Read Online Heart of the Ronin by Travis Heermann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Travis Heermann
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front and behind.
Another voice louder than all the others, as deep and penetrating as thunder, boomed in the air, laughing with malicious glee.
She peered out past the flap and saw three of her bodyguards, swords drawn, backing up from someone she could not see, looking upward, fear showing on their usually grim faces.
More of that terrible laughter.
Then the palanquin jumped into the air as if it had been kicked by a giant. Kazuko’s head crashed into the ceiling. The palanquin came down on its side, and her breath was driven out of her in a whoosh as she slammed down onto the curtain with the ground beneath. Her vision hazed. Hatsumi moaned in pain. Kazuko closed her eyes and imagined that if she hoped hard enough, she would wake up and find this was all just a horrible dream.
Hatsumi yelped with surprise, then screamed, a scream that quickly receded. Kazuko opened her eyes again and gasped when she saw that Hatsumi was gone, and the side-flap of the carriage now hung open above her. The carriage heaved again, throwing her against the ceiling, and again her head struck a wall of the carriage, casting her into blackness.
* * *
When Ken’ishi reached the source of the noises, he saw an overturned palanquin lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by the bleeding corpses of its eight bearers. A brutal melee swirled around the fallen palanquin. Four grim-faced samurai defended the palanquin against eight bandits. All of them bled from numerous small wounds, blood soaking the lips of the neat gashes in the fine, silken folds of their clothes. One of them clutched vainly at a slash in his abdomen; his strength was flagging.
The bandits laughed and taunted them as they fought, but their snarling faces held no true mirth, unshaven, twisted and ugly. Their clothes were ragged, except for a few instances where one of them wore a fine obi or tunic they had doubtless stolen from unfortunate victims like these. Ken’ishi glanced down at his own clothes, and suddenly felt the weight of the coins.
The bandits attacked with a multitude of weapons, swords and spears, one with a sickle in each hand, and one with a strange weapon that Ken’ishi could only describe as a sword blade attached to the end of a one-ken-long pole. The blade was different from that of a katana or tachi, heavier and with more curvature near the point but straighter along the length.
Ken’ishi would feel no qualms about killing hardened criminals such as these.
A bandit with a katana charged into close quarters with one of the samurai, driving him back a step. The samurai stumbled, and the muscular bandit with the unusual sword-pole lunged into the opening with the long reach of his weapon, slashing with a powerful downward stroke with all the leverage of the pole and body. The curved sheen of steel split the hapless samurai in a diagonal cut from shoulder to hip. In a spray of crimson gore, the cleft body fell to the earth.
A wounded samurai summoned a surge of strength to batter one of the bandits’ spears aside, then lunged in and slashed across the bandit’s wrist. Half of the bandit’s spear fell to the ground with a single hand and wrist still clutching the severed shaft. The bandit reeled back, howling in pain and fear, watching his blood spurting from the stump of his forearm, his scream fading as he passed out.
Another agonized shriek pierced the air, and Ken’ishi’s gaze snapped toward the source. A woman’s scream. Just off the path, the leaves of a bush shook with rhythmic violence, and a deep cruel laugh followed the scream like the rush of a bull. A scowl hardened Ken’ishi’s brow, and he reached for an arrow. He stood to his full height, now only half hidden by the tree. With unhurried speed, he nocked the arrow, raised the bow to point skyward, then lowered the point of the arrow and drew with a single motion. He released a heartbeat later, allowing the arrow to find its own way. The arrow hissed as it flew and
Another voice louder than all the others, as deep and penetrating as thunder, boomed in the air, laughing with malicious glee.
She peered out past the flap and saw three of her bodyguards, swords drawn, backing up from someone she could not see, looking upward, fear showing on their usually grim faces.
More of that terrible laughter.
Then the palanquin jumped into the air as if it had been kicked by a giant. Kazuko’s head crashed into the ceiling. The palanquin came down on its side, and her breath was driven out of her in a whoosh as she slammed down onto the curtain with the ground beneath. Her vision hazed. Hatsumi moaned in pain. Kazuko closed her eyes and imagined that if she hoped hard enough, she would wake up and find this was all just a horrible dream.
Hatsumi yelped with surprise, then screamed, a scream that quickly receded. Kazuko opened her eyes again and gasped when she saw that Hatsumi was gone, and the side-flap of the carriage now hung open above her. The carriage heaved again, throwing her against the ceiling, and again her head struck a wall of the carriage, casting her into blackness.
* * *
When Ken’ishi reached the source of the noises, he saw an overturned palanquin lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by the bleeding corpses of its eight bearers. A brutal melee swirled around the fallen palanquin. Four grim-faced samurai defended the palanquin against eight bandits. All of them bled from numerous small wounds, blood soaking the lips of the neat gashes in the fine, silken folds of their clothes. One of them clutched vainly at a slash in his abdomen; his strength was flagging.
The bandits laughed and taunted them as they fought, but their snarling faces held no true mirth, unshaven, twisted and ugly. Their clothes were ragged, except for a few instances where one of them wore a fine obi or tunic they had doubtless stolen from unfortunate victims like these. Ken’ishi glanced down at his own clothes, and suddenly felt the weight of the coins.
The bandits attacked with a multitude of weapons, swords and spears, one with a sickle in each hand, and one with a strange weapon that Ken’ishi could only describe as a sword blade attached to the end of a one-ken-long pole. The blade was different from that of a katana or tachi, heavier and with more curvature near the point but straighter along the length.
Ken’ishi would feel no qualms about killing hardened criminals such as these.
A bandit with a katana charged into close quarters with one of the samurai, driving him back a step. The samurai stumbled, and the muscular bandit with the unusual sword-pole lunged into the opening with the long reach of his weapon, slashing with a powerful downward stroke with all the leverage of the pole and body. The curved sheen of steel split the hapless samurai in a diagonal cut from shoulder to hip. In a spray of crimson gore, the cleft body fell to the earth.
A wounded samurai summoned a surge of strength to batter one of the bandits’ spears aside, then lunged in and slashed across the bandit’s wrist. Half of the bandit’s spear fell to the ground with a single hand and wrist still clutching the severed shaft. The bandit reeled back, howling in pain and fear, watching his blood spurting from the stump of his forearm, his scream fading as he passed out.
Another agonized shriek pierced the air, and Ken’ishi’s gaze snapped toward the source. A woman’s scream. Just off the path, the leaves of a bush shook with rhythmic violence, and a deep cruel laugh followed the scream like the rush of a bull. A scowl hardened Ken’ishi’s brow, and he reached for an arrow. He stood to his full height, now only half hidden by the tree. With unhurried speed, he nocked the arrow, raised the bow to point skyward, then lowered the point of the arrow and drew with a single motion. He released a heartbeat later, allowing the arrow to find its own way. The arrow hissed as it flew and
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