Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments and Thanks

  Part 1: The Third Scroll

  Part 2: The Fourth Scroll

  Part 3: The Fifth Scroll

  GLOSSARY

  CONTRIBUTORS

  PERMISSIONS

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS BY TRAVIS HEERMANN

  SWORD OF THE RONIN

  THE RONIN TRILOGY: VOLUME II

  SWORD OF THE RONIN

  Travis Heermann

  Red Bear Publishing

  Denver

  ____________________

  Copyright © 2013 by Travis Heermann

  The Permissions at the end of the book constitute an extension of the copyright page.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if read, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Illustrators: Alan M. Clark and Drew Baker

  Calligraphers: Midori Maruoka-Buchanan and Naoko Ikeda

  Cover Designer: jim pinto

  E-BOOK EDITION

  ISBN 978-1-62225-403-3

  Red Bear Publishing

  Denver, Colorado, USA

  www.red-bear-books.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND THANKS

  The author wishes to thank all the folks who made this book possible, from early readers to final proofreaders, Odfellows, Codexians, Kickstarters, No Name Heroes, and friends. Jared Oliver Adams, Jason Allard, Scott Barnes, Eytan Bernstein, David Boop, Arthur “Buck” Dorrance, Susan Ee, Philip Harr, Lorraine Heisler, Chanel Helgason, John Helfers, Rahul Kanakia, Sam Knight, Amanda Lang, Peter Mancini, Mistina Picciano, Daniel Read, Josh Vogt, and Peter Wacks.

  Also deserving of thanks are the calligraphers who lent their art to this volume, Midori Maruoka-Buchanan and Naoko Ikeda.

  Any omissions are purely the author’s fault. He will gladly commit figurative seppuku to rectify the grievance.

  For all the people who made this book possible.

  You know who you are.

  PART 1: THE THIRD SCROLL

  “Call me ‘Brown Leaves.’”

  To be truly happy, a man must forget the past and the future.

  — Zen proverb

  Ken’ishi’s wooden sword clacked against the crown of his practice post over and over. The wooden post, hardened by endless multitudes of blows over the past three years, felt like a stone pillar. Hot summer wetness thickened the afternoon air, and sweat slicked his callused palms and naked legs, made his loincloth sag low on his hips.

  Then a loud crack from the end of his bokken made him pause as the tip splintered.

  With a sigh, he tossed it aside. With only one remaining, he would have to ask the village woodcrafter to fashion another set. In a time of peace, with his teacher so far away, this was his only way to maintain his skills.

  The music of the nearby forest whirred and sang and droned, here on the outskirts of Aoka village, where he went for quiet practice. The conversations of the birds fluttered past his ears, echoing up into the forested mountainsides that flanked the expanse of Hakata Bay. Many of their nests were empty at this time of year, with the parents teaching their hatchlings to fly. They had little use for the activities of humans in any case, except to scrounge thread or steal thatch or scavenge bits of detritus for nest-making, or to pilfer food.

  Ken’ishi ignored them, too absorbed with practice today to speak to such small-minded creatures.

  He suspected Little Frog was nearby; the boy always seemed to be when he was practicing. Perhaps someday he would teach the boy to speak to animals, as Ken’ishi’s old teacher had taught him.

  Ken’ishi raised his voice, “I’m certainly glad no one is about. I could not possibly practice with anyone watching.”

  A rustling bush nearby, then a hoarse, stifled giggle. He caught a glimpse of a tiny topknot peeking above the foliage.

  Ken’ishi smiled and reached for his last bokken, propped next to his sword, the tachi named Silver Crane. The two cranes engraved into the circular guard glimmered in the sun, ever in pursuit of each other. Even the old, battered scabbard seemed freshly polished today.

  Hearing his name called, Ken’ishi glanced up to see Norikage running toward him, robes flapping like sacks on a scarecrow, his face red with alarm.

  Ken’ishi faced him. “What is it?”

  The small man puffed, his narrow cheeks flushed as he halted before Ken’ishi. “Trouble … on the docks … a brawl!”

  Ken’ishi snatched up Silver Crane and ran toward the village docks.

  Norikage tried to keep up. “You know … I cannot fight … I could not … stop them.”

  As they neared the village center, shouts rose from the direction of the docks. Faces peeked out of the doorways. Children ran toward the noise. In the three years Ken’ishi had lived in Aoka village, he had never heard such a ruckus—part shock, part cheering, part pleading. The villagers were generally peaceful, except occasionally on festival days when an excess of saké or the eye of a maiden brought a pair of young men to fisticuffs. This sounded serious.

  He rounded the corner of the inn, trotting down the slope toward the docks. A gathering crowd obscured the fight. Reaching the ragged edge of the throng, he used Silver Crane’s scabbard to thrust between bodies and pushed himself through. “Out of the way! Make a path!”

  The throng ringed not two, but a handful of combatants grappling in the dirt, one wrapped in a headlock, others with punches flying. When Ken’ishi saw who they were, his heart sizzled. Three distasteful brothers—fishermen—versus three honest, upright brothers—woodcutters. A club and a knife lay in the dirt. Blood covered the face of one sprawled combatant from a gash above his ear; he struggled to right himself and rejoin the fray.

  Ken’ishi gathered a great breastful of air and blasted it like a war cry. “STOP!”

  The crowd drew back at the force of his voice. Two of the combatants relented their grips. Two others continued pummeling a helpless, nearly unconscious third, and the last staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his chin.

  Ken’ishi leaped forward and dealt a sharp blow to the back of one’s head. Chiba the fisherman bawled in pain and collapsed into a ball like a caterpillar.

  The man being pummeled shrugged off his attacker, shoved him away, and turned to attack, but Silver Crane’s scabbard against his chest stopped him.

  As the combatants stood apart, their faces bruised and swelling, blood dripping from lips and noses, Ken’ishi’s nostrils curled at the odor of blood and rancid fear-sweat.

  Ryuba, the eldest of the three fishermen brothers, helped Chiba to his feet. The third, Shota, kicked his distracted opponent hard in the belly, then joined his brothers, the deep sneer never leaving his face. The three gathered as a glowering mass, their demeanors spilling contempt upon their younger opponents. These three were older than Ken’ishi, in their late twenties and early thirties. He was only twenty summers.

  The three woodcutters—Daiki, Shun, and Sho—were all roughly Ken’ishi’s age. Sho, the youngest, with the gash above his ear, was only seventeen, the same age as Ken’ishi when he had arrived in Aoka, the others were twe
nty-one and twenty-two. All three were strapping young men, but if not for Ken’ishi’s arrival, their bruises and scrapes might have been worse. The fishermen had a well-deserved reputation as the roughest men in the village.

  Ken’ishi held the curved, black finger of Silver Crane’s scabbard between them all. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Ryuba stepped forward. “What are you doing interfering? We were just bringing in our catch, and these three jumped us! They deserve worse than they got!”

  Chiba rubbed the back of his head, his fingers coming away wet with blood. “You bastard! That wasn’t fair!” he slurred at Ken’ishi.

  Years of sun and salt spray had leathered Chiba, and had not made his disposition any more pleasant. When Ken’ishi had first encountered these three miscreants, he had killed a man named Yoba, their wicked, drunken father, for stabbing the village’s samurai constable in a tavern brawl. Ever since, the family bore him naught but ill will.

  Daiki, the eldest of the woodcutters, wiped bloody spittle from his mouth and shouted back, “If you touch my sister again, I’ll kill you!”

  Ryuba spat. “A lie, constable.” The last word dripped with contempt. “None of us has the slightest interest in their sister. She has a face like a horse!”

  Daiki lunged forward, but his brothers held him back. “Filthy bastard!”

  Norikage stepped into the ragged circle. His voice was ragged from exertion, but he still managed a deep outrage. “This is disgraceful! Somebody speak up, or you shall all find yourselves under arrest!”

  Tears of rage glistened in Daiki’s eyes. “My sister was gathering ayu from our nets at the river, near nightfall yesterday. Somebody … attacked her.”

  “Where is Miwa to tell her story?”

  Daiki’s face fell. “She is home, weeping for shame. She is only fifteen. I will speak for her, if it please you, Norikage-sama.”

  Norikage said, “Let us hear the tale, and we’ll decide whether we must investigate further.”

  Chiba snorted. “Investigate.”

  Ken’ishi pointed the butt of his scabbard. “You. Shut up. You’ll give Aoka’s administrator his due respect.”

  Chiba averted his eyes, chewing on unspoken words.

  Daiki said, “As I said, Miwa was fishing for ayu in the river. Somebody jumped her, tore her clothes, tried to—” His voice choked. “She pulled free and ran away.”

  Ken’ishi said, “Did she see who it was?”

  “He had a cloth over his face, but she knows who it was. It was him.” Daiki pointed at Chiba.

  “She’s lying!” Chiba shouted.

  Daiki kept his eyes downcast. His voice quavered with restraint. “Miwa is a good girl. She doesn’t lie. She recognized his eyes. And his foul stench.”

  “Another lie!”

  Ken’ishi sniffed. “I can smell you from here.” Quiet laughter rippled around the throng.

  Chiba’s face reddened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You think you’re a big man with that sword? You’re not even from here.”

  Ryuba sneered. “Where are you from, anyway? Maybe you’re not even samurai! Who is your family? Maybe you’re just a bandit with a pretty sword!”

  Chiba said, “Aren’t real samurai supposed to wear something besides a ponytail?”

  Their words burned into Ken’ishi’s patience, chipped at his restraint. The truth was that he did not know who his family was, except that he had been born the son of a ronin, a masterless samurai. Silver Crane was all that Ken’ishi knew of his father. The sword was all he had to establish his status as anything but a beggar or a bandit. Without it, who was he?

  Having a man like Chiba ask that question was like pouring salt in a gaping wound.

  “Oho!” Chiba grinned like an eel. “Touched a nerve, have I? Sensitive about your hair?”

  Ken’ishi’s hand clasped Silver Crane’s hilt. In a blur, the butt of the lacquered scabbard flicked out and struck Chiba squarely on the forehead. Chiba dropped as if his legs had turned to noodles, and the crowd gasped. Ken’ishi pointed his scabbard at Ryuba. “You and your brother go. Leave this trash.”

  Ryuba stiffened. “You’re going to kill him!”

  Norikage stepped forward. “No, we’re going to arrest him until we can speak with Miwa and determine the truth of things.”

  Chiba lay at Ken’ishi’s feet. Silver Crane’s hilt throbbed strangely in his hand, writhing in his grip as if it wanted to be drawn, to taste the blood of Chiba’s wickedness. The distrustful eyes of the villagers touched him like fingers, probing for weakness.

  Norikage raised his voice. “It’s over. Go.”

  The crowd began to disperse.

  Chiba began to stir. Ken’ishi said to Norikage, “I’ll truss him up and take him to the office storage closet.”

  Norikage scratched his chin, pursing his lips in approval. “I shall go and converse with young Miwa.”

  “Do you want me to accompany you?”

  “You take care of this ruffian. I shall hear the truth of this from her.”

  * * *

  Chiba’s hands were well trussed behind his back when Ken’ishi dashed a bucket of water in his face. He rolled onto his side, spluttering and spitting. A bloodshot eye glared sullenly up at Ken’ishi. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “We will keep you locked up until we determine if the accusation is true. If it is, we’ll turn you over to the government offices in Dazaifu for punishment. If not, you will be released. Now—on your feet!”

  Chiba struggled to his feet, grunting. A great yellowish knot, like a chicken’s egg, swelled on his forehead. “Can I have some water?”

  “I just gave you some. Now, to the constabulary.”

  Chiba shuffled ahead. “I’ve been out on the boat all day. Thirsty work.”

  “Very well. When we reach the constabulary.” Having to accord Chiba even simple kindness chafed at Ken’ishi. He would prefer an excuse to cut him down. The man was ugly and mean, and was often heard in the inn lamenting that Kiosé’s services were no longer available. Rape was doubtless not beyond his capacities.

  “I haven’t done nothing,” Chiba mumbled. “She’s lying. And you’re gonna believe her.”

  “Shut up. I’ll wager your head hurts.” He raised Silver Crane.

  Chiba bit down on something and kept shuffling.

  Some of the villagers had gone back to their business, but some watched with interest as Ken’ishi followed Chiba to Norikage’s office.

  The birds in the thatched roofs sang the songs of summer, but Ken’ishi did not listen to them. His attention wandered from Chiba’s dark, wiry back, hunched shoulders, and bound hands to the scent of wood smoke on the air from evening cookfires. Somewhere, a baby cried, likely the saké brewer’s infant, only a few weeks old. The gray feathers of a sparrow ruffled as it preened itself on the roof of a nearby house.

  Ruffling gray feathers.

  An image scratched at the inside of his memory. The point of a sword … Smoke … A dark, muscled back disappearing through a smoky doorway into the light … The gray feathers, as of an enormous, long-legged bird alighting before the man, a figure he recognized as Kaa, his old teacher … The flash of steel and spray of blood … The man, falling …

  Ken’ishi stumbled and blinked, shaking his head with a sharp intake of breath. Chiba plodded ahead as Ken’ishi regathered his scattered attention.

  It had not been a vision. It was a memory.

  In an uncharacteristic manner, Chiba wisely held his tongue when Ken’ishi threw him into the closet of Norikage’s office. It was not a proper cell, but it would have to suffice. Ken’ishi looped a rope over a rafter, tied Chiba’s bound hands, and shut him inside.

  Chiba demanded water again, but Ken’ishi ignored him and sat outside, feeling for the memory again. He knew there was more, but the memory was so old that he had no further sense of what he might have forgotten.

  He settled his body, his mind, breathed deep, all
owing his conscious thoughts to float away into the Void—the realm where the struggles, suffering, everyday thoughts, and flotsam of the world floated into nothingness, the realm where true thought became clear and empty.

  The realm of the kami, the spirits of the wind and earth and sky, the trees and stones and sea, spoke to him, as they often did, as Kaa had taught him to listen. The kami sometimes warned him of danger. When he listened properly, they would speak to him as long as they favored him. He gave them reverence, and they gave him favor, but they were a capricious lot.

  The scratching had worn an opening in the seawall of his memory, and more images trickled through. The shouts of the men who had come with blood in their voices … The screams of his mother as they dragged her from the house—and he knew they were the screams of his mother. In the seventeen years since, he had never heard or recalled her voice, but he knew it now.

  To recall his mother’s voice only by her screams brought tears to his eyes, cooling as they slid toward his chin.

  He stood in the center of a room, and the walls were burning, the tatami was smooth on his bare feet, and the smoke made his eyes water. His father’s voice, fueled with rage and grief and struggle. The pretty, black-lacquered scabbard with the cranes inlaid in mother-of-pearl, flying toward a silver moon, lying there near the doorway. A glimpse of the blade, flashing orange in the light of the fire, wielded by his father’s hand. Dark red stains on the steel, on the hand. And then a storm of dust and feathers flitting past the open doorway. The smoke burned his eyes. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. A dark man with angry eyes, sword in hand, coming for him through the door. He ran, but he was little, and the man was big, and there were two of them now, chasing him. A rough hand snatched his upright topknot, jerked him off his feet. He was crying.

  A rush of wind, and the smell of dry feathers. The hand released him. Warmth sprayed the back of his neck, and something fell onto the tatami like a slab of meat. A cry of pain. Another rush of wind and the man fell. The second man with his tanned, muscled back fled for the square of smoke-hazed daylight. The bird—or was it a man?—suddenly in the man’s path. The man’s head tumbling from his shoulders.