The prisoner hung by his wrists from the ceiling of the torture chamber, the rough cords that suspended him in midair cutting deep contours into his skin. Rivulets of blood ran down his arms, chest, and back, and dripped into the boiling cauldron below him. His tormentors had lowered him so that he was forced to keep his legs bent at the knee to avoid having the flesh boiled from his feet. His knees and thighs were red and blistered from the onslaught of steam, and his breathing was ragged.
The only light in the room came from the dull glow of the fire under the cauldron, and from a single guttering candle on a sconce beside the iron-barred doorway. It didn’t reveal much; the walls and floor were rough stone, the ceiling was wooden beams overlaid with split lengths of bamboo. There was a rack, a small table bearing implements of torture, and shackles set into the walls. The air stank of sweat, fear, blood, and excrement.
The prisoner had not slept for three days, and had had no food for almost twice that. His naked stomach was painfully distended from lack of food. His once well-muscled body was emaciated and thin, clearly showing the bone structure that lay under the skin. Even so, his half-closed eyes smoldered with a defiant light.
Yoshimitsu laughed heartily and bowed to his opponent. Rain pattered against the bamboo roof and ran in streams to the ground. The dojo had no walls, being merely a wooden platform built high enough so that it would not be flooded by the spring rains. A rack of weapons dominated the northern end, while a small shrine sat opposite it. The floor in between was covered with a mat woven from hemp, and was well worn from constant use.
“It appears that your time in the Seian Guard has improved your skills my friend. Four years ago you would have folded before me like a silk cloth.” Yoshimitsu was a short man with heavily muscled arms and shoulders. His hair was drawn back and tied into a topknot, and he wore a red silk kimono with no sleeves. A shinai, a mock sword built from slivers of bamboo and bound with silk, hung loosely from his left hand.
“Three years of constant campaigning teaches a man much, Yoshi.” Gioshoki returned the bow and brought his shinai to the ready. “Shall we go again?”
Yoshimitsu was a man who laughed heartily and often, and the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as he grinned widely. “So eager to be beaten yet again.” He bent his knees and brought his shinai up in front of him. “I suppose the head of a farmer’s son is like a water jug. Both are much easier to fill when they are already empty.” He stepped forward and slashed with the bamboo sword, driving Gioshoki back a few feet. The two sparred in silence for another half an hour, neither gaining an advantage. Finally Yoshimitsu saw an opening and lunged forward. He struck Gioshoki in the chest with a shout, bending his shinai into a V. Both men were breathing heavily when they lowered their swords and bowed again, ending the match. They went to a wooden basin of water on the floor, bowed to the shrine, and splashed water on their faces. Yoshimitsu surveyed the younger man with a critical eye.
“It’s good to see you haven’t learned all my tricks yet.” He replaced both shinais on the rack. “So tell me, Gioshoki. Tell me of the war.”
Gioshoki shrugged. “It was the life of a soldier. Little food, little sleep, and unfavorable odds. I am sorry you missed it.”
“Yes, we in the imperial army were forbidden to participate. The shogun sent word declaring it a territorial conflict between two rival families. As such it was left to them to resolve. And apparently victory went to the side who deserved it. Daimyo Seian is a man of remarkable resolve and he is a favorite of the emperor’s. The Narushite clan made the mistake of underestimating him, and they have paid the highest price.”
Gioshoki nodded, seeing once again the flames that had engulfed Narushite castle. The surviving members of the family had committed suicide during the final attack to avoid the shame of defeat; Gioshoki had found them only moments before the castle collapsed. The Narushite lands and holdings had been offered to the shogun as a gift, the family’s servants executed or forced to serve the Seian clan.
Yoshimitsu clapped his friend on the shoulder, interrupting his reverie. “And that is why I asked to have you detailed to my unit. The imperial army gets far better training. I heard of your exploits and asked my commander to steal you away from Seian.”
“And I thank you for it, old friend.” Gioshoki bowed. “I will serve you well.”
“I know you will.” Yoshimitsu slung his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Now, shall we see if Madame Hanzo has any of her fine sake left? If your luck matches your skill, you may see that servant girl you were making eyes at last night.”
Gioshoki snorted. “Making eyes at? I have been gone for four years, and had never seen her before. She did not grow up with us.”
“Then you should have asked.” Yoshimitsu guided him out into the rain. Night had fallen, and the lights of the village spread out below them as they started down the hill. “Perhaps tonight I shall ask her for you. Your travels have obviously done nothing to cure your shyness.”
Sixteenth Day of The Month of Whispering Breath, Celestial Year 1036
For the prisoner, time no longer had meaning. The excruciating pain in his arms and legs had become his world, and his reason for living. He knew that as long as he could feel the pain he was still alive. For all that, he also knew he had not much longer to draw breath. Only his iron will and his sense of duty were sustaining him now. His throat had swollen to the point where he could no longer swallow even the trickle of brackish water his tormentors had allowed him each morning.
The iron grate that served the chamber as a door creaked open and torchlight flooded in. Three men entered. Two wore the livery of the imperial guard and carried naginatas. The third was skeletal; his clothing had once been white but was now so spattered with blood, dirt, and offal that it was almost black. It was he who carried the torch. In his other hand was a large ring of keys.
One of the soldiers spat onto the stone floor. “He still lives. I thought you said he would be long dead by now.”
The jailer cringed as if expecting a blow. When none came he bowed low, keeping his eyes on the floor as he spoke. “I am truly sorry, sai. I had expected him to die sometime during the night.” He glanced furtively up at the soldier. “Shall I finish him off?”
The other man snorted. “No, fool. He is to have an audience with the General. Perhaps he may yet atone for his crimes.” He shoved the jailer toward the winch that supported the prisoner. “We will keep him from the fire; go lower the rope so that we can cut him loose.”
They roughly lowered the prisoner to the floor and cut his bindings. His hands had turned almost black and swollen to twice their normal size. The skin on his calves and thighs had cooked from the steam, and now began to slough off when touched. The prisoner made no sound but the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly the cords in his neck stood out sharply against his tightly stretched skin. Once he was free they splashed cool water on him and took him to a tiny cell. There they laid him down on a rough cot, covered him with a blanket, and left him. When they returned they brought a healer who set about mending his damaged body enough to save his life. The prisoner was not aware of this however, having lost his tenuous grip on consciousness during the trip to the cell.
Twenty-Fourth Day of The Month of Cloud’s Pleasure, Celestial Year 1035
Gioshoki breathed deeply of the cool, salty air and opened his eyes. Two miles below him was the deep blue, sparkling water of Haizu Bay. Spread out along its shore was the imperial city of Edoshima, dominated by the Celestial Palace of the Emperor flanking the river that flowed into the bay.
He had climbed Mount Kinubachi before light. The two hour climb had cleared his mind and energized his ki. For the past hour he had been sitting motionless on an ancient stone bench, eyes closed in meditation. His hands lay against the sharkskin bindings of the hilts of his twin wakizashi swords.
Gioshoki was a kensai, a master of the sword. While most in his profession devoted their lives to the katana, or long sword, Gioshoki had focused on the shorter wakizashi, using one in each hand with equal skill. His pursuit of the perfection of the sword was so intense he disdained the use of any other weapon. Every waking hour not spent on his duties in the Imperial army was devoted to meditation and practice with these weapons.
He drew another deep breath and let it out slowly, then stood and unsheathed his swords. He assumed the low dragon stance and began moving through an intricate kata. Slowly at first, then gaining speed, he moved in perfect rhythm with his swords. The kata was from the Dragon form which included high side kicks, disarms, and throws. For an hour he moved, working through several katas, until his muscles burned with the exertion. When he had finished he was sweating despite the cool breeze blowing from off the bay. He sat on the ground and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing and focusing his mind on the katas he had just performed. He replayed them over in his mind, picking them apart and finding tiny flaws to correct. After several minutes he opened his eyes and allowed his mind to wander as he looked out upon the bay.
Gioshoki had been born a farmer’s son in a tiny mountain village at the northern tip of the Seian province of Bakuni-Hue. He had spent his early years in the rice paddies, toiling from dawn to dark and learning the complexities of bending earth and water to his will to produce sustenance. The youngest of four children, his birthright was a simple plot of land his family had farmed for generations. His eldest brother had been apprenticed to a blacksmith and his two sisters betrothed to village boys at birth. Then, when he was six, the invaders had entered Seian.
He would not forget that time, those horse barbarians riding through the province killing all they encountered. His village had been razed, the survivors scattered or taken as slaves. He and one sister had escaped, hiding in a tiny cave above the village. When they emerged they found their parents and brother dead; of the other sister there was no sign. The two children had been found among the ruins by samurai from the army of Daimyo Seian. The samurai had taken them to another village and placed them with a family of some wealth.
It was there he had first learned to fight. As a stranger he was expected to prove himself to the other children. He had gained their respect through his resolve and the ingrained belief in himself that he would never again run from anything, nor allow himself to be beaten as his father had. Yoshimitsu had become his constant companion; although five years his senior, Yoshi had recognized him as an equal. When he was eleven he had been sent to the Blue Orchid monastery high in the Mountains of the Celestial Court, and it was there he had learned the way of the sword. The monks had also taught him art and martial skills, and how to harness his inner strength.
By the time he left the monastery the invaders had been driven back to the steppes by the combined armies of Daimyo Seian and the Emperor. Now there was a new enemy to fight; the Narushite clan. Seian province had been decimated by the war and Daimyo Narushite, sensing an easy victory against his ancestral rival, had promptly attacked. Though badly outnumbered, the Seian Guard had triumphed through superior tactics and sheer determination. During this new war his new home had been attacked and his sister murdered by Narushite soldiers. Her death had been avenged when Gioshoki’s unit finally sacked and burned the ancestral castle of the Narushite clan. He had personally set the fire that destroyed the castle.
The path that had led him to the top of the mountain was long and arduous, beset by loss and hardship but that was the way of the warrior. Gioshoki lived by the sword; from the moment he had found his parents and brother murdered he knew he would die by it as well. His death was already set. What was left for him was how he lived until he reached that moment. His honor was all that mattered to him, as it dictated every action and every moment of his life.
The sound of leather scraping stone struck him from his thoughts. His instincts and reflexes brought him spinning to his feet, his swords appearing almost magically in his hands. Yoshimitsu stood at the spot where the winding path crested on the mountaintop, his features dark and brooding. Almost immediately a smile spread across his face and the darkness dissipated like dew under a morning sun. Gioshoki had a fleeting thought that Yoshi had been there watching him for some time, but immediately pushed it from his mind.
“Your dedication knows no limits my friend.” Yoshi stepped forward and bent into a slight bow. “One of your men told me of your intention to climb the mountain this morning. I thought I would come up as well, to see if I could help you find what it is you are looking for.”
Gioshoki grinned and returned the bow, then sheathed his swords and picked up his sleeveless jacket. “A true warrior searches only for the perfection of his craft. Through that all else can come to him.”
Yoshi’s eyes narrowed slightly and he gave Gioshoki a look of speculation. “A true warrior also perfects his craft in the hope that he never has to use it. Let us hope you and I never have to test ourselves against one another.” He paused, then smiled again. “Come, let us return to barracks. The delegation departs tomorrow, and I have made sure you will accompany us under my command.”
“The sons and daughter of Daimyo Hideoshi? Will their own guards not see to their safety?”
“Half of them will be staying here as a gesture of good faith to the emperor. You and I and some of my best men will take over their duties on their return journey. We are to be detailed to General Wakako of the Hideoshi army for some time. The barbarians are once again on our side of the river; though there have been no attacks, they have set up camps and appear to have brought herds of horses in preparation for attack.”
Gioshoki tensed slightly and his eyes brightened with excitement. He had never been to the Hideoshi province. Hideoshi was on the western edge of the empire, and was under constant shadow of attack by the horse barbarians. Perhaps this would be his first opportunity to learn more of them, and, gods willing, to meet them in battle.
