Black Wings And Shining Blades

Black Wings And Shining Blades

I surrendered to exhaustion. My muscles trembled as I picked my way through the desolate wasteland that now belonged to the dead. The blood made my black hair stick to my face but I had long since stopped bothering to brush it aside. Ravens pecked at the broken bodies that haunted the battlefield, Mitsurugi and Kakashi alike. Stabs of pain went through my ribs with every step that I took, my knees bent down under the dead weight on my shoulders. Yori’s soulless body rolled from my back and I fell down next to my fellow Mountain Guard. My gaze met de dead man’s blue eyes. He was one of the lucky ones, he had died fighting bravely alongside Mitsurugi no Ryu, while I was here; all alone. I would die a coward’s death. Decay had already to set in, his gaze milky and glazed over but I still recognized his smile from an eternity ago.

His unruly hair danced before me as we passed under the iron gates of Sword Mountain. Steam rose from the masses of armored men that had gathered in the Devil’s Yard under the already fading winter sun. The Ichi-Man Ken-Sai was about to begin, the festival of the Ten Thousand Swords. Pikes and swords glinted, the statue of the Oni and the mountain both casting their shadows over the forces of the Mitsurugi. Yuudai-sama’s voice boomed across the yard, ordering the Dragon Guard to unsling their impressive nodachi. We all knew the names and deeds of the men before us, each more legendary than the other. Yori’s favorite was Tsumemo, his unruly red mane clearly standing out among his peers, but I always had enjoyed the stories about the sword master, Yuudai; his grey hair blowing in the wind and his bulk dominating the yard. On the edges of the square the townspeople were gathering to watch the spectacle and join the revelries that unfolded here every year on the shortest day. Smiling Osamu, one of the older Mountain Guard, stood before our unit, his horribly scarred face stuck in an ever-present grin. The smirk on his face seemed to fixate upon me when he spoke: “When the Daimyo stands before us, we will show that we are not mere farmers, but that we are soldiers of the Mitsurugi!”

Black spots from blood loss mingled with the black feathers of the ravens that flew overhead. One of the creatures perched next to me, tilting it’s head, carefully judging if I would be worth the bother to eat. I tried to shoo the creature away with my hand, barely noticing the missing fingers that were torn off by the Kakashi in our initial assault. To this day I still wonder what went wrong. Something just seemed off; There should have been more Senshin. We were fighting against their enemies, dying for their ideals, they fought with us, but their numbers were not enough. We lost thanks to their cowardice. The raven now sat atop of Yori’s body, its claws gripping his mangled face. All the strength had left my body and I could just lie there as the beast started eating my best friend’s face in front of my eyes, tearing the flesh away, gulping down the meat on his cheeks.

My fingers were numb from the cold, barely able to grip my yari. But the freezing air barely seemed to bother Yori, the slight red glow on his cheeks only contrasting more with his blue eyes. The echo from the ten thousand warriors shouting as Mitsurugi no Ryu climbed on the stage still hung in the air. “We are going to show those Akiyama bastards what we are made of.” Yori announced, as if we had already won the war. I could not agree more. We were strong and impressive. I looked at him as he looked upon the stage in anticipation. It was our first time at the festival, both replacing our fathers who had grown too old to perform the ritual and too married to enjoy the celebrations that would follow. Again the shout of strong lungs filled the yard as Mitsurugi No Ryu spoke. I could immediately see why the Oni had wagered its fortress with the Mitsurugi ancestors, going into direct battle with the Mitsurugi would be madness. Mitsirugi no Ryu’s hair was grey with age but still the strength in him was obvious, the winter air shimmering near him. The massive Daimyo turned to the kodo drummers and signaled them to pound the drums behind them. The beat reverbed through my very bones, signaling my muscles to move. Shouts from the Mountain Guard officers and Yuudai-sama signaled the beginning of the dance that I had practiced so often before. Blade and pike started to move in perfect harmony. An elaborate game of show and follow began as the Dragon Guard lowered their nodachi. We followed by moving to the side, dodging the imaginary assault. The Mountain Guard answered with a loud shout and a forward thrust, which was parried and returned by the Dragon Guard. And so the dance built up slowly, ten thousand men locked in a battle of wills. The cold no longer mattered to me, as we all moved as one, an avalanche of weaponry and armor guided by the beat of the massive drums. For what seemed an eternity each group matched the other. But finally units started to make mistakes, a wrong move, a slow guard. The eliminated groups just stood there, unmoving statues on the square. The Dragon Guard still had lost none, a testimony of their strength. We tried to keep up, but finally, we too, lost. A small mistake, I still believe it was me who turned the wrong way. Defeat had been admitted, but still Yori looked like he had won, a small smirk on his face, his black hair glinting in the torchlight that was now lightning the yard. Night fell and we silently watched as the last groups tried to withstand the Dragon Guard assault.

When I came to, fog was setting in, the rancid smell of blood creeping up my nose. I had turned away from Yori’s corpse, leaving him to rot and feed the birds like the others. There was nothing I could for him anymore. I had even given up on committing seppuku. My hands had trembled too much as I pointed it at my stomach. The wakizashi had slipped from my fingers, the blood and my missing fingers making it impossible to properly grab the blade, my arms too weak to push it through. I was weak and a coward. I leaned on Yori’s pike, dragging myself away from my failure. My life should have been forfeit, I should have been killed, just like so many other good men, just like my good friend who I had now sacrificed to the death gods. But I was certain that I would die when I finally collapsed, Yori not so far behind me. A dark figure moved in the mist, his presence given away by the soft jangle of iron rings against his wooden staff.

That night fires were lit all over Sword Mountain, lighting up the monolithic statues. The flames and the sake drove back the cold while Yori and I stumbled between the bars and inns in the Huddle. Drunken songs and warm laughter came from deep within the houses as the Mountain Guard celebrated their strength and will. We finally found ourselves at the Snow Garden where Yori pushed me inside. Hot steam and beautiful women blinded me as my young companion walked by me straight towards Fat Hachi-chan. The double chins of the man moved in a jolly fashion as Yori spoke to him, discussing something just out of my hearing range. Hachi-chan signaled his wife, a woman just as massive and jolly as her husband and the three of them seemed to discuss something. I did not really pay attention, watching the women and Yori alike, the room slightly spinning from the alcohol. But then suddenly Yori stood before me, winked and told me what he had in store for me. That is the night when I found out what true love means.

The grey-haired boy perched next to me, his long red robes flowing down towards the ground. A smile appeared, although it did not match his eyes. In his eyes I could see a solemn sadness. “It is not your time yet Tetsuo-chan”, he spoke in hushed tones, as if whispering to something fragile. “You will get your chance to avenge yourself against those who wronged you and took something precious away from you, but you must live for now.”