He had never learned their names. They had only been peasants and hence, were beneath the notice of a samurai- even a ronin, such as himself. And yet their faces still haunted him. He could still see their eyes open wide with fear, and their mouths agape with silent screams. And the blood. Always the blood.
There had been an old man with his head crushed in. Dried blood had caked his ancient and wizend features. He had been partially eaten, his stinking bowels lying open to the flies and the noon day heat. What was left of his face had reminded the young bushi of his own grandfather, and he had found his hands clenched in rage.
There had been a young girl, little more than a child, with her long dark hair stained with half dried blood. He had stood there staring into those beautiful eyes, opened wide in shock, and had almost missed the motionless form of the child curled within her limp arms.
Moments later he had found himself leaning against the side of a building a short distance away, gasping for breath and choking on the remains of his midday meal. His eyes shut tight against the intimate horror of that single scene.
There had been men as well, peasants all. Their bodies lying still and broken where they had been tossed, or trampled. They had tried their best to save their village and their loved ones. They had tried and failed. And the buzzing of the flies and the weeping of the survivors were the only testament to their desperately futile bravery.
But theirs' had not been the only failure. Their tiny village had lain within the lands of the Dragonfly Clan, and were thus privileged to the protection of the Tonbo family samurai. But the Dragonfly soldiers rarely patrolled that far out from the main cities- The village had sat at the very edge of the Dragonfly domains. For the most part, the Tonbo had neither the men, nor the need, to patrol their lands as thoroughly as others might.
For the most part, their two mighty neighbors- the shugenja of the mystical Phoenix Clan, and the samurai and ise zumi of the mysterious Dragon Clan, Great Houses both, insured protection from the threat of bandits, or invasion.
That's the way it should have been at least, for the most part. But not that day. It had been almost two weeks ago, now. 12 men, women, and children had died due to this lax in vigilance.
Their dead spirits called to him for the blood of their killer. They demanded a payment in vengeance for his failure to protect them. He closed his eyes and could see their faces and hear their silent screams. Only their murderer's death would give them peace.
The young samurai never stopped to consider that he might no longer be bound by his 'once-sworn-oathes' to protect these peasants. He was a ronin now, no longer a Dragonfly samurai, the dead and dying were no longer his responsibility. But their voices called and he did not hesitate to answer their mournful pleas.
The ronin, Giri, looked up from where he knelt, to study the land before him. The chill winds of coming winter brushed his loosely bound hair, stray strands dancing in the breeze. With one hand he moved the hair from his face and glanced to the western horizon, and the failing light of the setting sun. Soon, Amaterasu would travel into the underworld and Lord Moon would once again lay claim to both the sky and the land.
Giri studied the hard earth beneath his feet. A slight indentation, the single mark of a gigantic foot, lay sunk into the bare rocky ground before him. The ronin touched the print along its edge, rolling the dirt between his fingers, then raised it to his nose and inhaled deeply. His nose wrinkled in distaste and he had to fight down the urge to gag at the foul odor wafting from the gravelly mud.
Letting the dirt drop back to the ground, Giri wiped his hands thoroughly. He could not be far behind, not if the smell held that strongly to the track. A half a day, maybe less. Once again, Giri eyed the setting sun, resting precariously upon the hills to the west. He had pushed on further than he had intended, he'd never meant to meet his quarry after nightfall. But, unless it pushed on through the night, it must have camped nearby.
Once again, Giri's eyes studied his surroundings. These were the last foothills of the Great Wall mountain range that dominated the northern borders of Rokugan. This far south, the foothills were nothing more than rolling hills and the occasional cliff face, but just ahead of him appeared to be an opening to a deep crack in the earth. The mouth of the ravine seemed slightly narrow, but the lay of the surrounding land seemed to promise that it would widen further on.
Giri pulled his padded jacket closer around him, as the wind picked up. In the heights of Shiro Mirumoto, the wind would have been considered a warm breeze, but here in the lowlands, it was more than cold enough. Giri's eyes were drawn back to the ravine. Its high walls could provide protection from the elements, as well as hide the light of a fire.
The youth sighed as he rose to a low crouch and scurried to the mouth of the ravine. He risked a quick look into the opening and found nothing but shadows to greet his gaze. Pausing where he was, the young samurai continued to stare into the darkness until his eyes adjusted to the light, though shadows still cloaked the occasional crevasse. Seeing that the passage did indeed cut deeper and wider further along, the youth muttered a single prayer to the Fortunes and crept silently into the waitintg blackness. In the distance he thought he heard the mournful call of a crow.
Again the silent figure waited patiently, breath turning to frost in the cold night air. Finally, the darkness below surrendered to that unblinking gaze- revealing the young ronin creeping down the dark passage, towards a dim light further on. With the careful step of a stalking cat, the silent hunter followed the youth, muttering one last prayer to the Fortune who protected fools.
Despite the possible danger waiting ahead, the young bushi closed his eyes and blocked out the world around him. As tense as he was right then, he would never be able to assume the fluid stance necessary for kenjutsu. The youth knew well that he had never faced a true foe outside of the strict rules of an honorable duel, and now he hunted a rampaging monster who would acknowledge no rules, intent only upon his death. The youth fought to steady his breathing and force down his fears, fighting to reestablish the inner calm he would need to survive whatever would come in the next few minutes.
The young ronin waited until he could no longer hear his breath sound like thunder in his ears, and the beating of his heart had died to a low roar. When he finally stepped away from the rock wall and restarted his careful tread down the stone passageway, his stride had regained the lithe, dancing balance, of a warrior's step.
Ahead of him the passage seemed brightly lit, in comparison to the darkness he had only recently passed. The light ahead had started feeble and dim, but as he drew closer he had recognized the flickering dance of firelight. He knew his quarry must be near, just around the next bend. Soon the dead would have their peace. Calm and focused once again, the youth continued his silent progression down the ravine.
The turn came abruptly and unexpectedly, suddenly the cliff wall at his back was gone and he had stumbled into a wide canyon. After the darkness of the ravine, the light of the campfire was a shocking brilliance, momentarily blinding him.
Then came the lightning.
Giri screamed as his blood turned to fire in his veins and the world dropped away beneath his feet. The light of the fire became a mote in comparison to the brilliance that sparked across his vision.
He screamed, and he could hear nothing over the thundering of the blood in his ears. Hands became claws, scrabbling uselessly at his swords and the motion of stumbling feet became the endless rolling of all the waves, in all the oceans, in all the world.
Giri screamed and could hear nothing over the cacophony of his pain and confusion.
A crow called out a warning. Amidst the pain and disorientation, it was a sound of finest crystal clarity.
And the pain was gone.
Again the crow called out.
From his left, behind him.
Without knowing why, Giri's daisho were bared and he spun, his wakizashi rising to counter an attacker he just somehow knew was there.
Giri felt the short blade slice deep into flesh, but then the sword was rent from his hand by the force of a blow that lifted him from his feet. The young bushi was tossed through the air like a sack of rice and slammed into a cliff wall nearly three yards away.
The youth leaned heavily against the stone beneath him, clutching against its hard rock face to keep himself upright. Somehow he'd managed to keep a hold of his katana, but his left arm hung uselessly at his side and he couldn't remember if it had been broken by the initial blow, or when he'd smashed into the unforgiving stone of the cliff's face. Blood leaked from a heavy gash above his right temple and he had to blink away the crimson veil that tried to blind him. But, it was with the same perfect clarity with which he had heard the crow's warning cry,that he studied the lumbering monstrocity howling its defiance from across the canyon floor.
Only marginally humanlike in appearance, the creature was well over twice his size, its gaping jaws fanged and tusked. Two arms, two legs, a torso and a head- these were the only similarities that the beast could claim to share with man.
Clothed in rags and cast-off bits of mismatched armor, the ogre held a mass of bloody meat in it's huge fist. Giri's wakizashi was still imbeded in it's make shift club. The young samurai found his gaze fixed upon that gore drenched hunk of unrecognizable flesh, with a morbid fascination. His eyes couldn't help but try to piece the mangled form of the ogre's club into the remains of something that had once been alive.
It was the beast's bellow of utter hatred that had the bushi staggering to his feet to face it. Giri shook his head in confusion as the ogre flinched away from his gaze. The room was bathed in a light as bright as day, chasing away the dancing shadows cast by the campfire.
The ogre shied from the brightness that seemed to follow Giri's startled gaze and hissed at the youth, as a cat might hiss when faced with a threatening bucket of cold water.With a scream of mindless rage the ogre brandished it's bloody weapon and charged across the space between itself and the young samurai.
Giri readied himself as best he could to meet the charge. The youth held his katana low and slightly away from him, the blade facing inwards towards his thigh. His legs were square to the charging ogre, knees slightly bent, feet shoulder width apart. His breathing was even, his mind focused beyond the pain of his useless arm. The ogre roared again, as it lumbered towards him, and he readied himself.
A piece of the night sky seemed to detach itself from the cliff above Giri's head. At first the youth thought it was the crow who had called to him in warning, but the new clarity of his sight, soon distinguished a human figure leaping at the charging shadow tainted monstrocity.
Half the ogre's face was gone, leaving raw, bleeding muscle and the dull white gleam of exposed bone. The thick, white remains of its right eye oozed from its empty socket. Something thicker than blood leaked from a heavy gash that extended across its temple and over its right ear. The ogre roared in pain and fury, too stupid to realize that it should be thrashing on the ground in the throes of death.
The Crab warrior's eyes slipped over the hunk of still bleeding flesh that the ogre brandished towards her. Years of experience with even more gruesome sights allowed her to avoid thinking of the carcass as anything other than the ogre's weapon. She focused her gaze on the monster before her, awaiting its inevitable charge.
Her eyes widened in shock when the beast only growled at her, before turning back to the injured youth. Hisuime cursed vehemently and rushed forward, already knowing that she would never be fast enough to intercept the ogre's next attack. the beast had already continued its lumbering charge towards the young bushi, its bloody bludgeon held high above its head.
Hisuime gave up her fruitless chase, knowing that rushing after the beast would only leave herself vulnerable. Better only one died than two. She could only watch as the ogre bore down on the young samurai, who seemed too daze to move out of its path.
The Kuni blinked in surprise when she saw the young bushi step to the right and smoothly into the ogre's ferocious charge. The ogre faltered, blinking in confusion- The useless and empty socket of his right eye failing to see the youth move under his swing. The youth passed safely below the ogre's flailing attack, his blade rising as he moved. The sword flashed in the light of the boy's glowing gaze, biting deep into the beast's side, then painting a crimson arc is it passed cleanly out the other side.
Instead of moving clear with his next step, the youth pivoted, bringing his blade's downward back-swing against the ogre's exposed hamstring. Hisuime was moving even as the beast screamed, its useless leg crumpling underneath its weight. There came a sick, wet cracking noise, as the Crab slammed her tetsubo into the ogre's spine.
For a long moment the ogre lay where it was, bent backwards almost in half, unable to move and gurgling wetly through the blood filling its throat. Hisuime studied it with a dispassionate gaze, her hand ready on her tetsubo's handle lest the beast be feigning the severity of its injury. Then there was a flash of red as the young bushi's blade slashed through the ogre's throat.
The Crab studied the youth intently over the ogre's thrashing body, her green eyes taking in the limp arm, blood soaked clothing and wavering stance. Her curious gaze was drawn to the tattoo over the youth's left eye. During the battle it had shown with the light of Amaterasu, herself, blinding the ogre and enraging it to the point of madness. Now it had returned to the dark tattoo of a crow, though sparks of brilliant lightning still played across its surface.
As she watched, the light of the tattoo slowly died, the white fire that danced across its dark surface lessening, even as the ogre's struggles lessened. When the light had finally disappeared and only the campfire's light illuminated them, the ogre was nothing more than a dead carcass.
Hisuime nodded to the youth across the ogre's carcass, preparing to introduce herself and ask after his name. She stopped when she saw the young bushi's eyes roll up into his head, and watched in shocked silence as the ronin pitched head first onto the body of the dead ogre.
Shaking her head in confusion the Kuni returned her tetsubo to its clip and walked around the ogre's body to kick out the fire. As she moved around the camp, she finally allowed herself to see it in its totality, having before been completely focused on the ogre. Clothes and supplies were strewn across the cavern floor, as were the remains of several motionless bodies. She could make out the bodies of three individual humans and a pack mule. The remains of the mule were a bloodied mess. The missing parts of its carcass probably still clutched in the ogre's clenched fist.
As the fire died, she waited for the darkness of night to return. When she could again see the glow of the stars in the sky, and make out the dark lumps of the two bodies on the ground a short distance away, she made her way to the side of the still unconscious youth. With a sigh, the Kuni stretched out her back, before bending down to pick the young bushi up and sling him over a shoulder. Without a backwards glance she walked out of the canyon and into the night.
"From failure- springs hope.
From duty met with courage-
There lies redemption."