Find a shugenja!” he shouted.
“I fear it is too late, commander,” the scout muttered.
Osami did not know what to say. As if from a distance, he heard himself say “Do not call me commander.”
“You despise it, I know,” Satoru said. “I find death liberating, however.”
“Death is indeed quite liberating,” a strange voice said. “Everyone should experience it at least once.”
Osami turned over his shoulder and frowned at the tattooed man standing there. “Now is not the time, monk,” he said sharply. “Go and tell your companions that the time has come. We move out as soon as we can be ready, but not before this man is treated.”
“I would gladly inform whomever you wish,” the monk said, kneeling beside Satoru. “Unfortunately I have no idea where anything in your compound is, as I have only just arrived.”
The monk did seem quite smaller than the other two Osami had seen before. “Who are you?”
“I am Togashi Matsuo,” the monk said. “I come bearing the blessing of my sensei, Togashi Mitsu, the Oracle of Thunder.” He examined the scout, then placed his hand upon Satoru’s forehead and closed his eyes. The image of an arrowroot herb blossomed on the monk’s forearm. “He will live, but he needs rest. He cannot lead us, for we cannot wait.”
There was silence all around them. “The Oracle sent you?” Osami asked. “Why?”
Matsuo opened his eyes and smiled. “Because today is a day for heroes.”
“Today, we end it,” Osami said to his officers. “Tell your men that today we become heroes.” As his officers began to rally the men, Osami looked at Matsuo. “Or martyrs,” he muttered under his breath.
The battle began in earnest before Osami even realized it had happened. By his eye, it looked as though the numbers were roughly equal, more or less. He knew that his men were better trained, probably better equipped, and certainly more disciplined. But they had not fought together in such a large engagement before. He did not know if that was true of the revolutionaries, who made up for their lack of training with fanatic zeal. Their insanity was focused, which made them both unpredictable and savage. Even as he watched the front lines come together, he saw a bearded madman on the other side, running shirtless among the warriors, waving a red banner and screaming something incomprehensible about the people of Rokugan. He was felled by archer fire quickly, but his presence was a sinister omen.
The fighting reached Osami’s command group quicker than he would have imagined. It was almost a relief, because at last he did not have to consider so many factors at once. There was no logistics in personal combat, only the killing instinct and the drive to live at any cost. Osami settled into it comfortably and killed any opponent that came within his reach. Too quickly, he realized that the revolutionaries had narrowed their front line and pushed past his forces’, striking for the center in hopes of eliminating the commander of the army. They were coming for him. More and more of them rushed toward him, until he could not kill them fast enough. Osami ground his teeth and prepared to die, intent on taking as many of them with him as he could before they finally crushed him beneath their sheer numbers.
There was a bellowing sound, and Osami could see several of his enemies tossed into the air as if an earthquake had erupted among them. There were screams of fear, even over the monotonous shouting of the revolutionaries. Two massive men covered in tattoos erupted into the thick of the enemy, moving with incredible speed and crushing their enemies before them. “Come little ones!” Osami heard one shout. “Come and face Vedau and Hogai! We seek only enlightenment!”
The massive monk called Hogai struck one of the enemy with such force that the man seemed to be torn in half by it, and Osami was sprayed with his blood. He paused long enough to wipe the blood from his face, and in that second, that briefest of moments, the enemy was upon him.
He was struck across the temple and driven to the ground. His vision blurred and his grip on his sword grew slack. He struggled to remain conscious, but the shadow that loomed over him was shouting, raising its sword to end his life. And then it was gone. Someone grabbed him by the arm and wrenched him to his feet with such force that he thought his arm might rip from his shoulder.
A cloaked ronin stood before him, his blade stained with blood. Beneath the cloak’s hood, Osami thought he saw a glint of metal. “The cave!” he shouted. “Where is it?”
“What?” Osami murmured.
“The cave!” the hooded man shouted. “The cave Satoru told you about!”
Osami shook his head and pointed. “There… there is a rock outcropping. He said it resembled a great beetle. The cave is near there.”
There were three resounding thuds, and three men rushing toward the two ronin fell dead to the ground. A Mantis archer appeared next to the two of them. “Terrible time for a conversation!” he shouted. “You two owe me your lives! Remember the name Tsuruchi Fuyu!”
By the time Osami turned back to the hooded ronin, he was gone. The Mantis was gone as well, disappeared into the thick of the fighting, judging from the number of dead bodies. Osami shook his head to clear it, hefted his sword and returned to the battle.
A hero, or a martyr.
“Do not be naïve, Shinzo,” Kokujin reproached. “They exist only to further my agenda. They were necessary in order to draw out my enemy, and now they have fulfilled that duty. They are no longer necessary.”
“Your enemy?” Shinzo asked. “The ronin commander?”
Kokujin waved the comment away. “That man is nothing but a minor annoyance. I will deal with him should I become bored. No, my true enemy approaches. Witness.” He pointed to the tunnel that led to the surface.
As the torch light flickered, a figure emerged from the darkness. “Hello, Kokujin.”
For the first time, Shinzo saw surprise flicker across his master’s face. “So,” the madman said, “Mitsu fears me so much that he sends his student to die in his place?”
“Mitsu-sama is above fear, and above petty confrontations such as this,” Mitsuo said evenly. “I am honored to serve him in this matter. The time has come for your interference in the affairs of man and the Heavens to end, Kokujin.”
“The affairs of man? Perhaps so,” Kokujin removed his robes, revealing the twisting tattoos that covered his torso, disappearing into his hakama and reappearing at his bare feet. “My involvement in the affairs of the Heavens has only just begun. I had hoped to use the blood of your master to complete my ascension, but then you were tattooed with his blood, were you not?”
“I was.”
“Then you will suffice,” Kokujin said. “Shinzo, leave us. I will require you to act as my second once I have consumed this whelp.”
“Are you certain, master?” Shinzo asked. “Let me stand at your side!”
Kokujin turned, and Shinzo saw anger on his features. “Leave us,” he repeated.
Shinzo withdrew into the shadows at once, moving deeper into the cavern. He intended to disappear entirely, leaving the two men to their battle, when the monk called his name. “Bayushi Shinzo,” Matsuo said. “Remember what you see here today.”
“Enough words,” Kokujin said, his dark, mirthful smile returning. “Let us end your life, and end my mortality.”
Matsuo clasped his hands and bowed deeply before Kokujin. He held the bow only for a second, but when he rose, Shinzo could make out the form of a brilliant white dragon on his chest. The tattoo had not been there only seconds before, and as he rose, Matsuo unleashed a devastating cone of frost from his mouth. The cone washed over Kokujin, who disappeared in the blinding sheet of white. The cone gave way to a hissing cloud of steam, however, and Kokujin re-emerged, his body wreathed in red fire, a tattoo of a boiling pit of pitch blazing on his shoulder. “I sincerely hope that was not your best effort,” Kokujin said. “I had hoped for at least a minor challenge before completing the ceremony.”
“I am delighted to be of service!” Matsuo’s chest shimmered and a tiger appeared, coiled and ready for the strike. The young monk leapt across the cavern with blinding speed, deadly claws erupting from his fingertips as he did so. Shinzo had never seen anyone move with such speed and grace. The monk rushed at Kokujin, darting in and out of the man’s ranged, lashing out with blow after blow.
Kokujin laughed and evaded them. Once, one of Matsuo’s blows struck, but the claws did not appear capable of piercing his skin. The Mad Dragon struck once, landing a vicious blow that crashed into the side of Matsuo’s head like a boulder coming down the mountainside. The younger monk was slammed down into the rock floor with such force that stone chips showered the area, but he sprang back with a backwards somersault and stayed out of reach, still carrying the grace of the great cat on his chest.
Shinzo stared in horror as Kokujin toyed with his opponent. That he was the greater warrior was unmistakable, and yet he never saw the younger monk hesitate for a moment. There was no fear on Matsuo’s face, no hint of panic despite what appeared to be certain death. He had entered the cavern fully aware that he had no chance for survival, and now fought with all his might despite the absolute surety of the outcome.
Shinzo had been in a similar situation once before, but it had ended much differently. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had willingly entered into Kokujin’s service to escape the fear that plagued him. True to his word, the tattooed madman had somehow purged the fear from him, and left him with little else but cold ruthlessness, which he had used in Kokujin’s service without hesitation. Now he felt something different. Something he had not felt since the first moments of his service to the monk.
He felt shame.
Kokujin’s fists grew like stone as the tattoo of obsidian on his back surged with power. He casually swung toward Matsuo, as if not particularly interested in the combat. The monk ducked, and Kokujin shattered stone with his strike. “Your sensei’s blood will be all that is required for me to at last put aside this prison of flesh and take my rightful place among the Heavens,” he said brightly. “For aiding me in that, you will have my gratitude. Fear not, I will bring your soul with me as a plaything. You will stand alongside me in Tengoku!”
“I prefer the mortal realm,” Matsuo said. A crab had appeared on his shoulder, and he performed a roundhouse kick that struck the side of Kokujin’s head without appreciable effect. “One cannot aspire to the clouds having already achieved them.”
A Tsuburu no Oni tattoo crawled up Kokujin’s back, and the mad monk leaned forward and bellowed. It was a riotous sound, accompanied by a tempest of unbelievably foul-smelling wind. Matsuo was lifted from the ground and dashed against the cavern wall. He fell, and Shinzo thought he heard something break as the monk bounced across the cavern floor to lie in a bloodied heap not far from the tunnel through which he had entered. Shinzo felt a sharp pang of disappointment when he realized the monk could not rise. Had he actually hoped that his master might be defeated? What did that mean?
Kokujin stood over the battered and bloodied form of the much younger Matsuo. “Your master failed you, whelp,” he said, his tone sympathetic. “You were not prepared for this. Not that you could have hoped for victory regardless, of course, but still. As you die, remember that your master sent you to die for nothing.”
Matsuo smiled through bloodied lips. “I did not come here to defeat you, Kokujin. You forget the purpose of the Oracle of Thunder.”
“And what might that be?”
Matsuo laughed, although it was a ragged sound. “My master sent me to inspire the one thing that you will never understand, and for all your power, cannot control.”
“Oh?” Kokujin laughed. “Another riddle. Yet another nonsensical statement by the line of Togashi to disguise their ignorance, to justify the hope of…” The madman stopped in mid sentence with a confused expression. He looked down to see a blade sticking through his chest, one that was once wielded by his student’s former master. “What… what is this?”
“Remorse,” Shinzo whispered from behind him. He pulled the blade free of the Mad Dragon’s chest, eliciting a grunt of pain from Kokujin, then shoved his hand into the wound with a powerful unarmed strike. When he withdrew it again, he held the madman’s heart in his hand. “There is no redemption for me,” he hissed, “But no traitor should face judgment alone.”
“This… this is not how gods are meant to die,” Kokujin croaked. He lurched but did not yet fall, his incredible will continuing to drive a body that could no longer contain a mortal spirit. A glazed look took over his face. “Your lord’s flawed visions will lead your order to ruin,” he said to Matsuo, his voice strangely distant and low, “because none of you can see that he is imperfect.” Then his power slipped away. Shinzo could almost see it, like a shadow hidden just outside of view, and Kokujin fell to the ground.
Shinzo helped Matsuo to his feet. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“I did nothing,” Matsuo said, cradling his broken arm gingerly. “It was your choice. Our destiny is what we make of it.”
“Mine, I fear, cannot be changed now. It is too late.”
“Never,” Matsuo insisted.
“We disagree.” Three heavily cloaked figures emerged from the tunnel Matsuo had entered through only a short time ago, although that seemed an eternity to Shinzo. “I congratulate you on your victory, honorable Matsuo-sama. I must request that you leave now.”
The monk raised an eyebrow. “Who asks this of me?”
The figure in the center lowered the hood that concealed his features, revealing a second mask beneath. “I am Shosuro Toson, daimyo of the Shosuro family,” he said. “I have business with the traitor.”
“This man saved my life, and ended the threat of Kokujin,” Matsuo said.
“He took the life of my predecessor,” Toson countered. “Nothing that he has done since that moment has mattered, and none of it will change his fate. I must ask you again to leave.”
Matsuo did not move, but Shinzo could not allow another to suffer for his sins. “Go,” he said. “Please, go. This is the destiny I must choose if I am to find peace.”
The monk frowned, but did not argue. “As you wish.” He bowed deeply to the former Scorpion, then slowly limped out of the tunnel and into the darkness that led to the daylight beyond.
“Admirable,” Toson said. “Perhaps you may face your end with some trace of dignity.” He gestured to the two other cloaked figures. “I hope you understand that there is no chance of escape. I have enlisted Shosuro Aroru and Bayushi Muhito to ensure there will be no sanctuary for you, not even in death.”
Shinzo recognized the names of the other two cloaked men, and nodded. They were, it was said, Shosuro Yudoka’s greatest students, and perhaps the finest assassins alive. Once, he had only wished to be counted as their equal. Now, of course, he had thrown that all away. “It is the Grove, then?”
“Paneki-sama ordered us to bring you back alive,” Toson said. “You know what that must mean. His instructions did not specify in what condition you should be returned, however. Personally, I would be greatly satisfied if you were to resist.”
The thought had occurred to him. Regardless of his sins, despite that he knew he deserved nothing else, the idea of Traitor’s Grove terrified Shinzo. There were dark, ancient rituals practiced by the Scorpion that allowed them to trap the souls of those who betrayed them into the trees of the Grove, where they would suffer eternal, unimaginable torment, and be remembered forever as a traitor. Still, he knew that even if he ran, they would find him, and they would never allow him to die so long as there was a chance he could be placed there. “I will come with you without complaint,” he said quietly. “I have but a single condition.”
“You grossly misunderstand your situation if you believe that there is any chance of your conditions being met,” Toson said scornfully. “Still, I am always in the mood for diverting amusements. Please, share your ‘condition’ with us.”
“I will go to the Grove willingly, offering no resistance. All I ask is that the tale of Shosuro Yudoka be remembered. Do not permit others to repeat my errors.”
Toson looked at Shinzo intently. “That much, I gladly promise,” he said.
Shinzo lowered his head. “Then I am ready to come with you.”
“Take his weapons,” Toson ordered Muhito. “Aroru, if he makes any sudden movement, cripple him.” The Shosuro daimyo began covering himself with the cloak again, and one of the other men produced an extra cloak for Shinzo. “It is a long journey, and eternity is an impatient master.”