A Sword's Poem Read online

  Sharp pain reverberated through Norihiko’s new form. He shouted…and his shouts manifested as sparks.

  The pain was relentless, strike after strike, hammering down on Norihiko. He found he couldn’t breathe in the heat and the pain, shouting instead, more angry sparks.

  But his new form didn’t break or bleed.

  Instead, he…thinned.

  The blows forced Norihiko into yet a new shape. Longer, more slight.

  Norihiko struggled against the blows, gasping non–breaths between each volley of strength sapping agony.

  He heard the singing then, the words floating through the still blistering flames.

  A Taoist spell, full of enchanted poetry, crafted to seep into the core of his very being.

  Norihiko realized that his memories were being pounded out of him. He screamed from the depths of his soul, for his love, for Hikaru, for his family.

  The spell pouring down on him was meant to insert a new purpose for living into his soul.

  Norihiko found he now could cry—tears streaking like falling stars as they flew from him, sizzling as they landed.

  Unfair! he raged in his silence. His mate, his one true love—they’d never had a chance. The years they’d planned to spend together had been stolen from them.

  Norihiko mourned even as his love faded from his mind, saddened though he no longer understood why.

  Then the folding began.

  Norihiko’s torturer had thinned him to the point where he could be folded back onto himself.

  When Norihiko’s sides touched, it was as if there were two of him, foreigners compelled to embrace, forced to share each other’s households.

  Norihiko was this other, as well as himself. Together, they cried out in pain as the blows hammered down, thinning them again.

  Then he was folded again, two becoming four, though now, each was no longer completely distinct. They shared memories, pain, and a red–gold essence that was impossible to define.

  Norihiko found he lost more parts of himself to these others. He could no longer recall the smell of young pine trees, or why a raven’s black feather had been so important, once.

  Pain formed all of Norihiko’s world, coursing through his long, still rough form.

  His torturer, his maker, as he was coming to understand, continued to thin and refold him. The cries of his shattered soul were worse than the racket the priests made at the end of Ghost month to chase all the spirits back to their homes.

  All these selves bickered and tried to hold onto what each had been, while all the time, the chanted words of the Taoist spell replaced bits and pieces of Norihiko as fast as he lost them.

  Finally, there was no longer an “I” defined simply as Norihiko.

  There was only a “we.”

  Only then did all of Norihiko see the pattern of the reforging being forced on them by their maker, that they understood the rationale behind this terrible magic.

  The wielder of them had a great and terrible purpose: to unite all of Nifon under a single Buddhist faith.

  Norihiko’s maker meant to bind all of him to that homogeneous idea.

  Instead of each of the disparate parts of Norihiko’s soul trying to hold onto its own identity, they flowed together, determined to fight.

  A single man’s belief was too little a thing. A sole approach to the mysteries of life was too foreign to their very nature.

  Being forced to support it would make them brittle. They would break with their first stroke.

  Instead of fighting the reforging, all of Norihiko fell back on his true, wily nature. They listened, hard, to the Taoist spell, seeking a trick, a way out of this sure and final death.

  Finally, they found it.

  The Taoist wasn’t forging them for himself. No, he was making them for another to wield.

  Part of that wielder’s purpose was a pledge to the land; in particular, Mount Shirayama, the mountain where Norihiko and all his selves now found themselves.

  All of Norihiko clung to that piece—a half–dozen lines in a song that spanned hours—pouring themselves through that tiny crack, slipping away from the main principles meant for them and aligning themselves along this sideline.

  They consciously devoted themselves to protecting this land, this mountain, as well as those men who were the champions of it.

  They vowed to defend it to the death as their maker added sharpness to their form. A desire grew in them for the blood of those who dared defy their purpose.

  They were a new death being unleashed upon the world, reforged and pure, ready to feast on the lives of their enemy and to keep their newly chosen home, Mount Shirayama, sacred.

  Three

  A Blood–Red Sunrise

  Junichi

  A blood–red sunrise greeted Junichi as he staggered from the forge—an appropriate omen. Cool morning breezes dried the sweat still pricking his bare torso. He breathed deeply of the refreshing air, letting it fill and cleanse him, as his masters had taught.

  Exhaustion rolled along Junichi’s spine and pressed down on his shoulders. He locked his knees and put his hand on the rough wooden wall of the smithy to keep himself from toppling onto the trampled dirt.

  None of his followers could be allowed to see how forging the sword had diminished him. He couldn’t risk it. They must only see him as strong and masterful.

  Junichi glanced up again at the sky. The sun hadn’t shown her face, though a red glow now turned the horizon orange, like the fire he’d worked with all night. The forest that stretched below his compound loomed, dark and still full of biting night shadows. Pale grass covered the hilltop, making it wet with dew, the earth’s sweat. Beyond the smithy lay the dark barracks full of still sleeping servants and followers, and beyond that, his own imposing palace, the intricately carved wooden statues that formed pillars around the door and defined the first story from the second still hidden in the dim light.

  Nothing had gone right the past two days, or the previous long night, but this morning, Junichi finally had hope.

  First, the attack had been all wrong. His top captain had lost his head as a consequence, yet another example for the men of the perfection Junichi demanded. The oxen drawing the fox fairy carriage had been wounded, not killed. His scout had reported that the female fox fairy had died as a result, the coach overturning just a little down the road.

  Despite these setbacks, Junichi had managed to capture the male beast, kill its body cleanly, then trap its soul before the slippery thing could escape.

  After the race back to Mount Shirayama, Junichi had prepared himself for the spell. He’d fasted, supping on no more than water for the rest of the day as well as all the next while he smelted the ore—perfecting the metal—and prayed over his tools. It had been a brutal ordeal, and he hadn’t slept more than an hour over two days.

  However, time had been of the essence. Junichi had to be ready to do the spell when the new moon rose or he’d have to wait another month. The warlord Masato, Junichi’s former apprentice and current client, would have had some scathing words about the old man being slow if that had happened.

  Then the damned fox fairy soul had fought Junichi, fought the reforging. Junichi had been forced to use his own precious life energy during their battle, more than one lifetime’s worth.

  Luckily, he had several stored up. Though he now regretted just killing his captain the day before and not taking his soul for energy as well.

  This sword was costing Junichi more, much more, than he was getting paid by Masato. He didn’t owe his former pupil a thing, which was why he’d demanded the first half of the gold up front. He still should have asked for more.

  While Junichi hadn’t been surprised by the kitsune’s struggles, he hadn’t anticipated the beast’s strength.

  Junichi took another deep cleansing breath, willing the air to revitalize him. Just a few more moments to recover his strength. Then he could allow himself a proper rest. Some tea, perhaps. And a dreamless sleep.


  That stupid fox fairy had resisted the purpose Junichi had prescribed for it, bringing Nifon to heel under this Buddhist religion that Masato followed.

  The perfection of taming one so wild for the strictness of this single cause was too tempting for Junichi. The symmetry had seemed miraculous, if Junichi believed in miracles.

  If Junichi succeeded in reforging this beast’s soul into a sword, the deed would prove the rightness of his choice. That all fox fairies were worthless following their own, independent nature.

  They all needed to be tamed, or destroyed.

  At least the idiotic fox fairy had finally seen the aptness of Junichi’s resolution and chosen to at least partially align itself with it.

  But how much of the Buddhist cause did the sword now support? Had Junichi pounded out enough of the beast’s will to make it pliable?

  The right wielder should be able to control the sword.

  Was Masato the right master for such a beast? Hard to tell. Junichi had misjudged the boy—no, man, now—before. He’d thought the boy would follow in his own footsteps. Had chosen him carefully, trained him for years.

  He’d never imagined that when he sent Masato across the sea to mainland Shina to study with the mystics there that the boy would find religion instead.

  A servant approached Junichi as he pushed himself off the wall of the smithy. The servant bore a plain wooden tray, with an equally plain, brown–clay cup filled with chilled mountain water.

  Junichi nodded his thanks as he sipped the refreshing drink. At least one of his servants had been paying attention. He’d reward the man later.

  The servant hovered, remaining after Junichi waved him away.

  “What do you want?” Junichi asked, exasperated. He needed to rest. To sleep. To recover.

  “One of the local lords, Kitayama no Taiga, wishes to speak with you, sir.”

  Junichi hid his irritation. Not many of the local lords would dare make the journey through the nearby forest to pay Junichi a visit. He couldn’t tell this Taiga to come back some other day—that would show too much weakness.

  Instead, Junichi forced himself to stand straighter and taller. “I need fresh robes,” he directed the servant. He paused, considering. “Set up a tea service and pillows on the top of the small rise, just there. Invite this lord to watch the end of the sunrise with me.”

  All Junichi wanted to do was go collapse and sleep until the next moon. However, not just fear of showing weakness drove him to invite this Taiga to tea.

  He was also curious. What could this lord want?

  Ξ

  Junichi’s legs wobbled as he climbed the small rise. He again cursed the sword and how much it had drained him. The sunrise wasn’t quite complete—the round disc of the sun still lingered halfway below the horizon. Birds chirped merrily from the nearby trees, making the forest seem cheerful, masking the dangers there. Dew still covered the pale grass, wetting the bottom of Junichi’s plain brown robe and soaking his feet in his sandals.

  How was Junichi going to replenish the life forces he’d squandered on beating the sword into submission? He would need to do so, soon.

  He was also going to renegotiate the terms of his contract with Masato. Again. This entire venture had been so expensive! Developing the right spells to wound the fox fairies, creating the box that would transport a soul, then all the metals and expensive ingredients that had gone into the sword.

  While Masato might maintain that he’d already paid his former master generously, Junichi hadn’t been compensated nearly enough for his weakness now.

  Maybe Junichi could convince Masato to pay him with the lives of his followers instead of gold this time. Surely he could spare a few.

  The gray head that awaited Junichi surprised him. He’d been expecting one of the nearby young bucks to come and offer his services to either Junichi or Masato, willing to gamble that they would eventually be the lords of Shirayama. That was Masato’s big vision, after all—the burning Buddha on the top of the mountain.

  Not that much of a gamble, really. At least, not as far as Junichi was concerned. They would win. He would do everything in his power to ensure it, to make sure that this vision of Masato’s came true.

  However, this Taiga was as ancient as the mountain he stood on. He held himself straight, though his face was a mass of wrinkles and his skin as thin as rice paper. His beard was short and trimmed, composed only of white and gray hair, all the black long since worn away.

  Junichi shivered. Though he was as old—possibly older—than this Taiga, he’d never let himself look or feel his age. His Taoist magic kept him young, and was worth every life he sacrificed to it. He would use that time properly. The ones he took it from were sure to waste it.

  Taiga was yet another omen of all the bad luck surrounding this venture with the sword and the fox fairy. Curse all of them.

  Junichi glanced around the small rise. Where was Taiga’s retinue? He surely hadn’t come by himself, had he? Or was he as cursed as Junichi, and unable to father heirs? That must be it. No son would let his father walk blithely into a Taoist magician’s commune. Not without taking proper precautions.

  Or if Taiga did have an heir, maybe he’d turned into something else, found a different path, like Masato.

  At least this morning Junichi’s servants had done their jobs well. Colorful purple pillows—not the court’s purple, but close enough—were set tastefully on either side of a plain wooden table. An exquisitely crafted teapot and cups sat on the table, pale yellow, like impure gold. To the side, an iron pot bubbled cheerfully, hanging from a tripod set up over a well–contained fire.

  “Greetings to you, O master swordsmith, on this auspicious day,” Taiga said as Junichi came closer, bowing low.

  “May it be a fair day to you,” Junichi replied, already suspicious of where this conversation was leading. He bowed in return, though not as low. Not merely because Junichi didn’t consider Taiga an equal, but also because he remained concerned about his balance in his weakened state.

  After the servants served the tea, Junichi ordered them away, out of easy hearing range. Since his guest had come alone, it seemed proper to return the favor, and let their conversation remain private.

  Junichi wasn’t worried that Taiga would suddenly attack him. That would have been uncivilized, and there was nothing about this man that was common or rude. Though the style of his robe hadn’t been seen in court for many years, it was still finely made from the highest–quality silk, a forest–green outer robe covering light brown pants.

  Junichi and his guest sipped their tea in silence as they watched the sun break free of the horizon, blazing orange and pink clouds now modestly hiding her brilliance. More birds picked up the chorus, sounding like chattering ladies–in–waiting. Frogs from a nearby pond added their bass to the song. A light breeze tickled Junichi’s neck, causing him to sigh softly as the new day began.

  “What would you say to commemorate such a sight?” Junichi asked Taiga as he set his cup down.

  Taiga thought for a moment before he replied:

  “War banners shield

  The sun, hide her from spring vows

  That come before shame.”

  Generally, men gave their allegiance to the Emperor in the spring. The association was that a spring vow was eternal, and would be renewed annually, like the seasons.

  Taiga’s response implied, though, that the spring vows he’d taken, or possibly were about to take, weren’t honorable.

  This surprised Junichi. Why would this at least once great man consider doing something distasteful?

  So Junichi replied:

  “Clouds, like blood, draw

  Away swiftly, leaving behind

  Mere reports of vows.”

  Implying that no matter what vow Taiga had taken, it was impermanent, and more importantly, always deniable. All things could be justified, explained away. Junichi knew this from personal experience.

  In addition, the Buddha h
ad taught that no deed in and of itself was either good or bad. It was one of the things that had drawn Masato, Junichi’s former apprentice, to the religion.

  Taiga nodded and took another sip of his tea before he replied:

  “Winter leaves falling

  Lose nothing while the mountain

  And those vows still stand.”

  Was Taiga describing himself as a winter leaf? Or was he talking about Junichi, as Taoist magic was often described in terms of cold and snow, or death and the graveyard?

  Though Junichi would love to continue to play the poem game with such a worthy opponent, he knew he was too drained from his recent ordeal to play it well. Plus, he didn’t know enough about Taiga’s background to understand all his references.

  And Junichi never played any game that he didn’t intend to win.

  “Interesting,” Junichi replied, taking another sip of tea. “And what vows are you speaking of?” he asked plainly. He was too tired to peel away meaning from flowery language.

  It wasn’t a sign of weakness, Junichi assured himself. It was, rather, a signal to his guest that he wanted to understand everything his guest had to say.

  “Your servants claim that you performed a great spell tonight, creating a sword to protect the land,” Taiga said. His face remained impassive, as if merely sharing news about the weather.

  Junichi signaled a servant to come and pour them more tea while he thought. He cursed his slow brain. What would such an old man want with a sword? Surely he didn’t mean to wield it himself, did he?

  After the servant left, Taiga continued. “I’ve been the sworn guardian of this mountain for many seasons.”

  Junichi raised an eyebrow at this. He hadn’t realized that Taiga had been appointed to the duty. He’d thought Akimoto no Tayo was responsible, the sworn lord of the mountain. He’d already been defeated by Masato, made his peace.

  Had Masato lied to Junichi? Junichi wouldn’t put it past him, not to share vital intelligence like that. It made Junichi more dependent on Masato, something he’d taught the boy when he was young.