A drop of sweat trickled slowly down the
forehead of Bayushi Jiro, but he blinked it away before it could obscure his
vision. A cool summer breeze blew through the courtyard in Friendly
Traveler Village, but his senses were dulled to everything but the Crane
standing before him. Kakita Isao stood flawlessly in the dueling stance of
his family, his hand turned upward above his daisho, as if offering a gift.
The Crane flashed a brief smile at his friend, his remaining eye showing no
trace of the smugness that the situation might warrant.
"Clear your thoughts and focus. The world beyond your blade and your foe
is a lie." The sensei's voice echoed through the dojo, jarring Jiro's
thoughts back from meditation. He stood in the middle a row of three
scorpion samurai, each in the dueling stance they had been holding for hours.
Every muscle in his body ached, but he dared not attempt to offer them any
relief. Without warning, the sensei snapped his elaborate fan closed,
signaling for the students to strike. Three flashes of steel were
followed by three pieces of silk floating silently to the floor, cut from the
kimonos wrapped around the opposing practice dummies. The sensei walked
between the students and the dummies, carefully inspecting his pupils' work.
Nodding his approval to the first Scorpion, he stepped in front of Jiro and
lifted a flap of the scarlet kimono with his closed fan. The sensei turned back
to his waiting student. With a blur of motion the bokken he carried leapt
from his hip and slammed into Jiro's side with a painful cracking sound.
Struggling to regain his both his breath and face, Jiro fell to one knee. He
could feel at least two ribs floating free, dislocated by the blow. "Next
time, do not leave a mark on the wood behind the silk, Jiro-san. See that
you do not fail me a second time."
Time slowed down for the Scorpion samurai. He breathed in slowly, knowing
his master's lessons would not be soon forgotten. Starting to exhale, Jiro
lunged forward, drawing his katana and lashing out at Isao in one fluid motion.
In less than the span of a heartbeat, his target shifted into a blurred haze of
blue cloth and flashing steel.
Jiro's
eyes went wide as the three foot blade swung upward, splitting flesh, muscle,
and bone before coming to rest buried halfway to the hilt in the Scorpion's
chest. "Mikado, no!" the boy shouted, struggling forward towards the
dueling circle against the restraining arm of his mother. The tall Crane
samurai smirked and began to withdraw his katana from the body of Jiro's sister,
scowling as it became lodged in her sternum. Jerking the blade forward,
the Crane raised a knee against the samurai-ko's chest, gaining the proper
leverage to rip the sword free. As her body slumped to the floor, Mikado's
eyes met Jiro's, and as the brightness slipped away he saw a single tear soak
the fabric of her elaborate silk mask.
A single
candle flickered in the darkness, illuminating only a breath of the pitch black
room. Jiro sat still and contemplative, meditating on the nature of the
flame. He had long since lost track of how long he had been sitting there,
and it was probably light outside by now. Time had lost all meaning in his
seclusion. Even the candle itself never seemed to burn down the wax that
fed the flame. A voice boomed out from the darkness, shattering Jiro's
trance. "Son of the Bayushi, why do you seek the secrets of this dojo?"
"To
loyally serve the interests of the Scorpion clan, sensei-sama," Jiro responded
cautiously.
"Evasion, yes; a useful technique," the voice echoed, "but useless here.
You cannot hide your secrets from the Scorpion, little bushi.
Answer the question."
Without
hesitation, Jiro replied. "To punish the Crane, master."
The icy
cold water of the river between Lion and Dragon lands surged up around Jiro as
he tumbled out of the small fishing craft. Gasping for air, he was
rewarded with a mouthful of water crushing its way down his throat. To his
further terror, clawed hands began grasping at his legs and kimono, drawing him
further down into the murky gloom. As his vision swam before him, he felt
something latch onto the top collar of his kimono and violently jerk upwards.
Retching water from his lungs, Jiro rolled to his side, seeing the bright disk
of Lady Moon slowly eclipsed by Isao's worried face.
Before he
knew what was happening, Jiro was on his back, staring up at the sunlight
filtering down through the cherry blossom trees. Glancing towards
his left shoulder, he already knew what he would see. The fabric of his
kimono was sliced perfectly at the seam, only the connecting threads and not the
actual fabric having been parted. With a sigh, Jiro looked up as the
shadow of his friend loomed over him. "I believe the tailor grows tired of
fixing that shoulder, my friend; perhaps you could practice your art more evenly
in the future?"
"That's
odd, the other day he thanked me for ensuring that his children will have food
in their bellies until he is old and gray."
Jiro
blatantly rolled his eyes above his silk mask, retrieved his sword, and got to
his feet. Signaling a servant to fetch him a fresh kimono, he turned
towards the Crane and dropped back into his dueling stance. "Perhaps this
time he will get a chance to dip his fingers into the fat coffers of the
Yasuki."
"We
shall see, my friend, we shall see."