Black Wolf: A Samurai Tale

Chapter One: Shadow Warrior

A light drizzle fell from leaden skies high in the rugged mountains of Kii Province. With staccato rhythm, the patter of thin droplets splashed down upon a modest hut, its thatched roof and body of warped logs and twisting branches offering only meager shelter from the storm. Distant lightning strikes flashed in the west, each accompanied by a delayed crescendo of thunder. Inside the hut, a slight, feminine figure clad completely in black sat hunched over a small table. She could hear the rumbling of the thunder grow ever louder as she gazed at thin wisps of steam curling upwards from a small cup of tea that rested between her delicate fingers. The young woman lifted the vessel to her slightly opened lips and sipped the warm liquid. By the time she had drained her teacup, a small fire nearby sputtered into oblivion. Meanwhile, the rain had strengthened to a deluge. Thick teardrops from a gloomy sky soaked through the hut’s porous roof, binding themselves into streams and gathering in murky puddles on the uneven, packed-earth floor. As she gazed into one of these tiny, reflective abysses, she sensed the approach of something outside. This thing, whatever it might be, was indisputably unfriendly.

The woman placed her teacup upon the low wooden table and quickly rose to her feet. She could feel the unwanted presence approach. It lurked outside. Instinctively, she dropped into a crouch. Perhaps whatever it was had not yet sensed her, but in any case she would need to leave quickly.

As quietly as possible, she reached for a woven basket on a wooden frame in which she carried her worldly possessions. Among these was one item in particular, a small lacquered wooden case in the shape of an elliptical cylinder, an inrō. She placed this carefully inside the basket. Once she was sure she had the inrō, the woman glanced toward the door at the far side of the single-room dwelling. It offered the only ostensible point of egress from the hut. Unfortunately, the interloper would almost certainly notice her, should she use it. She glimpsed around the room for another possible way out, her gaze falling upon a large birch chest encased in ornate iron filigree. In her mind, she could faintly hear the words of her clan master, Muredono, speaking to her. That chest contains beautiful secrets, he had once said. It had been empty when she had arrived a few days before. She looked again at the large wooden piece, noticing how out of place it seemed in this unassuming hut, otherwise adorned with old tatami—the weathered rice-straw mats strewn about haphazardly—and a modest table.

As she lifted the heavy lid of the coffer, the woman detected more movement outside. Apparently the figure, she now realized it must definitely be a man, had seen her.

Obviously not one for subtlety, he slammed against the door, nearly causing it to come crashing down. It began to whine and creak as he continued to bash against it with his shoulder.

I can hear you in there, Suko, he shouted menacingly, his words teeming with primal anger.

She wondered why the man, whose voice she did not recall ever having heard before in her life, knew her name. But, not having any inclination to find out, she peered deeply inside the chest. Its bottom, which rested on the earthen floor, was covered with a ragged cloth. Quickly, Suko tossed it aside and rapped the knuckle of her left hand against the base, producing a deep, hollow sound. Feeling around its internal edges with her dexterous fingers, she eventually discovered that its baseboard was loose. Suko pulled this aside to reveal a dark and narrow hole beneath. Though the opening was very small, so too was she. She would need to wiggle down into it.

Removing her basket from its frame and dropping it down, Suko felt as if she could see Muredono’s face grinning proudly before her. For an instant, a half smile passed onto her habitually down-turned lips before they shifted again into the hard curl of determination. Just then the door gave way behind her and came smashing to the ground.

Looking in the direction of Suko, the man growled furiously. You will be the next to succumb, he threatened as he plodded from the rainy night into the damp, mildewed hut.

Suko wasted no time. She had already passed her hips through the opening, and was squeezing her shoulders inward and forward as the door descended. She glimpsed the rough man’s balled fists and snarling lips before dropping into a narrow tunnel below. Cool water greeted her sandaled feet when she hit bottom. Pausing for the briefest of moments, she registered again the scowl on the man’s face as a blast of lightning lashed the nearby earth. Luminescent green eyes reflected in the momentarily thwarted darkness. Not bothering to wait any longer, she scrambled along down the tunnel, her soft footprints quickly disappearing in the slippery mud as she ran.

Meanwhile, the man thrust his head down through the hole in the bottom of the chest and roared diabolically, You cannot escape me, little thief, he shouted. I will catch you!

Although a part of her wanted to, Suko said nothing in response. Instead, she continued making her way down the tunnel. In just a few moments the path curved upward and ended abruptly. Ignoring the darkness, she reached out before her, touching what must have been a large, cold stone above. With some effort, she began to push it aside.

Behind her, she could hear the man exclaim, Oh, what is this? Have you stopped running? Reached the end of your convenient little rabbit hole, have you? Suddenly the man’s voice halted as he pulled his face away from the opening.

Suko shoved the stone with all of her might. Several more pushes and she had opened a space almost large enough for her to squeeze through. Once she had done this, Suko paused. Obviously, the man could have judged where she might resurface and found the rock that stopped up the exit. Her breathing was quick and heavy with the exertion. As she inhaled, her frenzied mind became focused. I have to go back, she thought. Without hesitation, she turned herself round and slid down the short tunnel from whence she had come. Something, intuition perhaps, assured her that the man had left the hut in order to catch her out in the open once she exited. He could not have squeezed his broad shoulders through the hole anyway, and would be left with no alternative.

Within a few moments, Suko had returned to the outlet beneath the chest. First her pale, small fingers then her jet-black hair drenched with rainwater, sweat, and mud emerged from it. She let out a series of nearly inaudible groans as she passed her shoulders, arms, and then hips through the opening, this time in the opposite direction from before. Once she had pulled her entire body through, Suko paused to spit out a bit of acrid fluid that had collected in her mouth. Making sure she still had her basket, she made for the now naked doorway and exited the hut. With the silent agility of a doe alert to the presence of a hungry, predatory beast, she leapt outside into the cool downpour.

Her cunning was rewarded. The man was nowhere in sight. He must have wandered outside to find the end of the tunnel, just as she had sensed he would. Relieved and satisfied that she had made the correct decision, Suko ran off into the rain-drenched forest. Moving with equine swiftness, she focused her concentration solely on increasing the distance between herself and the maniacal stranger who knew her name, and whom she determined must never catch her.

Continuing to run through the storm, she jumped lithely among trees. Suko knew this part of the forest relatively well. Even in the dim illumination of a waning moon, her nimble feet carried her unerringly forward, never slipping on the damp rocks and fallen leaves strewn along her path. She continued running until the strain in her aching muscles and the cold burning in her lungs forced her to slow down and stop. Her chest heaving, Suko dropped into a semi-crouch as she alternated between expelling warm mist from her mouth and nose and gulping in fresh, wet air. She had noticed no sign of the man whatsoever. Even if he had recognized the direction in which she had run, he must have given up the foot chase long ago. Slowly, Suko began to calm herself. She thought of the high sea cliffs near where she had grown up, and the fresh ocean air that always filled her with waves of comfort as it crept into her welcoming nostrils. This remembrance encouraged her to keep going and, no matter how minimally, restored a bit of her strength and will to continue. She had been preparing for a mission in the hut, and despite the appearance of the man, she would need to continue on her way.

Her goal lay to the south, two night’s journey on foot. Nights because if she were to travel by day she would have occasioned too great a risk that she might be noticed by provincial authorities or, worse yet, by the personal agents of Lord Gondo. Whereas the ordinary government patrols on the roads and byways of Kii typically consisted of small detachments of samurai, perhaps three or four, who stopped travelers to ask them an occasional question about where they were coming from or going to, Lord Gondo’s men were different. They would routinely threaten everyone, even pilgrims, demanding bribes, confiscating their goods. Sometimes, when women were present, they could do much worse. She shuddered. Suko had absolutely no desire to encounter any sort of authority on this journey, but being waylaid by a contingent of Gondo’s men could easily escalate into a situation of nightmarish proportions. They did not frighten her, but she held them in the highest disdain. These men were vicious and cruel mercenaries, completely amoral. Gondo seemed to prefer these qualities among those he hired into his service. Their god was silver. Their priests saké, gambling, and prostitutes, which Gondo made sure they had in abundance. By finding such men, and giving them what they wanted, Gondo made certain of their loyalty, insuring that they would continue to do his biding, regardless of what was asked.

A man without scruples, one without belief, is a man easily convinced to undertake any task, Suko had heard him say once in what seemed the distant past. As she remembered this, she began to see the image of his face. Pale, gaunt, with thin, bloodless lips. His eyes were dark, small, and set deeply within his skeletal face. They seemed to burn with a menacing cruelty and dark disdain of others. That was how he had once looked upon her, his gaze piercing through layers of humanity to stare covetously at her soul.

Suko closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again and shouted. No, not again, she cried aloud, I do not want to see that man’s face ever again. Her breathing and pulse had quickened as she set off on a slow trot forward. She would remain focused on the goal at hand, and not let her emotions obscure her judgment. Suko had set herself upon an extremely important task. She would carry it out, unto her own death. A member of the Morozumi Clan, she owed everything—her training, her well-being, even her very existence—to her family, whose venerable spirits must be obeyed.

The rain had slowly begun to subside. Light drizzle replaced torrents of water again and, as the roar of the downpour eased, the other sounds of the forest at night became audible. A hushed whistle of wind amongst the leaves, the mournful sounds of insects and birds chirping, even the occasional howl of a monkey, could be heard. Suko paused briefly. She crouched near a large, gnarled oak tree to take a sip of water gathered from a leaf and eat a small handful of sticky rice she had bundled in paper. The rice was cold, but felt pleasant on her tongue. She chewed it slowly as she stared into a small puddle that contained a reflection of the moon. Looking up from the surface of the water, disrupted by tiny rain droplets, she raised her head to gaze at the celestial orb above her. Its edges appeared indistinct and hazy in the misty night. A cloud passed before it, and the moon disappeared from Suko’s sight. In that moment, she resolved to continue her journey without further thought of unpleasant things. She would contemplate the momentarily hiding figure of the moon god, Tsukuyomi, or the taste of the rice, or the cool sensation of the rainwater against her skin, nothing more.

Suko gazed upwards once again as the half-moon became visible between dissolving clouds. Rising, she noticed something strange perched on a large branch, high in a nearby cryptomeria tree. It was as big as a man, but resembled no human being she had ever seen before. The figure seemed to be sleeping or resting quietly. A protuberance projected from the front of its face, looking something like the hooked beak of a hawk or eagle. Two great, wing-like appendages hung down from either side of its torso, seemingly in place of arms, and the creature appeared to be covered in feathers from head to toe, or rather beak to talon.

Was it some sort of hybrid of a man and a bird of prey? she asked herself. But, that was not possible. Of course, there were legends of bird-like, humanoid creatures, tengu they were called. Some said they inhabited forests such as these, but such stories were just myths and fairy tales passed on to entertain adults and frighten children. Still, something was perched on that branch, and it was no ordinary bird. It was simply too large. Against her better judgment, Suko decided to call out to the creature.

She cupped her hands in a circle around her mouth and said, Excuse me, can you hear me? The thing seemed to twitch its head slightly, but otherwise made no response. More and more intrigued, Suko opted for an act of lesser subtlety. Picking up a small pebble from the ground, she tossed it at the branch where the seeming birdman perched. Although she had aimed for a near miss, the stone managed to glance off of one of its feathered feet, prompting a reaction, if not one that Suko had intended. The creature opened its wide-set eyes with a start, and then unleashed a piercing, inhuman squawk. At the same time, it flapped what appeared to be its wings and, without hesitating, leapt down to the ground next to Suko, causing her to jump backwards to avoid being crushed.

What are you trying to do, it inquired, kill me?

With a stone? I am sorry, no, hardly, Suko replied, somewhat confused. I just wanted to get your attention.

In this you have succeeded. Now what do you want? the creature replied in a strangely high-pitched voice, slanting its head quickly from side to side as it spoke.

Suko took a step back in order to get a better look at the person with whom she was speaking. Indeed, it was a human being, or so she thought, but undoubtedly one of the most strangely attired she had ever seen. Apparently, this was a man who had constructed, out of wood, feathers, lacquered leather, metal struts, and pieces of cloth, a suit of what could only be described as ‘armor’ but which made him look like a cross between a human and an avian. On his head, he wore a large feathered helm with a red, metallic beak, which Suko had noticed from afar. Indeed he was completely covered in brown, red, black, and white feathers, all of which were joined in some manner to the outside of the armor. Attached to its sleeves, the suit boasted mighty, articulated wings, which the man manipulated quite skillfully, and was even able to fold inward and away as he stood before her.

Pardon my rudeness, please, Suko began, bowing her head. I did not mean to upset you. Your appearance high in the tree merely piqued my interest. Forgive me for throwing the stone.

The man’s defensive demeanor dissipated somewhat at Suko’s admission of culpability. Nevertheless, he remained guarded, his feathers ruffling slightly as he continued, I will consider speaking to you further if you tell me what you are doing here.

Suko paused for a moment. Unwilling to give away her identity so easily, she answered, I am a traveler on her way to Osaka.

That seems doubtful, the birdman replied. "Do you have a name, traveler? I am called Hitotori the Tengu."

Your name means ‘birdman’ and you are a fictional creature? Suko asked sardonically.

I do not appreciate that tone of voice, he responded. Now, by what name are you known?

My name is Suko, she blurted, covering her mouth as soon as she said the word. She could not understand why she had not given him a false name, as she had habitually done while on a mission. Perhaps there was something in his brown, wide-set eyes and comical costume that made Suko feel that this odd man could not be taken in any way seriously, and that he could be trusted.

Well, that is better, he smiled. Now that we have been properly introduced, I no longer have to kill you, he added.

Kill me? Suko frowned in response, Why would you possibly want to kill me, and what makes you think you could if you tried?

Well, well, now we are on to something, said Hitotori. A woman, traveling by herself in the middle of the night, dressed all in black, drenched in rainwater, with a tanto sheathed in her belt, I might add. What am I to make of you? Is that some sort of disguise?

You are wearing that, and ask me if I am in disguise? came Suko’s incredulous reply. I think I am the one who has the most legitimate right to wonder what you are doing here in that outfit.

You are quite adept at evading my questions and turning them round upon me. But, you told me your name, and I know it to be true. So, I will let it pass. After a slight pause, he continued in a more genial tone. This part of the forest belongs to me. I consider it my home, though it is merely one of many. I guard this path and make sure that travelers pass safely through these woods. Or, should they find themselves here wrongly, I escort them home. Lastly, should I encounter any aggressors here, I dispose of them.

After uttering this final sentence, he shrugged his shoulders, looked from side to side, and withdrew a large sword from the scabbard at this hip. Its steel blade seemed to sing quietly as it was unsheathed. Hitotori crouched down, balancing the weapon across his legs at the knee, and began to flap his artificial wings wildly and squawk again and again. He then produced from his belt a large fan of feathers in reds and browns, the colors matching those of his costume. Opening the fan with a sudden flick of his wrist, he began waving it about.

Somewhat startled, Suko took several steps backward as the birdman performed what could only be described as a martial dance. He whirled his blade and fan around in a manner that was, at once, completely chaotic and adroitly controlled. Broad sweeps of razor-sharp metal sliced through the night air at blazing speed accompanied by the whir of the fan as the birdman twirled and danced about, squawking the entire time. Suko could well imagine that, despite the strangeness of this fighting demonstration, or perhaps because of it, any opponent confronted with Hitotori’s deadly blade slashes and fan thrusts would have difficultly emerging unscathed.

The birdman stopped for a moment, smiled, and asked, What do you think of my monsoon crane dance? It has proven very effective time and time again.

I can well imagine, replied Suko with look of mild bewilderment on her face. It seems very deadly, if not particularly subtle.

Are you criticizing my fighting style? barked the vexed birdman in response.

Suko raised her hand to her mouth and bowed her head curtly. My apologies, Hitotori. I did not mean to offend. I was only surprised by it. I have never seen anything quite like it before.

The birdman offered a quick nod of his beaked head and, apparently appeased, spoke no more on the subject. Instead he inquired, Suko, you have still not explained to me sufficiently why it is you are here, or what you intended by disturbing me. I simply do not believe that you are on your way to Osaka. This road leads in completely the wrong direction.

Suko stood there silently, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

As to what Suko’s purpose might be, Hitotori could not fathom the answer, nor did he attempt to inquire further, having already assured himself of its futility. He had already reached the conclusion that she would not share any important information with him. Still, he continued, I must warn you, Lord Gondo has stepped up his patrols of this area for some reason. You are quite likely to encounter one of his samurai detachments here, even while traveling at night.

At the mention of Gondo’s name, Suko could not help but allow a momentary scowl to pass across her face. I can take care of myself, she replied flatly.

I am certain that you can. However, there really is no reason to tempt fate. If you would not mind telling me where you are headed, I could lead you in the proper direction, as well as help you to avoid any unnecessary attention. Believe me, I have taken an interest in this matter for the benefit of us both. I would rather not see you get involved in anything...unpleasant. Honestly, I am only trying to help. At this, Hitotori let out a loud, seemingly unintentional squawk.

Suko was taken aback somewhat, but decided nonetheless to be more forthcoming, without revealing anything of major significance. I understand there is a guesthouse to the south known as the Inn of the Blue Lantern. I would like to stop there to rest before continuing my journey. Perhaps you could point me along the appropriate path, and thereby solve both of our problems?

Hitotori placed a feathered index finger below his beak in reflection, Hmm, the name sounds familiar. I do recall an inn perhaps another day’s journey from here. It lies not far from the lands of Lord Kawanabe. I could escort you part of the way there, if you like, and give you directions for the remainder.

I would appreciate that very much, Hitotori-san, replied Suko with another quick bow of her head. The birdman’s warning regarding Gondo’s men, together with his striking, if unusual, display of skill as a swordsman had impressed her. This individual, his obvious strangeness aside, represented no threat, she felt. As long as he did not press her on the subject of her trip—and she knew she could easily deflect any questions he might have on that matter—things would be fine.

At this, Hitotori’s eyes began to smile, as did his mouth, hidden behind the beaked mask as it was. This way, he said, gesturing with an outstretched arm and wing.

Suko and the birdman walked side by side through the cool night and into the early morning. They talked little, although Hitotori would occasionally stop briefly to squawk and indicate a particular geographic location or point of interest. Suko smiled and nodded silently on each occasion in which he did this, saying nothing. She noticed that his knowledge of the forest was impeccable. Without following any pathway or road, Hitotori was able to make his way swiftly and efficiently through the trees and underbrush. He seemed to possess an uncanny sense of direction, and Suko quickly realized that she could not have found a better guide.

Soon a violet sunrise began to emerge slowly in the east, invading the inky blackness of night, and shrinking the darkness into long, tapering shadows. As the sun climbed across the sky, Hitotori began to chirp rhythmically, almost singing, but in a language that was completely unintelligible to Suko. Her companion seemed to have joined in a chorus with the other creatures of the wood, communing with them as if he were one of their own. Suko smiled again, but said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the morning reverie.

More than an hour passed in this way before the two travelers reached the edge of the forest, bounded by a small river. Just before emerging from among the majestic cryptomeria, Hitotori stopped and gestured for Suko to halt as well. Look, he whispered to her as he crouched to his knees. Suko did so. Then, pointing out to an open plain just past the river, the birdman noted a three-man patrol of lightly armored men on horseback, each with bows and lances. One of the men wore a sashimono, a banner on his back bearing the stylized image of a crescent moon in gold against a green background, the symbol of Gondo’s clan. Both Suko and Hitotori identified it immediately. They exchanged a quick look with one another, only to confirm this. Suko shuddered as she saw the image. Something about it made her think of the man who had chased her at the hut, accusing her of thievery.

Backing several steps into the wood, Hitotori was the first to break the silence. Obviously we do not want to have anything to do with them. Certainly I could defeat them in a fight, but when they failed to report back their absence would simply raise suspicion and prompt the appearance of more troops. Still, your destination, the Blue Lantern, lies almost precisely in the direction they are patrolling, he observed.

Suko made a gesture with her palm, urging him to stay put, and walked off silently behind the ancient trunk of a nearby tree. Delving into her basket, she removed a light brown and greenish hooded robe from it. In a matter of a few seconds she had changed her outer garments from complete black to an outfit that blended seamlessly with the grassy reeds of the surrounding plain.

As she reappeared from behind the tree trunk, Hitotori gave a startled chirp. She might be as adept at disguising herself as I am, he chuckled to himself.

Suko smiled. I will have no difficulty slipping past them, she noted. Thank you, Hitotori, for accompanying me to the periphery of the wood. I can find my way from here.

I am certain you can, Suko. Still, I will observe for a while from my roost at the edge of the forest, just to be sure there is no trouble. This is a far as I go for now. It has been a pleasure, Suko-san. Perhaps we will meet again. Until that time, farewell. After he finishing speaking, Hitotori squawked, retreated several steps away, and crouched while surrounding himself with his artificial wings. Staring in the direction of Suko, his unblinking eyes smiled broadly.

Farewell, Hitotori, she said, then bowed and gracefully spun around upon the ball of her left foot. She then lifted her hood and began to walk stealthily out upon the reedy plain.

Within a matter of seconds, the birdman, whose gaze never left her, lost sight of Suko completely as her cleverly camouflaged form seemed to melt away, becoming one with the landscape. He could not help but admit to himself that this plucky young woman had aroused in him a strange, almost forgotten emotion: a mixture of fondness, longing, and melancholy desire. As she slipped away, he felt himself momentarily overcome with a swelling sadness. Then, as if to distract his newly agitated mind, he began to speak in a low whisper. They will never notice this captivating beauty...never, he murmured to the reeds.

****

Chapter Two: A Mysterious Death

The air in Lord Kawanabe’s chamber reeked of freshly spilt blood and something else, something less easily identifiable. Its bitter smell crept slowly into Takakazu’s nostrils, little by little filling his mouth and his lungs, and finally producing a slight spasm of nausea in his stomach. The scene that assaulted the samurai’s burning eyes possessed a blurred, nightmarish quality, as if he were witnessing it through the hazy mists of a murky lagoon. In the center of the room lie Kawanabe’s motionless body, his dead limbs splayed outward in the form of a great ‘X’. Seeing this, Takakazu imagined the man’s arms and legs bound to a giant wheel, one that had recently vanished, along with his killer. Dressed in a brilliant red kimono embroidered with golden images of long, undulating dragons, Kawanabe had clearly been murdered very quickly and efficiently. The handle of the blood-besmirched dagger that had ended his life still protruded from his throat. The weapon’s tip, having passed completely through his neck and out the other side, rested on the floor, propping its victim’s head slightly back and up, while the blade remaining lodged between two of his upper vertebrae. Kawanabe’s eyes, even in death filled with a lingering expression of horror and surprise, remained open, staring off into some distant, terrifying place.

A strange sensation passed over Takakazu. He felt a foreboding sense of emptiness emanating from deep within his body. A bleak hollowness crept inside his bones and a chill along his flesh. It had been a very long time since Takakazu had felt anything resembling fear. The samurai had been trained from a young age to displace it. Fear was just a manifestation of cowardice, and thus anathema to a warrior such as he. But this scene brought him back to his childhood and his earliest memory, of a blood-spattered soldier returning from war in defeat, bearing news of his father’s death on the field of battle.

Takakazu ran to the body of his lord and, bending down into a low crouch near this head, gently closed the eyelids of the dead man. He felt a cold shiver as he did so, but was immediately relieved no longer to see that moment of agony frozen in Lord Kawanabe’s deathly look. Takakazu dropped his own head into his hands for a moment just as another man entered the chamber, a slender and tall individual in his early thirties with a deep scar along his chin. Dressed in a purple kimono, he carried a sheathed katana in his right hand. Though momentarily hidden from Takakazu’s view, a thick coil of blood seeped down the man’s cheek, the remnant of a recent wound to his left eye, received in a skirmish with shadowy interlopers outside the walls of Kawanabe fortress. The half-blind man, Shiro he was called, upon seeing his lord’s lifeless form, let forth a massive yell that startled Takakazu back to reality, ending his moment of recollected anguish.

No, this is not possible, Shiro roared histrionically. Who is responsible for this? I will kill him with my bare hands when I find him, he cried, balling up his fists in anger.

Lord Kawanabe will be avenged, replied Takakazu in an uncharacteristically calm and cold voice.

Shiro became silent and stared at the floor contemplatively as Takakazu continued speaking.

Let us question the prisoners and find out who is behind this despicable, craven murder. Call servants to attend to his body. We will soon discover who has done this, and when we do our retaliation will be one-hundredfold, he said sternly. I have the sense that we will soon learn Lord Arikawa is involved in this.

The arrival of Lady Kawanabe, accompanied by her young daughter, Utso, interrupted Takakazu. The girl’s scream upon seeing the body of her father lying there dead, a crimson pool of blood gathering at his neck, was deafening. Utso hid her face deeply in her mother’s pristine, silvery-white kimono, and then began to sob loudly as she dropped to her knees. Takakazu noticed that the expression on the round face of Lord Kawanabe’s wife was completely blank. She said nothing as she placed her hand gently on Utso’s shoulder, all the while staring intently at the prone form of her dead husband.

All eyes turned to Lady Kawanabe, who gazed down at the corpse for a long while, the enveloping silence broken only by the sound of Utso’s gasping cries. Then, suddenly, Lady Kawanabe lifted her head and spoke with strident, even tones. Summon the servants, she began firmly. We will begin his funeral following a night of vigilant mourning, shortly before Amaterasu begins her ascent into the morning sky.

Within seconds, the Lady’s words were turned into deed. Shiro had organized a number of men to gather up the body and barked instructions to others regarding the funeral arrangements. By this time, several of the higher clan members had arrived on the scene.

The first of these, a wizened old man with sunken, weary-looking eyes and stark white whiskers that drooped down past his lips in a manner resembling walrus tusks, was Ishikawa Nishio, Takakazu’s teacher and calligraphy master. Just behind him strode Lord Kawanabe’s nineteen-year-old nephew, Hideyo, his scalp carefully shaved, black topknot meticulously oiled and arranged, and lacquered armor polished to a brilliant shine. Nishio nearly collapsed on the floor following the strain of carrying himself with such haste to his lord’s chambers, while Hideyo raced forward and dropped to his knees next to his cousin Utso, covering his face with cupped hands briefly before attempting to comfort the young girl, who still clutched the kimono of Lady Kawanabe with her hands in a death-like grip.

Nishio, for his part, remained silent for the moment. He knew there was nothing to add. Instead he moved unsteadily toward Takakazu. The older man looked into the eyes of the younger, upon whom a great weight of responsibility was about to fall. As Nishio stared into the samurai’s impossibly blue-hued orbs, he watched as a moment of sadness and disbelief transformed into wrath and rage.

I will find whoever has killed my lord, Nishio, Takakazu whispered. I will find him and slaughter him. Great waves of fiery heat seemed to radiate from him as he spoke these words. Nishio had to step backward to avoid inadvertently taking the brunt of Takakazu’s choleric outburst. As the older man moved aside, Takakazu motioned Shiro to him. Come, my friend, we must question the prisoners we have collected from tonight’s ill-fated attack. We will hear what they have to say while they still live.

Takakazu and Shiro rushed out of the chamber, followed by the collection of servants who had lifted Kawanabe’s body onto an oak and cloth litter. Meanwhile, Lady Kawanabe continued to stand in the middle of the room, staring at the pool of her dead husband’s blood.

Nishio turned to Hideyo, who still knelt next to the whimpering Utso. Escort the lady from here, my son, he commanded softly, bring her somewhere she can rest, away from these chambers. The young samurai did as he was told, convincing Lady Kawanabe and her deeply distraught daughter to leave. Once they did, the canny Nishio began to look around the area, searching for clues that might shed any light on the nature of the assassination. Certainly whoever had executed his lord was long gone. The killer had employed stealth, taking advantage of the chaos at the estate during the recent attack. Still, some fact in Nishio’s mind did not fit with the others. If the attack had merely been a diversion, why had the warriors recently engaged by Takakazu, Shiro, and the other samurai outside the fortress fought with such vigor and tenacity? Surely they could have lured Kawanabe’s guards away without sacrificing their own lives or allowing themselves to be captured. Something in Nishio’s mind suggested to him that the assassin and the outside attackers had arrived at roughly the same time, as if by some coincidence, but perhaps while following separate agendas.

Nishio searched the room for some sort of proof to support this hypothesis. The only ordinary entrance to the chamber was through the sliding wood and paper door that led out onto an exterior walkway, which was itself lined by one of the outside walls of the stronghold. The assassin would have had to scale these walls. Certainly this was no mean feat—as they were more than four times the height of a grown man—but it could have been easily accomplished with the help of a rope and a grappling hook. Nishio scanned the top of the wall for any hint or mark of such a hook, but could see nothing. Such a search would have to wait for the light of the day, he thought to himself. He returned to the chamber. Nothing inside of it was greatly out of place, and there were no signs of a great struggle. Nishio imagined that the assassin had caught Lord Kawanabe off guard, and thrust his dagger neatly and silently into the daimyo’s throat before his victim could speak or otherwise react.

This is clearly the work of a highly skilled killer, he thought, someone in the employ of one of Kawanabe’s rivals, most likely. Certainly Nishio’s lord had enough enemies from which to choose as possible suspects. Perhaps the prisoners, upon interrogation, would loosen their tongues and enlighten him on the subject, but Nishio had an initial hunch. Lord Arikawa, whose lands occupied those directly adjacent to the Kawanabe’s own, had no qualms about stating his distaste for his neighbor. Perhaps he would have most enjoyed seeing Kawanabe dead.

Arikawa had attacked before, and would no doubt try again. Nishio suspected that the men who had appeared outside that night were Arikawa’s. A lack of subtlety was the arrogant Lord Arikawa’s trademark, and a frontal assault at night was about as clandestine as he could be. Still, the murder in Lord Kawanabe’s chambers did not fit the pattern of Arikawa, who would have relished slaying his rival personally on the field of battle, rather than opting to send a shadowy assassin in the night.

In any case, the position of the Kawanabe Clan at this point had become very precarious. With its lord dead, Arikawa would almost certainly make a move militarily in the hopes of capitalizing on disarray in the clan before a successor could be installed. And, who would that successor be? Lord Kawanabe had been grooming Takakazu—for all intents and purposes his adopted son—to succeed him for years now. But the samurai, whatever his gifts as a warrior, had never demonstrated a great desire to lead. Certainly he was an extremely capable fighter, one of the finest swordsmen Nishio had ever witnessed in combat. Likewise, Takakazu was a man of substantial intellectual capacity, whose pursuit of the arts of calligraphy and literature was unrivalled among his clansmen, modest as these individuals typically were in the more contemplative aspects of their warrior existence. But, when it came to politics, Takakazu had never demonstrated any great interest or skill. He was sociable, but nearly always failed to grasp the finer nuances of the political game. Nor could he speak to his men in a way that would inspire them to follow his lead. Takakazu had always been something of a loner. No, Shiro would be a better man for the position of temporary clan leader. Hideyo would almost certainly be a fine choice in the long term, but despite his age, he was still extremely immature in many ways and would need the counsel of his elders. Lady Kawanabe could also lead the household effectively, but she was a retiring woman who had never demonstrated any interest outside of her domestic duties. But, regardless of who took over, the Kawanabe Clan would need to muster potential allies immediately. Otherwise, the Arikawa would almost certainly overrun them.

Nishio, momentarily exhausted from his private musings, stooped down to the floor to rest his aging muscles, all the while still puzzling as to who might be enlisted to help him and his clan. As he sat himself down, he managed to trip on the edge of a straw tatami, causing his head to come crashing down to the floor. He felt a short burst of pain, and then slipped slowly out of consciousness as the room seemed to fill itself with a fluid darkness that crept in from somewhere behind his eyes.

When he regained his senses, it was to the shouts of Hideyo, who had reentered the chamber sometime later. Master Nishio, he cried, wake up, wake up! Are you all right? What happened to you?

Eyes blinking in dismay at his own clumsiness, Nishio raised a hand to rub the pain away from the back of his balding head. I am fine, boy, he grunted. As a clan elder, it is my prerogative to take my leisure whenever I wish to do so.

Hideyo laughed half-heartedly at the man’s joke, but was nevertheless relieved to see that Nishio was lucid once again, and clearly not hurt in any serious way. Takakazu and Shiro have nearly finished talking to the prisoners, Hideyo noted innocently. They would not let me join them, but they say that the attackers were Arikawa’s men. The Arikawa Clan will pay dearly for the death of my uncle, he said in a tone that, though earnest, seemed to lack the deadly conviction of either Takakazu or Shiro."

Stop rushing to conclusions, my boy, replied Nishio raising himself to a position seated cross-legged on the floor. He had already begun to consider alternatives to Lord Arikawa as the man behind the killing. I have little doubt that those marauders outside attacked under the direction of Arikawa, whether they bothered to wear his colors or not. It has happened before, and it will almost certainly happen again. Still, we have no evidence of who carried out the murder of our lord here in this room.

Hideyo stepped back, a perplexed look on his face. What are you talking about, Nishio?

Did anyone actually witness the act? inquired the old man, raising his eyebrows in a look of seriousness as he did so. No, he answered his own question, no one did. Thus the identity of the killer remains a mystery.

"Yes, but certainly this is no mere coincidence. The attack outside was clearly a