Deception

By Brian Yoon
Edited by Fred Wan

A few months ago....
The village of Chibasu attracted little attention from the outside world. Though it was located in the north of the Lion lands close to the Dragon border, the town had seen little bloodshed in its long history. It held no strategic value and no military assets. Its farms were large and well kept, and every year caravans were able to carry bales of barley and wheat to all parts of the Lion lands. In every aspect, Chibasu was just another farming village.

A small peasant boy stood along the one street of Chibasu as a wagon passed along his path. He placed the basket down on the floor with a disgusted sigh. He squatted down on his haunches and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He frowned at the despised basket filled to the brim with cut barley. Hachiro hated his chores. Whenever he finished any of them, his father would have another waiting for him.

He stretched his arms and glanced at the storage house behind him. A samurai in resplendent golden armor stood next to the door, just as always. He stood as still as a statue, his hands placed nonchalantly near his obi. He never had to carry any barley. Hachiro broke his back every day carrying things for his family, and he bet he got half the food that the samurai did. Nothing was ever fair.

As he relaxed, Hachiro caught a puff of dust in the distance from the corner of his eye. He turned around and looked at the new disturbance. It seemed to be on the road north out of the village, traveling on the road that led to the mountains. The road his father Gendo had always warned him to avoid. He stood up and ran north to get a closer look. The puff of dust turned into a whirling gust of dust. He squinted at the mysterious wind. Whatever it was, it was drawing closer.

“Stupid boy! Get back to work!” a familiar voice shouted from behind Hachiro. Hachiro groaned and didn’t turn around. If he pretended to not hear his eldest brother, maybe he could avoid a scolding. He walked faster down the road toward the dust. Maybe he could get away with it if he were further away.

He frowned. The shapeless mass had turned into a line of horsemen galloping toward the village. He could not see the riders clearly, but he could make out their brown, tattered clothing. Little flashes of light glinted in the distance like winking stars. He stood there, perplexed, until a horrific thought finally climbed into his head. The flashes of light were reflections of their weapons. They were samurai!

Hachiro ran behind the closest house, hid, and watched as the invaders rode into the village. It seemed like there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of them. They shouted and whooped as they approached the village. They brandished their weapons openly, and Hachiro could see the villagers scatter out of the way in fear. The attackers’ battle cry chilled Hachiro. As the piercing call echoed through the village his blood ran cold and he began to shake in fear. He stood up and stepped backwards — once, twice, then turned around and fled as fast as he could.

The sound of his breath filled his ears. He ran blindly until he could run no more and then stopped, gasping and panting. He looked around to find his bearings, and realized he had run to the other end of the grain storage houses. He leaned against the building. Maybe he wouldn’t be seen here. He stared at the fields of barley behind the building. Could he hide there instead?

“Well, well. A poor little peasant boy all by himself. Lose your way?”

A chill ran down Hachiro’s spine and he turned his head in the direction of the voice. One of the attackers stood there, holding a torch with one hand. He towered over Hachiro. The man grinned, showing his dirty and crooked teeth; the scar that stretched over his forehead made his grin seem that much more sinister. He slowly drew the katana from its saya, as if he relished what would come next.

Hachiro wanted to run but his legs refused to move. He could only watch as his murderer drew closer to him. The man lifted his katana over his head for the blow. A burst of blood splashed the air and the man reared back with a loud cry. He stepped back, away from Hachiro and the man that had arrived to help him. It was the Lion samurai who had been guarding the house earlier. He held his katana in front of him and his body looked completely relaxed, ready to move in any direction. The bandit glanced at the wound then moved his arm gingerly. He smiled and readied to approach again.

“Run!” The Lion guard shouted, snapping Hachiro out of his trance. The boy bolted toward the fields and ducked low when he reached cover. Keeping himself hidden, he moved as quickly as he dared, trying to get as far away as he could. He dropped to the ground and watched the fight. It seemed the fighters moved faster than his eye could follow. The two maneuvered around each other like two cats, each wary of the other. The Lion stepped forward and cut toward the bandit’s face. The bandit jerked back, dodging the blow, and cut at his opponent’s legs. Hachiro could do nothing as the Lion stepped back directly into the path of a second bandit come to aid his ally. In a flash of a single strike, Hachiro’s defender was down.

A large man rode up to the group flanked by two more of the invaders. He wore the same tattered garb as all the others with one significant difference: his bare chest was decorated in an expertly drawn depiction of a tiger mid-leap. He exuded confidence and danger with every movement, even with no weapon in his hands.

“This one works,” the leader, for he could be no one else, said. He drew a wrapped package from his saddlebag. He deftly flipped the cloth open to reveal a beautiful golden and green wakizashi, adorned in the fashion of the Dragon Clan. With a quick swift motion he unsheathed the blade and threw the weapon directly into the chest of the wounded Lion. He gasped once and went limp. The riders laughed heartily and left. The wounded bandit muttered to himself and climbed back into his saddle. He threw a quick, searching glance toward the fields where Hachiro hid. Holding his injured arm close to him, he spat on the corpse of his opponent before following his brethren.

Hachiro’s eyes fixed on the fallen samurai from his hiding spot. He dared not breathe.

The ronin knelt down and examined the fallen Lion. Without hesitation, he grabbed the wakizashi and pulled it free of the corpse. He reached into his pocket and drew a patch of silk cloth from a pouch underneath his arm. He cleaned the blood off the blade with a swift, automatic movement borne from years of repetition. He raised it in the air and turned it this way and that, examining the weapon with a frown upon his face. He stroked his small rakish beard, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Finally, he stood up and brushed the dirt from his pants. With a shrug he turned around and headed to the main road that ran through the village. He walked through the village, passing Lion troops as they bustled around the town. He paid them no mind. Ignoring everyone, he headed directly toward the biggest building in the village. A small gathering of Lion samurai flocked in front of the building. In the middle of their huddle, a small man sat at the head of a table covered with maps of the region. He studied the maps intensely as the samurai murmured advice into his ear. His eyes held a look of calmness, and his smallest moves gave off the impression that he was at peace with the world around him. He looked up from the maps and addressed the samurai around him, gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

“Bakin-sama!” the ronin called out loudly, interrupting the man mid-sentence.

Akodo Bakin looked at him and with hardly a pause continued his conversation with the others. “And you, Okyoito, take your best men and see if you can trace their path. We need to locate their base of operations if we are to retaliate. Follow the tracks, but do not engage.” A tall, thin man bowed to Bakin and immediately stepped away from the group. Okyoito brushed past the ronin as if he were invisible and hurried along the road north.

Bakin waved the newcomer forward. “What have you found, Kishimoto-san?”

“Just this,” the ronin replied. Kishimoto tossed the wakizashi carelessly onto the table, where it slid across the surface before coming to rest in front of Bakin. Several of the Lion samurai frowned at him in disapproval at his irreverent attitude toward the weapon. Kishimoto smiled back. The rest ignored him. They stared at the Dragon wakizashi, nodding grimly to one another, and turned expectantly to Bakin. “I found it at the outskirts of the village,” he continued. “It must have been left here by the attackers.”

“How are you so sure that it was one of the attackers’ weapons, ronin? This village saw some action in the war against the Dragon several years ago, and there have been reports of patrols not far north of here. Perhaps you should not be so quick to leap to conclusions and let your betters do the thinking,” sneered the man to Kishimoto’s right, an effete samurai in a finely embroidered kimono.

Kishimoto turned his head and spat on the floor. “I found it jammed in the body of one of your samurai, Lion-san.”

Bakin raised a hand, cutting off the Lion’s angry retort. “Enough. Perhaps this weapon was left here by the attackers, but there must be some ulterior motive. No samurai would be as careless as to leave his wakizashi, especially when the attackers seem to have suffered no casualties during the fight.”

One of Bakin’s advisers, an experienced chui by his heraldry, bowed and spoke in a booming voice that filled the village square. “Bakin-sama, perhaps the Dragon simply made a mistake. Perhaps they intend to goad us into a fight. Perhaps an unknown benefactor made this discovery possible through divine intervention. None of these factors matter. We have our first clue into the identity of the attackers. We cannot let this providence slip past our fingers.”

Many in the circle nodded in agreement. One stepped forward and said, “Bakin-sama, if the Dragons desire to escalate the war, I suggest we accommodate their wishes.
If the fools would irritate a watchful Lion, they must feel its claws.”

Bakin shook his head. “Something does not feel right,” he said. “There must be a different answer.”

“Perhaps the idea that violence is not the answer will be foreign to your men, Bakin-sama,” Kishimoto said, a sardonic grin on his face.

Bakin turned his gaze to Kishimoto. His eyes held no malice, but a hint of steel lined his words as he said, “I allow you to work for me, Kishimoto, because you have proven yourself useful in the past. Curb your tongue or that utility will not protect you from the consequences of your actions.”

Kishimoto bowed. “My apologies, Akodo-sama.”

Bakin looked each of the samurai surrounding him in the eye before he continued. “Comb the village. Find any more clues of the attackers. Speak to any and all witnesses to the fight. I want our forces ready to move when Okyoito’s men return!”

A few hours later, Bakin stepped out of the chieftain’s house and looked around him. His soldiers still crowded the streets as they searched for more evidence of the attackers. No one seemed to have any luck and they had gotten no further in their investigation. Bakin slowly walked through the village, determined to see everything with his own eyes. When he stepped behind one of the houses on a whim, the sound of voices led him to a clearing near two barley fields. A group of five peasants sat there, deep in conversation. In the middle of the peasants sat Kishimoto.

For a second, Bakin simply watched the situation. Kishimoto talked to the peasants as if he had been one of them all along. His eyes sparkled as he spoke and a pleasant grin stayed on his face. He turned his head to gesture to another of his companions when his eyes caught that of Bakin. He interrupted himself, stood up, and headed toward the Lion. The peasants turned to look at what caught Kishimoto’s attention, and immediately fell prostrate on the floor.

Bakin motioned to Kishimoto to walk with him. He headed toward the south end of the village, and Kishimoto fell in step with him. “It just doesn’t make sense to me, Kishimoto,” Bakin said with no preamble. “This village is small and the grain houses were only half stocked. Rugashi is only a few miles from here. If they had wanted to damage our supplies, they would have destroyed that city. As it is, the amount of food they took would be of little use to anything larger than a patrol. Nothing about this makes sense.”

“Harassment,” Kishimoto replied. “And you forget, Rugashi is more fortified than Chibasu. Perhaps our mysterious attackers weren’t prepared for a long fight. After all, you Lions do have a reputation for carrying on.”

Bakin chuckled. “That is true.” He stopped and stared out at the distance, where farmers labored in the fields despite the interruption earlier in the day. “So you don’t believe it was the Dragon?”

Kishimoto shook his head. “I am no strategist and I know nothing about Lion politics. But I understand people. I feel sure the Dragon do not want to make their war any messier than it already is. And if they did, they would make a far bolder statement.”

Bakin nodded. “That is my thought, as well.” He gestured behind them, where they had left the peasants behind. “In all the months I’ve known you, I’ve always marveled at your ability to fit in with any crowd. Did you learn anything from the villagers?”

Kishimoto grinned. “It must be my natural charisma, Bakin-sama. I am simply easy to love,” he said. His grin quickly faded, however. “Most of the villagers hid when the raiders invaded the town. None of the adults had any useful information.”

“Pity,” Bakin said, frowning.

“None of the adults had any useful information,” Kishimoto repeated, “but a child saw the attackers close up and survived the encounter. He had some interesting details to tell me. He remains traumatized by the events but I managed to understand a few things.” He sat down on a trunk of a fallen tree and listed off with his fingers as he spoke. “First, the attackers were dressed as ronin.”

Bakin nodded. “As suspected.”

“Second, it seems they planted the wakizashi deliberately, presumably to draw attention away from their real identities. And finally, the leader of the group is a man with a tiger tattoo across his chest.”

Bakin frowned and absentmindedly stroked the tessen on his obi. “Did the child have any more details on the leader? Did he describe the tiger?”

Kishimoto nodded. “He told his father that the tiger looked as if it was in mid leap, as if the tiger would jump off the man’s chest to attack him.”

“A ronin with a leaping tiger on his chest, leading ronin bandits.” He considered it for a moment. “Are you familiar with a man named Drunken Tiger?” Bakin asked.

Kishimoto frowned. “That does not sound familiar.”

“His band is notoriously ruthless, and difficult to apprehend. But even that makes little sense. They operate in the mountains of the Phoenix clan, far away from our lands.”

“Perhaps they decided to move their base of operations, Bakin-sama,” Kishimoto said. “Even with their reputation as pacifists, the Phoenix are merciless when persecuting criminals.”

“How would Drunken Tiger move his organization while avoiding a battle ready Dragon army?” Bakin asked.

“A mystery, admittedly,” Kishimoto said. “Perhaps this adventure might be of use to us all in the end.”

Before he could respond, a young guard who looked barely past his gempukku ran up to the two and saluted. “Bakin-sama!” he cried, his face flush with excitement. “Okyoito-san’s unit has returned from its mission. He has located the villains’ base!”

Bakin shared a grim smile with Kishimoto. “Well then,” he said lightly, “let us get to the bottom of this matter.”

Bakin and his men stepped carefully among the trees, eyes fixated on the small ruined guard tower that stood at the edge of the valley. They had traveled for hours into the mountains, leaving the village far behind. Okyoito led the line of Lions as they moved single file toward the tower. He moved slowly, choosing a path that would hide their movements. Bakin stepped past his men and stopped at the head of the line forty yards away from the building. They looked out at the entrance of the tower with curiosity. Two ronin stood guard in front of an open doorway. They leaned against the wall and fiddled with their weapons. While the Lions watched, the two guards began to argue vehemently, gesturing wildly with their hands.

“What is this place?” Kishimoto whispered.

“An old tower,” Okyoito said softly, his eyes not moving from the enemies. “This region is prone to earthquakes, so it was abandoned. I was unable to determine how many bandits were inside. Those two are the only guards watching the outside.”

Bakin nodded slowly. “We will engage them inside the building so that they will lose any mounted advantages. Okyoito, you will lead your men in combat inside the building. The rest of you will follow my lead. Let us show them the consequences of provoking the Lion.” He drew his katana and held it loose in his hand. The sound of dozens of blades leaving their sayas filled the air. Okyoito nodded to the men standing next to him. As one, Okyoito and three others deftly strung their bows. They grabbed an arrow lightly with the tips of their fingers. Ready, they turned to Bakin and waited for his word. Bakin nodded.

The archers stood up from their hiding point and raised their bows. With lightning speed, they notched the arrows to their eyes and loosed. The arrows thudded into their targets, and the guards went down without a noise. Bakin leapt up from their hiding spot and raced through the empty space in front of the tower. His soldiers followed his lead, their weapons at the ready.

Bakin ran through the entrance of the tower and gave a ferocious shout. Several bandits turned to the door, startled by the sudden entrance, and could do nothing more than panic as the Lions invaded the tower. The floor erupted into chaos. The Lion samurai attacked with ferocity, eager to avenge the blood of their fallen brothers. They leapt forward to cut the bandits down where they ran. Okyoito and his men entered the building last, arrows mercilessly flying into the bandits.

Bakin quickly scanned the room for any survivors to the brutal attack. No one but his men seemed to be standing. With a satisfied grunt, he flicked the blood off his blade and quickly fell into his role as the leader. “Arata, Osamu, guard the entrance. Naoki, take three of your best and search the room for any hidden threats. The rest of you, come with me.”

His men moved to follow his orders without hesitation. Bakin looked around the tower closely for anything that struck him as different. As part of his training with the Tactical School, he had memorized the layout of many standard towers. This building looked to follow those plans to the letter. He nodded, satisfied. He knew how to find his target, now. Bakin gestured to his men and headed toward the stairs.

Kishimoto kicked a corpse off his katana and moved in front of Bakin as they marched up the stairs. His head turned this way and that as they approached a long corridor, lined on both sides with sliding rice paper doors. Bakin pointed directly at a door at the end of the corridor. The Lions moved swiftly, watching readily for an ambush.

With a bang the doors around them slid open. Bandits poured out of the rooms, shouting at the top of their lungs. Instinctively the Lion samurai moved to engage the enemy. The fight was fast and vicious. With no room to maneuver, it quickly became a slaughter. Kishimoto moved like a demon, slicing quickly with his weapons. His katana cut through a bandit’s chest, splattering blood everywhere. When another bandit charged him, his katana raised over his head, Kishimoto’s left hand flashed up quickly and pointed at the enemy. Like magic, an aiguchi imbedded into the man’s throat.

Bakin ducked below the swing of a katana and with a precise strike cut an inch into his enemy’s neck. The bandit crashed down to the floor and his katana fell from his hands. Bakin calmly stepped around the dying man and headed toward the room at the end.

“So!” someone shouted loudly. The voice seemed to echo down the corridor and continue forever. A large man stepped out of the room furthest from them and faced the group. Bakin’s eyes narrowed. The man stood shirtless, and a large tiger sprawled over his bulging muscles. He crossed his hands across his chest until only the head of the tiger was visible.

“You are the one called Drunken Tiger,” Bakin stated. He flicked the blood from his blade and held it ready in front of him.

The man laughed, his voice echoing down the corridor once more. “I’m flattered, little cub. My reputation precedes me.”

Bakin slowly walked forward, ignoring the sounds of the fight behind him. He approached the bandit leader until he was only three footsteps outside the range of Drunken Tiger’s strike. “You chose the wrong fort to house your vermin, bandit. It is the last mistake you will ever make.”

Drunken Tiger cocked his head and stared at Bakin. “I disagree, cub. My new home is sheer genius. Once I kill you and your men, it will be a perfect base.” He loosed his knees and placed his hands over his katana. His eyes locked onto Bakin’s, and the mirth disappeared from his face. In its place, only the promise of death remained.

Bakin and Drunken Tiger stared at each other and the rest of the world melted away. A sense of peace radiated over Bakin’s body, until only a warrior’s serenity remained. His heart beat loudly in his ears. He saw the death in Drunken Tiger’s eyes for what it was: a lie. With a smooth movement he unleashed, and it was over.

Drunken Tiger fell to the floor, his life’s blood spilling into the floor. Bakin stepped over the body of Drunken Tiger and entered the room. It was a spacious and comfortable room, though all of its furnishings seemed old and dirty. A single table stood in the middle of the room, covered with countless scrolls.

His curiosity piqued, Bakin approached the table and dug through the scrolls. Many of them were written in some sort of code and he ignored those papers. He grabbed a scroll sitting on top of a pile of papers and studied the drawings. It seemed to be a map of some sort. It depicted a long mountain range with numerous forts and towers dotting across them. The objects in the map were labeled in an unknown cipher.

Bakin looked at the map until realization suddenly dawned on him. He quickly turned around, nearly running into Kishimoto. The ronin had entered the room while Bakin’s attention had been turned.

“Bakin-sama, the bandits on this floor have been neutralized.” Kishimoto said.

“Look, Kishimoto,” Bakin said, excitement coloring his voice. “This map shows hidden passageways through these mountains. It’s a chart of how to go through these lands. With this chart, we can move troops through the mountains with ease. We can move our armies against the Dragon. Or the Phoenix, if the need ever arose.”

Some foreign emotion flickered in Kishimoto’s eyes, but was gone before Bakin could identify it. “What a find,” the ronin said. “I’m sure your superiors will be pleased.”

Bakin turned again to the table and rummaged through the scrolls. “Kishimoto, help the men secure the rest of this area,” he said over his shoulder. “Summon Ikoma Masuyo to me. He can help me categorize these papers.” He heard Kishimoto walk away from the room, but his attention was drawn to the paper he had uncovered. The scroll was sealed with a mon he had not seen in years.

The mon of the Boar Clan.

Bakin woke up with a start. He looked around his tent slowly, searching for what it could have been that disturbed his sleep. The moonlight came through the open flap, illuminating everything. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Still, a feeling of unease came over him and he stood up to check his belongings. With a sinking heart, he walked over to his saddlebags where he had placed the maps of the Boar. Empty.

Grabbing his sword, he rushed out of the tent ready for whatever would face him. The guards posted at his door were both crumpled to the ground. They still breathed, but one had a trickle of blood from his ear, and the other a terrible discoloration on his jaw. They had been dealt with quickly and harshly, for their weapons had not even been drawn. Bakin scanned the camp around him. Whoever had done this had accomplished all this without raising an alarm. Someone who knew what he had in his bags...

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he rushed to the forest edge of the camp. Kishimoto’s tent was gone. A long path of broken branches and trampled grass marked the way into the forest. Bakin charged in at full speed, eager to catch the traitor. Finally, he ducked under a tree branch and looked up. A silhouette of a man stood at the top of the hill.

“Kishimoto!” Bakin shouted and drew his katana. He held the sword ready in front of him, ready to charge.

The ronin turned around and smiled wanly. “Bakin-san. I almost hoped I would be able to speak with you before I left. Ridiculous as it may seem, I have enjoyed working with you, naïve though you and your men may be. Thank you for the information you have allowed me to pass to my clan. We shall put them to good use. And, of course, my name is not Kishimoto. It is Utemaro.”

Before Bakin could attack, the ronin raised his hand to show him the stolen scroll case. He touched the case to the torch in his other hand then tossed the case aside. The corner of the scroll case burned brightly, and Bakin could see it begin to spread to the rest of the case.

“Choose quickly!” he shouted, turned around, and ran full speed into the woods.

To Bakin, the choice between duty and personal emotion was clear. He lunged at the burning scroll case and quickly doused the flame. He opened the case and scanned over the contents to see the damage. It was empty.

He cursed and leapt to his feet. The sight of Utemaro on horseback galloping away at full speed burned into his eyes. Bakin gritted his teeth and watched as the traitor escaped his reach.

The ronin, or whatever he had been, had taken the Boar map. This Utemaro had no idea, however, that Ikoma Masuyo had finished his copy. Masuyo’s copy was cruder, but more importantly it was functional. The Lion Clan still held a valuable resource in their hands.

“Utemaro,” Bakin said, his voice barely a whisper in the wind. “I shall see you again. I shall show you the strength of Lion justice.”