Yokai

Mitikori climbed into the Emperor’s kago with Ryoma. The young boy hadn’t spoken since the truth had been revealed. His brown eyes remained downturned, looking at the base of the wide box. The kago was luxurious, as Mitikori expected. White fox-tail fur blanketed the seats. A table made from cedar was carved into the center of the carriage. Yoshida, now wearing a more stately Kimono, stayed silent at the farthest seat from Mitikori. The Ronshin sat down on the furs near the door, facing the Emperor. Ryoma to his right. He had kept his blade, now neatly tucked into his lap. The kago was wide enough to give both Amagawa and Mitikori the space they needed. Mitikori to store his blades in an easily-accessible position and Amagawa to contain his eminence. 

Amagawa folded his hands into his long robes, concealing the line between his two sleeves. The group sat in silence as the kago was lifted off the ground smoothly. If the Ronshin wasn’t so attuned to his surroundings, he might not have noticed they began moving at all. Once they were lifted, Yoshida began to set out tea. It was still steaming and smelled strongly of southern leaves. A favorite of both Mitikori and Amagawa. 

“I see you still keep Eien no Kazoku with you. I thought you’d keep it somewhere safe in reverence for your brother?” 

“I have nowhere to store it. The safest place for it is always with me.” 

“Do Hikarimon and Kurohada need cleaning or sharpening?” The emperor’s small talk was well-crafted. Mitikori always complained about his blades. Mitikori tried to remain stoic, but he couldn't help but make a small complaint. 

“Your top scholar used Kurohada, the black fang, as a weed cutter. I fear she will need more than a cleaning, perhaps revenge.” Amagawa looked at the now sheepish Yoshida. 

“What does Kurohada propose as recompense?” 

“A hand, maybe both.” 

“As you wish,” Amagawa’s hands appeared from his long green robes. He flicked his long, untrimmed finger at Yoshida. Nervously, the scholar laid her hands on the tea table. She slid her sleeves back, showing her pale wrists. Mitikori looked from her outstretched hands to the emperor. Mitikori felt ornery. He slid the scabbard off Kurohada slowly. Ryoma stared in horror at the silver blade. Yoshida closed her eyes tightly. Blood from her tongue began to slide down her unadorned lips. Her whole face was tense from the biting. 

“Mitikori-sama–,” Ryoma began. 

“Silence!” His father shouted with authority. Using his left hand, Mitikori held the black fang over Yoshida’s wrists. He sighed. 

“It would be a shame to take Yoshida’s most prized tools. The library staff would never hear the end of her wailing.” Yoshida began to open her eyes. She stared at the blade in disbelief. “But you only need one eye to read!” Mitikori snapped. Kurohada flew just a hair's breadth from Yoshida’s right eye. Amagawa hadn’t moved. Yoshida held her breath. Mitikori’s eyes softened. Either the emperor was truly heartless or he was willing to give anything to find this dragon. He slid Kurohada back into her sheath. Yoshida’s trembling hands moved the tea back to the table. She could barely keep the cup still as she tried to lift it to her lips. 

“So you’ll help?” Amagawa asked. 

“I was promised a scholar, an imperial daughter, and riches. I want to see that all in writing first.” 

“I understand.” Amagawa smiled warmly. 

“Why the theater?” Mitikori asked, “You could have come out with the fact that Hiroshi was dead.” 

“And if you heard that the soon to be daimyo was killed overnight by a mysterious yokai from lands afar, would you have helped?” Amagawa stated his point levelly as he slid his hands back into his sleeves. Mitikori had no response. 

Amagawa waited as Yoshida set tea before him. “Hiroshi is dead. My top advisors and warriors in the first palace were killed without a fight. The only one who saw the beast was my top sniper, and even she could barely catch a glimpse. We know nothing about it, nothing of its motives. We must prepare ourselves before we are killed like my son.” 

“I must be the only one to say this, your grace, but isn’t immortality a big leap for just a serial killer yokai? Surely we should at least try and assess this monster before we begin to anger the gods?” 

“Hiroshi saw visions. Even my trained ninjas couldn’t best him in the dark. His neck was slashed open, and his lungs were pulled from his chest. He was still laying on his pillows.” Amagawa wouldn’t be swayed from his current course of action. As both a mourning father and a stubborn emperor, Amagawa had already decided on his path. 

“Ryūakuryō won’t simply give you immortality. It is a dragon of good and evil. The balance of the universe is said to reside in its mouth.” 

“As Yoshida tells me, there is a ritual to summon the dragon.” Mitikori glanced at the scholar. She was still nervously sipping her tea. 

“Then, undoubtedly, Yoshida has already told you Ryūakuryō was alleged to have been killed during the last war of heaven and hell.” 

“Yes, she also mentioned that. She told me, that you, and you alone, know the secret to communing with long dead gods.” Mitikori sat back with a sigh. He needed to be much more careful with his pillow talk. Yoshida must have noticed his disappointment because she spoke quickly after. 

“It may well be our only chance at stopping this yokai. I thought the information pertinent to the situation.” 

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me,” Mitikori muttered. “If any of us survive this, we can consider it a learning experience.” 

“I understand you’re angry, Mitikori, and perhaps rightfully so. Please don’t blame Akiko. Just as a yokai needs special bait, so too does a Ronshin. Your bait, as it turns out, is beautiful women and helpless captives. I had to ensure that you would help.” Mitikori scowled at himself for being so predictable. 

“If you want to speak with Ryūakuryō then I need to go to Mizugahama.” 

“What do you want with the sunken city? Ryūakuryō is the dragon of the north winds. I thought he would be here?” Amagawa countered. Mitikori sighed. 

“The dragon is dead, as you and Yoshida have already pointed out. To commune with him, we must find a spirit of the living dead. One such spirit resides in the lake temple, now submerged eight shaku under water.” 

“Mizugahama is a week’s ride.” 

“I don’t suppose your pole bearers are going to take us the whole way?” 

“Royal horses will be far faster,” The emperor explained. Slowly, the palanquin came to a stop. Masked soldiers opened the door to a circular camp. Improvised spikes protected the tents, and a small army of guards stood watch. Mitikori stepped outside into the still chilly summer air. The clouds were dark and gray, but a bit less dry. Lightning rattled in the distant horizon. 

The men stood in tight formation around the emperor as he led the procession into the camp. An eerie silence hung in the dry winds. The masked men, the still burning flintlocks. Mitikori longed for the hot sun of Hayasegawa. They passed a forge, crafting more bullets for the long guns. The heat from the fire spread wide. The gunmen close to it breathed through the sweat-soaked cloths on their faces. 

“They’re going to pass out,” Mitikori noted. “Shouldn’t you have them take off the noren?” 

“They are vessels. The face mask ensures that nothing they see or hear today will travel.” 

“What’s going to happen today?” 

“Ascension.” 

Emperor Amagawa led his third son, Ryoma, the last Ronshin, Mitikori, and the foremost Yokai scholar, Yoshida, into his personal tent. The dirt floor was covered with a thick, dark rug. Two fires burned emerald green at either end of a great table. Laid out on the table was the full map of Tokiwa. From the fishing cities of the north to the islands far to the south, Amagawa had cataloged every recorded attack of the gaijin yokai. As he entered, two strategists stepped back, unfurling their own face masks. 

“Tenshi.” They spoke in unison. 

“What news of the yokai?” 

“After the attack on the palace, our reports placed the beast north of Tokiwa-shi. However, spies found another barrack of riflemen gutted in a similar fashion to the attack at the first palace in Kaminariyama. It seems the yokai is tracking your movements, Tenshi. Slowly, but it may yet catch the scent.” 

“We move south. Mitikori will go with Yoshida and Masamune to Mizugahama.” 

“Who’s Masamune?” Mitikori interjected. 

“My personal bodyguard.” 

“Then who is protecting you?” 

“My guardsmen will keep me safe. Ryoma will travel to the southern islands. Best to keep what remains of the royal family as far apart as possible.” 

“You’re certain we can’t just fight this yokai?” Mitikori tried one last time. Amagawa didn’t answer. The curtains split, and a bald mountain of a man entered. He wore metal plate armor, painted black. The emerald crest on his chest and the mon on his back were the only colors he wore. His arms were thick, and his chest pressed against the metal breastplate. His head was bald, despite his somewhat young age. He looked only about thirty but had the scars on his cheeks and neck of a much older man. The warrior bowed his head low to make sure he didn’t even look at the emperor or Mitikori. 

“Masamune Kazuki,” The emperor introduced, “He will take you to the stables. Three horses have been made ready.”

“Yoshida is coming with?” 

“Her insight will be invaluable.” 

“I prefer only having one person I can’t trust around at a time.”  

“Yoshida and Masamune have both been instructed to obey your every command. They will lay down their lives, should it help you bring back Ryūakuryō.” Mitikori looked deeply into the emerald eyes of Amagawa Haruki. The emperor stared back without breaking his gaze. Both Mitikori and Amagawa were old now, and the Ronshin knew well the treachery of the Tenshi. However, if this yokai was really killing anything in its path, perhaps immortality was the only way to stop it. Mitikori just hoped he wasn’t creating a bigger monster. 

“I am told Mitikori-sama is not fond of horses?” Masamune led the group to the stables. 

“Horses are not fond of me,” Mitikori countered. 

“Horses are often spooked by yokai. Mitikori-san also says their smell and champing gives away his position,” Yoshida stated matter-of-factly. 

The stables were the furthest tent from the barracks. Wooden carrels had been carefully erected to keep the royal horses from running. Some stamped their feet in anticipation. The store was going to make them feral. Mitikori and Yoshida waited by the edge of the stables as Masamune went into the tent at the front. Horsemasters, unmasked presently, returned with three tall steeds. The first was ashy gray with a neatly tied mane. It had white speckles on its neck, and its left shoulder was a deeper black. The next was a tan mare. She had a white jaw and a sandy mane. Her legs were brown from the knee down, but tan like the fields in autumn above. Finally, the last horse was auburn, like a bonfire. It whined playfully and tossed its head towards Masamune. 

“These are the royal horses. Yoshida, you shall ride Kazan. Mitikori, I am told to give you the almighty Tenshi’s own horse, Sora. The last is my horse, Tsubaki. These three horses have seen their share of battles. They will ride diligently and proudly.” Mitikori approached Sora slowly. The proud horse rocked her head up and down in protest. It seemed she was expecting her usual master. The Ronshin took the reins quickly and pulled the horse’s head down before stroking her long face. 

“You’re too rough with her,” Yoshida chided. “You should treat her more gently at your first meeting.” Mitikori continued to run his wrapped hand across Sora’s face until the horse gave up its protest. 

“She’s unsettled,” Mitikori concluded. 

“I couldn’t guess why,” Yoshida chuckled. 

“Perhaps Mitikori-sama would like a lesson in riding before we begin?” Though Masamune meant it as respectfully as possible, Mitikori couldn’t help but note the light humor in his question. The other two had mounted, but the old Ronshin remained planted on the earth. Yoshida trotted her horse in a short circle around Mitikori. Kazan whined defiantly as the old hunter. Mitikori covered Sora’s eyes for a moment. 

“It will frighten her–,” Yoshida warned. 

“Not as much as the earthquake will,” Mitikori stated. Then the ground rumbled and cracked. The loose rock on the beach, a dozen shaku away from the camp, began to crack and rattle. Kazan and Tsubaki began to buck and bay as the ground continued to shudder. 

“An earthquake! Secure the black powder!” Masamune’s commanding voice sounded above the cacophony. 

“Not quite,” Mitikori muttered more to himself. He tied Sora’s reins to the tall fence nearby. Yoshida was still busy trying to calm Kazan. The masked soldiers held firm, battering down the tents and trying to secure their supplies. None were preparing for the charging Ushi Oni. Except Mitikori.  

The Ronshin hopped neatly atop a small pile of sea boulders. From the vantage point, he could see the raging yokai. A giant Ushi oni or ox demon, as it was sometimes called, was thundering towards the camp. The beast was huge, more than three times the height of one of the emperor’s soldiers. The yokai’s face was a twisted and distorted mess of eyes and teeth with two long ox-horns stretching from either side. The horns were long and burning. Black fire spread from them like an inferno. Demonic flame. 

Usually, an oni this powerful would take an entire team of elite Ronshin. Warriors from the nested hills or masters of the sacred blade. Mitikori hoped enough gunpowder would also do the trick. “Masamune! The earthquake is from a charging Ushi Oni!” Mitikori shouted. The commander looked around at his men, meticulously working to prepare for a natural disaster. 

“Men! To your weapons! A bull charges from the sea!” Immediately, the men dropped their lines. A front group of heavily armored soldiers began to form. They brought with them heavy mats and wooden walls as shields against the beast. Behind them, a group of riflemen lit their guns. The formation was completed in a moment. The front line held the wooden palisade before them to deter the mad beast, and the gunmen behind them rammed the sharpened fronts of the guns through the straw mats. Masamune took up a position just left of the line. Soldiers had begun to line up behind the already-placed wooden stakes. They wrapped new guns to replace the fired ones. The oni came thundering across the rocky shoreline. Its hooves cracked and shattered the earth beneath it. 

“Fire!” Masamune shouted. A wall of smoke appeared with a thunder-like sound. The Ushi Oni bellowed in response. It lowered its amalgamation of a head, bringing its horns to bare at the wall. “Hold men!” Masamune shouted. The riflemen quickly released their guns. The now useless rifles fell to the ground, neatly between the men. Soldiers that had been lying in wait at the wooden palisade walls now rushed in to supply them with more weapons. 

The Ushi Oni hit first. It thundered through the line, trampling the first row of twenty men. The mats protected them from being gored by the horns but didn’t stop them from being crushed under the beast’s heavy weight. Masamune remained calm. He signaled for two more lines to be formed. One on either side of the yokai. As the beast stamped and circled, looking for another target, gunmen rushed out behind it. They fired another volley, and the Ushi Oni turned to charge. Then the two new walls were finished. Their riflemen fired twin volleys at an angle to ensure they didn’t hit the other line. The smoke cleared. It was still dark. A roar of rage bellowed from the Ushi Oni.

Dark blood began to soak from the beast onto the craggy shore. It dragged its long hooves on the rock as a threat. Soon, it would charge. The riflemen never gave it a chance. The two lines converged, forming one double line where the first line had fallen. The men began to clear the field of those still living from the first attack. 

“Push it back!” Masamune shouted. Rather than wait for the bull to charge again, the men began to march forward with their wooden walls. The Ushi Oni lowered its head, threatening and bellowing. A ruse. Mitikori knew the beast was beat. Too much blood. Too little carnage. The Ushi Oni would either back off or die in the next volley. 

As the men neared, the Ushi Oni began to drag its long horns across the rocks. Black fire split the stone. The men pushed too far. With a roar, the Ushi Oni raised its abominable head and began to storm towards the approaching wall. The men didn’t have their rifles. Mitikori waited for the snapping sounds of those foolish enough to challenge an oni. But it never came. The men pushed their shields to the side and threw pots at the raging yokai. As the terracotta hit, it exploded in a violet burst, destroying the very flesh of the powerful oni. Hunks of muscles and blood burst as the rain of fire fell upon the Ushi Oni. Its roars of rage quickly turned to despair and pain. The Ushi Oni fell, ruined. Its body was as distorted as its face. 

“Enough!” Masamune shouted. The men ceased their assault in a heartbeat. Nothing was left but charred flesh and shattered rocks.