Shizan

A short story intended for the TWC competition which was not finished in time so instead I posted it on the day to mark Shogun 2 Total War's release.

Dedicated to those who have died in the Japan earthquake on 11th of March 2011.

Shizan
A duel of two samurai

A faint wind brushed the delicate white flowers of the sakura tree, shaking some of the pinkish petals towards the lush ground that blossomed even more with every day that passed. Spring eventually arrived to the lands where the sun rose in earnest, and along with it fresh hope the civil war that had been plaguing the lands for years would end. But there was to be no respite, not for the incoming days or months. The provinces would bear no more to see endless bloodshed and yet with every day they saw even more, katana swords cutting their way through the enemy ranks and yari spears piercing the flesh of the exposed warhorses.

With the central authority undermined it left enough place for the clans to war freely against each other in the southern tip of the island of Honshu. It was up to the the half bare branches of the blossoming trees to cover the tracks left behind by warring clans heading for the battlefields. Crows were to be the invited guests even after the smallest of battles that left endless scars on the Japanese islands.

Grouped together, a small party of battle hardened samurai advanced through the tittles of the fresh grass, setting up their position atop a small hill overlooking the lush meadows and the compact valley beneath them. Far away towards the horizon stood the calm waters of the ocean, oblivious to the tensions of the armed soldiers who gripped the handles of their katana and odachi in obvious anxiety as they expected an important arrival.

They brought no horses and no squires or helpers with them, they did not need them. Only a monk and the close retinue of their clan leader stood in the shadow of a tree, waiting impatiently, fretting with unease every other moment. The sounds of seagulls shrieking in theblue sky only added to their discomfort and nervousness.

It was to be the pinnacle, the culmination of their improbable careers as samurai fighting in a blind civil war. They had awaited the confrontation between the masters of their clans every day, and today the battle would finally consume itself. Yoshino province was to be their battlefield, the forests between the hills nesting a quiet valley that overlooked an opening into the sandy beaches of Ise.

For a number of hours they waited until they could bear the tension no more, settling down at the protruding roots of a large chestnut that shielded them from the rays of the glinting sun. Their clanl eader was not there, and nor were their enemies, but the settled time for the battle was to be later. They eventually grouped themselves together and ate the light meal they carried within their sacks in silence, expectant and still at unease.

After the simple rice balls were devoured the senior monk stood up and intoned an ancient hymn for the protection of the soldiers, sapping his last ounces of energy after the rocky road. His throat ran dry quickly after and the soldiers looked with worried expressions at the greying hair around his temples and his frail build, but nonetheless they did not say a word as the monk gathered his strengths to complete the prayer.

His prayers to Hachiman and Bishamonten were vital and as such the rest of the clan's retinue followed suit despite the wavering convictions of some. When the hymn stopped the old monk gazed towards the younger samurai and admonished them for being so restless and unfaithful.

And then their master came.

He did not have an aura of respect or an imposing stature but it was his calm demeanour that struck fear into the enemies and attracted endless fascination from those underneath his command. Tall and slender, he wore a simple blue kimono that seemed to match the lightness of the spring atmosphere and the only indication of an impending event was the long, intimidating katana that hung proudly from his waist. Underneath the longsword the smaller wakizashi stood discreet and hidden from view, only to be used when necessary.

The clan leader uttered a short prayer to Hachiman at the sight of his men and bowed towards his retinue who knelt immediately in submission. It was only a small group of about fifteen men, but his heart gladdened even at the sight of so many of his devoted warriors. He took one quick glance at the valley beneath and grunted in a low voice, visibly unimpressed by the sight.

“What is this place called?”

“Miharu Hill, oyakata-sama,” replied the old monk.

“This will be short.”

He bowed once more and left them at the shade of the tree atop the hill overlooking the place where battle would be given. His bamboo sandals made little noise on the grass, his advance to the foot of the valley resembling an effortless gliding over the surface of the green pastures. His mind was clear, basking with abandon in the numbing scents and spectacular sights of late spring.

He stopped in a small patch of soft grass between daisies and other spring flowers, staring in the distance at the other high hills clustered around the valley. A couple of minutes later the faint shadow of a samurai emerged from the other side of the hill.

Flanked by ten retainers, the muscular frame of his opponent stood out in the group as he advanced towards him. He knew him by his nickname, Nomikomu, but that was all he knew about his opponent except of his infamous skill as samurai and clan leader. Nomikomu was a couple of years younger but to him age did not matter, it was only a number to be calligraphed on rolls of Chinese paper.

Unperturbed, he sat down in a seiza on the soft grass and awaited with dignity the arrival of his opponent. He pushed aside all thoughts and regained the control of his mind, ignoring even the sounds of humming birds circling lazily above his head. The crows were nowhere to be seen, leaving the blue sky free of the black gliders for now.

Nomikomu took his time, pacing slowly towards the small battlefield. His brightly coloured kimono drew attention wherever he went but the decorated saya of his katana portrayed him in a different light in the eyes of commoners.

From the top of the other hill he descended with ease, a joyous smile spread over his youthful figures, highlighting the strong jaw and eager, penetrating eyes. With each step his expression lightened up even more until it reached a defiant grin with less than ten meters away from his opponent who ignored him. Nomikomu bowed slightly and glared towards his opponent who made no gesture of immediate acknowledgement.

“Donraku.”

Donraku bowed respectfully, still in his seiza. “Nomikomu.”

Nomikomu laughed. “You only know me by my nickname, still?”

“I will have the honour of learning your name if you defeat me.”

Nomikomu narrowed his eyes. “You will have the pleasure of findingit out soon.”

He stood upright in his own area, now more than fifteen meters away from Donraku. His hands were cupped in a quick prayer to Hachiman as he awaited his opponent to stand up and prepare himself for the battle. Slowly, Donraku adjusted his upright position and waited for him, his head held high and his hands idling with obvious ease beside his body. Nomikomu noticed the calm, almost too calm expression of Donraku as he placed his hands on his two handed sword.

His eyes were now solely fixed on Donraku, taking notice of the slightest move the opposing samurai made. But there were to be none whatsoever, forcing Nomikomu to take the initiative before he could make his own elaborate actions. He grinned. Of all things he expected Donraku to do, he did not expect this.

With confidence he stepped forwards and circled warily around his opponent, hoping to draw him into rash action. His expectation was not met as Donraku stood idle and only switched his gaze sideways towards Nomikomu with each step he made around him. He was no different than a statue gazing at the hordes of travellers waving past it without the slightest interest.

Nomikomu hesitated for a split second. As the katana left his scabbard to strike the enemy, Donraku leapt forwards and easily avoided the blow, slightly perched forwards to prevent the blow from hitting his arched back. Both of Donraku's hands were now firmly planted on the saya,awaiting Nomikomu's second attack with considerable interest. Happy with his own defensive position he smiled thinly towards his opponent who kept glaring at him, pacing sideways with his infamous Bizen sword outstretched and gripped tightly with both hands.

The battle absorbed both of them into a huge, deep void that could not be broken. Both of them were oblivious to the world around them,ignorant to any other sentiment as they focused solely on their own personal, almost narcissistic and egoistical, struggle. From the top of the hill the two groups of retainers watched the flowing action,as if in a trance, hypnotised by the dance of the swords as they held their breaths and muttered prayers to Hachiman and Amaterasu as fast as they could. Above Donraku stood the prayers of the old monk and his fifteen loyal retainers, above Nomikomu hovered the prayers often samurai who feared they would be masterless ronin after the battle would end.

The two samurai stood in their own areas, glaring viciously at each other, each breath and cell directed and channelled towards their own ability to defeat the enemy who stood a couple of feet away from them. Two successive gusts of wind offered a quick respite but neither of them could relax. They were tense, their bodies geared towards the victory over the other. Half of the battle was unspoken,a battle of the sharp minds housed inside them, controlled by the heart of enlightenment on one side and revenge on the other.

And then a sharp yell. Nomikomu switched his position and screamed at the top of his lungs, immediately followed, perhaps instinctively,by Donraku. The Bizen sword sliced the air in a half arc but it was a fraction too late to hit anything but the air it cut a second ago. Donraku leapt sideways with ease, avoiding the blow, shifting his own bust to face his opponent from his own left side.

With two hands he held a firm grip on the handle of his katana,deflecting two successive blows from Nomikomu without much duress. It gradually evolved into a boring stalemate, each resuming to deal quick blows. Both of them circled without, neither of them having enough courage to attack the other in a decisive manner.

By now their breaths were louder than the faint howl of the wind rushing from the Pacific Ocean. Donraku took two steps forward, his sword raised at the level of his chin, peering at Nomikomu's own movements from over the top of the sharp blade.

With renewed energy, Nomikomu stepped forwards confidently, eyeing Donraku for any ill suited movements that might aid him. He was ready to strike at the first sign of weakness, his whole will steeled and turned towards the enemy who would not dislodge from his defensive position. He expected him to stay, and that was where Nomikomu wanted him to be, pinned to his own stand.

But he did did not expect Donraku's movements. With two leaping steps forwards, Donraku took his opponent by surprise and raised his own katana upwards, blocking the two handed defensive slash from Nomikomu in mid air. Using the momentum of his own weight he spun on his heels and unleashed the sharp edge of his sword on Nomikomu's unprotected torso. The blade connected with the kimono and sliced it wide open with a perfect diagonal cut, digging deep into the soft flesh underneath until it carved an exact, precise line into Nomikomu's abdomen.

There was no cry, no wail, no scream or even a pitiful plea for mercy. Nomikomu stood there kneeling, blood gushing out of his abdomen and staining the expensive kimono into a dark red blotch that kept expanding with every second. He smiled thinly towards Donraku, his face turning into a deathly white pallor as he gazed with his last powers at his mortal enemy.

With some difficulty he accepted it. He accepted his defeat.

Donraku watched the scene in ominous contempt. What was the power bestowed upon him? He knew Nomikomu was far more determined to fight, so perhaps that is why he won. The desire for victory blinded his actions. He stepped forwards and knelt with one knee beside Nomikomu who struggled with his last powers. Nomikomu opened his mouth to speak but the first time no words came out. A couple of seconds later, with his last powers, he gazed at Donraku and whispered his last words.

“Tsubame Gaeshi.”