“This is becoming tiresome.” Ranmaru moved toward the men positioned protectively before him. They parted to let him pass. Several of them unsheathed their swords, their blades gleaming blue and orange in the light of the nearby torches. “If I remember correctly, I already sent word through one of your”—his nose twitched—“men. As we were unaware that particular outpost had fallen under your domain, I offered to repay you the exact amount lost. You demanded more. Try though you might, that will never happen. Even you must know . . . the arm bends only inward.” He spoke in an idle tone, though Mariko caught his dark eyes flashing.
“An insult!” hissed a scrawny man with a face like a vulture. “You sully our name while stealing our livelihood, and you think a few copper pieces tossed in the dirt will be enough?”
“I did not sully your name.”
“You did!”
Ranmaru frowned. “I most certainly did not.”
Interesting. Mariko could not help but think this fight too closely resembled a childish squabble. The like of which she’d had many a time with Kenshin. Over such things as the last of the sweetened rice cakes.
“Since you won’t give us what we are due, you’ve forced us to resort to such measures,” the hissing vulture continued. “Forced us to take you to the nearest daimyō and collect the reward money for your capture.”
Again Ranmaru sighed. It was almost exaggerated in length and breadth. “If you think the daimyō will gladly hand over fifty ryō and smile as you ride away in triumph, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Enough of this ridiculous chatter!” the giant bellowed. “Either come with us now, or force us to kill each of your men and take you prisoner anyway.”
A mirthless smile cut across Ranmaru’s face. “If you intend to take anything, then take my advice,” he said. “This one time only, I’ll offer it without cost: the best way to win a fight is to avoid it.”
“The words of a thieving coward.”
Ranmaru grinned. “Despite what you may think, I believe in honor amongst thieves. And I thought we were all in agreement; the enemy is them, not us.”
The giant spluttered, confusion still marring his brow. “Lies.”
When the giant heaved his kanabō over his shoulder—readying to strike—Ranmaru lifted a hand. Momentarily staying the killing blow. “I’ll go with you on one condition,” he said. “We shall let it come down to a fight. If you win, I’ll go without a word. If I win, you leave and never come back to this part of the forest. Under pain of death.” The last was spoken with a harshness Mariko had not heard thus far in Ranmaru’s voice.
A harshness that sent a shiver down her spine.
The giant grinned. “You want to fight me?” His chest puffed like a sweet bean cake.
“Best on best.” Ranmaru nodded.
The sound of the giant’s laughter brought to mind a dog choking on a bone. It made Mariko swallow hard. Once his laughter died down, the giant rested his kanabō across his shoulders. His fingers dangled on either edge. They flexed once. Twice.
“I’m going to enjoy this, rōnin. Maybe even more than I’ll enjoy the gold I collect from your bounty.” While he spoke, the giant began to step sideways, taking stock of his prey.
Ranmaru did not unsheathe either of the blades positioned at his left side. Instead his feet moved automatically, mirroring his opponent, as though in a deathly dance.
After both he and the giant had taken three steps in a matched circle, Ranmaru halted. Cocked his head. And began to laugh.
The giant’s pockmarked brow furrowed.
“I just realized”—Ranmaru paused, as if he was still considering his thoughts—“you think you’re fighting me.”
His eyes narrowing, the giant heaved a great breath. “What?” It was a stutter of air and sound.
“I said best on best.” Ranmaru grinned. “What made you think I was talking about me?” He backed away, his body never once turning from his opponent. These movements seemed second nature to him.
Proving that no one ever stood at Takeda Ranmaru’s back.
Mariko refrained from bristling. It troubled her greatly that she could not readily recall the voices of the men beyond her norimono the night her convoy was attacked. Their sounds had been too muffled, her nerves far too fraught.
But she was certain one of them had to belong to the leader of the Black Clan. As certain as she was of the sun rising in the east. Takeda Ranmaru and his men had been sent to kill her. And Mariko intended to do whatever needed to be done to learn why.
She narrowed her eyes at the unflinching boy across the way.
It’s a shame you don’t realize another enemy is merely waiting for you in the shadows, rōnin. Perhaps not a fearsome one, but nevertheless an enemy far craftier than the bumbling colossus before you.
Mariko took stock once more of the other members of the Black Clan.
Several of them had stood taller at Ranmaru’s declaration. Then a ripple of amusement passed across their collective gazes, save for that of the boy with the haunted eyes and the spiked topknot. His eyes had not once left Mariko’s face until now. Though even he was distracted—unable to hide his anticipation—wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue.
Mariko could believe this boy to be the Black Clan’s best.
His eyes screamed murder with every look. Two hooked swords were laced across his back. The type Mariko knew could be linked and swung, severing head from body in a single blow.
Just as she became certain this boy was to be the giant’s opponent, he, too, stepped aside.
Only Ranmaru continued watching the giant, his expression a strange mix of hard and soft. Punishing and pitying.
The Black Clan turned their gazes behind them in force—
To their lazy comrade, still fast asleep on the bench.
AN UNMERITED BLESSING
Kenshin smelled the body before he saw it.
A sickly sweet scent, mingled with the odor of decaying meat. It caught in the uppermost portion of his throat, scratching at his senses.
Sending his heart thundering through his chest.
His sister was not dead. Mariko could not be dead.
He would not allow it.
Undeterred, Kenshin continued his low prowl through the darkened underbrush of Jukai forest. Continued searching for his sister’s tracks.
Then—in the thorny brambles at the base of a pine grove—Kenshin came across the source of the smell. The body of a dirty man, rotting in the underbrush. Unclothed, save for a filthy loincloth.
At this realization, his heart slowed. Kenshin crouched beside the dead body, on the hunt for any detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
For the third time that night, he was glad to have left his men behind at their makeshift camp. After tracking for nearly two hours, he was now deep in Jukai forest. Had he not taken care to mark the trees as he made his way, the journey back to camp would have been treacherous.
Despite their assurances otherwise, Kenshin knew none of his men rested well in Jukai’s shade. Three of their horses had already bolted. Only his own sorrel steed, Kane, remained unshaken. The whispers of the yōkai ever chased at their heels. Kenshin himself had yet to see a single demon of the forest, but—as such things often did—one man’s story had mushroomed into many. A single tale of a headless deer clomping at their flank. A single sighting of a silver snake with the head of a woman.