The Disfavored Hero (6 page)

On the third morning, Huan rose as from a nap, refreshed and in good humor. He was able to walk on his own, albeit in a gawky, spidery fashion.

Servants hurried with fresh clothing, food, and drink. Huan ordered Ushii away, as one would shoo a dog, while he and Tomoe feasted. Already the messengers of the warlords were arriving with tribute of horses, grain, gold and chests of coins; but the sorcerer had them wait until he could see them at his leisure.

As they ate, Lord Huan watched Tomoe with an intensity matched only by that of Ushii on the nights previous. Tomoe sensed that Ushii had been reluctant to leave her alone in the presence of the wakened sorcerer. Perhaps he thought Lord Huan was senile enough to forget that Tomoe Gozen was a warrior. Indeed, it could not be denied that the sorcerer's respect for the samurai class was of an intellectual rather than literal nature. But all Huan did was gaze acutely, watching her as she ate and drank with slow, meticulous purpose. It was as though she were the prize of a conquest, his favorite province, an object like a jade temple or a golden city to possess but never touch. Yet Tomoe could not tell Ushii how little transpired whenever she and Huan were alone. It became evident that Ushii was disturbed by grave imaginings about these meetings. This aggravation made Ushii edgy, and his edge made him dangerous.

One warlord made tribute of fifty Shirakian slaves, prizes from a mainland war on the upper coast. A much frustrated Ushii mistreated them badly, until Huan ordered them out from under foot. He gave them the seemingly pointless task of gathering stones around the estate; and Tomoe wondered abstractly what the stones were for. Surely the iniquitous Lord Huan did not send them on a foolish errand out of mere concern over their welfare or the manner of Ushii's management.

Ushii Yakushiji became a wicked man, his unjust deeds overwhelming his conscience. He hid his self-loathing beneath the blood of others. Those who came with tributes often as not left with scars. His quick temper cost the lives of half Lord Huan's own servants, and those who were spared sudden deaths consistently effaced themselves when Ushii walked the halls.

Within him, Ushii's giri and ninjo were locked in the throes of mortal combat, and Tomoe knew at last that Ushii Yakushiji was truly mad.

Even the realization of Ushii's madness awakened no pity in Tomoe Gozen. She watched all these things come to pass from her dispassionate posture, ever at Lord Huan's side, for he liked to keep her near. She felt that all was less real than an excessively stylized Noh play. She viewed the world through glazed, black eyes, and nothing quite touched her.

The prospect of war was all that piqued Tomoe's bored, unfeeling spirit. She knew that war must be imminent. Ushii had slain two messengers of the Shogun himself, and the result was that several warclans were rallying. The Mikado might remain heedless of broken treaties, but the Shogun was too proud. The very worms and crickets were Lord Huan's spies and he delighted at the news, welcoming the certainty of battle.

Tomoe wondered casually why the sorcerer had not sent to the mainland for his own reinforcements, unless his allies there were already expended. He had many servants, but only two warriors. Surely he did not believe that Tomoe and Ushii alone could win against the combined wrath of those clans most faithful to the Shogun. Lord Huan's delusion did not worry Tomoe, however. A samurai's concern was never with death, but with valor. She would fight with courage and skill. Every movement of a samurai reflected the perfection of the very gods. Whether victorious or defeated, the Way of the Warrior was the Way of the Gods, and an end in itself. Tomoe Gozen was prepared for battle, careless of risk. Whether or not it were true, as Ushii claimed, that she was held by magic, in this thing she would always feel the same: war itself was holy.

For many days, the mystery of Lord Huan's court was that he kept the Shirakians busy gathering stones from every corner of the valley. Outside the palace, the rocks were piled higher and higher, making a loose, rough pyramid. Daily, Huan investigated the growing pile, and laughed, and danced like a clumsily animated skeleton before the stones. Then he'd return to his throne, once more to toss incense in his brass pot and accept tribute from all the warlords but Shigeno, who had nothing left to give.

The day came when the warlords brought no more tribute, no more wealth for the coffers of a sorcerer who dreamt smoky dreams of conquest. Instead, the warlords sent a declaration of war. Ushii beheaded the offensive messenger with one swipe of his sword, and took the scroll from the hand of the falling corpse. Lord Huan clapped and giggled and bounced in his throne. Ushii gritted his teeth in madness, handing the scroll to Huan. Tomoe stood at the right of the throne, no change upon her visage.

Lord Huan read the scroll, nodding and grinning, then rolled it tight and handed it to a furtive servant to take away and burn. “The attack will come at dawn,” he said, long-nailed fingers toying with his wispy white beard. His mien was that of an emperor well pleased with himself, as certain as any peasant that those who rule are gods.

“Before me, Ushii!” he commanded quickly, as he dug deeply into his clothing like a miser searching for a hidden coin. Ushii fell onto his knees beside the large brazier, eyes down, awaiting his master's words. “O, obedient samurai, at dawn your might is tested. Although you do not yet know how, the odds will mark your favor. Yet once before I came this near, but was overcome and cast off the yellow earth of Ho. This time, I cannot fail. Take this vial.”

Ushii stood and took the orange, crystalline container. Its cork was sealed over with brown wax. Through its translucent walls, an effervescing liquid churned.

“It holds your last resort, Ushii Yakushiji. I do not believe that it will be necessary that you drink it—but if the battle turns against you, this vial contains a formula which will give you strength far greater than that which possessed Tomoe Gozen when lightning struck her swords. It is fatal. But as I have learned, a samurai who is faithful to the bushido is ever prepared to die for a master.”

Without comment regarding his own fate, Ushii tucked the vial inside his armor.

“And Tomoe?” Ushii asked with the faintest tone of calculation.

“She is indestructible,” said Huan. “She could not be sacrificed even were that my wish.”

Ushii bowed, pleased.

Then Huan rose from his throne, a tall, swift stick figure moving across thick carpets. He ordered the two samurai to follow him to the pile of stones outside the palace. There he bid Ushii slay the gathered Shirakians, which was a better reward than they might have guessed.

When the dead lay all around, Lord Huan indicated the rock pile with a flourish of his bony arm, proclaiming, “This is my armory!”

Ushii looked puzzled. “You would defend against the combined force of the warclans with stones, Lord Huan? If so, who will throw them? You have raised no army. How can we hope to stand?”

“You shall see!” the sorcerer said. He produced a glass ball from his sleeve as might a common street magician, tossing it up and down to imply its lack of weight. Tomoe and Ushii could see that it was hollow, fragile, and filled with vapor. Lord Huan tossed this object atop the pile of stones where it shattered, covering the mound with violet smoke.

Immediately, with ear-chilling grating noises, the rocks began to change into swords and flails and hammers and axes and knives and staves and hatchets. They were not the works of artisans, but were crude and ugly. They seemed to have been fashioned by and for deformed hands. The two samurai were soon gazing not upon rocks, but upon an array of tools for destruction which were caricatures of true weapons.

“An impressive trick,” said Ushii, and was serious, “but such rough-hewn weapons have not been used since the Age of Stone. Yet I will assume the stone arms will indeed hold against steel, because a supreme sorcerer fashioned them. Even so, what army will bear these arms?”

Lord Huan performed his scrawny, apish dance, beside himself with excitement. He looked up at the fighting-man, and said, “You have seen my legions before, Ushii! On the mountain road out of hell! Imagine the terror of the clans! Imagine the horror of the Mikado himself when demons descend upon his city! A once-immortal dynasty will fall at last, and I will drain the wealth of Naipon and make the Celestial Kingdoms kneel to my worthiness! Laugh, Ushii, laugh!”

Obediently, Ushii joined Lord Huan's laughter, but the tone rang false and flat. Even in his madness, Ushii could not dredge up pleasure in leading an army of ghouls. He had stood at the threshold of hell, and it had helped break him to Lord Huan's will. Now he would take as comrades the horrors he had seen.

As for Tomoe, she neither feared nor respected the monsters she had slain before with ease. She did not tremble when the mountain of stone weapons began to quake and the hand of the first monster reached out from a cairn, bearing an ugly blade. It crawled out from the rocks, and another appeared behind, clutching an axe. They would come, one by one, throughout the night, until the last weapon was taken up; and on the dawn Tomoe Gozen and Ushii Yakushiji would lead them all into battle.

She stood by Ushii and the sorcerer, whose laughter filled her brain. The muscles of her jaw twitched as they often did, and perhaps there was a greater glisten in her dark, dark eyes. Ushii peered in abject dread at the slobbering oozing beasts that crawled forth to feed on the slain Shirakian slaves. But Tomoe Gozen appeared as unconcerned and as discompassionate as on the day of her similar ascent from hell.

Dawn bloodied the sky. Warlords on armored horses and eight thousand samurai afoot came in orderly formation to the valley they sought to reclaim for Shojiro Shigeno. Shigeno himself led the four united clans. He was fierce to see, angry at his ruin and the slaughter of his peasants, anxious to regain honor and have vengeance. Long hair flowed from beneath his helmet. His armor was lacquered to a shining ebony. He sat high on a stallion bred of the same stock as Tomoe's lamented Raski.

To Shigeno's left and right were two magician-ninja. They were jono and not to be confused with ordinary ninja, who were clever but knew no magic. The mysterious jono were descendants of an elite offshoot of the ancient spy class, an offshoot which had evolved into a less underhanded cult of supremely deadly priests and priestesses proficient in martial sorcery. Even the Shogun dared not challenge them. Their presence indicated the Mikado's interest in this battle, for only Amaterasu's godchild commanded jono.

One of these jono was a man, the other a woman. They were swaddled in grey robes so that even the major portion of their faces was hidden. They sat astride horses too slender for war, but the riders' prowess was not to be underestimated. The priest and priestess were Shinto warriors, favored by the hundred thousand myriad of Shinto deities. Neither samurai nor common ninja were any match for them.

What the several warlords, two jono, and numerous samurai confronted in the valley were two mounted samurai—a woman with unnatural eyes, and a man frothing with insanity—who captained an army of slobbering, disorderly monstrosities. The creatures stood awry, naked with rare exceptions, waving mallets, sickles, flails and swords all made of stone. They champed crooked teeth and howled like a haunted wind for blood.

The two incredible samurai rode forth in slow, stately procession, and the legions of ghouls waited for command to follow. With precise movement, Tomoe Gozen raised one arm, as might a dream-warrior, to signal. The howling beasts began to rush forward with unexpected speed. They came slouching, crawling, hopping, scrabbling, in ungainly strides with bloodlust upon their inhuman visages.

Ushii and the woman drew their swords, spurred their steeds.

Their foe were momentarily stunned by the vision, not having been told they would oppose demons.

The two varied armies clashed, and the red blood of samurai mixed with the green and yellow fluids of the ghouls. The beasts were awkward, but no easy adversaries. They could lose limbs and still come on; they could do battle even without heads, though they could not be sure who they struck blindly. Even their severed parts would fight: a bodiless arm beat the ground with a hammer; lost fingers inched their way up samurai armor. Only the magician-ninja could deal blows of anything like a lasting effect, and even the ghouls felled by those two would spring back to life if touch by another of their ranks.

The magician-ninja produced darts, apparently from out of nothingness but perhaps from their sleeves, tossing them into the chests and eyes of ghouls. The darts exploded on contact, tearing rib cages and opening skulls. The victims of the magician-ninja hooted furiously and beat on the ground and sometimes appeared to die—but no samurai in service of the warlords fared so well in hurting them.

At cost of many lives, Ushii was dragged from his mount. His horse fled the field of battle in terror, and Ushii stood alone, making wild sweeping gestures with his sword. They who surrounded him were careful with the placement of feet, balance of hip, field of vision, while the madman thrashed among them. In the hands of a fine warrior, a sword could fell a tree, or carve entirely through a human torso. The ground was therefore littered with halved and quartered men, the victims of Ushii.

Ghouls began to tear at the back of those samurai Ushii had failed to beat back or carve down on his own. He had lost his helm; his hair had come untied. He looked more like an Ainu wildman than samurai as he snarled and fought and killed.

Finally there was only one samurai standing before him, and Ushii took careful measure of this imposing opponent. Ushii knew every strength and weakness of Madoka Kawayama, with whom he had trained and shared love since boyhood, at whose side he had fought many times until the last night of service under Lord Shigeno. Madoka knew Ushii's fighting methods as well, so was able to avoid Ushii's first rushing attack.

“Stop, Ushii!” Madoka shouted. “This need not be!”