Musashi stood in the dim light of Lord Sato’s Dungeon. The dark and confined space making him feel uncomfortable. The bizarre events of the night didn’t help matters either. Right now he couldn’t stop staring at the corpse like frame of Itto Isamu. His skin had lost its colour; his eyes were sunk deep into his gaunt face. The Kensai Master looked like he had been dead for days.
A shiver ran down Musashi’s spine. The dungeon was a cold, dark place. The less time spent down here the better.
He looked at the old Kensai Master. After all these years, Musashi was still in awe of his power. He still needed Isamu’s help.
“Master Isamu, you must face Goda. You are the only one who can stop the Clan.”
Isamu’s breathing had become laboured. His head was still lowered. “I am not the only one. Besides, I am not long for this world. The technique of resurrection is like a blazing inferno. No matter how fierce, it will burn out eventually.”
It was then that Musashi realised Isamu had come here to warn him and him alone. He had expired every last drop of his energy not seeking revenge but rather to prepare Musashi for the impending onslaught. “I can’t face the Clan by myself. I’m not ready.”
Isamu slowly raised a skeletal index finger. “You underestimate yourself, Musashi. You were born ready.”
Goosebumps formed on Musashi’s skin.
He looked back down the corridor to where Lord Sato and the servant Akira were standing. They seemed to have retreated further down the corridor of the dungeon, making sure they were as close as possible to the only exit. Musashi could now see his breath in front of his face.
“Master Isamu. This is not my fight. I do not want to be involved.”
For a moment the old Kensai Master said nothing. Musashi could sense he was growing weak.
“It is too late, my son. You are already involved.”
The temperature in the dungeon dropped rapidly. The air was so cold it now stung Musashi’s skin.
Isamu raised his frail hand again, motioning in the direction of Lord Sato and Akira. Without warning, a rusty iron gate slammed shut, cutting the corridor of the dungeon in half. Musashi was now separated from Okinaga and the servant.
Okinaga moved to the iron gate and tried to open it. “Musashi, what is going on?” he asked urgently, as Akira moved closer to the exit.
Musashi did not respond. His gaze was fixed on the Kensai Master. His mind blocked out the biting cold.
Isamu raised his other hand slowly, his palm turned upwards. The dungeon grew colder still. “You were once a bright young Kensai, Musashi. No training did you ever require. No instruction did you ever need. But you never realised your full potential.”
It was at that moment, Musashi noticed the pile of dead samurai at the end of the corridor start to move. A voice inside his head screamed to get out, to run away. But there was nowhere to retreat to.
“Tonight, all that will change,” Isamu continued. “When you left the Kensai order, I knew full well that you would return. The future is difficult to see. But this was not.
Lord Sato started shaking the immovable iron gate in a futile attempt to reach Musashi. “Akira!” he shouted. “Go and get Ichiro. Tell him to bring reinforcements.”
“Yes my Lord,” the servant replied as he ran up the stairs.
Musashi took a small step back as he kept a close watch on the moving pile of dead samurai. “What are you doing Isamu?”
“This is your final test. You will be a Kensai once again,” proclaimed the old Master as he raised his upturned palm higher.
Isamu’s hand started to shake as the dead samurai came back to life. Slowly they stood. All seven of them turned towards Musashi. Some were missing limbs; others were missing their heads. Isamu had cut through them with ease earlier that night. But now, through some other mysterious Kensai technique he was breathing life back into their corpses.Musashi retreated further down the corridor as the dead samurai shuffled slowly towards him. His eyes searched frantically for a weapon. He found nothing. Isamu had turned the corridor into a prison cell. Musashi was trapped.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Chapter 7
Ichiro, Lord Sato’s personal bodyguard had been ordered by Lord Sato back upstairs out of the dungeon to check on the current situation. Ichiro decided to check on the guards at the front gate.
“What’s the status?” Ichiro asked one of the guards.
The guard bowed. “It’s been quiet sir. No one has come near the gates. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to come through here anyway.”
Ichiro had been around long enough to know anything could happen in the heat of battle. “That’s not your concern. Stay sharp. Make sure no one gets in. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” the guard replied quickly.
Just as Ichiro was about to head back inside, he heard the familiar drumming sound of a galloping horse. The horse was travelling fast and it was getting closer.
Ichiro responded immediately. “I want archers at the ready! Get me reinforcements to barricade this gate, now!”
The Sato Samurai leapt into action. Archers on the front two sentry towers loaded their bows and were poised ready to fire. Fifty others ran to the front gate and braced themselves against it. Ichiro moved to the side of the gate and held his hand up, demanding silence.
The horse came to an abrupt stop. A person wearing a hooded robe dismounted from the horse and walked towards the gate. They calmly knocked.
Ichiro wondered what kind of enemy would knock before attacking. But then he remembered the stories he had heard about the Clan and the strange powers they possessed. “Who goes there?” he shouted through the thick wooden gate, trying to hide the fear in his voice.
“I am Toyotomi Kimiko, daughter of the Toyotomi Hideoshi, Shogun of Japan. I request to speak with Lord Sato Okinaga.”
Ichiro’s muscles relaxed slightly. But what was the Shogun’s daughter doing riding around at night? “Of course, right away. Open the gate!” he ordered.
The gate was opened and Kimiko led her horse through.
“Lady Toyotomi,” Ichiro said his voice full of concern as he bowed. “It is not safe to be travelling at such an hour. Especially by yourself.”
The Shogun’s daughter removed her hood to reveal her stunning face. Ichiro found himself staring at Kimiko’s beautiful eyes. When she spoke he watched her lips move ignoring what she said.
“Samurai?” she asked, wondering why Ichiro wasn’t responding.
“Lady Toyotomi, what are you doing out so late?” he repeated.
Kimiko looked frustrated that he was not paying attention. “I just told you,” she said irritated. “Someone massacred the Samurai at Kumamoto castle. I managed to escape. I came here looking for refuge.”
“You were at Kumamoto castle?”
Kimiko was at a loss. “Yes! The Samurai… they’re all dead!” she screamed as tears fell from her eyes.
Ichiro knew it had to be the work of the Clan. He put his arm around Lady Toyotomi. “You must come inside. It's not safe out here.”
“What’s the status?” Ichiro asked one of the guards.
The guard bowed. “It’s been quiet sir. No one has come near the gates. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to come through here anyway.”
Ichiro had been around long enough to know anything could happen in the heat of battle. “That’s not your concern. Stay sharp. Make sure no one gets in. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” the guard replied quickly.
Just as Ichiro was about to head back inside, he heard the familiar drumming sound of a galloping horse. The horse was travelling fast and it was getting closer.
Ichiro responded immediately. “I want archers at the ready! Get me reinforcements to barricade this gate, now!”
The Sato Samurai leapt into action. Archers on the front two sentry towers loaded their bows and were poised ready to fire. Fifty others ran to the front gate and braced themselves against it. Ichiro moved to the side of the gate and held his hand up, demanding silence.
The horse came to an abrupt stop. A person wearing a hooded robe dismounted from the horse and walked towards the gate. They calmly knocked.
Ichiro wondered what kind of enemy would knock before attacking. But then he remembered the stories he had heard about the Clan and the strange powers they possessed. “Who goes there?” he shouted through the thick wooden gate, trying to hide the fear in his voice.
“I am Toyotomi Kimiko, daughter of the Toyotomi Hideoshi, Shogun of Japan. I request to speak with Lord Sato Okinaga.”
Ichiro’s muscles relaxed slightly. But what was the Shogun’s daughter doing riding around at night? “Of course, right away. Open the gate!” he ordered.
The gate was opened and Kimiko led her horse through.
“Lady Toyotomi,” Ichiro said his voice full of concern as he bowed. “It is not safe to be travelling at such an hour. Especially by yourself.”
The Shogun’s daughter removed her hood to reveal her stunning face. Ichiro found himself staring at Kimiko’s beautiful eyes. When she spoke he watched her lips move ignoring what she said.
“Samurai?” she asked, wondering why Ichiro wasn’t responding.
“Lady Toyotomi, what are you doing out so late?” he repeated.
Kimiko looked frustrated that he was not paying attention. “I just told you,” she said irritated. “Someone massacred the Samurai at Kumamoto castle. I managed to escape. I came here looking for refuge.”
“You were at Kumamoto castle?”
Kimiko was at a loss. “Yes! The Samurai… they’re all dead!” she screamed as tears fell from her eyes.
Ichiro knew it had to be the work of the Clan. He put his arm around Lady Toyotomi. “You must come inside. It's not safe out here.”
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Chapter 6
Miyamoto Musashi followed Lord Sato down the three flights of stairs he had climbed earlier. Akira and the large samurai who appeared to be Okinaga’s personal bodyguard accompanied them. By now, there were no servants frantically running around. They had all left or taken refuge in some secret hiding spot. The Samurai remained, however. Each bowing their heads low as Lord Sato walked past.
On the ground floor the entourage came to a small room towards the back of the residence. The room was completely empty, except for a spear that was mounted on the far wall.
Musashi scanned the room. Where was Itto Isamu?
“Ichiro,” Lord Sato called, motioning towards the wall.
With that command, his bodyguard stepped forward and removed the spear from the wall. Holding the spear with both hands, he plunged the blunt end into a small round hole in the wooden floorboards. There was a muffled click as a large trap door swung open revealing a hidden staircase leading down into darkness.
Akira briefly left the room, returning with a blazing torch.
Musashi knew where they were going: the dungeon. Every Daimyo had one. They were primarily used for torturing captured spies. If a spy was strong enough he would accept his fate and be tortured to death. But if he was weak, he would talk, hoping cooperation would save their life. The only thing talking ensured however, was a quick death.
Akira held the torch above his head. “Watch your step.”
Down into the darkness they went. Akira led the way, his torch illuminating the narrow staircase. Musashi felt as though he was falling deeper into a strange dream. One that felt incredibly real.
The staircase opened up onto a stone corridor. On each side of the corridor were thick metal bars. Behind them were individual prison cells containing a whole range of evil looking contraptions. Musashi felt a sudden wave of sympathy pain in his gut as he thought about how many spies had been tortured to death down here.
Musashi took a closer look. In one of the cells he saw a whole range of canes and whips, each one slightly different to the next. He saw thin bamboo canes used for whipping the skin. Thick bamboo canes used for breaking bones. Some whips were stiff and made from leather, like the ones farmers used for herding cattle. Others looked like nothing Musashi had ever seen. They contained multiple whip endings. Attached to them were spiked lead pellets. He could not comprehend the pain something like that would cause.
As Akira led the group along the corridor he lit several small candles that provided a dim orange light.
Musashi’s gaze drifted ahead past the servant. Off in the distance he saw an island of flickering light. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” Lord Sato interrupted.
“Why is he down here?” Musashi asked, puzzled.
“Itto Isamu arrived here earlier tonight. He then proceeded to slash his way through the guards on watch. Once he was inside he headed straight for the dungeon and locked himself inside the far cell.”
Musashi was amazed he had slept through the attack. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t awake to help,” he apologised, embarrassed.
“No need to apologise. Isamu was extremely quick about it. By the time we knew what was going on it was too late.”
“Why did he feel the need to lock himself up?”
“For our protection. At the moment he will attack anyone who comes near him. He can no longer control his power to kill.”
Musashi was still confused. “But the note said he was dead?”
Okinaga spoke as though he were reporting from notes he had taken earlier. “He is dead. He has used the Kensai technique of resurrection. It is the most difficult technique to master. Only Isamu and one other Kensai have ever been able to use it.”
Musashi was in awe. “I didn’t know the Kensai could do such things. I had no idea Isamu was this powerful.”
“No one did. Not even his assailant. That is why he was able to get away after the initial attack.”
“Where was he attacked?” Musashi asked.
“Itto Isamu was murdered while he was resting in Kumamoto Castle. Whoever managed to get inside is extremely skilled.”
They continued walking towards the far cell. Akira slowly swung open a rusty iron gate, using considerable effort to do so. Musashi could see a lone dark figure kneeling, his head lowered. “How is this technique possible?”
“Isamu told me that when a Kensai becomes one with his sword it becomes his very soul. Not just a figure of speech, but his actual soul.”
Musashi found this hard to believe. He knew most Samurai considered the sword to be the soul of a true warrior. But he was not one of them. As far as he was concerned the sword was just a weapon. “So your telling me that Itto Isamu was murdered but then he miraculously came back to life through his Katana?”
“Precisely,” Lord Sato said, convinced. “But if you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask Isamu yourself?”
The ghostly figure of Itto Isamu knelt in front of Musashi behind the bars of the cell. He was dressed in plain white pants. His haori – long sleeved jacket – was also white. It was open, exposing Isamu’s chest. Musashi noticed his skin was a grey lifeless shade.
Musashi found himself to be standing alone. The others had stopped several meters back, refusing for their own safety’s sake, to come any closer. It was only then that he noticed the pile of dead Samurai at the end of the corridor. At least seven bodies lay on top of each other, cut down by the uncontrollable sword of the Kensai Master.
“My fellow Kensai,” Isamu hissed slowly, his head lowered. “You have come.”
Musashi bowed, but his eyes remained on Isamu. “Master Isamu, I am no longer a Kensai. I haven’t been…”
“Tonight,” the Kensai Master said, cutting Musashi off. “The Clan has resurfaced after centuries of hiding,” “We thought we had wiped them out. Our arrogance has made us weak.”
Isamu spoke as though it caused him pain. Musashi could not believe he was speaking with a dead man. How did a member of a Clan manage to kill such a powerful Kensai, he thought?
Isamu raised his hand. “Beware the serpent’s bite,” he said. As though reading Musashi’s thoughts.
Musashi stepped back, feeling strangely vulnerable that Isamu seemed to have read his mind. He looked closely at Isamu’s hand. He could clearly see a bite mark.
“Goda, has become a powerful servant of the Clan.”
“Goda,” Musashi breathed. He had not heard that name in a long time.
“He is on a quest. One that he will stop at nothing to achieve.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants what all men want. Absolute power.”
On the ground floor the entourage came to a small room towards the back of the residence. The room was completely empty, except for a spear that was mounted on the far wall.
Musashi scanned the room. Where was Itto Isamu?
“Ichiro,” Lord Sato called, motioning towards the wall.
With that command, his bodyguard stepped forward and removed the spear from the wall. Holding the spear with both hands, he plunged the blunt end into a small round hole in the wooden floorboards. There was a muffled click as a large trap door swung open revealing a hidden staircase leading down into darkness.
Akira briefly left the room, returning with a blazing torch.
Musashi knew where they were going: the dungeon. Every Daimyo had one. They were primarily used for torturing captured spies. If a spy was strong enough he would accept his fate and be tortured to death. But if he was weak, he would talk, hoping cooperation would save their life. The only thing talking ensured however, was a quick death.
Akira held the torch above his head. “Watch your step.”
Down into the darkness they went. Akira led the way, his torch illuminating the narrow staircase. Musashi felt as though he was falling deeper into a strange dream. One that felt incredibly real.
The staircase opened up onto a stone corridor. On each side of the corridor were thick metal bars. Behind them were individual prison cells containing a whole range of evil looking contraptions. Musashi felt a sudden wave of sympathy pain in his gut as he thought about how many spies had been tortured to death down here.
Musashi took a closer look. In one of the cells he saw a whole range of canes and whips, each one slightly different to the next. He saw thin bamboo canes used for whipping the skin. Thick bamboo canes used for breaking bones. Some whips were stiff and made from leather, like the ones farmers used for herding cattle. Others looked like nothing Musashi had ever seen. They contained multiple whip endings. Attached to them were spiked lead pellets. He could not comprehend the pain something like that would cause.
As Akira led the group along the corridor he lit several small candles that provided a dim orange light.
Musashi’s gaze drifted ahead past the servant. Off in the distance he saw an island of flickering light. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” Lord Sato interrupted.
“Why is he down here?” Musashi asked, puzzled.
“Itto Isamu arrived here earlier tonight. He then proceeded to slash his way through the guards on watch. Once he was inside he headed straight for the dungeon and locked himself inside the far cell.”
Musashi was amazed he had slept through the attack. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t awake to help,” he apologised, embarrassed.
“No need to apologise. Isamu was extremely quick about it. By the time we knew what was going on it was too late.”
“Why did he feel the need to lock himself up?”
“For our protection. At the moment he will attack anyone who comes near him. He can no longer control his power to kill.”
Musashi was still confused. “But the note said he was dead?”
Okinaga spoke as though he were reporting from notes he had taken earlier. “He is dead. He has used the Kensai technique of resurrection. It is the most difficult technique to master. Only Isamu and one other Kensai have ever been able to use it.”
Musashi was in awe. “I didn’t know the Kensai could do such things. I had no idea Isamu was this powerful.”
“No one did. Not even his assailant. That is why he was able to get away after the initial attack.”
“Where was he attacked?” Musashi asked.
“Itto Isamu was murdered while he was resting in Kumamoto Castle. Whoever managed to get inside is extremely skilled.”
They continued walking towards the far cell. Akira slowly swung open a rusty iron gate, using considerable effort to do so. Musashi could see a lone dark figure kneeling, his head lowered. “How is this technique possible?”
“Isamu told me that when a Kensai becomes one with his sword it becomes his very soul. Not just a figure of speech, but his actual soul.”
Musashi found this hard to believe. He knew most Samurai considered the sword to be the soul of a true warrior. But he was not one of them. As far as he was concerned the sword was just a weapon. “So your telling me that Itto Isamu was murdered but then he miraculously came back to life through his Katana?”
“Precisely,” Lord Sato said, convinced. “But if you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask Isamu yourself?”
The ghostly figure of Itto Isamu knelt in front of Musashi behind the bars of the cell. He was dressed in plain white pants. His haori – long sleeved jacket – was also white. It was open, exposing Isamu’s chest. Musashi noticed his skin was a grey lifeless shade.
Musashi found himself to be standing alone. The others had stopped several meters back, refusing for their own safety’s sake, to come any closer. It was only then that he noticed the pile of dead Samurai at the end of the corridor. At least seven bodies lay on top of each other, cut down by the uncontrollable sword of the Kensai Master.
“My fellow Kensai,” Isamu hissed slowly, his head lowered. “You have come.”
Musashi bowed, but his eyes remained on Isamu. “Master Isamu, I am no longer a Kensai. I haven’t been…”
“Tonight,” the Kensai Master said, cutting Musashi off. “The Clan has resurfaced after centuries of hiding,” “We thought we had wiped them out. Our arrogance has made us weak.”
Isamu spoke as though it caused him pain. Musashi could not believe he was speaking with a dead man. How did a member of a Clan manage to kill such a powerful Kensai, he thought?
Isamu raised his hand. “Beware the serpent’s bite,” he said. As though reading Musashi’s thoughts.
Musashi stepped back, feeling strangely vulnerable that Isamu seemed to have read his mind. He looked closely at Isamu’s hand. He could clearly see a bite mark.
“Goda, has become a powerful servant of the Clan.”
“Goda,” Musashi breathed. He had not heard that name in a long time.
“He is on a quest. One that he will stop at nothing to achieve.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants what all men want. Absolute power.”
Chapter 5
Lord Toyotomi Hideoshi: Shogun of Japan rode up to Kumamoto Castle accompanied by his famous five generals, a thousand of his most elite samurai and two Kensai warriors. The five generals rode next to Hideohsi. They followed the Shogun wherever he went. They gave advice and strength to Lord Toyotomi when he needed it the most. Tonight however, everyone was silent as they passed piles and piles of dead bodies.
The Shogun looked up at Kumamoto Castle. It was completely dark. The surrounding area had been turned into a ghost town.
Up a head, a lone samurai ran out of the castle. He ran at a frantic pace, his momentum nearly causing him to fall over. He came to an abrupt halt in front of Lord Toyotomi.
He paused briefly to catch his breath. “There is no one left, My Lord,” he gasped. “There is no sign of your daughter.”
Hideoshi’s heart tore in two but he forced himself to keep his composure. “And what of Itto Isamu?”
“There is no body.”
Hideoshi turned to his most trusted retainer, General Tokugawa Ieyasu. “What do you think?”
Ieyasu took a deep breath. “This must be the work of the clan. The only dead bodies here are that of the Kumamoto samurai,” he said as he scanned the surrounding area. “Only the Clan are capable of such carnage.”
Hideoshi suddenly realised that if an opposing army had invaded they would also have suffered casualties. But there were none. A feeling of horror spread through Lord Toyotomi’s body. From an early age he had been conditioned to fear the Clan. They were deadliest of enemies, an invisible force that could strike anywhere at anytime. But no one had seen or heard from them in centuries. Why would they choose to return now?
Earlier that night, General Ieyasu had informed the Shogun that Kumamoto castle had been infiltrated and Itto Isamu had been murdered. Hideoshi’s first thought was for the safety of his daughter who was staying at the castle. But then he considered the implications of what Tokugawa was saying. Who was capable of breaking into Kumamoto castle let alone assassinating a Kensai Master?
Hideoshi couldn’t help but consider the possibility that his daughter was already dead. He forced the idea out of his head. “I want my daughter found. And I want the body of Itto Isamu found.”
“Yes, Lord,” the five generals said in unison.
As the Shogun’s samurai received their orders from the four other generals, General Ieyasu sidled up to Hideoshi “Lord Toyotomi, I have seen this before. I know who is responsible.”
“Who?”
“A man by the name of Goda.”
The Shogun fell silent. The mere mention of the name sent chills down his spine. There was not a man alive more dangerous than the Red Ninja. “How can you tell?”
Tokugawa pointed to a decapitated samurai. “Goda doesn’t just kill his enemy. He attacks the major bloodstreams of the body.”
Hideoshi studied the area surrounding the dead samurai. It was covered in blood. “So he can pick and choose how to kill an opponent?”
“Yes. But it’s more of a reflex for him now.”
The Shogun paused and weighed up his options. “We’re going to need someone who is familiar with the surrounding terrain. I want you to go to the House on the Volcano and ask Lord Okinaga for help. Take one of the Kensai.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Hideoshi dismounted from his horse and looked up at the dark outline of Kumamoto castle. His daughter was in trouble. He prayed she had not become a victim of the Red Ninja.
The Shogun looked up at Kumamoto Castle. It was completely dark. The surrounding area had been turned into a ghost town.
Up a head, a lone samurai ran out of the castle. He ran at a frantic pace, his momentum nearly causing him to fall over. He came to an abrupt halt in front of Lord Toyotomi.
He paused briefly to catch his breath. “There is no one left, My Lord,” he gasped. “There is no sign of your daughter.”
Hideoshi’s heart tore in two but he forced himself to keep his composure. “And what of Itto Isamu?”
“There is no body.”
Hideoshi turned to his most trusted retainer, General Tokugawa Ieyasu. “What do you think?”
Ieyasu took a deep breath. “This must be the work of the clan. The only dead bodies here are that of the Kumamoto samurai,” he said as he scanned the surrounding area. “Only the Clan are capable of such carnage.”
Hideoshi suddenly realised that if an opposing army had invaded they would also have suffered casualties. But there were none. A feeling of horror spread through Lord Toyotomi’s body. From an early age he had been conditioned to fear the Clan. They were deadliest of enemies, an invisible force that could strike anywhere at anytime. But no one had seen or heard from them in centuries. Why would they choose to return now?
Earlier that night, General Ieyasu had informed the Shogun that Kumamoto castle had been infiltrated and Itto Isamu had been murdered. Hideoshi’s first thought was for the safety of his daughter who was staying at the castle. But then he considered the implications of what Tokugawa was saying. Who was capable of breaking into Kumamoto castle let alone assassinating a Kensai Master?
Hideoshi couldn’t help but consider the possibility that his daughter was already dead. He forced the idea out of his head. “I want my daughter found. And I want the body of Itto Isamu found.”
“Yes, Lord,” the five generals said in unison.
As the Shogun’s samurai received their orders from the four other generals, General Ieyasu sidled up to Hideoshi “Lord Toyotomi, I have seen this before. I know who is responsible.”
“Who?”
“A man by the name of Goda.”
The Shogun fell silent. The mere mention of the name sent chills down his spine. There was not a man alive more dangerous than the Red Ninja. “How can you tell?”
Tokugawa pointed to a decapitated samurai. “Goda doesn’t just kill his enemy. He attacks the major bloodstreams of the body.”
Hideoshi studied the area surrounding the dead samurai. It was covered in blood. “So he can pick and choose how to kill an opponent?”
“Yes. But it’s more of a reflex for him now.”
The Shogun paused and weighed up his options. “We’re going to need someone who is familiar with the surrounding terrain. I want you to go to the House on the Volcano and ask Lord Okinaga for help. Take one of the Kensai.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Hideoshi dismounted from his horse and looked up at the dark outline of Kumamoto castle. His daughter was in trouble. He prayed she had not become a victim of the Red Ninja.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Chapter 4
Miyamoto Musashi stood in the observation room of the House on the Volcano. He was in a state of total disbelief. Lord Sato Okinaga was a shaken man, but he still commanded respect. When he spoke, people listened.
Itto Isamu delivered the message himself.
Every rational bone in Musashi’s exhausted body knew it was ludicrous for Isamu to have delivered his own death note. So why did Lord Sato sound so believable?
Musashi had so many questions. If Itto Isamu was dead, how did he deliver the message? Musashi started to suspect Lord Sato had lost his mind.
“Lord Sato, I mean no disrespect, but how is that possible? Why would Lord Sato come here to deliver such a message? More importantly, how did he deliver it if he was already dead?”
Okinaga was not listening. He had moved to an open window, his eyes moving back and forth surveying his surrounding property. The House on the Volcano was a fortress. The topography of the terrain made it impossible for any army to invade, giving the residence a security that was unmatched.
To add to this, Lord Sato had ordered the construction of a massive stone wall to surround his entire property. The stone wall was twenty metres tall and included four sentry towers, one at each corner.
Tonight those towers were ablaze as the Sato Samurai stood guard having lit up a multitude of torches. Their orders had been simple: create as much light as possible.
The effect was brilliant. The flames had lit up the entire residence. The immaculate gardens within the walls were clearly visible. No one was getting in here tonight without Lord Sato knowing about it.
Despite all these measures, Lord Sato was still visibly unnerved. Musashi could not comprehend what had scared such a powerful man.
One of the Samurai walked over to Okinaga. “Please move away from the window Lord Sato. They’ve used snipers before.”
Okinaga turned around and faced the room.
“We must act now, before it’s too late,” he said addressing his loyal samurai. “Miyamoto,” he said turning his attention to Musashi. “Is it true what they say? Were you once a Kensai?”
Musashi drew a sharp breath. He thought he had buried that part of his life. How did Okinaga know? “ I was very young. I am no longer worthy,” he said bowing his head.
Lord Sato laughed. “Once a Kensai, always a Kensai. You of all people should know that.”
The walls of Musashi’s memory began to crumble as he remembered his time as a Kensai warrior and why it had to end. His eyes became distant as the memory returned to haunt his life once again.
Musashi’s mind reeled back to that day he found himself standing in his father’s dojo. He was only fourteen.
“What are you doing back here?”
Musashi locked eyes with his father, Miyamoto Tessai. It had been over a year since he had run away and met Itto Isamu. He was now a Kensai warrior. His knowledge of the martial arts far surpassed his father and yet he still cowered in his presence. It felt like a lifetime since he had seen his father. He did not know it was possible to hate someone this much, after all this time.
“I want to see my mother,” Musashi said, his voice wavering.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” Tessai replied sternly. “And I don’t want you here.”
Musashi never took his eyes off his father. He could sense the walls of the dojo closing in.
“Where is she?” he tentatively demanded.
“None of your damn business,” Tessai fired back. “We don’t want you here. Now leave before I raise my sword.”
Musashi felt his heart quicken. He knew his father wouldn’t hesitate to hurt his only son. The teachings of Itto Isamu echoed in Musashi’s head: use your hands for self defence only. His hate for his father grew every second. He flirted with the idea of lashing out but since becoming a Kensai, Musashi had learned to control his anger.
Dejected and longing to see his mother, Musashi had given up hope. Just as he was about to leave, a blood-curdling scream pierced through the walls of the dojo.
“Mother!”
Musashi pushed passed his father and ran in the direction of the scream. He ran outside the dojo and towards the house where he had grown up. He slid open the door and ran down the corridor to his parents room. What he saw inside would be forever burned into his memory.
His mother was on her knees, naked and semi-conscious. She was bruised and bleeding. Her hands were tied above her head with a rope hanging from the ceiling. Standing over her was a man he had never seen before.
A rage erupted inside Musashi, giving him strength he did not know he possessed. He rushed toward the man pushing him into the wall.
The man was not impressed. “Fucking kid. Get the fuck out!”
Musashi ignored him. A wooden stick that lay on the floor had seized his attention. It was covered in blood. He held the stick up and advanced towards the man.
“Is this my mother’s blood?” Musashi asked, his voice disturbingly calm.
The man could see the rage in the kid’s eyes. Oh god, this was his Mother? He backed up against the wall. For the first time in his life he was afraid.
“Ahh…”
Before the man could respond, Musashi whipped the wooden stick across his face, splattering blood on the wall. Musashi cried out, bringing the stick down multiple times, crushing the man’s face into a pulp.
Blood was everywhere. Its warmth surprised Musashi.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear his father’s giant footsteps pounding down the corridor. Coming closer. Closer. “Miyamoto Musashi!” he roared.
Musashi was kneeling over the disfigured corpse of a man he did not know. Blood and sweat dripping from his face. He felt like an animal protecting its kill as he heard his father’s call.
Normally he would be scared. But now, as he sat kneeling covered in someone else’s blood, all he felt was anger. The voice of Itto Isamu repeated inside Musashi’s head urging him to be merciful. Everything he had learnt pleaded for control. But it was too late. Hate had consumed him.
“Father!” Musashi fired back, as equally ferocious. “What have you done?”
The footsteps stopped. He could smell his Father’s fear.
Musashi stood, and faced the entrance to the room, blood dripping from the wooden stick, still in his grasp. His father was standing in the doorway, sword in hand.
He could see his father’s eyes take in the crimson scene before him.
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Musashi. Your mother deserved this. She was unfaithful.”
“I know your scared father,” he replied ignoring his father’s explanation.
“You do not understand!”
Musashi looked at his father, taking pity on him. “You are unwell, father. A sickness has spread through your body. You cannot be cured.”
“A sickness? Who do you think you are? You were warned against coming back here,” he threatened as he raised his sword. “Now, you will accept the consequences of your actions.”
He charged forward, screaming as he did. Slicing his sword down wildly.
Musashi stepped to the side and watched the sword move harmlessly through the air before cutting deep into the wall. The sword was stuck.
With blinding speed, Musashi brought the wooden stick smashing down on his father’s hand. Tessai let out a cry of pain, instantly releasing his grip on the sword. As he held his twisted and broken hand, a strange feeling of fear crept into his consciousness. He tried to move away from his crazed son, but it was too late. He felt a bone crunching strike to his knee.
Tessai fell to the floor.
Musashi stood over his Father, adrenalin coursing through his veins. He had dreamt about this day for so long. He had fantasised about his Father begging for his life. He could see the horror in his eyes, the realisation that he was about to die. The moment had finally come.
“Please son. Spare my life. I do not want to die,” Tessai pleaded as he tried to crawl away.
Musashi was not listening. He tightened his grip on the blood-covered stick and flogged it across his father’s face, splitting his cheek open, exposing his jawbone and teeth.
Tessai had never been in so much pain. He did not believe his own son was capable of such punishment. He prayed for death.
“In order to kill you father, I have to become you. I have to be every bit as evil,” Musashi said, as he dislodged his father’s sword from the wall.
Moving over to his mother, he raised the sword above his head. With both hands he sliced downward. Using the skill and precision of a Kensai warrior he cut off his Mother’s head. Unlike her life, her death was painless.
Musashi dropped the sword on the ground, the metal blade clanging against the floorboards. He moved over to his father. “Your death will not be so honourable.”
The voice of Lord Sato Okinaga brought Musashi back to the present, his heart beating loud in his head.
“Musashi? Are you all right?”
For a second Musashi felt dizzy and faint. “I’m… I’m fine.”
“You looked like you were in a different world.”
Musashi took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain his composure. He was only thirteen years old when he was inducted as a Kensai: the youngest ever. The old Kensai Masters, including Itto Isamu knew that Musashi was unusually gifted. He possessed an understanding of the martial arts that was unparalleled. His skill with a sword was phenomenal.
The most amazing thing about Musashi however, was not his flawless technique but rather his lack any formal training. It was all natural. Every ounce of his ability was derived from deep within himself. It was simply unheard of for someone as young as Musashi with no training or instruction from anyone to become a Kensai.
But Musashi had given up that life long ago. He had been a Kensai for only a short period. He had long since become a Ronin. He was masterless. He had no obligations to anyone. This posed a troubling question. What did Lord Sato want with Musashi?
“I fail to see why this matters?” he responded.
A glimmer of hope flashed in Okinaga’s eyes. “We may have a chance with a Kensai among our ranks,” he said, confidence returning to his voice. “Will you protect us?”
Musashi was taken back by the question. Lord Sato had an entire army of loyal Samurai at his disposal and yet he wanted the protection of one man? “You don’t need my protection.”
“I know the power of the Kensai,” Okinaga continued. “I have witnessed it first hand. We need your help Lord Miyamoto.”
Lord?
Musashi had not been called Lord by someone of Sato Okinaga’s rank in such a long time. It almost felt wrong. Musashi weighed up his options. He didn’t seem to have a choice. If the Clan or anyone else attacked he would fight. It was in his blood. “If you need my help,” he said reluctantly. “I will oblige.”
Okinaga and his samurai smiled. Even the young servant Akira smiled.
“But I have my price.”
Lord Sato laughed out loud. “A Kensai Mercenary! I never thought I’d see the day.”
Musashi failed to see the humour.
Okinaga could hardly contain his excitement. “Musashi, you will be compensated justly. You have my word.”
“Compensation is not necessary. All I want is to know what’s going on.”
“Of course,” Okinaga said eager to please Musashi. “All your questions will be answered immediately.”
The two men bowed to each other. Sealing the agreement.
“Now follow me, Okinaga said. “Itto Isamu wishes to speak with you.”
Musashi did a double take. “Excuse me?”
Lord Sato locked eyes with Musashi. “Itto Isamu is waiting for you.”
Musashi furrowed his brow in confusion. “I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is,” replied Okinaga bluntly.
“How is this possible?”
“Like I said,” replied Lord Sato. I have witnessed the power of the Kensai first hand. And Itto Isamu was a most powerful Kensai.”
Itto Isamu delivered the message himself.
Every rational bone in Musashi’s exhausted body knew it was ludicrous for Isamu to have delivered his own death note. So why did Lord Sato sound so believable?
Musashi had so many questions. If Itto Isamu was dead, how did he deliver the message? Musashi started to suspect Lord Sato had lost his mind.
“Lord Sato, I mean no disrespect, but how is that possible? Why would Lord Sato come here to deliver such a message? More importantly, how did he deliver it if he was already dead?”
Okinaga was not listening. He had moved to an open window, his eyes moving back and forth surveying his surrounding property. The House on the Volcano was a fortress. The topography of the terrain made it impossible for any army to invade, giving the residence a security that was unmatched.
To add to this, Lord Sato had ordered the construction of a massive stone wall to surround his entire property. The stone wall was twenty metres tall and included four sentry towers, one at each corner.
Tonight those towers were ablaze as the Sato Samurai stood guard having lit up a multitude of torches. Their orders had been simple: create as much light as possible.
The effect was brilliant. The flames had lit up the entire residence. The immaculate gardens within the walls were clearly visible. No one was getting in here tonight without Lord Sato knowing about it.
Despite all these measures, Lord Sato was still visibly unnerved. Musashi could not comprehend what had scared such a powerful man.
One of the Samurai walked over to Okinaga. “Please move away from the window Lord Sato. They’ve used snipers before.”
Okinaga turned around and faced the room.
“We must act now, before it’s too late,” he said addressing his loyal samurai. “Miyamoto,” he said turning his attention to Musashi. “Is it true what they say? Were you once a Kensai?”
Musashi drew a sharp breath. He thought he had buried that part of his life. How did Okinaga know? “ I was very young. I am no longer worthy,” he said bowing his head.
Lord Sato laughed. “Once a Kensai, always a Kensai. You of all people should know that.”
The walls of Musashi’s memory began to crumble as he remembered his time as a Kensai warrior and why it had to end. His eyes became distant as the memory returned to haunt his life once again.
Musashi’s mind reeled back to that day he found himself standing in his father’s dojo. He was only fourteen.
“What are you doing back here?”
Musashi locked eyes with his father, Miyamoto Tessai. It had been over a year since he had run away and met Itto Isamu. He was now a Kensai warrior. His knowledge of the martial arts far surpassed his father and yet he still cowered in his presence. It felt like a lifetime since he had seen his father. He did not know it was possible to hate someone this much, after all this time.
“I want to see my mother,” Musashi said, his voice wavering.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” Tessai replied sternly. “And I don’t want you here.”
Musashi never took his eyes off his father. He could sense the walls of the dojo closing in.
“Where is she?” he tentatively demanded.
“None of your damn business,” Tessai fired back. “We don’t want you here. Now leave before I raise my sword.”
Musashi felt his heart quicken. He knew his father wouldn’t hesitate to hurt his only son. The teachings of Itto Isamu echoed in Musashi’s head: use your hands for self defence only. His hate for his father grew every second. He flirted with the idea of lashing out but since becoming a Kensai, Musashi had learned to control his anger.
Dejected and longing to see his mother, Musashi had given up hope. Just as he was about to leave, a blood-curdling scream pierced through the walls of the dojo.
“Mother!”
Musashi pushed passed his father and ran in the direction of the scream. He ran outside the dojo and towards the house where he had grown up. He slid open the door and ran down the corridor to his parents room. What he saw inside would be forever burned into his memory.
His mother was on her knees, naked and semi-conscious. She was bruised and bleeding. Her hands were tied above her head with a rope hanging from the ceiling. Standing over her was a man he had never seen before.
A rage erupted inside Musashi, giving him strength he did not know he possessed. He rushed toward the man pushing him into the wall.
The man was not impressed. “Fucking kid. Get the fuck out!”
Musashi ignored him. A wooden stick that lay on the floor had seized his attention. It was covered in blood. He held the stick up and advanced towards the man.
“Is this my mother’s blood?” Musashi asked, his voice disturbingly calm.
The man could see the rage in the kid’s eyes. Oh god, this was his Mother? He backed up against the wall. For the first time in his life he was afraid.
“Ahh…”
Before the man could respond, Musashi whipped the wooden stick across his face, splattering blood on the wall. Musashi cried out, bringing the stick down multiple times, crushing the man’s face into a pulp.
Blood was everywhere. Its warmth surprised Musashi.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear his father’s giant footsteps pounding down the corridor. Coming closer. Closer. “Miyamoto Musashi!” he roared.
Musashi was kneeling over the disfigured corpse of a man he did not know. Blood and sweat dripping from his face. He felt like an animal protecting its kill as he heard his father’s call.
Normally he would be scared. But now, as he sat kneeling covered in someone else’s blood, all he felt was anger. The voice of Itto Isamu repeated inside Musashi’s head urging him to be merciful. Everything he had learnt pleaded for control. But it was too late. Hate had consumed him.
“Father!” Musashi fired back, as equally ferocious. “What have you done?”
The footsteps stopped. He could smell his Father’s fear.
Musashi stood, and faced the entrance to the room, blood dripping from the wooden stick, still in his grasp. His father was standing in the doorway, sword in hand.
He could see his father’s eyes take in the crimson scene before him.
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Musashi. Your mother deserved this. She was unfaithful.”
“I know your scared father,” he replied ignoring his father’s explanation.
“You do not understand!”
Musashi looked at his father, taking pity on him. “You are unwell, father. A sickness has spread through your body. You cannot be cured.”
“A sickness? Who do you think you are? You were warned against coming back here,” he threatened as he raised his sword. “Now, you will accept the consequences of your actions.”
He charged forward, screaming as he did. Slicing his sword down wildly.
Musashi stepped to the side and watched the sword move harmlessly through the air before cutting deep into the wall. The sword was stuck.
With blinding speed, Musashi brought the wooden stick smashing down on his father’s hand. Tessai let out a cry of pain, instantly releasing his grip on the sword. As he held his twisted and broken hand, a strange feeling of fear crept into his consciousness. He tried to move away from his crazed son, but it was too late. He felt a bone crunching strike to his knee.
Tessai fell to the floor.
Musashi stood over his Father, adrenalin coursing through his veins. He had dreamt about this day for so long. He had fantasised about his Father begging for his life. He could see the horror in his eyes, the realisation that he was about to die. The moment had finally come.
“Please son. Spare my life. I do not want to die,” Tessai pleaded as he tried to crawl away.
Musashi was not listening. He tightened his grip on the blood-covered stick and flogged it across his father’s face, splitting his cheek open, exposing his jawbone and teeth.
Tessai had never been in so much pain. He did not believe his own son was capable of such punishment. He prayed for death.
“In order to kill you father, I have to become you. I have to be every bit as evil,” Musashi said, as he dislodged his father’s sword from the wall.
Moving over to his mother, he raised the sword above his head. With both hands he sliced downward. Using the skill and precision of a Kensai warrior he cut off his Mother’s head. Unlike her life, her death was painless.
Musashi dropped the sword on the ground, the metal blade clanging against the floorboards. He moved over to his father. “Your death will not be so honourable.”
The voice of Lord Sato Okinaga brought Musashi back to the present, his heart beating loud in his head.
“Musashi? Are you all right?”
For a second Musashi felt dizzy and faint. “I’m… I’m fine.”
“You looked like you were in a different world.”
Musashi took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain his composure. He was only thirteen years old when he was inducted as a Kensai: the youngest ever. The old Kensai Masters, including Itto Isamu knew that Musashi was unusually gifted. He possessed an understanding of the martial arts that was unparalleled. His skill with a sword was phenomenal.
The most amazing thing about Musashi however, was not his flawless technique but rather his lack any formal training. It was all natural. Every ounce of his ability was derived from deep within himself. It was simply unheard of for someone as young as Musashi with no training or instruction from anyone to become a Kensai.
But Musashi had given up that life long ago. He had been a Kensai for only a short period. He had long since become a Ronin. He was masterless. He had no obligations to anyone. This posed a troubling question. What did Lord Sato want with Musashi?
“I fail to see why this matters?” he responded.
A glimmer of hope flashed in Okinaga’s eyes. “We may have a chance with a Kensai among our ranks,” he said, confidence returning to his voice. “Will you protect us?”
Musashi was taken back by the question. Lord Sato had an entire army of loyal Samurai at his disposal and yet he wanted the protection of one man? “You don’t need my protection.”
“I know the power of the Kensai,” Okinaga continued. “I have witnessed it first hand. We need your help Lord Miyamoto.”
Lord?
Musashi had not been called Lord by someone of Sato Okinaga’s rank in such a long time. It almost felt wrong. Musashi weighed up his options. He didn’t seem to have a choice. If the Clan or anyone else attacked he would fight. It was in his blood. “If you need my help,” he said reluctantly. “I will oblige.”
Okinaga and his samurai smiled. Even the young servant Akira smiled.
“But I have my price.”
Lord Sato laughed out loud. “A Kensai Mercenary! I never thought I’d see the day.”
Musashi failed to see the humour.
Okinaga could hardly contain his excitement. “Musashi, you will be compensated justly. You have my word.”
“Compensation is not necessary. All I want is to know what’s going on.”
“Of course,” Okinaga said eager to please Musashi. “All your questions will be answered immediately.”
The two men bowed to each other. Sealing the agreement.
“Now follow me, Okinaga said. “Itto Isamu wishes to speak with you.”
Musashi did a double take. “Excuse me?”
Lord Sato locked eyes with Musashi. “Itto Isamu is waiting for you.”
Musashi furrowed his brow in confusion. “I thought you said he was dead.”
“He is,” replied Okinaga bluntly.
“How is this possible?”
“Like I said,” replied Lord Sato. I have witnessed the power of the Kensai first hand. And Itto Isamu was a most powerful Kensai.”
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Chapter - 3
Miyamoto Musashi stepped outside his room and was confronted by a large, fully armed guard. Musashi stopped dead in his tracks. The guard was wearing full-length leather armour, which increased his already impressive size.
“For your protection,” explained the young servant. “He is Lord Sato’s best man.”
Musashi shot the servant a worried look. “I did not realise I was in any danger.”
“It’s merely a precaution,” the servant assured. “Now, if you’ll please follow me this way.”
Musashi looked at the guard. He stood tall and staunch as if he were some immovable object. Lord Sato seemed to have put his entire residence on full alert. Musashi began to notice other servants rushing anxiously past them in the hallway.
He grabbed one of them by the arm, an old woman. “What’s wrong? Why is everyone acting so edgy?”
The old woman had the look of fear in her eyes “The Clan,” she stammered. “They are here.”
The young servant sent the old woman on her way. “Ignore her. She is exaggerating. No one is here. The security of this residence is second to none. Now please, we must go.”
Musashi followed the servant escorted by the large guard. They walked down the hallway past more servants. All of them scattering about like rats fleeing a sinking ship. They ascended three flights of stairs; on every level Samurai patrolled, dressed ready for battle. Ready for whatever force would attempt to lay siege.
The house was in total lockdown. It’s guardians on high alert.
The piece of paper, the young servant had given Musashi was still in his hand. He read it one more time.
Itto Isamu is dead. The Clan is back.
Again, Musashi did not believe what he read. Itto Isamu was the most powerful Kensai Master in the land.
How did he die?
The answer to this question was a frightening one. And one that Musashi did not fully understand.
Musashi had only heard about the Clan through stories told by older Samurai. The old Samurai would rant on about wars that raged for centuries without end, wars between the Kensai and the Clan.
Musashi had always thought they were making up the stories to scare little children. A story that was no doubt exaggerated each time it was told. This was apparently not the case.
Now, as Musashi stared at a piece of paper claiming that ‘the Clan is back’ he started to feel a strange sensation. One he had not felt in a long time.
Fear.
He decided to make small talk in an attempt to calm his nerves. “So, what is your name?” Musashi asked the servant.
“Akira.”
“Nice to meet you Akira. Mind telling me where we are going?”
“The observation room. It has excellent views of the surrounding terrain. It is where Lord Sato plans all his strategic manoeuvres,” responded Akira.
Strategic Manoeuvres?
It sounded like Lord Sato was preparing for battle. Musashi did not want to be involved. He was no longer a Samurai. He was a Ronin. He answered to no one.
The trio arrived at a large sliding door. Akira promptly slid it open and then fell to his knees, his face pressed against the floor.
Inside Lord Sato Okinaga was pacing back and forth surrounded by a dozen of fierce looking Samurai. One of them was trying to explain something that sounded like a plan of attack but Okinaga ignored him.
The guard that had escorted Musashi stepped forward and reported. “Lord Sato, we have delivered Miyamoto Musashi as requested,” he said matter of factly.
Lord Sato stopped pacing and looked up. He was an intimidating man, strong, decisive and a cunning leader. He earned the respect of his Samurai through leading by example. He was renowned for his exploits on the battlefield. Tonight however, he looked noticeably spooked. His eyes, usually sharp, were full of indecision. At the moment he was dressed in his black battle armour. He carried his katana and short sword at his side. His left hand rested on them as he strode towards Musashi.
“Welcome Miyamoto,” he announced in a deep authoritative voice that hid his fear well. “I trust you have read the note my servant delivered to you.”
Musashi bowed. “I have Lord Sato, although I fail to see why this concerns me?”
“You must understand,” Okinaga said, his tone becoming serious. “This concerns all of us.”
Musashi wasn’t buying it. He decided to get to the bottom of this right now. “The note, I have some reservations about its authenticity. May I ask who delivered it?” “Miyamoto Musashi,” Okinaga said, pausing to emphasize the importance of the matter “The message was delivered by Itto Isamu himself.”
“For your protection,” explained the young servant. “He is Lord Sato’s best man.”
Musashi shot the servant a worried look. “I did not realise I was in any danger.”
“It’s merely a precaution,” the servant assured. “Now, if you’ll please follow me this way.”
Musashi looked at the guard. He stood tall and staunch as if he were some immovable object. Lord Sato seemed to have put his entire residence on full alert. Musashi began to notice other servants rushing anxiously past them in the hallway.
He grabbed one of them by the arm, an old woman. “What’s wrong? Why is everyone acting so edgy?”
The old woman had the look of fear in her eyes “The Clan,” she stammered. “They are here.”
The young servant sent the old woman on her way. “Ignore her. She is exaggerating. No one is here. The security of this residence is second to none. Now please, we must go.”
Musashi followed the servant escorted by the large guard. They walked down the hallway past more servants. All of them scattering about like rats fleeing a sinking ship. They ascended three flights of stairs; on every level Samurai patrolled, dressed ready for battle. Ready for whatever force would attempt to lay siege.
The house was in total lockdown. It’s guardians on high alert.
The piece of paper, the young servant had given Musashi was still in his hand. He read it one more time.
Itto Isamu is dead. The Clan is back.
Again, Musashi did not believe what he read. Itto Isamu was the most powerful Kensai Master in the land.
How did he die?
The answer to this question was a frightening one. And one that Musashi did not fully understand.
Musashi had only heard about the Clan through stories told by older Samurai. The old Samurai would rant on about wars that raged for centuries without end, wars between the Kensai and the Clan.
Musashi had always thought they were making up the stories to scare little children. A story that was no doubt exaggerated each time it was told. This was apparently not the case.
Now, as Musashi stared at a piece of paper claiming that ‘the Clan is back’ he started to feel a strange sensation. One he had not felt in a long time.
Fear.
He decided to make small talk in an attempt to calm his nerves. “So, what is your name?” Musashi asked the servant.
“Akira.”
“Nice to meet you Akira. Mind telling me where we are going?”
“The observation room. It has excellent views of the surrounding terrain. It is where Lord Sato plans all his strategic manoeuvres,” responded Akira.
Strategic Manoeuvres?
It sounded like Lord Sato was preparing for battle. Musashi did not want to be involved. He was no longer a Samurai. He was a Ronin. He answered to no one.
The trio arrived at a large sliding door. Akira promptly slid it open and then fell to his knees, his face pressed against the floor.
Inside Lord Sato Okinaga was pacing back and forth surrounded by a dozen of fierce looking Samurai. One of them was trying to explain something that sounded like a plan of attack but Okinaga ignored him.
The guard that had escorted Musashi stepped forward and reported. “Lord Sato, we have delivered Miyamoto Musashi as requested,” he said matter of factly.
Lord Sato stopped pacing and looked up. He was an intimidating man, strong, decisive and a cunning leader. He earned the respect of his Samurai through leading by example. He was renowned for his exploits on the battlefield. Tonight however, he looked noticeably spooked. His eyes, usually sharp, were full of indecision. At the moment he was dressed in his black battle armour. He carried his katana and short sword at his side. His left hand rested on them as he strode towards Musashi.
“Welcome Miyamoto,” he announced in a deep authoritative voice that hid his fear well. “I trust you have read the note my servant delivered to you.”
Musashi bowed. “I have Lord Sato, although I fail to see why this concerns me?”
“You must understand,” Okinaga said, his tone becoming serious. “This concerns all of us.”
Musashi wasn’t buying it. He decided to get to the bottom of this right now. “The note, I have some reservations about its authenticity. May I ask who delivered it?” “Miyamoto Musashi,” Okinaga said, pausing to emphasize the importance of the matter “The message was delivered by Itto Isamu himself.”
Friday, May 19, 2006
Chapter 2
High atop the roof of Kumamoto Castle the Red Ninja watched in amusement as all hell broke loose. The Kumamoto Samurai were put on high alert the instant Itto Isamu’s body was found.
From his vantage point, Goda could see everything. The Kumamoto Samurai responded quickly. Guards were reinforced and search patrols were sent out. Their blazing torches lit up the alleys of the surrounding town. The shouts of the Samurai echoed through the night.
Goda smiled inwardly. The Samurai were scared. Man always feared what he did not understand, what he could not see. Their fear made them weak.
The Red Ninja moved back from the edge of the roof. He knelt down and closed his eyes. Slowing his heart rate, he used an ancient technique known only to the members of the Clan to make contact with his Master. Goda’s consciousness entered a dark place. There, he waited.
A threatening voice spoke from the darkness. “Did you succeed in your mission?”
“Yes, my Master,” replied Goda confidently.
“Excellent,” the voice praised. “What did the old Kensai master have to say?”
“Exactly as we had anticipated. The sword is resting in the Dead Forest. He spoke of a map that showed its precise location.”
“Where is the map?” the voice said anxiously.
“It is hidden,” Goda said, with a smile on his face. “At The House on the Volcano.”
“This may be a problem,” the voice spoke worriedly. “It is a difficult residence to breach.”
“My Lord, I have grown powerful under your guidance. I will not fail you.”
The Clan Master paused for a brief moment, pleased that finally the Sword of Souls would be in their possession. “Good. The Kensai are on the brink of extinction and the Sword of Souls will soon be ours. You are proving to be most useful, my young apprentice.”
The Clan Master spoke from the darkness and meticulously laid out his instructions for the next mission. He spoke with confidence, and excitement.
With the approval of his Master, the Red Ninja slowly brought his consciousness back to his present surroundings. The shouts of the Kumamoto Samurai continued.
Goda was not at all worried about infiltrating Okinaga’s fortress. He had been there before. It felt like a lifetime ago he had memorised every inch of the residence. But he still remembered. He remembered how he was just a spy who worked only for money, a mercenary for hire, a man who wore black. Reconnaissance, espionage, and assassination were his business and his services were not cheap. He remembered that night ten years ago, not only because the payload would have been enough to retire on, but also because absolutely nothing went right. But then again he wasn’t the powerful Clan member he is today; he was just a man, a man who wore black to blend in with the night.
It was ten years ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
Goda remembered he was dressed in the clothes of the Koga Ninja as he moved silently through the night, across the roof of Lord Sato Okinaga’s main residence.
His mission was simple.
On him he carried only his most basic weapons and tools: a grappling hook, a knife and a pair of handspikes. There would be no need for a sword. The instructions of his employer echoed in his head. Do not engage anyone unless absolutely necessary.
Goda paused at the edge of the roof and looked out at the ground three stories below him. He could barely see the perfectly kept garden surrounding the huge house as he scanned the darkness for the patrolling guards.
He was amazed at how different things looked at night. It would be impossible to move around if he hadn’t studied the entire layout of the house and grounds for weeks in advance.
He crouched down as a gust of wind kicked up, careful not to move any of the tiles on the roof. Goda looked skyward and saw the crescent shape of the moon appear behind the clouds. The dull light just barely enough to illuminate the leather armour of the guards. All of them armed to the teeth and ready to die protecting Lord Sato.
As he knelt on the edge of the roof, he studied the movements of the patrol one more time. The guards moved about just like they had done every night for the past three weeks. Their behaviour was now totally predictable.
But something was wrong.
Goda counted the guards. He could only see twenty. Every other night there had been twenty-one. Where was the last guard? He double-checked the count, moving across the roof to make sure he wasn’t making any mistakes.
Again he came up with twenty.
Was the guard sick? Had he been relieved of his duty for some kind of indiscretion?
Goda knew that samurai led a strict life. One little mistake could cost them their life. He had heard rumours of some Lords demanding their guards to perform ritual suicide for something as little as wearing their armour incorrectly. Other Lords simply cut off the fingers of a samurai they had deemed not worthy. While this option spared their life, it greatly diminished their ability to wield a sword. A fate worse than death.
Goda counted the guards again. There were definitely only twenty. Maybe he was hiding somewhere? The last possibility frightened Goda. Weeks of preparations could be undone. He forced the idea out of his head. It did not make any difference he thought. His training had turned him into a ghost; he had learnt how to become invisible. There was no way one samurai could prevent him from achieving his objective.
He turned his attention back to the surrounding garden. It stretched out for more than fifty meters in every direction from the house. In the dark of night it seemed to go on forever. The garden was enclosed by an intimidating fifteen metre stonewall. It made this residence one of the most fortified in the land.
But the real fortification was not man made.
The house and surrounding garden had been built on the side of a semi-active volcano. The volcano was not violent when it erupted, which it had done only once since Lord Okinaga had live here. Any lava flowing down the side of the volcano was re-directed away from the residence by a huge moat. If the moat failed, the stonewall would not. The volcano was the reason Lord Sato Okinaga chose this site to build his home. It was the perfect defence and the ultimate deterrent for anyone considering raising an army against him.
Goda admired the dark silhouette of the volcano as he looked up from the roof to the north. It sat dormant; it’s silence belying its power.
At the southern end of the garden was a natural spring pool. On the other side of this pool and beyond the fifteen metre high wall, was a sheer cliff face. Half man made, half natural, it added to the already seemingly impenetrable security of the residence. Goda knew that Lord Okinaga was the envy of many others in the land who could only dream of the security offered by the volcano.
Goda remembered feeling mixed emotions of excitement and apprehension when he was told he would be infiltrating the famous house on the volcano, a tough assignment even for him.
Ultimately he remained determined. A volcano or any fortification would not deter Goda, no matter how high.
He had easily climbed the northern wall. The stones that made up the impressive fortification had provided perfect hand and foot holds. The climb being made easier by metal spikes attached to the palms of his hands. The spikes, he had discovered, were not only great for climbing, but were impressive weapons as well. They had saved his life once and he had never left on a mission without them since.
Looking out into the darkness, he strained his eyes to see the southern wall but found nothing. He needed to make his way to the pool.
The pool was his target tonight.
His instructions were clear. Complete the mission, return to the rendezvous point and wait for further instructions. Do not engage anyone unless absolutely necessary.
As he listened for the familiar sound of trickling water, Goda waited for the right moment and then dropped to the ground effortlessly and silently. The guards continued their patrol, totally oblivious to his presence.
He moved through the night quickly, nothing more than a shadow. He came to the pool at the southern end of the garden and removed a small bottle from his sleeve. Pouring the contents into the water his mission was now complete.
He turned and surveyed his surroundings, looking for his escape route. He wished he could simply climb over the southern wall, but climbing down the cliff in the pitch black of night would lead to a certain death. He needed to make his way back to northern side. This would be no easy task. The timing was crucial. The guards needed to be in the right positions.
Just as he was about to make his escape, he heard what sounded like a muffled footstep. Goda turned. The next noise he heard was the unmistakeable sound of a spear flying through the air, the deep whoosh breaking the silence of the night. Leaping back, he saw the dark outline of a guard.
It had to be the missing guard, he thought.
No one had ever snuck up on Goda and he was determined to make it the last time.
The guard attacked again. He was fast and strong, his technique forged through years of relentless training. Goda leapt to the side, just barely avoiding the full brunt of the spear.
He needed to end this now.
The guard, determined to finish off the intruder brought his spear slicing down one more time. Goda caught the sharp end of the spear between his palms, his hands protected by the metal climbing spikes. He twisted the spear and pulled it free from the guard, throwing it into the pool.
The guard had made a crucial error in judgement. He should have raised the alarm and waited for reinforcements. But instead, he had acted out of greed. He had attacked in a vain attempt to capture the intruder, hoping to gain the praise of Lord Okinaga for himself.
His mistake was deadly.
Momentarily in shock, the guard presented an opening in his armour. Pulling free his grappling hook, Goda threw it at the guard’s neck, piercing his windpipe.
The guard fell on one knee.
Goda rushed forward and tied the rope tight around the guard’s neck.
There was no time to think. He simply acted.
Leaping to the far side of the pool with the rope in hand he scaled the fifteen metre stonewall with incredible speed. When he reached the top, he jumped.
Goda fell downwards into a dark abyss, rapidly accelerating towards his death. He was still clutching the rope attached to the guard. He couldn’t see how far the drop was but he knew he wouldn’t survive it.
As he fell, the rope tightened around the guard’s neck, still kneeling on the ground on the other side of the wall. The rope turned into a pulley as the weight of Goda falling instantly pulled the guard across the pool and over the stonewall.
As the guard was launched over the wall and the rope became slack, Goda slammed his hand against the cliff face in a desperate attempt to slow his descent. His metal spikes screeching against the rocks trying hopelessly to catch on to anything. Each vibration felt like nails being hammered into his hand. He gritted his teeth and blocked out the pain.
As he continued to fall and pick up speed, time seemed to slow down. He felt like he had been falling for an eternity. Both he and the guard were now falling to their deaths. His only thought was that the second phase of his mission was not complete. He needed to return to the rendezvous point. He needed to live.
Finally the spikes caught on a jagged stone and his descent came to an abrupt halt, the force dislocating his shoulder in the process. The man in black screamed. The noise lost in the howling wind tearing across the cliff face.
A split second later, the body of the guard came flying past as it fell towards the earth below. Goda let go of the rope attached to the guard and watched it slip into the darkness.
He hung on the cliff in the night, his shoulder throbbing with pain, the tendons straining under his weight. He tried desperately to regain his composure.
It had happened all so fast, a matter of seconds. It was just a reflex. Goda shifted his weight and tried to get a foothold on the cliff to ease the pressure on his shoulder.
He felt like he had cheated death.
Goda weighed up his options. He could climb back up to the top and make his way over the stone wall hoping no one had heard the struggle. Or he could attempt to climb down the rest of the cliff. Both options sounded like suicide but he had no choice. He needed to make his way back to the rendezvous point. There he would receive further instructions. This was his top priority.
He looked skyward, craning his neck to see the House on the Volcano. But it was too dark. The wind intensified, chilling him to the bone. Lifting his good arm up, he began the slow and painful climb back to the top, satisfied that his mission was complete and determined to make it to the rendezvous.
Goda shivered as he remembered that dark night. He should not have survived. He should have fallen to his death. Fate it would seem had other plans. He was stronger now, powerful enough to eliminate the legendary Itto Isamu. Never again would he come so close to failure.
Goda moved to the edge of the roof Kumamoto castle and surveyed the terrain below. The cries of the searching samurai were full of panic.
Goda sat perched, like an owl watching it’s prey. He could feel their fear.
He removed a metallic pole that had been secured to his back. The pole was about three feet in length and was covered in leather straps that served as grip.
He triggered a button located near the centre of the pole. Instantly a blade extended from within the pole with a lightning quickness. Goda studied the edge of the blade. It glowed in the moonlight.
His attention returned to the ground below him. The Samurai were still searching for the killer of Itto Isamu: their fear growing with every passing second.
Goda smiled. It was time to reward himself for his excellent work.
With the anticipation of fresh blood he jumped from the roof of Kumamoto Castle.
Landing silently on the ground he moved undetected to the rear of a patrolling Samurai. The Samurai was dressed in full battle armour. He carried on him two swords, one short and one long, the ultimate symbol of a warrior. In his hand was a nine-foot spear.
This warrior was a formidable opponent. However, on this particular night, this unfortunate Samurai never knew what hit him.
Goda attacked, slicing the Samurai’s throat. The cut was so precise, the blade so sharp it took the guard’s head clean off. He fell to the ground; blood spurting from the carotid artery and covering Goda. It was instantly absorbed into his red gi.
Goda moved out into the night. There was still time to play before his next mission. And right now, there was plenty of scared Samurai to satisfy his lust for blood.
From his vantage point, Goda could see everything. The Kumamoto Samurai responded quickly. Guards were reinforced and search patrols were sent out. Their blazing torches lit up the alleys of the surrounding town. The shouts of the Samurai echoed through the night.
Goda smiled inwardly. The Samurai were scared. Man always feared what he did not understand, what he could not see. Their fear made them weak.
The Red Ninja moved back from the edge of the roof. He knelt down and closed his eyes. Slowing his heart rate, he used an ancient technique known only to the members of the Clan to make contact with his Master. Goda’s consciousness entered a dark place. There, he waited.
A threatening voice spoke from the darkness. “Did you succeed in your mission?”
“Yes, my Master,” replied Goda confidently.
“Excellent,” the voice praised. “What did the old Kensai master have to say?”
“Exactly as we had anticipated. The sword is resting in the Dead Forest. He spoke of a map that showed its precise location.”
“Where is the map?” the voice said anxiously.
“It is hidden,” Goda said, with a smile on his face. “At The House on the Volcano.”
“This may be a problem,” the voice spoke worriedly. “It is a difficult residence to breach.”
“My Lord, I have grown powerful under your guidance. I will not fail you.”
The Clan Master paused for a brief moment, pleased that finally the Sword of Souls would be in their possession. “Good. The Kensai are on the brink of extinction and the Sword of Souls will soon be ours. You are proving to be most useful, my young apprentice.”
The Clan Master spoke from the darkness and meticulously laid out his instructions for the next mission. He spoke with confidence, and excitement.
With the approval of his Master, the Red Ninja slowly brought his consciousness back to his present surroundings. The shouts of the Kumamoto Samurai continued.
Goda was not at all worried about infiltrating Okinaga’s fortress. He had been there before. It felt like a lifetime ago he had memorised every inch of the residence. But he still remembered. He remembered how he was just a spy who worked only for money, a mercenary for hire, a man who wore black. Reconnaissance, espionage, and assassination were his business and his services were not cheap. He remembered that night ten years ago, not only because the payload would have been enough to retire on, but also because absolutely nothing went right. But then again he wasn’t the powerful Clan member he is today; he was just a man, a man who wore black to blend in with the night.
It was ten years ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
Goda remembered he was dressed in the clothes of the Koga Ninja as he moved silently through the night, across the roof of Lord Sato Okinaga’s main residence.
His mission was simple.
On him he carried only his most basic weapons and tools: a grappling hook, a knife and a pair of handspikes. There would be no need for a sword. The instructions of his employer echoed in his head. Do not engage anyone unless absolutely necessary.
Goda paused at the edge of the roof and looked out at the ground three stories below him. He could barely see the perfectly kept garden surrounding the huge house as he scanned the darkness for the patrolling guards.
He was amazed at how different things looked at night. It would be impossible to move around if he hadn’t studied the entire layout of the house and grounds for weeks in advance.
He crouched down as a gust of wind kicked up, careful not to move any of the tiles on the roof. Goda looked skyward and saw the crescent shape of the moon appear behind the clouds. The dull light just barely enough to illuminate the leather armour of the guards. All of them armed to the teeth and ready to die protecting Lord Sato.
As he knelt on the edge of the roof, he studied the movements of the patrol one more time. The guards moved about just like they had done every night for the past three weeks. Their behaviour was now totally predictable.
But something was wrong.
Goda counted the guards. He could only see twenty. Every other night there had been twenty-one. Where was the last guard? He double-checked the count, moving across the roof to make sure he wasn’t making any mistakes.
Again he came up with twenty.
Was the guard sick? Had he been relieved of his duty for some kind of indiscretion?
Goda knew that samurai led a strict life. One little mistake could cost them their life. He had heard rumours of some Lords demanding their guards to perform ritual suicide for something as little as wearing their armour incorrectly. Other Lords simply cut off the fingers of a samurai they had deemed not worthy. While this option spared their life, it greatly diminished their ability to wield a sword. A fate worse than death.
Goda counted the guards again. There were definitely only twenty. Maybe he was hiding somewhere? The last possibility frightened Goda. Weeks of preparations could be undone. He forced the idea out of his head. It did not make any difference he thought. His training had turned him into a ghost; he had learnt how to become invisible. There was no way one samurai could prevent him from achieving his objective.
He turned his attention back to the surrounding garden. It stretched out for more than fifty meters in every direction from the house. In the dark of night it seemed to go on forever. The garden was enclosed by an intimidating fifteen metre stonewall. It made this residence one of the most fortified in the land.
But the real fortification was not man made.
The house and surrounding garden had been built on the side of a semi-active volcano. The volcano was not violent when it erupted, which it had done only once since Lord Okinaga had live here. Any lava flowing down the side of the volcano was re-directed away from the residence by a huge moat. If the moat failed, the stonewall would not. The volcano was the reason Lord Sato Okinaga chose this site to build his home. It was the perfect defence and the ultimate deterrent for anyone considering raising an army against him.
Goda admired the dark silhouette of the volcano as he looked up from the roof to the north. It sat dormant; it’s silence belying its power.
At the southern end of the garden was a natural spring pool. On the other side of this pool and beyond the fifteen metre high wall, was a sheer cliff face. Half man made, half natural, it added to the already seemingly impenetrable security of the residence. Goda knew that Lord Okinaga was the envy of many others in the land who could only dream of the security offered by the volcano.
Goda remembered feeling mixed emotions of excitement and apprehension when he was told he would be infiltrating the famous house on the volcano, a tough assignment even for him.
Ultimately he remained determined. A volcano or any fortification would not deter Goda, no matter how high.
He had easily climbed the northern wall. The stones that made up the impressive fortification had provided perfect hand and foot holds. The climb being made easier by metal spikes attached to the palms of his hands. The spikes, he had discovered, were not only great for climbing, but were impressive weapons as well. They had saved his life once and he had never left on a mission without them since.
Looking out into the darkness, he strained his eyes to see the southern wall but found nothing. He needed to make his way to the pool.
The pool was his target tonight.
His instructions were clear. Complete the mission, return to the rendezvous point and wait for further instructions. Do not engage anyone unless absolutely necessary.
As he listened for the familiar sound of trickling water, Goda waited for the right moment and then dropped to the ground effortlessly and silently. The guards continued their patrol, totally oblivious to his presence.
He moved through the night quickly, nothing more than a shadow. He came to the pool at the southern end of the garden and removed a small bottle from his sleeve. Pouring the contents into the water his mission was now complete.
He turned and surveyed his surroundings, looking for his escape route. He wished he could simply climb over the southern wall, but climbing down the cliff in the pitch black of night would lead to a certain death. He needed to make his way back to northern side. This would be no easy task. The timing was crucial. The guards needed to be in the right positions.
Just as he was about to make his escape, he heard what sounded like a muffled footstep. Goda turned. The next noise he heard was the unmistakeable sound of a spear flying through the air, the deep whoosh breaking the silence of the night. Leaping back, he saw the dark outline of a guard.
It had to be the missing guard, he thought.
No one had ever snuck up on Goda and he was determined to make it the last time.
The guard attacked again. He was fast and strong, his technique forged through years of relentless training. Goda leapt to the side, just barely avoiding the full brunt of the spear.
He needed to end this now.
The guard, determined to finish off the intruder brought his spear slicing down one more time. Goda caught the sharp end of the spear between his palms, his hands protected by the metal climbing spikes. He twisted the spear and pulled it free from the guard, throwing it into the pool.
The guard had made a crucial error in judgement. He should have raised the alarm and waited for reinforcements. But instead, he had acted out of greed. He had attacked in a vain attempt to capture the intruder, hoping to gain the praise of Lord Okinaga for himself.
His mistake was deadly.
Momentarily in shock, the guard presented an opening in his armour. Pulling free his grappling hook, Goda threw it at the guard’s neck, piercing his windpipe.
The guard fell on one knee.
Goda rushed forward and tied the rope tight around the guard’s neck.
There was no time to think. He simply acted.
Leaping to the far side of the pool with the rope in hand he scaled the fifteen metre stonewall with incredible speed. When he reached the top, he jumped.
Goda fell downwards into a dark abyss, rapidly accelerating towards his death. He was still clutching the rope attached to the guard. He couldn’t see how far the drop was but he knew he wouldn’t survive it.
As he fell, the rope tightened around the guard’s neck, still kneeling on the ground on the other side of the wall. The rope turned into a pulley as the weight of Goda falling instantly pulled the guard across the pool and over the stonewall.
As the guard was launched over the wall and the rope became slack, Goda slammed his hand against the cliff face in a desperate attempt to slow his descent. His metal spikes screeching against the rocks trying hopelessly to catch on to anything. Each vibration felt like nails being hammered into his hand. He gritted his teeth and blocked out the pain.
As he continued to fall and pick up speed, time seemed to slow down. He felt like he had been falling for an eternity. Both he and the guard were now falling to their deaths. His only thought was that the second phase of his mission was not complete. He needed to return to the rendezvous point. He needed to live.
Finally the spikes caught on a jagged stone and his descent came to an abrupt halt, the force dislocating his shoulder in the process. The man in black screamed. The noise lost in the howling wind tearing across the cliff face.
A split second later, the body of the guard came flying past as it fell towards the earth below. Goda let go of the rope attached to the guard and watched it slip into the darkness.
He hung on the cliff in the night, his shoulder throbbing with pain, the tendons straining under his weight. He tried desperately to regain his composure.
It had happened all so fast, a matter of seconds. It was just a reflex. Goda shifted his weight and tried to get a foothold on the cliff to ease the pressure on his shoulder.
He felt like he had cheated death.
Goda weighed up his options. He could climb back up to the top and make his way over the stone wall hoping no one had heard the struggle. Or he could attempt to climb down the rest of the cliff. Both options sounded like suicide but he had no choice. He needed to make his way back to the rendezvous point. There he would receive further instructions. This was his top priority.
He looked skyward, craning his neck to see the House on the Volcano. But it was too dark. The wind intensified, chilling him to the bone. Lifting his good arm up, he began the slow and painful climb back to the top, satisfied that his mission was complete and determined to make it to the rendezvous.
Goda shivered as he remembered that dark night. He should not have survived. He should have fallen to his death. Fate it would seem had other plans. He was stronger now, powerful enough to eliminate the legendary Itto Isamu. Never again would he come so close to failure.
Goda moved to the edge of the roof Kumamoto castle and surveyed the terrain below. The cries of the searching samurai were full of panic.
Goda sat perched, like an owl watching it’s prey. He could feel their fear.
He removed a metallic pole that had been secured to his back. The pole was about three feet in length and was covered in leather straps that served as grip.
He triggered a button located near the centre of the pole. Instantly a blade extended from within the pole with a lightning quickness. Goda studied the edge of the blade. It glowed in the moonlight.
His attention returned to the ground below him. The Samurai were still searching for the killer of Itto Isamu: their fear growing with every passing second.
Goda smiled. It was time to reward himself for his excellent work.
With the anticipation of fresh blood he jumped from the roof of Kumamoto Castle.
Landing silently on the ground he moved undetected to the rear of a patrolling Samurai. The Samurai was dressed in full battle armour. He carried on him two swords, one short and one long, the ultimate symbol of a warrior. In his hand was a nine-foot spear.
This warrior was a formidable opponent. However, on this particular night, this unfortunate Samurai never knew what hit him.
Goda attacked, slicing the Samurai’s throat. The cut was so precise, the blade so sharp it took the guard’s head clean off. He fell to the ground; blood spurting from the carotid artery and covering Goda. It was instantly absorbed into his red gi.
Goda moved out into the night. There was still time to play before his next mission. And right now, there was plenty of scared Samurai to satisfy his lust for blood.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Chapter 1
Miyamoto Musashi awoke from a troubled sleep with sweat dripping off his face. His breathing was heavy. He sat up and tried to calm himself. He was tired of these nightmares.
Musashi looked around and was surprised to find himself in a room. It was still night.
Momentarily unsure of where he was, he stood up to get his bearings. Musashi couldn’t remember the last time he had slept indoors.
As Musashi stood, he felt a dull pain in his leg muscles. His memory suddenly cleared. He was staying as a guest of Lord Sato Okinaga, at the famous House on the Volcano. He had spent the most part of the previous day climbing to the top.
Lord Okinaga was a powerful Daimyo - Master Samurai. Musashi knew if there was any place in the world where he could get a good night sleep, it was here. Although building a house on the side of a volcano sounded like madness to most people, the truth was, this was the best protected house of any Lord.
Musashi rose from his bed, using the sheets to wipe the sweat off his muscular body. He ran his hardened hands through his coarse black hair and sat crossed legged on the floor. He straightened his back and placed his hands together high above his head. He inhaled deeply as he drew his hands inward to his chest and then exhaled slowly as he extended them outwards in front of him. He repeated this process. All the while concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing.
His mind wandered. The events of the previous morning played over in his head: the duel with Sasaki Kojiro, Demon of the Western Province.
Musashi couldn’t get the look of Kojiro’s face out of his mind. The look of a man incensed with rage. It was seared into his memory.
The duel took place on Ganryu Island. A destination agreed upon by both men.
Musashi knew Kojiro was an accomplished Samurai. He possessed incredible skill in unarmed combat and was a master of Kenjutsu – way of the sword.
Musashi didn’t take any chances. He devised a simple plan to break Kojiro’s focus.
He turned up late.
Kojiro’s reaction was as predictable as it was severe.
“ I am Sasaki Kojiro of the Hosokawa Samurai,” the angered Kojiro had shouted. “Master of swordsmanship and rightful owner of the Drying Pole sword. I wish to advise you that I arrived on time as arranged. I take your lateness as a personal insult. You have brought shame to your Master and to yourself. I will honour you with a warrior’s death.”
Musashi jumped out of the small boat he had travelled to the island on, landing in the shallow water. The servant who had rowed the boat slumped over, exhausted.
“I am Miyamoto Musashi. I am no Samurai, I serve no master and I am the rightful owner of this wooden sword I just carved from an oar.”
Kojiro’s rage subsided slightly as he laughed at Musashi’s wooden sword. “And what exactly do you intend to do with that?”
Musashi said nothing. He simply stared Kojiro down.
“You must want to die,” Kojiro scorned, as he unsheathed his sword. “You do not stand a chance against me.”
He pointed his sword at the crowd who had gathered on the island to watch the duel. “These people have come here today to watch me kill you,” he said restraining the anger in his voice. “They will not be disappointed. I have developed a sword style so deadly; I have never been defeated in combat. My sword is made of the highest quality steel. Not once in over 400 years of use has the cutting edge of the blade been damaged.”
The crowd’s excitement grew as they sensed the moment they had been waiting for coming to a head.
Kojiro threw his scabbard to the ground and held his sword in both hands. “So you see Ronin, your wooden sword is as good as useless,” he menaced, rasing the sword above his head. “And you are as good as dead!”
Sasaki Kojiro charged.
Musashi smiled. His mind was focused, his muscles ready. “You have lost Kojiro.”
Musashi stood his ground and raised the wooden sword above his head. As Kojiro charged he brought the wooden sword slicing down a split second before his opponent could react, cracking his skull open.
Kojiro dropped to his knees. A split second later he collapsed in the shallow water. Blood flowed from Kojiro’s skull turning the calm water red. Musashi brought his wooden sword slicing down one more time and finished off his once eager opponent.
The crowd fell silent.
Musashi knelt beside Kojiro and presented a small cloth. As a sign of respect he placed it over his opponents bloodied face. He picked up the legendary sword that had served Kojiro so well, drying the blade on his sleeve before sheathing it back in its scabbard. He walked over to the crowd. A young warrior stepped forward. It was Kojiro’s student.
Musashi held out the sword in both hands. “I believe your master would want you to have this,” he said, bowing as he offered the sword.
The student returned the bow. He was unable to say anything. He simply looked at Musashi, at the Ronin, totally shocked by what a man with a wooden sword could do.
The sound of distant tapping brought Musashi’s mind reeling back to the present.
A voice spoke through the door. “Lord Miyamoto…”
Musashi wasn’t used to being called Lord. The person on the other side must be a servant.
“Lord Miyamoto,” the servant continued. “You have been invited to sit with Lord Sato Okinaga.”
At this hour?
Musashi was honoured but he was totally exhausted. “Please tell Lord Sato that I am not feeling well. But I will be able to speak with him tomorrow morning.”
The servant persisted “I am not sure that he can wait ‘till then.”
Musashi wondered what could possibly be so important. “I understand that I am Lord Sato’s guest but I really…”
The servant interrupted Musashi by sliding open his bedroom door. The servant was kneeling, his face pressed against the floor. In front of him was a piece of paper. “My orders are to bring you to Lord Sato. Please, you must read this.”
Musashi picked up the piece of paper. He did not believe what he read.
Itto Isamu is dead. The Clan is back.
Musashi looked around and was surprised to find himself in a room. It was still night.
Momentarily unsure of where he was, he stood up to get his bearings. Musashi couldn’t remember the last time he had slept indoors.
As Musashi stood, he felt a dull pain in his leg muscles. His memory suddenly cleared. He was staying as a guest of Lord Sato Okinaga, at the famous House on the Volcano. He had spent the most part of the previous day climbing to the top.
Lord Okinaga was a powerful Daimyo - Master Samurai. Musashi knew if there was any place in the world where he could get a good night sleep, it was here. Although building a house on the side of a volcano sounded like madness to most people, the truth was, this was the best protected house of any Lord.
Musashi rose from his bed, using the sheets to wipe the sweat off his muscular body. He ran his hardened hands through his coarse black hair and sat crossed legged on the floor. He straightened his back and placed his hands together high above his head. He inhaled deeply as he drew his hands inward to his chest and then exhaled slowly as he extended them outwards in front of him. He repeated this process. All the while concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing.
His mind wandered. The events of the previous morning played over in his head: the duel with Sasaki Kojiro, Demon of the Western Province.
Musashi couldn’t get the look of Kojiro’s face out of his mind. The look of a man incensed with rage. It was seared into his memory.
The duel took place on Ganryu Island. A destination agreed upon by both men.
Musashi knew Kojiro was an accomplished Samurai. He possessed incredible skill in unarmed combat and was a master of Kenjutsu – way of the sword.
Musashi didn’t take any chances. He devised a simple plan to break Kojiro’s focus.
He turned up late.
Kojiro’s reaction was as predictable as it was severe.
“ I am Sasaki Kojiro of the Hosokawa Samurai,” the angered Kojiro had shouted. “Master of swordsmanship and rightful owner of the Drying Pole sword. I wish to advise you that I arrived on time as arranged. I take your lateness as a personal insult. You have brought shame to your Master and to yourself. I will honour you with a warrior’s death.”
Musashi jumped out of the small boat he had travelled to the island on, landing in the shallow water. The servant who had rowed the boat slumped over, exhausted.
“I am Miyamoto Musashi. I am no Samurai, I serve no master and I am the rightful owner of this wooden sword I just carved from an oar.”
Kojiro’s rage subsided slightly as he laughed at Musashi’s wooden sword. “And what exactly do you intend to do with that?”
Musashi said nothing. He simply stared Kojiro down.
“You must want to die,” Kojiro scorned, as he unsheathed his sword. “You do not stand a chance against me.”
He pointed his sword at the crowd who had gathered on the island to watch the duel. “These people have come here today to watch me kill you,” he said restraining the anger in his voice. “They will not be disappointed. I have developed a sword style so deadly; I have never been defeated in combat. My sword is made of the highest quality steel. Not once in over 400 years of use has the cutting edge of the blade been damaged.”
The crowd’s excitement grew as they sensed the moment they had been waiting for coming to a head.
Kojiro threw his scabbard to the ground and held his sword in both hands. “So you see Ronin, your wooden sword is as good as useless,” he menaced, rasing the sword above his head. “And you are as good as dead!”
Sasaki Kojiro charged.
Musashi smiled. His mind was focused, his muscles ready. “You have lost Kojiro.”
Musashi stood his ground and raised the wooden sword above his head. As Kojiro charged he brought the wooden sword slicing down a split second before his opponent could react, cracking his skull open.
Kojiro dropped to his knees. A split second later he collapsed in the shallow water. Blood flowed from Kojiro’s skull turning the calm water red. Musashi brought his wooden sword slicing down one more time and finished off his once eager opponent.
The crowd fell silent.
Musashi knelt beside Kojiro and presented a small cloth. As a sign of respect he placed it over his opponents bloodied face. He picked up the legendary sword that had served Kojiro so well, drying the blade on his sleeve before sheathing it back in its scabbard. He walked over to the crowd. A young warrior stepped forward. It was Kojiro’s student.
Musashi held out the sword in both hands. “I believe your master would want you to have this,” he said, bowing as he offered the sword.
The student returned the bow. He was unable to say anything. He simply looked at Musashi, at the Ronin, totally shocked by what a man with a wooden sword could do.
The sound of distant tapping brought Musashi’s mind reeling back to the present.
A voice spoke through the door. “Lord Miyamoto…”
Musashi wasn’t used to being called Lord. The person on the other side must be a servant.
“Lord Miyamoto,” the servant continued. “You have been invited to sit with Lord Sato Okinaga.”
At this hour?
Musashi was honoured but he was totally exhausted. “Please tell Lord Sato that I am not feeling well. But I will be able to speak with him tomorrow morning.”
The servant persisted “I am not sure that he can wait ‘till then.”
Musashi wondered what could possibly be so important. “I understand that I am Lord Sato’s guest but I really…”
The servant interrupted Musashi by sliding open his bedroom door. The servant was kneeling, his face pressed against the floor. In front of him was a piece of paper. “My orders are to bring you to Lord Sato. Please, you must read this.”
Musashi picked up the piece of paper. He did not believe what he read.
Itto Isamu is dead. The Clan is back.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Prologue
Itto Isamu sat kneeling on a mattressed floor in a room deep within Kumamoto Castle. The Kensai Master has let go of his consciousness. His mind is clear. A single candle lights up the room with ease. The flame is long and still.
Itto Isamu had mastered the art of meditation a long time ago. Through it he could see things no one else could. The past, the present, even the future. He could see through the deceptive nature of people and reveal their true intentions. Itto Isamu had sharpened his mind into a most useful weapon.
Sometimes, however, his mind showed him things he would rather not see.
“You betrayed me, master.”
“No.”
“Open your eyes. You should never have taught me your secrets. You knew this but you continued my training anyway. Why?
Isamu didn’t know how to explain his actions. How do you tell someone they were a sacrifice?
“Open your eyes, master. Your silence proves your guilt.”
“I need you to trust me,” Isamu pleaded.
“Open your eyes.”
Itto Isamu snapped open his eyes. His mind returned to his present surroundings.
A slight disturbance in the room broke the calm. The shadows cast by the candlelight came to life. He feels a presence in the room. A presence he has not felt in what seems like a lifetime.
It was Goda, the Red Ninja.
Isamu began slowly reaching for his Katana. The sword was resting next to him in its scabbard. “Goda,” Isamu spoke, his voice calm. “Only someone as bold as you would dare infiltrate Kumamoto Castle.”
“I disagree,” Goda replied from the shadows. “Only someone as skilled as me would dare infiltrate the Castle.”
“You always were overconfident in your abilities,” Isamu mocked, his hand almost upon the hilt of his sword.
“And you always were too slow, my old Master.”
Isamu felt the pain of an old wound cut open. “I failed you once Goda. I will not fail you again.”
“Then strike me down old man.”
Itto Isamu had had enough. Goda would die right here in this room, by the sword of a Kensai Master.
He visualised the attack. His sword would leap forward and strike in one fluid motion, almost of its own accord. He inhaled slowly. Then, he moved.
Isamu acted fast. Lightning fast. His reflexes were still razor sharp after all these years. He grabbed the handle of his sword, ready to attack. But something was wrong. There was no fluid motion. The sword did not strike. Instantly he felt a pinprick like pain. A burning sensation shot up his arm. He looked down at his wrist and saw two puncture wounds on his hand. He immediately felt nauseas. The room began to spin.
Isamu dropped his sword, its metal blade clanging on the wooden floor. Hunched over, he vomited.
“Quite toxic, isn’t it?” Goda said, his voice cold.
Toxic?
Isamu looked around, confused as to what Goda was referring to. To his utter amazement he saw a black snake slither away.
“This particular snake’s venom is extremely lethal,” Goda continued. “It attacks the nervous system of its prey. Causing death by paralysis. Soon you will lose feeling in your arms and legs. After that, your internal organs will shut down. Your lungs will stop breathing. Your heart will stop beating.”
Isamu looked over at Goda. He was standing in the shadows as he always did.
The black snake that had bit him slithered away slowly. It continued in the direction of Goda. It then slithered up his leg and around his body.
“But as you can see this is no ordinary snake,” Goda said menacingly. “And it possesses no ordinary venom.”
The snake curled around Goda’s body and slithered into his open mouth, disappearing from view. Isamu did not believe his own eyes.
He must be seeing things, Isamu thought. It must be the poison playing tricks on his mind.
Isamu vomited again. He could feel the poison tighten its grip on his body. He started to lose feeling in his limbs. “Goda,” he said, struggling to talk. “What have you become?”
The Red Ninja stepped out of the shadows and stood over the dieing Kensai Master. “I have become more powerful than you could ever imagine.”
Isamu looked deep inside Goda’s eyes. He was truly lost to the ways of evil. But Isamu could sense something else, something more dangerous than just blind malevolence. Goda's destruction had a purpose.
A wicked smile crept across the Red Ninja's face. “Yes old man. You can feel it. You know its power.”
Isamu shook his head in denial. It can’t be true.
Goda leant down and grabbed Isamu’s hair pulling his head back. “The Clan is back.”
“No! That’s impossible,” he cried, struggling in vain to get free from Goda. “We killed you. We eliminated you one by one. The Clan exists only in myth now.”
“The Kensai have become blind. Search your dieing heart. You know it to be true.”
Isamu could not bring himself to believe what Goda was saying. His former student had revived a great evil and Isamu could do nothing to stop him.
“Now tell me, my old Master, Where is the Sword of Souls?”
Isamu eyes widened in horror.
The Kensai were entrusted to protect the sword from evil. For one thousand years they had been successful. The Clan could not be allowed to posses such a powerful sword.
Itto Isamu was not about to betray his fellow Kensai. And yet he felt a strange urge to share this important piece of information with a sworn enemy.
Goda smiled again. “Interesting side-effect of the poison wouldn’t you agree?”
Isamu tightened his jaw, trying desperately not to blurt out the location of the sword.
Goda continued to revel in the demise of his old Master. “It turns out, that the venom acts as both a poison and as a truth serum. Quite a marvel of nature.”
Isamu tried to crawl away but he could barely move. “So you see old man. Before you die, you will tell me all your secrets.”
Itto Isamu had mastered the art of meditation a long time ago. Through it he could see things no one else could. The past, the present, even the future. He could see through the deceptive nature of people and reveal their true intentions. Itto Isamu had sharpened his mind into a most useful weapon.
Sometimes, however, his mind showed him things he would rather not see.
“You betrayed me, master.”
“No.”
“Open your eyes. You should never have taught me your secrets. You knew this but you continued my training anyway. Why?
Isamu didn’t know how to explain his actions. How do you tell someone they were a sacrifice?
“Open your eyes, master. Your silence proves your guilt.”
“I need you to trust me,” Isamu pleaded.
“Open your eyes.”
Itto Isamu snapped open his eyes. His mind returned to his present surroundings.
A slight disturbance in the room broke the calm. The shadows cast by the candlelight came to life. He feels a presence in the room. A presence he has not felt in what seems like a lifetime.
It was Goda, the Red Ninja.
Isamu began slowly reaching for his Katana. The sword was resting next to him in its scabbard. “Goda,” Isamu spoke, his voice calm. “Only someone as bold as you would dare infiltrate Kumamoto Castle.”
“I disagree,” Goda replied from the shadows. “Only someone as skilled as me would dare infiltrate the Castle.”
“You always were overconfident in your abilities,” Isamu mocked, his hand almost upon the hilt of his sword.
“And you always were too slow, my old Master.”
Isamu felt the pain of an old wound cut open. “I failed you once Goda. I will not fail you again.”
“Then strike me down old man.”
Itto Isamu had had enough. Goda would die right here in this room, by the sword of a Kensai Master.
He visualised the attack. His sword would leap forward and strike in one fluid motion, almost of its own accord. He inhaled slowly. Then, he moved.
Isamu acted fast. Lightning fast. His reflexes were still razor sharp after all these years. He grabbed the handle of his sword, ready to attack. But something was wrong. There was no fluid motion. The sword did not strike. Instantly he felt a pinprick like pain. A burning sensation shot up his arm. He looked down at his wrist and saw two puncture wounds on his hand. He immediately felt nauseas. The room began to spin.
Isamu dropped his sword, its metal blade clanging on the wooden floor. Hunched over, he vomited.
“Quite toxic, isn’t it?” Goda said, his voice cold.
Toxic?
Isamu looked around, confused as to what Goda was referring to. To his utter amazement he saw a black snake slither away.
“This particular snake’s venom is extremely lethal,” Goda continued. “It attacks the nervous system of its prey. Causing death by paralysis. Soon you will lose feeling in your arms and legs. After that, your internal organs will shut down. Your lungs will stop breathing. Your heart will stop beating.”
Isamu looked over at Goda. He was standing in the shadows as he always did.
The black snake that had bit him slithered away slowly. It continued in the direction of Goda. It then slithered up his leg and around his body.
“But as you can see this is no ordinary snake,” Goda said menacingly. “And it possesses no ordinary venom.”
The snake curled around Goda’s body and slithered into his open mouth, disappearing from view. Isamu did not believe his own eyes.
He must be seeing things, Isamu thought. It must be the poison playing tricks on his mind.
Isamu vomited again. He could feel the poison tighten its grip on his body. He started to lose feeling in his limbs. “Goda,” he said, struggling to talk. “What have you become?”
The Red Ninja stepped out of the shadows and stood over the dieing Kensai Master. “I have become more powerful than you could ever imagine.”
Isamu looked deep inside Goda’s eyes. He was truly lost to the ways of evil. But Isamu could sense something else, something more dangerous than just blind malevolence. Goda's destruction had a purpose.
A wicked smile crept across the Red Ninja's face. “Yes old man. You can feel it. You know its power.”
Isamu shook his head in denial. It can’t be true.
Goda leant down and grabbed Isamu’s hair pulling his head back. “The Clan is back.”
“No! That’s impossible,” he cried, struggling in vain to get free from Goda. “We killed you. We eliminated you one by one. The Clan exists only in myth now.”
“The Kensai have become blind. Search your dieing heart. You know it to be true.”
Isamu could not bring himself to believe what Goda was saying. His former student had revived a great evil and Isamu could do nothing to stop him.
“Now tell me, my old Master, Where is the Sword of Souls?”
Isamu eyes widened in horror.
The Kensai were entrusted to protect the sword from evil. For one thousand years they had been successful. The Clan could not be allowed to posses such a powerful sword.
Itto Isamu was not about to betray his fellow Kensai. And yet he felt a strange urge to share this important piece of information with a sworn enemy.
Goda smiled again. “Interesting side-effect of the poison wouldn’t you agree?”
Isamu tightened his jaw, trying desperately not to blurt out the location of the sword.
Goda continued to revel in the demise of his old Master. “It turns out, that the venom acts as both a poison and as a truth serum. Quite a marvel of nature.”
Isamu tried to crawl away but he could barely move. “So you see old man. Before you die, you will tell me all your secrets.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)