Michael Newsham

The Eyes of Ryoji

On the outskirts of Yujio village there was a low thatched hut, not at all like the others around it. It stood on no street at all, in a section of the town that bore no name worth mentioning. The door of this particular hut, made of strong tanned hides, was warded magically, but not that one would see. A large interior, sparsely furnished with a low table, two worn cushions, and a wooden altar, backed another flap that opened onto the Wilds. A straight backed old man kneeled before the altar, listening for answers to prayers he had just murmured. There was nothing to be heard, and Umigan was staring intently at the idol of his Goddess.
Komite had been declared in Toshio, the Imperial City, and the great tournament was luring the able bodied men away from the villages. They went to seek the gold and the glory that would belong to the most powerful warrior among them. Many would perish in the brutal sport, for many always did. And now Umigan’s son Maikeru had gone. Maikeru sought the hand of the Imperial princess, his weight in gold, and the scroll that would declare him Lord High Protector over the Shao Empire. A worthy prize, perhaps, but to a boy who all knew to be sickly, a prize out of reach.
Still he had gone, and lame Umigan could not go after him. Perhaps, then, prayers will reach where crippled legs cannot.
*******************

Maikeru
I am Maikeru. I am a dead man. Why did I come here? What brashness so overwhelmed my mind that I threw my name into the Komite? I am no great martial artist. I am no seasoned warrior. I am a scared and desperate boy with illusions of heroism, and no realistic way of attaining them. I am too poor to ask any girl to marry me, I am too weak to win honor at war or Komite. Why? Had I but potions of Strength and Speed, or magical assistance that would render my bones unbreakable and my skin impenetrable, why, then I could win. But as I am? I am a deluded fool, and I fear now that I shall die like one.
I falter in my footsteps as I am guided to my first match. Already I can see that my opponent is no novice. His face is mashed on one side, covered in scars that spider web down into his collar. Arms that fairly ripple with corded muscle grasp the haft of a heavy Axe, eyes that glitter with a terrifying mixture of impatience and cruelty. I am to fight him? He is to kill me, as all Komite demands the blood sacrifice that will appease our gods. Our foolish gods.
I step over the white lines that are drawn around our arena. Barely do my feet cross this threshold than I feel the magical barriers erected by the Priests. This will insure that no weapons can pass over those lines. I also know that if the Judging priest decides no clear winner can be drawn, a simple magical spell will render us both unconscious and we will be matched against other opponents. I do not think this will be the case today. The scarred man rushes at me, slowly, I think, and his heavy axe leaps for my face. It has come more than half the distance before it occurs to me that ducking would perhaps be a good idea. I do, and feel the wind slice at my hair as the axe misses by a hairsbreadth. On instinct, I jab forward with my left hand and feel my fist connect quite solidly with his stomach. Still, it barely seems to faze him, and his own fist connects in a painful way with my jaw. A swipe of his returning axe gashes me from wrist to elbow, and I marvel at the scream of agony for a moment before realizing that it has issued from my own lips.
I grant you preview, a low voice whispers in my ear. And suddenly my sword arm pulses with incredible strength and purpose. The tip of my sword darts almost sentiently for the scarred face, and when the axe swiped across for a parry, my slender blade dodged and continued forward. Through the scarred mans throat, giving him a grim second smile. And as he fell dead to the dust, I felt my sword sag, dripping lifeless with life dripping from it’s killing point.
I have granted you preview. Would you like to hear more?
I will hear you, whatever god you are.
Umigan has prayed to any who will answer. Save my son, he whimpers. So has Kuori Damon come.
Kuori Damon! You are no god, but a demon of the Abyss. Creature of the lower planes, what right have you to answer the prayers of a goodly man?
Kuori may answer any who pray, as he chooses, foolish boy. I offer you assistance. The alternative is simple. Refuse, and you will die.
You threaten me, beast of chaos?
No. I speak simple truth. You are intelligent, Maikeru. Do you believe for an instant that you can defeat any of the two score and six men who wish to win Komite?
No.
No I do not. Yet I cannot believe that Umigan would wish me to survive because of the interference of Kuori Damon. All know only too well what price the demons require for their services. Always is it a higher price than death, and always do their clients beg for death when their souls are taken.
I am Maikeru. I am a dead man. I will accept this death freely, and let Kuori and his brethren go a bit longer without sport. I reject you, demon, and all that you are. Let the body of Maikeru be rent and broken. He will die a man.
Very well.
The presence leaves me. I return to myself with the attendants bandaging my arm and pushing me eagerly on to the next arena. They tell me that I face Ryoji, a samurai of renown. Winner of another Komite, nearly a score of years ago. I didn’t need to be told. He was fearsome, but kind. A man of honor. Our Empire was saved at his hands in the last war. Ryoji. The paramount warrior in all the world. A man of honor. There were worse hands to die at than his. The hands of Ryoji were very nearly the hands of a god in the eyes of my people. Surely Komite would be his, and Maikeru merely a footnote in his legend.
They push me into the arena, where he stands. He is, by all accounts, not two score years. He was barely into his teens when he vanquished forty-seven other men in the previous Komite. His face is young, honorable, and he does not charge me like the scarred man. He approaches, giving me a clear look at him. He wears no armor, only the Hakama and sandals. Shirtless, with his Katana, the White Wolf, and her iron scabbard clutched in his left hand. His right is extended towards me. He grasps my own. Yes, Ryoji is a kind man. A man of honor.
“Good luck in our fight, Maikeru. You remind me of myself when last I won Komite.”
I stammer, murmur some fool’s reply. I cannot speak clearly to the man who will slay me. I simply cannot. So we return to our own ends of the arena to await the call to begin. It comes. I move forward, looking to end this quickly, and lead with a high downward-arcing cut. Ryoji parries easily, as I knew he would, and thrusts as if to run me through. My cowardice becomes apparent when I instinctively dive to the side, swiping out. By some miracle, my sword nicks his side, and I am awarded first blood. I roll on the ground, coming up fast to meet his inevitable charge. But it does not come. I am curious,  I admit it. But no, Ryoji is not dead – from that nick! – but smiling, congratulating me publicly for my skill. My skill? There is none.
It is time to be done with this. I can take no more. I do not wish to die, but I cannot defeat the perfect warrior. Komite rightfully belongs to him. I lead again with the same high strike, and now Ryoji does not parry. Instead, he dodges slightly aside, and my blade cuts only air. I feel a piercing explosion in my side begin, but it stops and is retracted. The pain is so much worse than I imagined. I have been run – not through, exactly, but stabbed nonetheless. My vision is blurred as Ryoji claims victory. He does not wish to kill me. He wishes me to be spared. Do I hear correctly? He claims my life for his own. He wishes to teach me! No, the judges will insist I die.
Yes, the judges will insist you die, Maikeru. The rules of Komite will not be broken even for one such as Ryoji. Does your wound hurt?
Yes, it hurts. It hurts so badly I would give nearly anything to make it stop.
But you need give nothing. You need only allow, and I will give to you.
No!
Ryoji sighs and looks at me. He is resigned, but the pain of what he must do is etched clearly on his features. There is no dishonor or shame in killing me. It is simply tradition, and a defeated samurai would wish a clean death. It is what he chooses to give me. I am brought gently to my knees by the openly weeping samurai, who says I am much like his son, and it is with a heavy heart that he strikes me down. My head is lowered. I am to be given a samurai’s death of one clean blow. My head, shorn off, and body will be treated honorably. I have kept my place in the heavens.
The sword arces down. It makes a whistling noise in the air.
No! I am too afraid! Help me!
Yes.
Ryoji’s blade rings on steel. His eyes widen in shock at my parry, and then he smiles and his eyes come alight. I thrust once, cut twice, and extinguish that light. The White Wolf falls, my own nameless weapon tears at his heart. I gasp in horror, trying to retract the blade, but Ryoji is unable to stop me, and I, Maikeru, am unable to stop myself. I will win Komite. I will win the Princess. I will win my weight in gold. Glory. Honor. Riches. Lands. Titles. Nothing.
I will give it all back, Kuori Damon. I will return it all to you and give you my life as interest if you just remove my sword from his heart. If you just return the light to the eyes of Ryoji.