The North Wind Cuts

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Last Step Castle


Early Spring in the high Dragon lands is a harsh reflection of the world. Bitter wind snapped through the mountain valleys with fierce abandon, whistling against rocks and over bare fields. The sun was distant and small, but bright; reflecting upon a blanket of snow that protected the slumbering mountain flowers.

The castle itself was dense and heavy- better to conserve warmth in the cold climate. There were not many gardens or courtyards in the building, and the windows were small. Normally, this would make a building feel constricting and gloomy, but even with minimal decorations, the Kitsuki family were exacting with their design. Strong walls supported wide beams, allowing for large, well-lit, interior rooms; a stark contrast to the narrow, dim hallways that preceded them. The castle was a maze, full of surprises, especially if one were fortunate enough to gain access to the lower chambers- on the outside the castle was small, but with the help of some friendly zokujin and the Tamori shugenja, there were many private levels carved deep into the mountain upon which it rested.

As such, Mirumoto Kissaki found himself on a tiny flat of rock, halfway down the deep gorge that sat before the castle, quietly meditating. Sheltered from the swirling wind and prying eyes, he could see the narrow bridge high above him and the occasional wind-beaten traveller crossing it. Far below, a burbling stream slipped between the drifts and the ice. If he were not there, no one would see the little space, or possibly even guess that it served as part of the complicated ventilation system for the great temple under the mountain.

For him, though, it served as a brief respite during the weeks of sensei training with the Kitsuki and kata training with the Mirumoto, giving him an opportunity to clear his mind and enjoy the few lazy snowflakes that drifted down from the sky. Across the gorge sat a small shrine carved into the wall; it was too far away for him to get a good look at the details, but it made him wonder how anyone got over there to maintain it, what with the anti-climbing wards on the walls and such. Kissaki stared at it for a long moment, trying to make out the name of the Fortune to whom it was dedicated, but became distracted by the sheer volume of snow blowing around in the air. It had been bright and clear just a moment ago, which thoroughly confused him.- there was no logical reason the castle should be caught in the middle of a blizzard. Then he heard it:

“Kissaki.”

A whisper in the wind called his name.

“Mirumoto Kissaki.”

The words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He turned and looked down the hallway; no one was there.

“Mirumoto Batsuyounofujin-Kissaki no Ryuu.”

He put his hands on his blades and tentatively spoke, “Yes?”

A flash of lightning and deafening crack of thunder ruptured the air, overwhelming his senses, forcing him to turn away and cover his ears. Shaking his head and blinking, readjusting to the world around him, Kissaki saw a man standing before him- a man in flowing silver and a wide hat; a man he recognized. He prostrated himself immediately.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course, O’Kami-sama.”

The man was impassive. The air around him smelled strongly of raw, unadulterated power. “You were the one who gave the priests my Second Name.”

Kissaki blinked, not daring to look up at the fickle Lord of Wind. “Hai, O’Kami-sama.”

“I suppose I should thank you, Kissaki-san. I have been greatly entertained by this turn of events. I haven’t smote a temple in a very long time.” Kaze-no-Kami laughed.; it was double-edged.

“It is my honor to serve, O’Kami-sama.” Kissaki said, as politely as he could without looking up. He had heard rumor of a temple in Phoenix lands being destroyed by a tornado a few months ago, and it sent a chill up his spine.

“I have one thing for you before I give you your reward for such loyal devotion and reverence,” the spirit said. His tone carried an unpleasant blend of mirth and malice. “Thank me properly.

Kissaki’s marrow ran cold.

He sat upright, found his center, and then bowed deeply, placing his forehead on the ground, three times as was proper, and listened.

“Thank you for your kind benevolence, O-... O’Fujin-no-Kamui-dono. We are not worthy of your blessings, but shall endeavor to become so with every breath.” Kissaki’s heart paused, waiting for the fickle god’s reaction. He had stuttered, but caught himself and pressed forward with what he thought he had heard as the correct pronunciation this time: Phffhoouzhyin.

The Name of someone, especially a Kami such as he, is of tantamount importance; to say it incorrectly means swift and merciless destruction (or worse). That the Kami of Wind’s name’s pronunciation changed constantly made this knowledge exceedingly dangerous.

Kissaki closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Time dragged.

“It was my pleasure, Kissaki-san. Rise and accept your reward.”

Kissaki exhaled and stood, bowing once again. As he looked forward, he saw the capricious Kami hovering just over the face of the cliff. He could not see the Kami’s eyes beneath the hat, but he really didn’t want to anyway. Kaze-no-Kami grinned and threw something in the air. There was a flash of lightning.

“Catch!”

It was too far out of Kissaki’s reach, unless...

His hand flew to his sword and he drew Daikiku, blade reversed. A perfect draw.

BOOM The flash of lightning and crack of thunder left him senseless. His eyes hurt, his ears rang. Something was burning. He opened his eyes. His sleeves and face were singed, but wrapped loosely around the end of his sword was a silver ribbon, its ends blowing lightly against the breeze.


Later that evening

Kissaki sat at the tea table with his sensei, Kitsuki Shichirou, his lord, and Kitsuki Yasu, the Kitsuki family daimyo. The silver ribbon sat quietly in a little wooden box on the low table. The three men discussed various things, from the new students to the season’s fashions, politely skipping the weather, the ribbon, and Kissaki’s lack of eyebrows. Eventually the conversation came around to the events of the day.

“What did O’Kami mean when he said ‘second name’, Kissaki-san?” Shichirou asked.

“By your question, I assume such a thing is no longer customary,” Kissaki said, his face stoic. “All men, all living things, have three names: One for others, one for their family, and one for themselves. For example, my Third Name, the name I chose when I became a samurai, is Mirumoto Kissaki no Ryu (Kissaki of the Mirumoto family of the Dragon Clan), but my Second Name, the name my parents gave me, is different. I believe this is still the tradition, yes? But a person’s First Name, the private words that reflects their true nature and by which they call themselves, is a grave secret and should never be shared, because there are those who believe that by using someone’s Three Names gives power over them. My family worshipped the Elemental Lords in the great past, so this knowledge was passed down to me in guarded whispers, but I would never presume to know or even guess his First Name. Mispronouncing a Kami’s Second Name alone is enough to invite his wrath, let alone his first, and to even attempt such a thing is foolish beyond reason.

“Lord Wind mentioned the destruction of a temple in Phoenix lands, and I can only assume they spoke his Second Name incorrectly.” The two other men sat quietly, eyes cast down into their tea. This was new information, but they had heard whisper of similar tales- tales involving Fu Leng and the First Oni.

“We am happy to see that you kept our home from being destroyed, Kissaki-san.” Yasu said without humor. Like Kissaki, Yasu was a tall man with a bald head, but his was covered with the tattoo of a swirling dragon. “It is a shame to know that the Temple of the Eight Guardians’ misfortune was due to their own... inaccuracy.”

Kissaki sipped his tea. No doubt they picked up on his reticence, but did not mention it, and likely did not wish to know the full extent of it. Kitsuki Shichirou interceded after a polite pause and changed the subject, gesturing to the ribbon. “Can you tell me more of this, Kissaki-san?”

“Hai, Shichirou-dono,” Kissaki said, putting down his tea, reaching for the box and pushing it toward his lord before opening it. Inside sat about two feet of ribbon reflecting the candle light with a soft golden glow. It looked as if it were spun of pure moonlight. The two other men peered in but did not touch as Kissaki explained how he obtained it. Both nodded approvingly, and looked in reverential awe as he lifted it carefully. “What is interesting is that the ribbon blows in a direction other than the wind, like so.”

Kissaki blew gently on the ribbon, one that would normally sway the end of it away from his face. This ribbon, however, pulled off to the left, towards Yasu. The other men let out an audible gasp. “I can only assume that it, and by extension, O’Kaze-no-Kami-sama, wishes for me to go that way. To what end, though, I know not.”

The men looked on in amazement as Kissaki returned the ribbon to its box reverently. “Given the... fleeting nature of the wind, I must request leave to pursue this as soon as possible.”

“Do you feel you are ready to pass the tests, Kissaki-san?” Yasu asked. “Clearly we cannot ignore such a portent, but your studies must not be neglected, either. I would not ask you to choose between them.”

“Perhaps, Yasu-dono, If Kissaki-san can pass the kata test, we can send him on his journey with some homework and he can pick up from there when he gets back.” Shichirou said. “Would such a plan be acceptable?”

Kasu thought for a moment. Taking valuable scrolls from the library out into the world would be potentially dangerous, but he had no doubt Kissaki would keep them safe. “Are you prepared for this, Kissaki-san?”

“Hai.”

“Then it is settled,” He said, raising his teacup. “Your swordsmanship test shall be tomorrow, and I will requisition the necessary scrolls from the library.”

Kissaki and Shichirou bowed low.

The next day, noon.

The air was clear and cool, the sunlight streaming through the narrow windows offered little warmth. Mirumoto Kissaki knelt before the dojo’s shrine, offering prayer. Behind him, eight men stood waiting. After making the proper ritual purifications, for himself and his swords, for the families of the Dragon, for the Empire, for family that has past and for all that are yet to come, for the kami, and for the Empress, he presented his blades to the statue of Togashi in fealty before tucking them snugly into his obi. Kissaki stood, bowed one final time, took three steps back, and turned to face his elders. He offered them a deep bow, one they returned equally.

“Begin.” Kitsuki Yasu said, his hands resting comfortably on his own daisho. With a strong Kiai shout, Mirumoto Kissaki drew his blades in a flash and began the steps of the Kata of the Dragon. The movements were sharp and precise, falling under the excruciating eye of the Kitsuki and Mirumoto swordmasters that stood before him. His blades flashed, turning this way and that, extended but kept close to the body. This was a defensive kata- the movements and distances were short, clean, efficient. To the uninitiated it looked strange and awkward- it was neither flashy nor impressive, certainly not intimidating or dangerous. When his feet did move, they slid smoothly over the tatami mats, neither stomping nor lunging, but deftly sweeping in smooth patterns polished and refined from centuries of secret development. There was a lot of close left hand movement and twisting as Kissaki’s wakizashi closed the Eight Direction Defense.

In a moment, Kissaki’s swords hanging loosely at his sides. To the uninitiated it would appear that he was done, that his performance was complete and his defenses down, but anyone who knew the Mirumoto style, from practice or combat, would know that this was the traditional battle posture of the school- offense, defense, center, it didn’t matter. All were the same to the Mirumoto, and this was one of the small, subtle things that made the school dangerous.

From the judge’s dias, Yasu nodded in approval; the eight swordsmen spread out quietly, circling Kissaki. Some drew their swords, some not; all ready to strike, to kill. One for each direction.

Kissaki heard a kiai shout and the distinct click of swords leaving their scabbards. His own blades flew, parrying, blocking, and deflecting strikes from all eight sides.

The swordsmen’s targets were thin gold ribbons attached to his kimono. Kissaki did not know how many of them he had to survive with intact, but he defended them all as if his life depended on it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an opportunity, and with a twist of his wrist, Daikiku, his katana, zipped out, splitting a ribbon from his attacker’s lapel, letting it drift lightly to the floor. That attacker bowed quickly and stepped back. Reflexively, the two attackers nearest the target looked away, and before they knew it their ribbons were fluttering lightly away well. Still deflecting strikes, Kissaki quickly darted in their direction and turned so that the other five were facing him. Taking a breath to look down and take stock of the situation, he could see a few gaping slices in his kimono but none of the ribbons were missing. One hung by a whisp of thread. He readjusted his grip on his katana. The moon-hued ribbon from Kaze-no-Kami was tied safely to his saya, its ends hanging loosely. It was undamaged, as was the small lantern pendant that hung beside it.

Of the five remaining swordsmen, two had taken what appeared to be a center stance (it was hard to tell with these things), but the other three leapt forward together in one coordinated attack- the swordsman in the center attempted a feint while the other two charged headlong. Kissaki’s blades flew up in a defensive posture to deflect the two side attackers as he leaned back just enough to avoid the feint’s bite, which passed safely over the ribbon on his kimono by a scant few inches. With precise turns, his own swords reached out and took the ribbons from the headlong attackers as he stepped back out of reach of the remaining fighters- they would have to more forward to reach him.

Only the central samurai followed him, but his continued attack was parried by Daiume, Kissaki’s wakizashi.

As the fallen moved aside, Kissaki stepped forward into the central fighter’s space, blocking his swords’ next movement with forearm locks before reaching down and plucking the ribbon away with his hand. This surprise move gave Kissaki an opening, and he pushed the central fighter backward toward remaining samurai on the right (who had to take a few steps back to avoid accidentally hurting his compatriot). The samurai on the left saw an opportunity and focused all of his energy into one expert strike, but with grim determination Kissaki deflected it at the last second before claiming the attacker’s own ribbon.

One left.

Kissaki let the defeated men step away and fell back into the traditional Mirumoto stance. Kissaki gave him a short bow.

Kitsuki Shichirou bowed in return.

Tension hung in the air as the two sized each other up, a moment that dragged on far longer than it should: it was clear that Kissaki was the better swordsman and would certainly win, yet he did not raise his swords and claim his prize. Shichirou struck out with his blade, but Kissaki rebuffed him. Twice, then again. They were at an impasse for a very obvious reason: Mirumoto Kissaki would not raise his blade against his lord.

Due to the expedited nature of the training schedule, there were not enough qualified bushi in Shiro Kitsuki to spare; the ones who were in the dojo were the few whose day off was today, and even then they were a man short. None were willing to compromise the castle’s defenses, so Kitsuki Shichirou, daimyo of the Shinpi province, had to stand in as the eighth swordsman.

“Take the ribbon.” Shichirou whispered.

Kissaki said nothing. He did not sheathe his swords, but he made no move to attack.

“Do it.” Shichirou urged. “You will not pass otherwise.”

Still, Kissaki did nothing.

WIth a determined breath and furrowed brow, Shichirou plucked the ribbon from his kimono, wrapped it around the center of his katana, and with a powerful shout, charged, his blade flashing brightly in the cold winter sun.