Legions, Part I

By Shawn Carman and Rich Wulf

The Battle at Oblivion’s Gate, year 1133

Though Rekai was a samurai, born and trained for war, nothing could ever have prepared her for the horrors of this place. Twilight surrounded them constantly, even during the middle of the day. After a week, she had completely lost all sense of time. “Day” was when she fought. “Night” was the rare times when she slept. There was little else.

A wicked kick struck Rekai’s side, right where the sections of her do-maru laced together. She hissed in pain and bent away from the strike, but the pain dulled her reflexes. The second kick caught her chin, snapping her head back and dumping her in the foul ooze that covered the earth in this wretched place. She scrambled to roll away from the strike she knew would follow, but her dizziness and the sucking mud would not permit it. This was the end.

But the blow did not come. There was a tearing sound, and she looked up to see her assailant, a faceless figure wrapped in rotted armor, struggled to reform itself after a devastating strike across its midsection. Even as the thing sealed its wounds with inky blackness, a phantom in gray and blue armor stepped forward and slashed it across the eyes. The thing shrieked and flailed about, blood and shadow leaking from its face. A second katana strike followed, and inflicted a wound from which the beast would never recover.

He reached down and pulled Rekai roughly to her feet. “Where are the others?” he demanded.

“Dead,” she managed, despite the splitting pain in her head. “All dead.”

“Not your patrol,” he hissed. “The Grey Crane and Kuwanan. Where are they?”

“I’m not certain,” she answered. “My patrol was sent to scout the western paths, but it was an ambush.”

“More are coming this way,” he answered. “Many more. We have to warn the others. The western flank must be fortified immediately.”

Rekai said nothing, but pointed to the jagged outcropping of rocks to the west. Already, things were crawling across them. From here, it was a mix of the shadow beasts as well as a handful of undead. “I will hold them as long as I can,” she said, drawing her blade. “Go.”

“Don’t be a fool,” the man answered. “I can hold them longer, and you are fleeter of foot. Go now. Warn Kuwanan.”

“I will tell them of your valor, my lord,” she swore as she scrambled up the bank.

“I will not die today,” he called to her as she left. “I will tell them myself.”

The enemy approached, circling carefully. Their hunger for his death was a tangible thing. He could make out more moving toward them, but if he killed these swiftly enough, he could follow the girl and survive. It was a ludicrous notion, the slimmest hope, but he remained cautiously optimistic.

“You have nothing to say?” one of the faceless entities whispered as it approached. “No final words of useless bravado before you become one of us? What is your name, little Crane, so we may know before we consume it?”

“Uji.”

The creature paused, glancing back at its fellows in what seemed to be fear.

Daidoji Uji smiled, drew his blades, and charged.

The Crane patrol moved through the bodies quickly, setting fire to anything that looked remotely intact. Their fallen brothers were beheaded and then cremated, a shugenja on hand to offer a quick prayer for their spirit to find peace in the next world. Such was necessary in the Shadowlands lest a fallen comrade become an enemy. It had been a costly endeavor to push back the dark hordes, but one Kuwanan insisted upon paying. “Where was he when you saw him last, Rekai?” he demanded.

“Here, my lord,” the young scout answered, standing on the slope where she had fallen and Uji had saved her life. “He made his stand here.” She did not mention the obvious. There were many dead bodies here, but no sign of Uji.

Kuwanan’s shoulders sagged visibly. “He is gone, then. They must have taken him.” He paused for a moment. “They will regret that. When this battle is done, I will find them, and they will pay.”

There was the sound of movement nearby. Kuwanan drew his blade in the span of a heartbeat, and Rekai prepared her bow. A pile of corrupted corpses waiting to be torched moved again, then began to fall as a form rose from within it. “I think that would be a waste of resources, my lord,” a weak voice offered from beneath the countless fallen Shadowspawn.

“Uji!” the Crane Champion exclaimed. “I can’t believe it.”

“You gave me no permission to die, Kuwanan-sama,” Uji replied. He staggered slightly, and Rekai rushed to his side.

“Bring him back to camp,” Kuwanan ordered Rekai. “We will have his wounds treated immediately, but the camp is to break in a few hours when we move south again.” He looked at Uji almost apologetically. “I fear you will have little time to rest, my friend.”

“There is a time for rest,” Uji replied. “But not in this world.”

Shiro Daidoji, year 1150

Rekai entered the daimyo’s chambers quietly, reverently. She stopped and knelt for a brief moment at the shrine to past daimyo that stood at the entrance to Uji’s personal quarters. She had been reporting directly to Uji ever since her tenure in service to Kakita Toshimoko had ended. For the past year, she had often reported to him here. She moved across the chamber quietly and without preamble. “Uji-sama,” she said softly. “I bring news.”

“Yes?” he asked eagerly. “What has happened?” The Daidoji daimyo’s body was failing him since the wounds he had sustained at Volturnum, but never his mind. His eyes were as bright and piercing as they had been when she had met him over a decade earlier. The injuries the Shadowspawn had inflicted upon him had never truly healed. Eventually, the tireless Daidoji lord began to weaken. Now, wracked and twisted with pain, it was a great effort for him to leave his chambers. But he never offered complaint. Not once in over a decade.

She bowed. “Beiden Pass has fallen. The Steel Chrysanthemum’s armies are crushed. The False Emperor has been taken into custody by Toturi’s forces.” She paused and smiled. “The war is over, my lord. Our saboteurs and their Scorpion allies have seen to it.”

Relief was evident in his face, and he slumped at the words. He seemed to almost grow smaller. “Thank the Fortunes,” he muttered.

“Not the Fortunes,” Rekai offered. “The plan you and Yojiro developed was masterful. There was virtually no chance of failure.”

Uji laughed coarsely as he lay gingerly on his well-padded tatami mat. “For all your skill and courage, for all that you have grown, you still have moments of childlike naiveté, Rekai. You have remembered who you were before you came into my service.” His smile faded somewhat. “I can only barely remember what I was like before I came to lead the Daidoji. It changes everything about a person.”

Rekai knelt at his bedside. “Now you have time to remember, my lord,” she said. “The wars are finally over. The Empire is at peace.”

Uji cocked his head slightly, steel eyes narrowing. “No,” he whispered. “It is not.”

The nearest wall burst open, cut asunder the blades of six masked warriors. In the darkness of Uji’s chambers, each of them seemed to glow with an ethereal light. Their arms were bare, and Rekai could see crane tattoos on the wrists of the nearest warriors – the symbol of the Daidoji.

“For the Steel Chrysanthemum!” the nearest hissed, charging toward Uji with his blade raised high.

For a bright, shining moment Uji was as Rekai remembered him once again. He snatched up a yari from its stand and leapt into combat before she even reacted, cutting down two of the nearest men. A third slashed with his katana, striking Uji across the back. Rekai was up then, cutting the man down with her own sword. Uji roared in fury and drew his wakizashi, burying it in the heart of a fourth assassin. Rekai killed the fifth, leaving only the leader standing.

“Why?” Uji shouted. “Why would Daidoji betray their own?”

“It is you who are the traitor, Uji,” the assassin replied. “You have betrayed the Hantei. I shall take your life then take my own for the shame your murder brings me.”

“I shall save you the trouble of dying in shame,” Uji answered. He lunged at the man with only his wakizashi, easily knocking the man’s katana aside. He drove a barehanded strike into the assassin’s throat. The man fell to his knees, eyes bulging as he tried to breathe but no air would come. He reached feebly toward his lord for aid. Uji kicked him onto his back and stood over him, staring into his eyes as he slowly died.

Once the assassin perished, Uji slumped onto his bed once more. A pool of red blood streamed out from the wound on his back, but his eyes were clear and his smile broad. Rekai ran to his side. The doors of the chamber burst open, Daidoji guardsmen and Asahina shugenja hurrying to find the source of the commotion.

“A peaceful Empire has no place for one such as me,” Uji stated matter-of-factly. He seemed to diminish with each moment, and was suddenly wracked by a terrible coughing spasm. “I am finished at last. My time is done, Rekai.” His coughing intensified. “Yours begins.” And then the coughing stopped. Uji reclined suddenly, his eyes unblinking.

Rekai leapt to her feet. “Help him!” she shouted to the shugenja.

An Asahina had already been praying, summoning kami of healing to save his lord. His voice ceased; he bowed his head in resignation. “He has passed on to Yomi, Rekai-sama.”

“No!” she shouted. “Save him! Heal him!”

“I cannot,” the shugenja returned. “It is too late, my lady.”

Rekai shook her head in sorrow. “This cannot be… what did you call me?”

“My lady,” the shugenja replied with a bow. “Lord Uji left explicit instructions regarding the succession of his estate. With no heir of his own, he has chosen you. You are now the Daidoji daimyo, with the full endorsement of all other Crane daimyo.”

Daidoji Rekai, Lady of the Iron Crane, sat in the darkness and said nothing.

The fields of Yomi, timeless

The hero awoke with a start. He leapt to his feet, glancing around in surprise to find himself standing amid a tranquil meadow. His armor was nowhere to be found, although his blades rested upon a stone next to the soft grass where he had been laying. Daidoji Uji’s mind was filled with a strange fog, and he could not recall how he arrived here. He glanced down at his body in confusion. It was whole again, as it had been at the peak of his youth. There was no trace of the wounds that had plagued him for over a decade.

“What magic is this?” he whispered.

“No magic,” a voice assured him. “Your body was weak but your soul was ever strong. Now only the soul remains. I, like you, died with terrible wounds. Imagine my surprise when I awoke here and found my voice had returned.”

Uji stared at the man in disbelief. “I know you,” he said softly. “I have seen your image in Kyuden Doji many times, as well as in my own home.”

“Yes,” the man said. “I am Hayaku, founder of our family. Welcome to Yomi, my son. You have honored all our line.”

Uji returned the bow, but could not find words to respond. He stared around at the beautiful landscape for some time. “It is more beautiful than I even imagined.”

“There are no wars for you to fight here, my friend,” Hayaku said with a smile. “You have eternity to pursue whatever interests you forsook in life. Your duties are complete.” He smiled. “It is time for you to rest.”

Uji nodded. “I think,” he began with a smirk, “that I would like to paint.”

Hayaku’s smile broadened. “Come, then. There are many who would love to teach you.”

Later…

The serenity of his studio was broken. Though he could hear nothing, Uji sensed the approach of a visitor. Even more than that, though, he knew that a change was coming. He had felt it in the air. Even before that, he had known. There was no changing the universe, no matter how one might wish to do so. This place was not so different than the Empire… peace never lasted.

“Daidoji Uji.”

Uji sat the brush down and stood. “I am here, Goemon.”

The radiant form of Matsu Goemon bowed slightly before Uji. “Forgive my intrusion, Uji-san, but I have need of you.”

“I have heard tales of your ascension, Goemon,” Uji said, crossing his studio to the well-maintained armor that rested on a rack there. He lifted a piece and began to put it on. “Toturi chooses his champions well, it seems.”

“My existence is one of necessity,” Goemon replied. “I would prefer there to be no need for a Fortune of Heroes.”

“Ah, but there is,” Uji replied, continuing to put on his armor. “The Dragon of Thunder is too limited in its ability to influence realms beyond Tengoku. Without an Oracle, its influence in Ningen-do is virtually non-existent. Although Fortunes are similarly restricted in their powers, as a former mortal you have more freedom than the dragons.” He glanced up at the former Lion. “You can bring your power to bear more fully in the world of mortals, can you not?”

“I can, though perhaps not so much as you believe,” Goemon answered truthfully. “Iuchiban has found some means by which to control the spirits of Jigoku and other dark realms of the dead. A legion of heroes will be needed if we are to stop the Bloodspeaker’s corruption from spreading beyond the mortal realm. We must stand against his incursions and guide our descendants to do the same.”

“So war, then,” Uji answered flatly.

Goemon looked around the studio at the many paintings. Each was a beautiful landscape, marred only by a single imperfection. Some had a single line of red or black stretching diagonally across the parchment. In others, bloodied corpse rested amid the serene surroundings. In every picture, the message was the same. “I confess I am surprised by your talent at painting, Uji,” Goemon said, “and also troubled by your work.”

“Many are,” the Crane replied, his tone unconcerned.

“These could be things of wonder, if you would permit them to be,” Goemon observed, carefully examining a magnificent mountain landscape marred by a single shattered skull resting in its center.

“For a time after my arrival, I lost myself in the wonder of creating,” Uji said. “But it was not meant to be. A lifetime of duty cannot be washed away in the span of years, even in an eternal realm such as this.” He shook his head. “No, there is poison in my soul. I cannot create beauty, only pain and death. I am a warrior. I am a necessary evil.”

“You are not evil,” the Fortune insisted. “You are a hero!”

Daidoji Uji placed his helmet upon his head and fastened it tightly, covering his face with the mask that was his trademark – black silk, studded with steel. “If I am a hero, it is only because my enemies are more evil than I,” he answered honestly. “Now, let us begin.”

In the Shadowlands, Months Ago

“So, it has begun,” Iuchiban said flatly. “How very futile.”

Yajinden looked up from the scrolls he was penning. “Master?”

The Bloodspeaker glanced at his lieutenant in mild irritation. “I have a task for you, Yajinden,” he said, paying the artisan’s outburst little mind. “Are you familiar with the riddle of the oyster?”

Yajinden stared blankly for a moment. “No, master.”

“There is a process by which pearls are created,” the Bloodspeaker said. “Do you know it?”

“Yes master,” Yajinden answered, confusion still evident in his voice. “A grain of sand works its way into the oyster, and the creature wraps it in layer after layer of hard enamel to stop the irritation, creating a pearl.”

“Yes,” Iuchiban said with a rare, wry smile. “It seems that I am the grain of sand.”

Yajinden shook his head. “I do not understand, master. What has happened?”

“I do not require your understanding,” Iuchiban said darkly, “only your obedience.” He paused for a moment. “The useless wisps of memory that suckle the teat of Yomi are banding together to oppose me. I confess I am uncertain why they move to do so when my concern is with the mortal realm,” he looked at Yajinden. “Do you know why they would do so, Yajinden?”

The artificer bowed his head. “I am certain I have no idea,” he replied. “What would you have me do, master?”

“Deal with them, Yajinden.”

Yajinden was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with large, soot-stained hands. “Moving through the Spirit Realms is not without risk, even for being such as ourselves. Perhaps we would be best served to organize our own legion to deal with these bygone heroes.”

The Bloodspeaker waved the comment away. “Spare me the details,” he replied. “Simply finish it. I give you leave to find the means.”

“If we bind the spirits of the fallen to our will,” Yajinden continued.

“I care little,” Iuchiban interrupted. “Deal with it.”

Yajinden opened his mouth to reply again, but said nothing. He only bowed to the man whom he called master, a thoughtful gleam in his eye.

Two weeks ago

There had been no movement or sound for hours since the pass had collapsed. The last few rocks had fallen down the cliff faces long ago, and now there was only stillness. Not even birds or rodents dared approach, terrified by the explosion that had brought the mountains down around them.

Pain. Darkness.

A low, grating sound echoed through the area, like two stones rubbing against one another. There was a slight stirring in the stones that littered the canyon floor. It was innocuous, however. The stones were settling, perhaps. Nothing more.

Pain. Darkness. Pain.

The grating sound stopped, and for a moment there was silence again. Then the stones shattered and erupted upward in a fountain of broken earth. A jagged, bloodied fist emerged from the rubble, followed shortly by a hopelessly damaged body. One arm was gone, crushed and torn away by the rocks. The man’s lower jaw was likewise missing, but his one remaining eye burned with pain and frustration.

There was a cry of alarm from nearby. The ruined man turned his attention to a small man clad in orange robes, desperately trying to climb the cliff face. He kept glancing back at Yajinden’s ruined body in horror. The Phoenix reached for his spell scrolls, but fumbled and dropped several of them into the rocks below.

“A Phoenix,” the man said, the voice seeming to reverberate from the center of his being. “Have you come to spit on Yajinden’s grave? I fear you will be disappointed.”

“I am Asako Misao!” the man shouted in a high, panicked voice. “I am an Imperial cartographer! Harm me at your own risk!”

You are nothing, Yajinden whispered with Misao’s mind. His spirit leapt for the shrieking Phoenix, leaving his hopelessly damaged body behind in the rocks.

In moments, Asako Misao was no more. The Bloodspeaker Yajinden stood, whole and healthy once more. Beside him lay the twisted corpse that had been his body only a moment before.

Hours Later…

Yajinden sat in meditation on a high cliff. He had left the collapsed pass behind in the event that others like Misao might approach. He had no time for the curious. He grimaced at the soreness in his new body; this Misao had been a weak man. It would take a long time to forge this body into a suitable vessel, but it would serve him well enough. Far better than the hunk of ragged flesh he had left behind after the Monkey dropped the mountain upon him.

In the meantime, he had much work to do. Iuchiban had apparently razed the Hidden City, just as Yajinden had hoped he would. For all his incredible power, the First Bloodspeaker was incredibly predictable. It was quite fortunate, as Yajinden was bound not to disobey…

Yajinden reached into the torn and filthy bag that he had salvaged from the Phoenix City. He had not been able to retrieve the Black Scrolls he had desired, but in the end it mattered little. Iuchiban believed he had his own reasons for assaulting the city. So long as it served Yajinden’s purposes, his master could continue to think what he wished.

One of them, at least, had gained what they sought in the Hidden City.

From the bag, he produced a large, jagged shard of opaque white material. A shattered pearl. Yajinden could not help but smile at the irony. He focused intently upon the piece, using its connection to the spirits once held inside it to force one to manifest before him.

A shimmering in the air beside Yajinden let him know that he had been successful. A robed figure, pale and shadowed, manifested. “Who summons me?” it demanded. “Who dares?” The man’s face, a patchwork of stitched flesh and raw bone, folded into a twisted smile. “Ah… Yajinden.”

“Greetings, Yori-san,” Yajinden answered. “I have need of you again.”

Yori’s eyes narrowed. “Then speak swiftly, for I already have my freedom and no longer need you to maintain it,” the specter said. “If you wish anything further from me, then naturally I must benefit.”

“Of course,” Yajinden said. “Your freedom is simply repayment for the aid you once gave me. I have a proposal that will appeal to a man with your ambition.”

Interest sparked in Yori’s spectral eyes. “What is it you want?”

“An alliance,” Yajinden answered. “And a betrayal. In the end, both of us will be as gods.”

“I am listening.”