Chapter Three—The Fourth Samurai

The pike. It was lying harmlessly on the hardwood patio near Ujiro where Hiro could not reach it, though he could not help but glance toward it with his eyes. Upon seeing Kageya crest the hill—at first his reaction had been one of surprise, even despite Haru’s worry that they had been discovered by the army—a discovery Hiro had shrugged off.

Smiling with the wryness and bemusement, he wondered if he could make a dash for that pike, because he would need it. That was why Kageya was here. He had not run—surely had not needed to run from the battle to keep his head from rolling across a ditch, an utter waste of a life on a battlefield not worth the blood spilled on it.

Seeing the pike there, he also landed eyes on Ujiro, who had his katana in hand, the blade slightly revealed from beneath the covering of the dull sheath that, had it been polished, the lacquer would provide a high sheen. He was ready to draw that deadly weapon.

Having instinctually drawn the sword half a hand span, Ujiro regarded Kageya for a few moments longer, his understanding that this moment was one of calm before confrontation, before the flashing of lighting and the glinting of blades.

Hiro smiled like a fool. “You have come, Kageya. It is good to see you rejoined with your friends. We are happy to have you. We are heading for Yukai City. We will catch a ship—Oh,” he laughed as if he had forgotten something, “and we will drink, and then we will catch a ship. New lands await as us all.”

But Kageya’s face did not soften, and none of the three men there expected it too, but perhaps Hiro thought it a reasonable try. Kageya would not let them go, would not join them in their disgrace, and even now he thought Hiro was a blathering fool—a man who spoke too much.

Ever the sullen and upright samurai, he was, Hiro thought. He probably thought Hiro was a blathering fool. And sometimes he was. And now he was here to arrest them. Or to bring back their heads. Of course the army sent a samurai to handle this situation. That they trusted Kageya to do it, said something about his relationship with the higher-ups in the army, a relationship that none of the three men had been aware of.

And now they were aware. All was evident.

The cool morning of this summer’s day, with its golden light and singing birds, sharply contrasted the storm between the men—the disgraced rōnin and the one samurai before the porch in the yard. The danger was extreme, for all of them, for any of them, for any of them could die in a moment’s time once blades began to flash.

But would it come to a brawl like that? Hiro thought not.

These three men—once Kageya’s friends—would not be allowed to escape, he thought. Just a day ago, they had been honorable samurai, and now…

Rōnin.

A part of Kageya wanted to smile with glee at this turn of events. It was a dark, broodish part of him. A jealous part of him that only he knew existed, deep down in the murky ponds of his being.

Twitching his mouth to speak some more, Hiro decided against it. As much as he enjoyed talking, he knew there would be no talking his way out of this, and so he shrugged easily, putting a smile upon his face—a smile many thought overtly friendly and somewhat inducing of mirth towards those who saw it. And Hiro was a light-natured man, one who loved life, and loved excess—who brushed away responsibility when he could and ever sought out good times of laughing, killing and drinking.

Not good traits for any samurai.

And perhaps that was now why he was where he was. But it did not matter. Ujiro and Haru were with him. Three loyal friends, committed to one another’s survival. With this, a man needed little else.

Except perhaps sake.

And a woman with nice hips.

Almost laughing out loud, he was certain that his mouth twitched into a deeper smile. Kageya notice this, and tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. “Do you think this funny, Hiro? Or has your dimwitted mind turned to drink—even now?”

With his grin quirking even higher, he moved to save face somewhat and to reinforce his namesake known to him by the army as the Whirling Leaf. “Iie… I am only happy that you brought me my sword, Kageya-san.”

Beside him, Haru cocked his head in realization, noting the massive katana on Kageya’s back, and Hiro quickly regarded Ujiro, who smirked at this fortunate event. Kageya was a strict man—or so he liked others to believe; a strict adherent of Bushido of the way of the samurai and of honor.

Having been friends with him—even for what little time that relationship had persisted—they knew him better. Particularly Ujiro, and Hiro. Haru-kun—being young, often overlooked much. But that was why he had Hiro and Ujiro. They were there to guide Haru-kun in the right ways.

And now this fool had set his own trap and like an even bigger fool, had sprung it upon himself. Hiro nodded, his eyelids falling slightly. Though his mirth did not leave his lips, his eyes bespoke of a man of war—a man of blades, and of death.

“I am glad that you brought me my sword, Kageya-san,” he repeated, “so that we may have an honorable duel after we refuse your offer to come back peacefully.” He spread his arms. “There are no seppuku samurai here.”

Then he laughed.

Kami-sama, but he did sound like an honorless villain!

Hiro’s voice had an edge. It was not altogether low or tough, like his muscular frame might have a stranger expect. Inside his voice, a slight gravel persisted, one of wine and of smoke and of screaming in battle and in mirth.

The farmhouse door closed quietly, though all were aware of a newcomer. It was Haiako, standing on the hardwoods. She said nothing, and Hiro did nothing to respond to Ujiro’s wife arriving to see what was happening, for, though he knew it not, she thought Ujiro a fool—one who had brought trouble to her house.

And he had.

But…

It was what he had to do.

Face hardening still, Kageya wanted to snarl, to bare his teeth and hiss and scream and to tell Hiro and Ujiro and even Haru what honorless dogs they were—that they deserved no duels. But then, how would he explain his mistake in taking up Hiro’s sword upon his back, a weapon Kageya had envied since before he had even met the man.

Indeed, that was why he had sought this stupid band of misfits I the first place! Baka! he thought, cursing himself for an idiot for such an oversight. Kageya had thought they would run the moment they laid eyes upon him.

He was to pursue them—to cut them down like the cowards they were. It was not supposed to be this way!

Kurso!

Worse still, betraying this fact would reveal an even deeper dishonor—that he envied the Whirling Leaf and his martial skills.

Anger flared within him.

Kageya was not a man for collected thought. When his honor was insulted, he reacted, as though an animal reacted when attacked. But now he could not, though he let out one sound of exasperation, involuntarily.

“Tch!”

The muscular samurai’s smile deepened, though his eyes remained the same. It infuriated Kageya.

The dogs!

Fortunately, he would not have to look upon their insolent faces for very much longer, would not have to suffer their arrogance and their distain at knowing the truth of his inner desires, his jealousy of these three men.

Nodding, he said, “Hai…” and unslung the massive katana blade from his back. It was long, easily half again as long as a normal blade of the Mikuman samurai, the curve of the sword arcing in a near quarter circle. The broadness of the weapon was surprising to most, at half a hand span.

With a face of displeasure, Kageya tossed the scabbarded weapon to Hiro, who caught it easily, the weight of the sword seemingly nothing in his hand. That was his martial skill, his arcane knowledge in these matters allowed him to wield this blade in particular to extreme effectiveness, since the weapon had, long ago, received ministrations of a tribal shaman from the hills of Shimigaru.

How he had come across such a rarity, a blade that even a Legendary Warrior might use, was still a mystery.

As soon as the weapon was within Hiro’s grasp, he became resolute in the understanding that Kageya would die here. He took the scabbard by his left hand and held the blade in front of him, slowly moving his right hand and spreading his fingers wide as his palm faced the hilt. With a momentary pause, he looked upon the hidden blade, and then grasped the hilt as though his hand were the mouth of a poisonous snake striking to kill its pray.

And the blade.

It hissed as he slid the sheath away.

Hiro did not ask Haru to take it away, and yet the young disgraced samurai did just that, just as Ujiro slid the sheath of his much thinner blade back to the hilt. He would have no need for his weapon as he watched from the porch.

And had Hiro been a more thoughtful and contemplative man, he would have thought that Kageya had no chance against him, for the magical aura that he gave off was very slight. Ujiro smirked in the knowledge of this understanding.

Kageya was arrogant, as so many samurai were.

For many, it was their downfall—and that was not to speak of the higher nobility within the Mikuma Empire, which often suffered from even worse foibles.

And Kageya’s eyes widened slightly—so slightly as to be imperceptible except for if one were watching intently for just such a reaction, as Ujiro did.

Kageya’s heart thundered within his chest as he unsheathed his own weapon. He shed the scabbard in the grass and turned, raising the sword to arc across the sky with the point facing Hiro, the other man still standing immovable as he regarded his own blade.

And then Hiro finally moved—his motion easy, fluid, his blade twirling in his wrist as though a young samurai might do when showing off—or what gaijin swordsmen often did. This action brought heat to Kageya’s face.

He would cut Hiro down, and upon seeing their friend die, Ujiro and Haru would surrender themselves to his custody, or else, Kageya would kill them as well, and think nothing more of it after today, save for that he would collect the two swords into his own possession and occasionally be reminded of this day when looking at the blades.

Hiro glanced upon Kageya as he stood with his feet parted, his shoulder facing him with his sword raised high. It was the miyosa sword stance, a stance where one could easily strike out in aggressive sword arcs and slashes, or otherwise pull away, using one’s footwork to put distance between the swordsman and his enemy. It was both a one-handed stance, and a sword stance that could quickly become a two-handed one. It was versatile, aggressive and defensive all at once.

A good sword stance.

The muscular swordsman, for that was now what he was—only a swordsman—Hiro knew it well, knew how to achieve surprise against the stance, how to put the user on the defensive.

But that did not matter.

Not for this particular duel.

What was Hiro thinking? Kageya wondered as he waited for the other man to make his move. Kageya was normally a very aggressive fighter, but in this moment, he had lost that will, and indeed he did not even realize it himself.

Glancing between the ready Kageya and his friend Hiro, who spun and twirled his blade this way and that as if he were alone in the dōjō and simply amusing himself like a child playing at sticks, Haru wondered what would happen, dreaded what would happen. He swallowed against the knot in his throat and stepped away as bile began spreading within his belly. As a young samurai, he was not unaccustomed to blood or sword duels, not even pitched battles.

And yet this was different to the young man. The life of his friend was a stake, the freedom they wanted to attain, even at the expense of their honor it seemed, just before them. Only Kageya-san stood in their way. But would he for very much longer?

“Stop playing!” Kageya hissed. “Attack me, Hiro.”

Saying nothing, the swordsmen in his soiled kimono said nothing as he continued his movements, now twirling his blade around his waist in a horizontal fashion as he used his heels to spin his body. The movement was slow, almost languid, but still fluid and exact, like that of a dancer, who moved her body so expertly as to make herself appear as though she could do the same in her own sleep.

“Baka! Nani shiteruno desuka!”

As Kageya’s face reddened, spittle flying from his mouth in his rage, Ujiro did not turn to regard his wife, who stood beside him. She was the wife of a samurai, and though there was no love lost between them, she was the wife of a warrior. Blades and blood were not unknown to her eyes.

Now Hiro threw his massive blade into the air. It spun like a fan thrown from a performer, twirling in the air. He caught it easily, then spun about, his thick blade flashing in crisscrossing arcs.

“I am going to kill you, Hiro-me!” Kageya hissed in insult. And then his face went from red to purple, the veins in his forehead expanding to be visible to them all. His topknot bobbed with every word flung from his mouth.

The enraged samurai, insulted through Hiro’s lack of attention, bared his teeth and arched his arms back, indicating his intended movement, which was not lost on Hiro, who continued playing with his katana.

The samurai rushed forward, screaming for his opponent to die. “Shine!”

As he closed the distance between Hiro and himself, the defending swordsman, who could barely be considered such by any observer, though by the situation he would be called the defending duelist, caught his weapon by the hilt and reacted, just as the gap was closed between the two warriors.

For that was what they were—samurai or no, rōnin or not—two warriors stood on this field of green grass.

Their blades flashed.

The onlookers, some of whom were not accustomed to such things, flinched. Some others saw what had happened, and others did not, for to the untrained eye, or to the younger samurai present, it appeared as though Kageya and Hiro had exchanged glancing sword strikes—steel upon steel.

And the two warriors had.

But much more had transpired between them as well, and had one, such as the older samurai—or rather the older disgraced rōnin—watched peripherally for what was happening during the two warrior’s passing, that man could tell a curious individual that blood had flown through the air, hot and fast.

Had a man been standing behind that blood, it would have stung by the sheer force of its trajectory.

And yet, there was some form of blood upon Hiro’s sword as well, thin and hard to see. Perhaps that indicated to some what had happened.

Is it over? Haiako wondered, her hands upon her breast as both men stood still, their backs to one another. Kageya’s arms were angled down toward the ground, the tip of his blade there. He stood still in position at the end of his arcing slash, a flash of steel she had hardly seen, while Ujiro’s friend, conversely—his arms were held high, his blade facing the sky.

Something happened.

Suddenly Kageya convulsed, and like an animal that had taken a lethal arrow from a skilled hunter, he fell over in the grass, his sword thumping into the grass with a soft twang of steel beside him. He lay still and unmoving. Hiro remained in his position for one more moment before finally lowering his arms.

Ujiro stepped off the wooden porch, glanced back at his wife, whose eyes were wide with surprise. She had not seen either man struck, and yet Kageya was dead in the grass.

Turning, Hiro sat the back of his blade over his shoulder and sauntered to the body. Haru watched as he, Hiro, with a smile on his face, wagged a finger. “Fighting in anger is not the way of Bushido, my once-friend.”

And then Haru realized that Kageya was alive, his throat moving as his body convulsed once more, and then his eyes glazed over, unseeing.

As Hiro laughed, the urge to retch took Haru, though he did not empty the contents of his stomach. Instead, despite his sickening feeling at Hiro’s levity during this situation, an unbidden smile came to the young man’s face, for he was happy at the outcome, and shamed, though he hid that shame well, for his mirth and excitement overtook him, a reaction he could not contain.

The mixing of his want to vomit and his need to celebrate was an altogether strange one, he thought.

“You did well, Hiro,” Ujiro said with a nod.

“It is time for you to leave,” Haiako finally said, her tone terse. “If you came for your sword—you have it. Sate”—she pointed a finger—“go.”

Ujiro nodded. “And we shall, wife.”

Hearing the words spoken, Haru was not surprised at Ujiro’s wife’s reaction, though he thought he heard the faintest hint of an edge when the older warrior said the word “wife.”

“So,” Hiro said with a friendly smile. “This is your wife, Ujiro?”

“Shut up.”

“No,” Hiro said, his tone light and placating. “I wish to meet her.”

“Off with you scoundrels,” Haiako said over her shoulder, and she entered the house. Hiro came up short at her sudden interruption of his cordial nature and want to meet her. The door slammed shut. With a shrug, he turned and regarded Haru, who bent next to the dead samurai.

The young man then reached for the blade.

“Iie!” Ujiro snapped, and Haru pulled back his hand as if he realized he had been reaching for a poisonous snake. Then more calmly Ujiro added. “Leave it.” He looked at Haru-kun glancing up at him. Then he reached out with his own katana in hand. “Take this. It is yours now.”

Haru’s eyes widened as he stood up straight. He shook his head, the losoe strands of his unkempt hair waving about the sides of his face. “I cannot take your sword, Ujiro-san.”

“You would dishonor me?”

Hiro smiled as he watched the old man intimidate Haru-kun a little.

“Iie,” Haru said in full seriousness of the situation. Dishonoring a samurai, or in this case, a warrior rōnin—had the two been strangers, could easily result in another duel.

The young samurai reached out and took the blade, then he bowed to the older man. “Arigatou gozaimasu.”

Saying nothing more, Ujiro simply nodded firmly. Having not planned to use the weapon anyway, it was a fitting gift for Haru-kun, he thought.

And yes, Hiro also thought. He is too old to want that blade. And since he had his own sword now, each man was armed—for the most part—as Ujiro moved and picked up his yari pike from the porch, that same pike he was using as a walking stick.

“Where do we go now?” Haru asked.

Ujiro glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Yukai City—the capital of the Mikuma Empire. As Hiro suspected, they would be boarding a ship. But with what money? “Were you not listening to me earlier?” he asked Haru, referencing his words to Kageya when they had first met. He turned to Ujiro. “But how will we pay?” he asked.

The older warrior tugged at his belt, and a hidden coin sack jingled. “I managed to grab this on the way out.”

“You are stealing from your wife?” Haru asked, his tone surprised.

“Stealing?!” Ujiro huffed. “I gave her the house. I say she still owes me, yes?”

Hiro couldn’t help but laugh at the old man’s logic. “Now let us go.”

“Mm,” Haru nodded.

“Hai,” Ujiro said. “This… event will not take long before it reaches the ears of the army. We must take the first ship across the sea—wherever it takes us.”

“Ah,” Hiro sighed contentedly. There was no part of him that felt shame. Did that make him a villain? If so, he was at peace with his villainy. Then he spotted Haru-kun looking pensive. “Come on, Haru-kun—adventure awaits us!”

The young man nodded.

“Hai,” Ujiro said with a nod. “Hai—it does, does it not?” he started running at a pace that he could sustain—that most of them could sustain. “Come.”

Inwardly, Hiro groaned. He had had enough of battles and running and duels. At least for one day—for he loved these things too much to be tired of them for very long.