Champions of Bushido

Part 3


by
Shawn Carman & Rich Wulf




Crossroads Village, one year ago…


            “They will approach from the northwest,” the monk said, gesturing to a broad area on the map he had unrolled on the teahouse table. “There are, as I told you, roughly four dozen of them. All armed, all experienced, all utterly ruthless.”

            “This is ridiculous,” Shosuro Maru said, throwing her hands into the air. “We cannot stop a force of that size.” The frustration and anger the courtier was feeling were evident on her delicate features. “We should take everyone and leave as soon as we can.”

            “Then the bandits will realize that they have been detected, and they will disappear into the wilderness,” Ikoma Fujimaro said. “They will escape the Emperor’s justice, and go on to prey upon some other village. That cannot be allowed.”

            “Do you foresee some other possible future?” Maru countered, “because preying on another village is exactly what they will do after they kill us and burn this village to the ground.”

“They are bandits,” Shiba Danjuro said. “They are ruthless men, yes, but they are not hardened warriors. They are not used to fighting those with the skill to oppose them. Fujimaro could easily slay half a dozen, as could your man Muhito.”

“We would die in so doing,” Muhito said, “but he is right.”

“Which still leaves us terribly outnumbered,” Maru replied. “Not all of us are hardened warriors either.”

“Then leave if you must,” Danjuro insisted. “I will not demand that you throw your life away, Maru-san, but I will not abandon these people.”

“You would die for peasants?” she asked.

“I do not measure a man’s worth against an accident of birth,” Danjuro said. “If we do not help these people, who will?”

Maru stared at the Phoenix in bitter silence.

“What of you?” Fujimaro said, gesturing to Koan. “Do you stand with us?”

“I do,” the monk nodded. “If your blood is to be spilt, then it shall mix with mine and nourish the earth. I do not fear death.”

“I find that a small comfort,” Maru said dryly, “I hope you understand.”

“I understand better than you realize,” Koan answered. “This is not about life or death. This is a legend waiting to be born, one that will give inspiration to an entire generation of samurai. Your life is no longer your own, Shosuro Maru.”

“Melodramatic fool,” Maru grumbled.

Danjuro raised a hand to forestall any further arguments. “Let us concentrate on the matter at hand, shall we? We do not have much time. Maru if you wish to leave, I understand, but we must know our strengths so that we can plan. Are you with us or not?”

Muhito looked at his mistress silently. Her expression was sour, her arms folded across her chest.

“We do not need cowards,” Fujimaro said.

“Am I a coward?” Maru asked in a soft voice. “Tell me, Fujimaro, what would happen if we were not here? The bandits would attack. Some would die. The village would be robbed and they would move on. If we fight – and fail – what will happen? Everyone will die. The village will burn. There will be no mercy for this village,” her eyes met those of the old Lion, “or the next. I will not be the cause of such slaughter.”

Fujimaro smiled. “Then help us, Maru,” the old Lion said.

“What can I do?” she asked helplessly. “I am a politician, not a warrior.”

“Do what you do best, my lady,” Muhito said.

Maru looked at Muhito in surprise. “What?”

“You are a woman of exquisite beauty, trained in the Bayushi courts,” Muhito replied. “For us to succeed we must prepare the peasants for battle. Move them to fight. Tell them that so long as they stand firm, that we will not fail them. Inspire them, my lady, and we may yet triumph.”

“He’s right,” Fujimaro said. “I don’t have time to turn these peasants into soldiers, but I’ve seen my share of men do ridiculous things because a beautiful woman told them it would work.”

Muhito looked at her seriously. “I do not believe we can do this without you, Maru.”

Maru absorbed Muhito’s words thoughtfully. “Then I will stay,” she said. “What do we know of the bandits other than their number?”

“They will have scouts. Outriders.” Fujimaro nodded. “They will investigate the village before bringing their main force. If we eliminate the scouts, it will unsettle them.”

“Will the bandits not be alarmed if the scouts do not return?” Maru asked.

“I hope so,” Fujimaro answered. “They will likely believe that the scouts became embroiled in some side venture, or stopped to loot. Suspicion and anger will cause the rest to make mistakes.”

“Agreed,” Danjuro said. “Can you and Masutaro deal with the scouts? Can we estimate where they will arrive?”

“Leave them to me,” Fujimaro said with a humorless smile.

Danjuro nodded. “I will speak with Katsuhito. Maru, if you could speak to the villagers?”

“Of course,” she said demurely. “And what will you be doing?” She said to the monk.

“Praying,” Koan said.

“Good idea,” Fujimaro said.



            “We need you, Katsuhito.”

The shugenja looked up suddenly, surprised at the voice. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not noticed Danjuro approach. The samurai crouched down to look in his eyes where he say huddled between two shabby buildings. “Why are you hiding here?”

“I am not hiding,” Katsuhito insisted. “I just… need time to think.”

“Time is something we must spend wisely, brother,” Danjuro said. “If I could ease your mind I would. Unfortunately, I have no words.”

“My spirit is restless,” the shugenja said. “The things I have done haunt me.”

“You slew demons and the Lost,” Danjuro said. “I know that your oaths of pacifism weigh upon you. I often feel the same. Peace is a noble goal, but sometimes we must fight for it, Katsuhito.”

“You know nothing of what troubles me, Danjuro,” Katsuhito said. “You think you understand, but you do not. I have sinned deeply. It is not love of peace that drove me away.”

Danjuro considered Katsuhito’s words. “Look around you, Katsuhito,” Danjuro said. “If you seek a chance at redemption, it is here.”

Katsuhito’s eyes widened. “Is it possible?” he said. “The Fortune of Heroes would not smile upon one so lowly as myself.”

“Then rise,” Danjuro said, extending his hand to the shugenja. “Your wisdom and your magic will be sorely needed.”

Katsuhito took Danjuro’s hand and rose to his feet, but his eyes were still clouded with doubt.

“If you knew what I had done you would not wish to fight beside me,” Katsuhito said.

“Then tell me, if confession would satisfy you,” Danjuro said. “I promise I will not judge you till the battle is done.”

Katsuhito began to speak.



            Kakita Korihime struggled to push the fear from her mind. She had confidence in her abilities, and she felt strongly that the others were equally capable. The chances of success seemed slim. Korihime did not fear death. No, it was not fear of death that threatened to poison her mind. It was fear of failure. As Maru had pointed out, they stood a far greater chance not only of dying but causing even greater damage through their failure. Such a fate would truly be damnation.

A rustle came from the right, and Korihime was on her feet with her blade half drawn in the span of a heartbeat. When she saw the familiar black and red armor, she exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, Muhito-san. I fear I am a bit on edge at the moment.”

“It is I who should apologize,” he said in his soft, strangely melodic voice. “I did not intend to approach so quietly.” He paused for a moment. “I do not know how to move any other way.”

She frowned at the strange sadness in his voice then forced a polite smile. “Have you made your peace with your ancestors?” she asked. “It is likely we shall meet them before Lord Sun slumbers tonight.”

“I do not speak with my ancestors,” Muhito said. “It is their place to judge me, not mine to entreat them. They will find my service acceptable, or they will not. Nothing I can ask of them will change that. If they deserve their aid, I trust them to give it.”

“That is a most unusual philosophy,” Korihime said.

“Domo.” His tone suggested that he might even have smiled, but of course she could not see beyond the fearsome mask he wore. “I speak plainly, Korihime. I hope that does not make me seem arrogant.”

“Arrogant?” Korihime asked, surprised. “I find you remarkably soft-spoken, for a Bayushi.”

Muhito considered the matter. “In my youth I was quite unbearable,” he admitted. “I have since seen the error of my ways. This life that I lead… the things I must do in the name of loyalty… this is not the life I imagined for myself. Perhaps if it were not for the mistakes of my youth, I could have had become something more.” He paused and looked at her with his unfathomable eyes.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I do not know,” he said. “I have never spoken of this to anyone, even Maru. I think perhaps it is that you are what I wished to be. Beautiful, exquisite, a peerless warrior of the courts. You walk in the sun while I sulk in shadows, Korihime. The last time I saw you, your hair was dark.”

“Yes,” she said absently. “I bleached it for court. My superiors told me it was expected.”

“It does not suit you,” Muhito said, “but I supposed it is no surprise that I would prefer the darkness. You do not need to cater to the expectations of others, Korihime. You already surpass them.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you feel such a need to flatter me?” she asked.

“You do not realize the impression you made upon me,” he said. “The day I first saw you duel, I had been assigned to follow a particular Mantis ambassador. When I stopped to watch you, I was seen.” He chuckled. “I am never seen.”

“I remember,” Korihime said. “There were rumors of an intruder, but no one ever saw anything after that. That was you?”

Muhito nodded.

“I wondered why I did not recall you,” she said. “You do not seem the sort of man I would quickly forget. What are your dreams, then, Muhito? The ones you gave up?”

“You might find them foolish,” Muhito said. “Do not misunderstand me, Korihime, to serve Maru-san is perhaps as great an honor – but it can be difficult to set one’s dreams aside.”

“I think I understand that,” she said. “I do not find you foolish, Muhito-san.”

Muhito was silent again, this time for longer. “Dreams are dangerous,” he finally said, nearly whispering. “They threaten focus and certainty, undermining everything.” He glanced at her. “I would have been a poet, or perhaps a storyteller. Perhaps even a courtier, or a duelist. Not this dark and terrible thing that I have become.”

“I am sorry,” she said, “I did not mean…”

“But I have found another dream,” Muhito interrupted, looking at her earnestly. He rose suddenly and bowed. “Good fortunes to you, Korihime-sama. I shall see you on the field of battle.”

And he was gone before Korihime could think of anything else to say.



            Three men approached the village on horseback, bringing their steeds to a halt so that they could overlook the small settlement. Jinzu’s scarred face split into a wide grin as he looked at the distant buildings. There was no hope that the villagers could meet their demands. As far as he was concerned, that was just fine. The group had enough supplies for now, but the lust for blood was rising within him. He turned to the others, who grinned back.

“I feel like an Imperial tax collector,” he said with a leer.

“You don’t think they’ll pay?” one of the others asked.

“I hope not,” Jinzu scoffed. “The price Kobuta set is far too high. They cannot afford it. This village is to serve as a lesson to all who would resist us.”

“Seems a waste,” the other man countered. “They learn nothing if they die.”

“Idiot,” Jinzu spat. “You don’t listen! They aren’t the ones who will learn.”

There was movement amid the grass in the corner of Jinzu’s eye. He turned toward it, still glaring irritably at the other scout before finally glancing to see what had caused the movement. He felt a twinge in his stomach and looked down to see an arrow protruding from his abdomen. Blood streamed over his right leg.

“An arrow to the stomach is a terrible way to die,” Ikoma Fujimaro said, rising from the grass. He dropped his bow and lifted an enormous no-dachi in both hands, keeping it in an attack posture. The golden mon of the Lion Clan was emblazoned on the right shoulder of his armor.

Jinzu clutched at his wound in shock. The other two bandits looked at one another in terror.

“He’s just one old Lion!” Jinzu wailed. “Finish it quickly!”

“I will,” Fujimaro said.

The Lion screamed a feral war cry and leapt at the bandits.



            Danjuro glanced up at the sound of a distant roar. It was difficult to tell in this part of the Empire, with the strange combination of plains and low hills, but for a moment he thought he had heard the cry of some distant beast. Trying to keep his face calm, he turned back to the villagers. Already the children and elderly had been huddled within the central temple. Now a line of rangy, awkward looking peasants stood in the street. Most were far too young or far too old to fight. Their eyes were fixed on Maru, who stood several feet away, watching them with a sad smile.

“No doubt all of you have heard stories of the Scorpion Clan,” the Scorpion said. “The way of the Scorpion is said to be the way of lies – but this is a lie. The way of the Scorpion Clan is the way of truth. We know the truth. We speak the truth. Others do not wish to hear the truth, and so we are villains. A clever Scorpion need not lie, for the truth can harm his enemy much more.” She laughed brightly and turned to one of the older farmers, who looked away nervously. She stepped forward, cupping the man’s chin gently and turning his face so his eyes met hers. “I would wager you can remember a time when a woman spoke the truth to you and you would have preferred it otherwise.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the peasants and as one they became more relaxed.

“My name is Shosuro Maru,” she said to them, “but you may call me Maru-chan.”

The farmer smiled warmly at Maru and politely looked away again. Danjuro was astonished. Normally peasants were terrified of samurai. A samurai who spoke to them was likely to provoke submission and retreat rather than laughter, but Maru had befriended them with little effort.

“I will never lie to you,” Maru said. “So listen to me now. I know that many of you have considered running away, taking your families and hiding in the forest. But there is no escape. The bandits will hunt you. Even if they cannot find you, you will return to find no home, no food. If we run… we will die.”

A dreadful silence fell over the peasants. They all stared at Maru with hopeless terror. Danjuro prayed that she had not just shattered the men she had hoped to inspire, but he remained silent.

“What do we do, Maru-chan?” an older farmer asked weakly.

“I wondered that myself,” Maru said. “I had been prepared to run, but men such as these never stop chasing. We must fight.”

“I have heard we are outnumbered, Maru-chan,” said another farmer. “We’re not warriors. How will we win?”

Maru smiled at him. “You might be surprised what brave men can do against impossible odds. Tell me, my friends, have you heard of a man named Toturi?”

“Of course!” said another. “Toturi is our Righteous Emperor!”

“And long may he reign,” Maru replied reflexively, “but I speak of his bold father, the legendary Splendid Emperor, a man who numbers among the Empire’s greatest heroes. At one time he was a mere ronin, an outcast spat upon by samurai and peasant alike. Yet when the Dark God conspired to tear the Empire apart, it was Toturi who gathered the outcasts, the forgotten, the underestimated…” she smiled at each of them, “men like yourselves… and taught them to fight. If a lone ronin can unite an Empire and defeat a god, then surely we can defeat this rabble.”

“But Toturi,” another man said. “He was… he was Toturi. There is no one like Toturi.”

“Except for his sons,” Maru replied. “This man,” she pointed at Danjuro, “Is Shiba Danjuro. He is the most trusted officer of Kaneka, Toturi’s eldest son. He will lead us into battle.”

Danjuro watched as all of the peasants turned to him. For several long seconds they stared at him in silence.

“We will fight and die for you, Danjuro-sama!” one of the younger farmers shouted, waving his crude spear in the air.

Danjuro’s eyes widened. In only a matter of moments, Maru had fanned the embers of trust and hope in these terrified peasants and, with just as much ease, passed their loyalty to him.

“Thank you, Maru,” Danjuro whispered as the Scorpion brushed past him.

The Scorpion maiden only smiled. Danjuro smiled as well, despite that she could not see it. She was an extraordinary woman, and far more than she appeared at first glance. He turned away reluctantly to face the approaching Fujimaro.

“I am glad to see you have returned uninjured,” Danjuro said. “What can you tell me of the scouts?”

“Dead,” Fujimaro said. “Three of them.”

“Three less for us to face,” Danjuro said. “That is some good news.”

“I bring worse news,” Fujimaro said.

“Oh?” Danjuro said, looking intently at a Lion.

The old Lion shook his head. “I wounded one of the scouts, badly, just before he died. The man knew he was dying, but he was not afraid.”

“So our enemies are brave?” Danjuro asked.

“That isn’t what I mean, Danjuro,” Fujimaro said. “He wanted to escape. As a Phoenix, surely you know what that means.”

Danjuro felt the color drain from his face. “He expected to be healed. The bandits have a shugenja among them.”

Fujimaro took a long drink from a small clay bottle. “Ronin shugenja are rare,” he said, wiping his face with a damp hand. “The situation has become far more deadly.”

“Considerably,” Danjuro agreed, glancing toward the temple, where Katsuhito stood outside, reluctant to enter.

“Will your man be ready?” the Lion asked.

Danjuro had no answer.



            It was mid-day when the bandits appeared on the hill overlooking the village. Shosuro Maru glanced at the assembled villagers and saw that they were on the brink of panic. Despite all she had done to convince them otherwise, to see the enemy was the true test of courage. She had no doubt that many would break and run when the bandits reached the village. She glanced around to see where the others were. Masutaro was not visible. Muhito was nowhere in sight, which was to be expected. Fujimaro and Korihime stood shoulder-to-shoulder awaiting the bandits. The two Phoenix were nowhere to be seen. Katsuhito’s absence was not a surprise, as she had fully expected the broken priest to disappear. Danjuro’s absence was curious, but Maru was certain he would not abandon them.

The bandits hesitated for a moment atop the hill, clearly taken aback at the two dozen farmers and handful of samurai surrounding hastily built fortifications instead of a defenseless village. Maru allowed herself the hope that they might be intimidated and leave. They were common criminals, after all, and not used to opposition. After a moment, however, a sound carried across the wind. It was laughter.

The bandits were laughing. Maru’s heart sank, and she could hear the whimpers of those assembled around her. In another moment, the bandits rode forward, spurring their horses on to a full speed assault on the village. Almost involuntarily, the villagers began to slowly move backwards.

“They laughed at Toturi as well,” she said in a clear voice, and she saw many of the peasants stand firm.

A horse broke through the villager’s ranks, heading out to meet the bandits. It rode by in a flash, but Maru saw the familiar orange armor armor of Shiba Danjuro. The Phoenix held his wakizashi aloft and screamed a jagged, desperate battle cry as he raced toward the bandits. The village grew utterly silent as Danjuro rode toward the bandits.

A volley of arrows rose from the bandits’ ranks, but none struck true. Danjuro rode through the missiles unharmed. More arrows flew toward Danjuro, but again he impossibly avoided being struck. Cheers began among the villagers, but none expected what came next.

A bolt of searing lightning hurtled from the bandits’ midst and this time struck true, striking Danjuro in the torso. The Phoenix shouted in pain, but remained in his saddle, struggling to control his horse. A hail of arrows followed, and Maru saw one shatter his mempo as it buried itself in one side of his skull. She shouted his name and leapt forward, but one of the peasants seized her shoulder and pulled her back behind the barricades, muttering an apology almost instantly.

Danjuro slumped forward in his saddle as his horse broke into the bandits’ ranks even as they entered the village’s outer edge. His horse continued on its course, and at the last moment the Phoenix somehow hurled himself from the steed to tackle one of the bandits at the rear of the group. When the two men collided, there was a brilliant flash of light, and lightning danced all around the two of them. Even at this distance, Maru could see Danjuro’s armor blacken and burn, just as she saw the unarmored man he had struck burst into flames. The bandit screamed, shrieking to the kami to protect him. The searing lightning leapt beyond the two men, arcing among the bandits at random. Many cried out in pain, and some even fell from their horses. Some who fell did not rise.

Though shocked by Danjuro’s unexpected sacrifice, the calmer half of Maru noted the disarray that had fallen among the enemy.

“This is our chance,” she said to Fujimaro.

The Lion looked at her, surprised. He nodded gruffly and signaled to Korihime to follow.

“For Danjuro!” the Lion roared.



            The bandits were stunned by desperate dying act, and it cost them dearly. Perhaps a quarter of their number fell in the initial rush, before the others had even recovered from the magical duel. By the time they fully recovered, the sides were almost even, but the bandits were far more experienced and better equipped than the villagers. The tide turned quickly despite best efforts of the samurai.

Fujimaro crushed a man’s face with a devastating strike from the tessen in his off-hand then finished him with a precise strike from his katana. It required all his focus to wield the blade in a single hand, but he could not afford to sacrifice the defense of his tessen. Another bandit lunged in with a quick strike from his short blade, but Fujimaro turned it aside with the iron fan and kicked the man in the stomach as hard as he could. The bandit dropped, but rolled away from the killing strike. Anger gave him strength. If the Asako had found the courage to stand beside them, Danjuro might not have died. It was a foolish waste, for a fool of a man to live while a brave samurai died.

He would work out his anger on these worthless bandits.

Beside him, Korihime lashed out with her sword, cutting a man in half and blocking another attacker’s strike with a single strike. The Crane and bandit held their blades locked for a moment, then Korihime twisted her blade and sliced downward, neatly cutting through the inferior tsuba of the bandit’s blade and turning his hands into a bloody mess with a savage chop.

Together, the two of them charged toward Danjuro’s body. Fujimaro swung his blade in a wild arc, keeping the enemy at bay while Korihime knelt to examine the fallen Phoenix.

“He is alive, barely,” Korihime said, rolling the Phoenix on his back. “Danjuro, hold on. We will find Katsuhito. We may have time to heal you.”

The Phoenix looked up at her from within his shattered helmet, his face covered in blood, and he smiled.

“Katsuhito is already here,” the dying man mumbled, “and there is no time.”

In the distance, they heard a ragged battle cry. “For the Phoenix and Rokugan!” The voice was unmistakably Shiba Danjuro’s.

“Korihime, what is happening?” Fujimaro clenched his teeth as he broke the shaft a bandit’s arrow that had stuck his shoulder and knelt beside her.

“It’s Katsuhito,” Korihime said, looking down in shock. “Why did Danjuro give you his armor?”

“He didn’t. I took it,” Katsuhito whispered. “If that is his voice, he must have awakened from my spell already. He wished to charge the shugenja himself but… but my life is worth so much less than his… I could not let him.”

A bandit loomed over them, lifting his spear over Korihime and Katsuhito. The Crane sneered and cut the man’s legs from beneath him and returned to her vigil over the dying Phoenix.

“I cannot see,” Katsuhito said, his voice desperate now. “Is there still fighting? Did my death make a difference at all?”

“Yes, Katsuhito,” Korihime said. “It made a difference.”

“She promised… me everything…” he said, smiling as blood streamed between his lips. “She could not give me this. Had I known honor was so sweet… I would have been… as a god…”

A smile twisted the Phoenix’s bloody lips as he died.

“We must go,” Fujimaro said, looking up as two bandits approached them cautiously. “We have spent too long separated from our troops. We will be trapped.”

Fujimaro darted forward with his blade high, but the two men bandits retreated. Immediately, four more darted from nowhere to block him from Korihime. None of these men were a match for either of them, but separated and outnumbered it was only a matter of time. He cursed his own foolishness.

A blur of black and red sprang from behind the Lion, leaving one of his attackers choking on the ground as it sped on toward Korihime. Like a blood-drenched phantom, Bayushi Muhito appeared beside her with his katana lifted high, hurling a dagger into another bandit’s eye. Together the Crane and Scorpion charged with swords flashing, cutting a path toward Fujimaro.



            Masutaro tore himself free from his opponent, shoving the wounded bandit to the ground and kicking him ferociously. He scanned the throng of combatants, seeking his prey, ignoring the lesser blows that rained upon him from nearby combats. He cast about desperately, hoping for the chance to fulfill his duty, to fulfill his lord’s command.

To seek his death.

There. Near the rear of the group was a man larger than the others. He bore a huge scimitar, larger even than Fujimaro’s no-dachi. From the look of him he was of Moto ancestry, though no Moto the Lion had faced bore so cruel and weathered a countenance.

“You!” screamed Masutaro, running in the leader’s direction. “Face me!”

The bandit leader killed two villagers with a single blow from his massive blade, then turned toward Masutaro with a sneer. He gestured and three men with spears rushed out to block Masutaro’s path. The Lion left them dead on the road before their weapons were ready, moving with startling speed for a man so old.

“In the name of Lord Matsu Nimuro of the Lion Clan,” Masutaro said, “I challenge you.”

“Your lord is not here to save you, old man!” the bandit spat, rushing toward Masutaro. “After today, they shall call me Kobuta, the Lion Slayer!”

Masutaro reached the man at a run, bringing his katana down with a thunderous clang as the bandit parried the blade. Kobuta staggered backward, growled, and attacked again, slipping past the Lion’s defenses and slicing his hip. Masutaro staggered, feeling the strength of his rage drain from him, leaving him little more than a tired old man. He felt the bandit’s sword slice the armor from his back. He fell to one knee. His katana tumbled from his hands and Kobuta kicked the blade away.

“Lion Slayer,” the bandit repeated from behind him. “Do you like the sound of that?”

Masutaro heard footsteps grow closer. He bowed his head in shame as he felt the bandit grow nearer. His strength would not save him now – he was too weak. The other man was faster, younger, and more skilled. Masutaro’s hand rested on the hilt of his wakizashi.

“Draw your little sword, old Lion,” Kobuta taunted. “Make it a worthy end.”

Masutaro nodded. He drew the wakizashi and threw himself backward, colliding with the bandit. He felt the blade cut his back again but ignored it, forcing his weight against the man, hurling both of them against a tree. Then, with a single desperate surge of strength, he drove the wakizashi through his own chest and into the man behind him.

“Enjoy your accolade, Lion Slayer,” Masutaro whispered into the bandit leader’s ear as they both died.

All around them, the battle continued.



            Smoke rose from the village in several places. Bodies littered the streets, and blood soaked the earth. Mournful wails from they dying and those who had lost loved ones mixed with the triumphant shouts of young men from whom the thrill of battle had not yet faded. Fujimaro sat on the doorstep of the teahouse, his armor streaked with grime. The armor covering his left arm was gone, and a bloody cloth had been tightly wrapped around his upper arm. His helm was cracked. Fujimaro reached up and took the helm off, looking at it for a moment before tossing the ruined armor into the street. “We should all be dead,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” said Danjuro weakly. He was hobbling along the street, helping the injured monk, Koan, walk. “We should be. I may yet meet my ancestors today.”

“No matter,” Koan said firmly. “You’ll rise again. Phoenix always do.”

“Katsuhito?” Danjuro asked, looking at Fujimaro urgently.

The Lion only shook his head. Danjuro closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“He has the redemption he sought, Danjuro,” Koan said. “The Fortune is pleased, my friend. You are true champions of bushido, all of you. What you have done here will not soon be forgotten in heaven or on earth.”

“Idiot,” Maru sneered at the monk. “If you had sought more aid when you first learned of the bandits, Katsuhito, Masutaro, and the villagers would not have died. Their blood will forever stain your hands.”

“Masutaro’s death is nothing to regret,” Fujimaro said. “It was what he wanted.”

“How comforting,” Maru said coldly.

“And Muhito?” Fujimaro asked.

The courtier shook her head. “He is injured badly. He was foolish to charge through the enemy lines alone. Korihime is tending to his wounds, but I do not know if he will live.”

“Unfortunate,” Fujimaro said, “and inconvenient for you, I imagine. Finding a yojimbo as skilled as he will prove difficult.”

Maru levied a glare at the Lion that would wilt steel. She opened her mouth to utter a terse reply, but then paused. “He is very skilled,” she replied. “I thank you for your concern, Lion, and also thank you for your compliment on his behalf.”

Fujimaro blinked in surprise, then bowed.

Maru closed her eyes and nodded. She turned to Koan. “So what do we do now?”

No one had the answer.



            Korihime wet the cloth in a bucket of clean water and pressed it to Muhito’s chest. The Scorpion flinched, and fresh blood poured from the wound, but he did not cry out. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“It is I who should thank you,” Korihime said softly. “You saved my life.”

“It was my honor,” Muhito said. “I would not have wished to live if I had been watched your light fade from this world.” His eyes fluttered beneath his mask as a fresh wave of pain overtook him. “I had imagined death would hurt more.”

“No,” Korihime insisted. “You will not die.”

“The wound is grave,” Muhito said. “I have inflicted its like too often not to recognize its severity.”

A tear rolled down Korihime’s cheek unbidden. “You will not die,” she said. “Danjuro already rides for help. He will return with shugenja, a healer, whatever he can find.”

Muhito lifted one shaking, glove free hand and wiped the tear away. It was the lightest touch Korihime had ever felt, like a feather brushing against her skin. “I am not worth such tears.”

Korihime opened her eyes. “You are not listening,” she said, snatching his hand and clasping it with her own. “You will not die.”

Muhito looked at her in surprise. He winced from the force of her grip. She leaned close to him, removing his mask with one hand. Her silken white hair fell upon his throat, soaking red from the blood of his wounds.

“You will… not… die,” she whispered, close to him now. Her blue eyes bored into his own.

Muhito was awed by the intensity of her gaze. He drew strength from it, and the pain seemed to recede.

“You will not die,” she whispered again, very close to his ear.

“Anything for you, my lady,” the Scorpion said.